#the worst part about making skins is selling skins

[owleics-fr]

I do kinda worry sometimes, like seeing people get into skin making and getting excited about it and then they go to try and sell it and maybe get little to no interest and i kinda wanna just say! Like its pretty much like that for every single person who has tried skin making. Your first attempt is kinda gonna flop, what you think is super cool and amazing other people might not. Its just how Selling Art works unfortunately.

And its not my intention to discourage people from trying it but if youre making a skin purely so other people will buy it. Dont. It wont end well i promise you. Make something because you enjoy it, make it for you!! If other people also happen to like it and want it then thats fantastic! But making art should always be about what you want with little consideration to making money off a wider audience.

[yieldtotemptation]

ALWAYS ft. Hanni

hanni x male reader smut

9k words

This used to be your least favourite part of the day.

Waking up alone, to nothing but an alarm that’s far too loud, a bed that’s way too firm, a dorm room that mocks your financial instability with its harsh coldness. 

And that somehow, was the best-case scenario.

Beating getting kicked out of a library after passing out face first in a textbook, or booted off your best friend’s mouldy couch when his girlfriend wanted some alone time.

Or even, in your worst moment, getting yelled at by some stranger when you’re discovered on their bathroom floor in a pool of what you prayed to God was your own vomit.

All things of the past, since her.

Since Hanni—waking up was everything.

-

It starts, like it always does, in a tangle of limbs.

Most mornings, with Hanni’s face buried in your chest, cradled in your embrace, small puffs of breath tickling your neck. Others, with her back to you; pulling your arms around her, using the heat of your body like her coziest blanket.

One time on top of you; an exhausted smile plastered on her face, still basking in the afterglow of the night before.

She wrapped herself around you, refused to let go. Like there was a possibility that if she held you tight enough, she could bring you into her dreams.

That was the first day you truly saw her.

You talked about your pasts, your futures, shared your deepest vulnerabilities, made a million quiet confessions.

And when Hanni whispered: “I never want to go back.”

You pulled her closer, kissed her, and answered: “You’ll never have to.”

Since then, every morning always started with you holding her. Feeling her softness, her warmth, the calm rise and fall of her chest, as her exhales became your inhales and your breaths mixed together and synchronised.

This is how it had to be—how you both needed it to be.

So—now:

Nights and mornings since that promise; the sound of a guitar slipping into your ears.

It’s a recording she made for you, setting it as your alarm to make waking up a little more pleasant, to make sure the first thing you thought of when you opened your eyes was her.

Unnecessary, ultimately, seeing as the first thing you see when you wake up is her. Or, to be precise, her arm poking out from under the blankets, flailing about blindly.

“Off,” Hanni mumbles, fumbling around the bed, the nightstand, your face, seeking the offending device.

You stretch over her, a blanket on top of her blanket, and hunt down the invisible enemy that dared to interrupt your girlfriend’s peaceful slumber.

A muffled “thanks”, and she takes the opportunity to snuggle even closer.

There’s the smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Her nose, nuzzling closer into your chest, searching for your heartbeat. That pleased hum she’s making, letting you know there’s no place she’d rather be, like she’s completely content to stay all cozied up and warm for as long as you’ll let her (forever, if possible, please).

It’s hardly a tough sell—face the cold shower, the crowded buses and trains, the boring lectures that the rest of the day holds.

Or, stay wrapped up in the sanctuary of your (Hanni’s) bed. In fitted silk sheets, weighted duvets, plush pillows. Wrapped up in Hanni; in her very soft, very warm, very naked body.

It’s a no-brainer, really.

The rest of you, the more honest part of you that’s resting somewhere between her belly button and her thighs, seems to agree. It’s got a mind of its own, stirring to life, responding to the heat of her skin and the gentle pressure of her body; the familiar lines of her curves and the lavender scent of her hair.

She notices, of course.

It’s hard not to feel it, nudging against her, steadily growing with each passing beat, saying, ‘Hey, remember me?’

A kiss over your heart, a giggle into your sternum, and she’s up—sort of. She rolls onto her side, still in your embrace, but enough so that you can see the wry smile gracing her face, her sleepy eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

Chalk it up to whatever you want—relationship goggles, the honeymoon phase, or just the sheer joy of finding someone who actually cares about you—but when Hanni's looking like this, it's hard to believe you’re not dreaming.

The morning light kissing her rosy cheeks. The gentle pink of her full lips. Midnight silk hair curtaining her face. Her eyes.

A sweet, completely innocent question: “Having a good morning?”

She shifts, slightly.

An oh-so-incidental move that has the blanket sliding off her shoulder, down to her waist. It’s an invitation that you take, a proper wake-up call, from her collarbone to the curve of her hip. Softness and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold that whispers from the edges of the bed.

Hanni—your Hanni—leaving you with the implication: ‘Can I make it better?’

“Classes,” is all you say, because you have to at least acknowledge the responsibility, play the farce that you would actually abandon your (again—very warm, very naked) girlfriend for the sake of academia.

“It’s cold outside,” is her astute observation.

“Mhm.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“Right,” you nod.

“So,” she starts, bringing her hand up to your cheek, walking you through the incredibly simple, blatantly obvious logic. “Do you need any other reason?”

“Are you offering me one?”

Lips purse then pouts in that endearingly cute, Hanni way. “Does it help that I’m naked?”

“One would think that more clothes would be appropriate, considering the weather,” you posit, like you weren't already convinced long before she even opened her mouth. But, it’s still fun to pretend that her persistence doesn’t melt you every time. 

“One would be wrong.” Hanni edges closer, her bare skin gliding over yours, so you can properly assess the merits of her argument. The tip of her nose brushing against your own, the softness of her breasts passing along your chest, and her hand at your cheek, then your neck, your stomach, and moving lower, and lower. “Body heat, you know?”

Her hand gets lower still. You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Like when it’s freezing and people get lost in a snowstorm.” She finds you, reaches into the waistband of your sweatpants, wraps her fingers around you, wakes you up.

“Or when girlfriends are trying to convince their boyfriends to stay in bed all day long,” you groan out. “Again.”

“Exactly,” Hanni says, a breezy air of finality, proud of herself for making you see reason—or rather, feel it.

You kiss her forehead, conceding the victory to her, and she scrunches her nose; preens. It’s a subtle movement, the kind that you’ve come to recognise as her victory dance. She squeezes your body closer to hers, her cheek squishing into your chest, her other hand wrapping around your neck, her legs curling up around your calves. It’s like she’s absorbing your affection, turning it into warmth she’ll keep with her for the rest of the day.

Her hand winds up and down, these long, lazy motions. Smooth and tender, stroking the length of you, her thumb tracing the vein that pulses along the side. She’s not in a hurry; not anymore anyway. Just, enjoying the moment, enjoying being with you, enjoying how obvious you are with your sighs and shivers.

“‘sides,” Hanni adds, taking a break to kiss around your jawline, your neck, your shoulder. “You deserve it. A perfect day of nothing.” She sounds so hopeful, so earnest, and there’s a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the friction of her hand on your skin. “We can order junk food, watch awful horror movies, and…”

“Just us.” A finger under her chin to tilt her head up, to capture those half-moon eyes with yours, to kiss her sweetly, deeply, remind her that she’s all you need to make a perfect day. “I wonder what I’ve done to earn this.”

“Not what you’ve done,” Hanni says in the breaths between your kisses. “What you’re going to do.” 

With that, she uses all her weight to push you, rolling you onto your back, climbing over you with a grace that leaves you breathless.

She straddles you, legs draped over your hips, small breasts bouncing just a little with the motion. There’s mischief lighting up her eyes, that playful glint that precedes all good things. The blankets fall completely off her with a dramatic flourish, leaving her bare and exposed for your eyes to drink in.

A pause to appreciate her—to really look at her. From her flushed cheeks to the tips of her toes. Every curve, every darkened freckle, every soft, sweet inch of her—yours to adore, to touch, to explore.

And then, she winks.

You can’t help but laugh.

Hanni joins you, giggling in uncontrollable fits.

It’s the ridiculousness of it all, of Hanni—the girl who blushes when you hold her hand in public—straddling you with a wink and a promise of a day of pure carnal indulgence.

You both laugh until your cheeks hurt, until the tension breaks and you’re just two people in the cozy bubble of her bed, sharing a stupid, silly moment.

It takes a beat, but you both somehow recover, gasping for air between giggles. She settles herself, placing her hands on either side of your face, looking down at you with all the adoration in the world. Her touch grounds you, brings you back to the present.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” You ask, when you’re finally able to speak. “This is what you really want to do all day?”

“Well…” Hanni muses, sinking down to your waist, running her fingers over your t-shirt, stopping when she has the hem in her clutches. “A bit of this.”

She starts rolling your shirt up, sliding the cotton over your stomach. The cold air of the room kisses your skin before the warmth of her mouth replaces it. Her soft, plump lips meet your body, the small indent of your belly button.

Simple, innocent, playful. Hanni.

“A bit of that,” she continues, her hands keep moving, lifting the shirt higher, tugging it up and up, exposing your chest to her eyes, her lips.

She finds her target, a tongue over your nipple, paying you back for what you’re no doubt going to be doing to her later; flicking over your chest to make you hiss.

“A bit of me,” she adds, words vibrating against your chest, leaving goosebumps as she rises higher.

You lift your arms, allowing her to pull your shirt off your body, trapping you for a moment so she can suck at your neck, mark you as hers, and hers only. As if you didn’t already wear it on your face whenever she’s around.

“Doing a lot of you.”

Her eyes rake over you—your chest, your stomach, your abs. Lingering a touch too long, making her cheeks warm; colouring them with a soft blush that spreads from her neck up to her ears, hinting at the thoughts racing through her mind.

And then you're kissing her.

It’s gentle (your kisses always are) but that doesn’t make it any less passionate, any less intense.

She kisses you back, lips sliding over yours, the softness of her tongue tracing the line of your teeth, moaning your name in short stutters into your mouth.

It feels so right, so natural. The way she fits against you, feels on top of you, the perfect puzzle piece you’ve been desperate to find in a world full of mismatches.

It’s far too early to say it, but you know it—have known it.

You love her. Love how she lives in the moment; how even when you’re worried about the future, about deadlines and tomorrows, she can bring you back to the present and make things simple. In the least selfish way possible, she makes it about her.

(And that’s all you need).

It builds and builds; these slow, dragging kisses, these admissions of things that you’re not quite ready to say. Until you’re both well and truly needy for a touch more heat, as much of each other as you can possibly get.

You can’t hold it anymore, so you don’t bother trying.

With a firm grasp, you take Hanni’s hips in your hands, your thumbs pressing into vanilla skin as you pull her upward. It’s strategic, pull the best parts of her (which could be any part, really) closer, prove her earlier guess right by introducing her breast to your lips, her nipple to your tongue.

A million times you’ve repeated it and it won’t be enough—she’s so soft. Melting at your touch already, so responsive, letting you know she’s feeling it with every hushed gasp and shiver of her tight body.

One hand is filled by her other breast, a supple handful, spilling between your fingers, carelessly massaging as your mouth latches onto its twin. Her heart races, hammers against your palm, quickening with every passing flick, with each chaste suck between your lips.

Your other hand snakes lower, caressing the smooth plane of her stomach. You drag your fingertips over the ridges and valleys of her abs, down towards the juncture of her thighs.

She squirms.

Moans a little louder.

Scrapes the back of your scalp and pulls you in.

You’re insistent, your touch feather light as it grazes over the whispers of hair; trailing all the way down, down, where you ghost over her mound, tease her clit to make her gasp.

“Like that,” Hanni moans her approval, answers you with hips rocking against your hand. “So, so… nice.”

Your hand dips down further, parting her folds, sliding through her slick, greeted with the warmth and wetness of her opening. Soaking your hand, inviting you to delve deeper.

“Hanni,” you mouth around her nipple, “you’re so wet.”

“O-of course,” she manages, shuddering as you dare to ease a finger inside, pushing into her and pushing out a cry that fills the room. “It’s you.”

“It definitely is,” you confirm, stroking her walls with slow, deliberate care, feeling her tense around you with each movement. “And I’m just getting started.”

Her body arches, curves into you, tilting her head back and feeding you more of her; her breast into your mouth, her pussy on your fingers. You look up at her, feel her, memorise every little noise she makes, every twitch of her body as you touch her. Her breath skips as you start to move your finger in and out, a quiet pace to make her hips dance.

“This is a good idea.“ You’re pushing in deeper, adding a second digit to the mix, stretching her just so. She’s tight around you, always so tight, enveloping you in her heat, and there’s the urge to go even slower, to savour every moment. “Staying in all day. Making you feel good.”

Her legs tense, toned thighs flex as you curl your fingers up, pulling towards you just right to hit that spot that makes her mouth hang open, that makes her whine. There’s a plea in there, a silent request for more, for everything.

And you give it to her, because it’s what she deserves, because it’s what she’s asking for, because she’s yours.

She’s getting tighter around you, walls squeezing in. A prelude to something beautiful, something only you know how to give her, a skill you’ve picked up in this very same bed.

“God,” Hanni’s breaths are turning into short gasps, she’s so needy for it, for you. A slight tug of your hair, pulling you off her breast, forcing her nipple to ‘pop’ from your lips. She sinks down, further down onto your hand, her breasts dragging against your chest, her skin sticking to yours. “You’re such a tease.”

Her lips hang in front of yours, pillowy cushions begging for its partner—needing you to kiss her, now. You claim her mouth, let her be as loud as she wants on your lips; these delightful sounds when your hand moves faster, more insistent.

Arms hold you, wrap around your back, hugging you tighter, needing you to be as close as humanly possible. Hands everywhere—massaging your back, gripping in your shoulders, tangled in your hair, grabbing at your biceps—no matter how much of you she has, it’s just not enough.

Pliant is the other word to describe Hanni; so easy in your hands, like clay waiting for your touch. Waiting for you to mould her into whatever you want, even though you prefer her as she just is—all her perfect imperfections, beautifully flawed, wonderfully Hanni.

Another finger pushes into her; three now, moving in a steady rhythm, that slow, cautious manoeuvre that’s become so familiar. Sure, you could do it with your eyes closed, bring her to the brink and back with touch alone, but you’d miss the way she looks at you—the tears at the corners of her eyes, the tremble in her lips; like you’re her saviour, her everything.

“Hanni, you’re so—” you can’t put it into exact words—gorgeous, pretty, lovely—you test them out, but they all fall short, leaving you hanging until—

“Yours,” Hanni finishes, and that’s all you need, all you need to hear to make a vow to do everything in your power to keep her happy, to keep her here, to keep her—“always yours.”

She’s rocking on your fingers now, taking charge of her own pleasure, setting the pace that you so willingly match. It’s a give and take, and you take the chance to kiss at her neck, to nibble on the shell of her ear, to whisper to her all the things that create these little tremors in her thighs, that make her grip you tighter and tighter with each stroke.

She feels so good, so warm, so wet. Your hand is soaked, knuckles coated in her, making these noises. The muffled pop of skin on skin; the soft, sticky sound of wetness being parted; that satisfying squelch as you go in deep.

Hanni’s so close. So, so close.

Unwinding, melting in your palm; and that look. The way she smiles when she’s on that edge, because she’s so happy to be there, so happy that it's you that has her to be feeling this good.

But then—it’s the suddenness that gets you—she goes rigid, stops moving, begs, “Wait, wait, wait.”

It’s so unexpected, but you still do stop, fingers lodged inside her, pulsating with the urgency of her orgasm that’s just a heartbeat away.

She needs to hang onto you, to hold onto something as the world starts to spin again. Her pupils are blown wide, her cheeks a rosy pink that makes her look like she’s been running a marathon, sweat glistening over her, bathing her in this glow.

You look up at her, a soothing kiss on her cheek. “Problem?”

“No,” Hanni manages a gasp, reassuring you with a shaky smile, still doing her best to catch her breath. “I mean yes. I mean… It feels too good.”

You tilt your head. You smirk. “That’s a problem?”

“You always do this, you know?” Hanni chooses her words carefully, trying to break out of the haze of having almost been there, so she can properly articulate. “Make it about me when it’s supposed to be about you.”

You stifle your laughter against her neck, letting it vibrate through her skin. It’s her earnestness, really, that gets you sometimes; her concern for you, even now is too much, almost comical.

“I’m serious!” Hanni protests, though she’s betrayed by the wobble in her voice, that part of her begging to just let you do your thing and push her past the precipice. Her eyes flutter shut as she breathes in deep, trying to compose herself. “I want to make you feel as good as you always make me feel.”

Logic that you can’t argue with, not when it’s wrapped up in that sweet, sweet smile. You still attempt, though, “Hanni, making you feel good—”

“Makes me feel good—yeah, I know how it goes,” she finishes the line for you. “But, just. We have all day, so—"

There’s a point that’s finished by her kiss, specific in its tenderness, stealing whatever witty reply you had ready from your mouth.

“Let me start by taking care of you.”

It’s like you said—Hanni Pham, making it all about her, in the least selfish way possible.

You relent, bowing out to her whims.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” Hanni nods, satisfied with your compliance. She takes your wrists into her hands, guides them away from her body to keep them at your sides. “Just relax.”

It’s a strange feeling, letting go, letting her be the one to dictate the pace, the rhythm of your morning. You watch her, watch the way her eyes wander over you. She’s fascinated, like she can’t make up her mind of where to start.

But she does, eventually.

Her gaze settles on your arousal, standing proud and waiting underneath your sweatpants.

“How about I start—” a light kiss on your lips, and she’s slinking down to your waist, tugging at the string of your pants, “right here?”

A kiss on your stomach, just above your navel, her fingers slipping between your waistband and your skin. They pull at the fabric, dragging it down with care until it’s pooled around your thighs. Your cock springs free, and there’s this gasp she makes—like she hasn’t seen it a hundred times before.

“You’re so big.” Hanni’s in awe, her voice hushed, reverent almost. It’s always been something she says, something that makes you blush—swells the ego that you like to pretend you don’t have. “I still have no idea how this fits inside me.”

“It fits perfectly, remember?”

“Mm, I know, but—" she can’t find the words, so she settles for the next best thing, “damn.”

She’s smiling—always smiling—and you can feel her breath on you, light and sugary, these little pulses of anticipation tingling through your skin.

You hold your breath, waiting for her touch, waiting for her lips, waiting for her to finally take you in.

But she doesn’t. She’s just looking.

“Hanni,” you say, giving your cock a teasing flex, brushing it against her cheek. It’s a light prod to break the spell, to remind her of the task at hand.

“Oh!”

It’s getting unbearable, your cock just inches from her mouth, straining to reach her lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good.“ She presses another kiss to your skin, a little nibble to your inner thigh that makes you jolt. Her hands skim over your legs, pushing your sweatpants down further and further, down your thighs, over your knees right until it’s stuck at your ankles, thwarting her attempted sensual seduction.

She makes this frustrated 'argh!’ at the minor struggle. Very cute. Also a little ridiculous.

"Help, please?” She looks up at you, expectantly.

You acquiesce.

“Aha!” Hanni cheers, slightly louder than she may have intended, having won her battle against your pants. She catches herself, blushing, flashing a cheeky smile.

God, you’re going to fall in love with her all over again.

“Oh right. I mean, are you ready?”

So casual in how she says it, covering for her fumble. It makes you want to laugh—except you can’t, because before you can even open your mouth, she’s already leaned in, pressing her plush lips against the tip of your cock.

Lightly, so light it makes your hairs stand on end. A calculated tease, right hand around your cock, stroking your length. Her left reaches up, laces her fingers with yours. A squeeze, a preview of what’s to come.

You can’t help but twitch under her.

It's her lips, mapping a trail of kisses down your shaft, leaving a warm, sticky mess of pre-cum that she’s quick to lick away. It’s how she’s looking at you—so focused, like she’s been learning, been studying you, creating a personal database of everything that makes you tick.

But above all else it’s just the simple fact that she’s doing this for you, because she cares about you. Because she wants to make you feel good.

It’s all of it and it’s working.

“This is much nicer, isn’t it?” She asks, not really expecting an answer, because she knows it’ll be a resounding yes.

She’s playing with you, not giving you exactly what you want, but just enough. Her hand wrapped around the base of your cock, stroking you from root to tip, thumb circling your head with enough pressure to drive you insane.

It’s pain and pleasure wrapped up into one perfect package, and you’re not sure which one you prefer.

You let her know as such: “Actually quite torturous, to be honest.”

“But it’s the good kind of torture, right?”

“There’s a good kind?”

“We’ve got all day to find out,” Hanni teases, taking a fistful of her own hair in her hand, looping it into a tight, messy bun; preparing herself—giving you a final chance to do the same.

Hanni takes you into her mouth.

It’s not a sudden plunge, not a surprise attack bringing you straight to the back of her throat—it’s a slow, slow descent that has you gritting your teeth and biting back a groan.

It’s hot. Wet. Heavenly. You can feel every inch of your cock being coated in her saliva, her tongue dancing around your shaft, her cheeks hollowing out, her lips creating the most exquisite suction.

When she reaches as far as she can go, fills her mouth with as much of you as she can take, she starts to move back up. Slowly, so you can feel every little bump of her tongue, every little drag of her teeth.

Her hand joins in, moving in tandem with her mouth, stroking the parts of you she can’t reach. She’s trying to find the perfect balance, trying to find that sweet spot between too much and not enough.

Hanni’s no pro at this, her technique is in no way perfect—but she’s so willing, so keen to please. She takes her time, getting used to the feel of you in her mouth, her eyes peeking up at you every so often to gauge your reaction; studying your face for any sign that she’s doing it right, that she’s doing it well.

It’s adorable, really.

And oh, so hot.

You give it to her again, reassure her, “So good, baby,” because it is—your hips buck involuntarily, pushing deeper into her mouth.

It takes her off guard, but she does her best to adapt; she’s trying not to gag, trying to take it all in. She’s a fast learner, your Hanni.

Your compliment serves its purpose—she’s getting more confident now, her tongue gliding along the underside of your cock, tentative, exploratory. It’s clumsy, yes, but it’s cute, and most importantly—it feels good.

She’s concentrating, her attention entirely on your cock; her lips sealed tight. Each time her head bobs down, she takes you in deeper, millimetres, but still, deeper and deeper.

And it’s the sound of her sucking you in, getting sloppier, filling the room with those noises, the soundtrack to your morning. She’s getting bolder, finding her rhythm, building her pace. It’s not precise in any way, shape or form—sometimes she’s a little too rough, sometimes she misses the beat—but the effort.

A harsh suck has your cock popping out of Hanni’s lips, strings of her saliva still connecting her mouth to you. She looks up at you, wanting to check in, still needing that hit of validation, “Is this—is this good?"

You stroke her hair, let her lean into your touch. "Unbelievably. You’re doing great.”

“But I can make it even better, can’t I?” She asks, the determination setting in her features, and she’s staring straight into your eyes, hopeful, “Tell me. Tell me how you want it.”

It’s not a demand—it’s a question, a plea for guidance; she’ll do whatever it takes (whatever you want) to get you there. And it’s the sight of her, straddling your thighs, kneeling before you; those full lips hovering just about your cock, her hand lazily pumping away, keeping you there.

Somehow, you manage to get the words out, a rough whisper, “Take me deep, Hanni. As far as you can go. Take me all in. Show me how much you want it.”

It’s the instruction she’s been waiting for; she’s nodding before you’ve finished, so willing to oblige. It’s that part of her that you’ve discovered, the part she might not even know herself. But it explains so much.

(Hanni: the teacher’s pet, always needing to excel. Competitive, desperate for the highest grades in school, the top evaluations in training; desperate for you to tell her that it’s her and only her.

That’s what makes her successful. That’s what makes her eager.

And now that you’ve put the challenge before her, she can’t wait to prove herself.)

She takes a deep breath, swirls her tongue around the tip of your cock, dipping her toe into the water before she dives right in. It’s like she’s playing it out in her head, memorising the taste of you, the smell of you, the feel of you; mapping out the best way to take you all the way in right before she breaks you.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

And she goes for it.

Her mouth opens wide, eyes locked on yours, and she takes you in again.

Deeper, throat tighter.

Her eyes water a little, and she coughs, retreating. But she’s unfazed—still smiling, still eager.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s okay.”

You stroke her cheek, act like it’s not already far more than you can handle. “Take your time, baby. No need to rush.”

A deep inhale, and she's trying again.

It’s a process, her getting used to you, your size, your taste, the way you make her throat bulge. She’s slow, tentative, but with every stroke, with every gulp, she’s getting closer. Her cheeks hollow out more, her eyes water a little less, and she moans.

You can feel the anticipation building in your chest, your balls, the sweet ache of your orgasm just around the corner. And she can feel it too, your body tensing under hers, your breaths turning shorter, sharper.

The fifth time, she hits the back of her throat, and she stops—holds herself there, panting. It’s a moment of victory, a declaration that she’s got it right, that she can take all of you, just like you asked. Your cock is nestled at the back of her throat, there’s more tears now, but she’s smiling with her eyes, looking up at you through her lashes.

It’s so intense. You groan. Your hips jerk. “Good, baby, so good—don’t move.”

The look on her face, the satisfaction, the pride.  

She swallows around you, working the muscles in her throat, pressing her tongue flat against the underside of your cock; it’s too much.

“Ha-Hanni—keep doing that—keep swallowing—it’s perfect—so perfect—”

It’s a struggle, but she does it, takes it all in, holds it there—just for you.

Her hands are at your thighs, grasping—not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know she’s there, that she’s with you. She coughs, gags, sputters bits of drool down your cock, but she keeps going.

And then, she pulls herself up, needing the air, pulling back with a long gasp; leaving a mess. Your cock slides out of her mouth, springing from her lips; her cheeks a vivid shade of red, glistening with lines of tears—beautiful, just indescribably beautiful.

“Was I good?” She’s asking out of courtesy, really. You’re sure whatever dumb look you’re wearing on your face is more than enough to confirm it.

But you nod and choke a ’Yes’ anyway, because you’re a gentleman, and words of affirmation are just as sweet as the act itself.

“I can do better.”

And before your mind can even catch up to what she’s saying, she’s sucking you back into her mouth. Now that she’s proven herself, she just has to push it even further, show you just what she’s capable of.

This time, she’s more assured, more confident. Her hands are at your hips now, holding you still, like she’s worried you’ll get away.

You won’t, of course. You couldn’t even if you tried.

Hanni’s bobbing her head; these long, deep sucks that have your fingers tangling in her hair, have you urging your hips to meet her mouth. Her eyes are watering more, she’s gagging more often than not, but she doesn’t stop, she just keeps moaning around you, keeps going and going.

She takes her hands off your hips, sliding one down to the base of your cock, holding it steady as she works you over and over. The other finds your balls, balancing them on her fingertips, rolling them around her palm. She’s figuring it out, figuring you out far too quickly, and it nearly has you coming undone.

And through it all, she’s grinning.

It’s a twisted, slightly pained grin, but it’s a grin nonetheless. She’s found her new favourite hobby, and she’s determined to show you just how much she enjoys it.

“I love this,” Hanni slurs against your cock, not really to you, not really to herself, just saying it out loud because it’s true. “I love being able to do this to you, making you feel so good.”

She’s saying these things, these simple words like they’re not dangerous at all, like whispering them against your cock is so harmless, like they don’t have the power to completely destroy your resolve.

“I love that it’s me,” Hanni keeps going, even when her tongue is occupied with licking you, lapping up your balls, the underside of your shaft. “I love that I’m the one who makes you feel this way.”

Gone is the shyness—she’s so smug now, so proud of herself, so in love with the fact that she has you exactly where she wants you: in her mouth, at her mercy.

It’s in the way she’s sucking you, her eyes closing, her hums of pleasure every time she takes you in—as deep as she can. She’s getting hotter on top of you, just from having you in her mouth, from taking you into her lips again and again.

Grinding herself into the mattress, needing a bit of friction, needing more. And that’s when she pulls away, panting for breath.

“Hanni?” You ask, finding your voice, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“It’s too much,” she admits, breathless, her hand still wrapped around your cock, stroking you gently, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s too much.”

There’s a shift in the air—in Hanni. Usually, typically, soft. Now wild, desperate.

She’s climbing up you, back on your hips, her wetness smearing onto your skin, her thighs trembling on either side of yours.

"I need it, I can’t wait anymore. I just can’t.”

The suddenness, the urgency in her voice (in her body). Hanni, flushed, practically shaking with need.

“I need you—now.”

It’s so tempting—you could give in easily. And yet, there’s something in how she’s asking you, how she’s using innuendo in place of propriety, dancing around saying what she really wants in plain, explicit terms.

It’s not enough.

She’s already got you on the edge, so close you can almost taste it. But you need to hear it from her. Your sweet, adorable girlfriend, saying something so dirty it’ll make your knees buckle.

So, you sit up, shifting slightly so she’s still straddling you, face to face. Cradling her cheek with one hand, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes; so you can look at her—take in all the tiny beautiful inflections that make her your Hanni.

“What do you need?”

Always with the blushes, but she holds your gaze, not breaking it even when you run your hand back down south, reaching to slip a finger through her folds, finding her still so wet and swollen. She gasps, but she doesn’t look away.

“Tell me, Hanni,” you coax, your finger moving in gentle circles, watching her face, watching the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches.

Hanni stutters, “You—I want you—need you—". But you just chuckle, slow down the pace of your finger, giving her a taste of the frustration she’s unintentionally been dishing out.

“Not quite specific enough. What part of me do you want?”

She’s biting her lip, squirming under your touch—she’s not used to this. Not used to anything outside of the usual playfulness, the sweetness; the gentle strokes and soft whispers. But something has you feeling different today.

Maybe it’s the excitement of trying something new. Maybe it’s how unusually forward she’s being. Or maybe, just maybe, part of you has always wanted to hear her beg.

She blurts it out: “Your—your cock!”

“And what do you want me to do with it?” You press, stroking her clit now; her chest heaving, these tiny whines escaping her, and the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s getting ready to pounce.

“Please—just—please, I need—”

“Need me to slide it in slow?” You suggest, kissing her neck, her perfect, porcelain skin. “Give it to you nice and deep?“

Hanni’s rolling her hips on you, grinding herself against your hand, trying to get through to your cock, trying to will it to enter her.

“Go ahead, be honest.”

She’s bothered. Annoyed—almost angry, if that’s even possible for her. Like how could you? How could her kind, loving boyfriend go out of his way to put her in such agony.

“Tell me, baby. What does Hanni want?”

“I—I need your cock inside me—I want you to—” Hanni swallows takes a deep breath.

A final push: “Say it.”

“Fuck me, hold me and fuck me. Deep, hard, slow—however you want just fuck me now.”

The words come out in a rush, spilling out of her lips. Even she’s surprised as she’s saying them, in disbelief that she’s even capable of saying something so filthy out loud.

But she’s not taking it back, she’s not apologising.

No, she’s taking hold of your hand, moving it out from between her legs, and replacing it with your cock, daring you to stop her.

Like you could ever.

You push in, inch by delicious inch, watching her face contort, features twist, feeling her stretch around you.

It’s the same every time—it feels like the first time all over again.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth parted in a wordless plea, and you’re moving so slow. So slow that she’s whimpering, begging, hips trying to push you deeper. But you keep it steady, setting the tempo, let her get used to the feeling of being made whole by you again.

“Oh, oh, oh—” Hanni pants, trying to keep her voice down, but it’s pointless. She’s failing already, loosening a strained 'fuck' when you bottom out, when your cock is finally, completely inside her.

You hold her like that; your arms around her, hugging her tight, her breasts squished against your chest. She’s so small in your arms, so soft, so warm; her pulse racing against your own, lapping it twice over.

“You okay?” You ask, placing a kiss on her shoulder.

“More than okay,” she sighs, holding onto you, moulding her body onto yours. “More than okay—just need a minute to adjust. Don’t worry about me—you can—you can make me feel good.”

So, you do.

Lifting her body off you, unsheathing your cock from her warm embrace, until only the tip is trapped in her wetness. Then: guiding her back down, a touch quicker, harder, deeper. And there’s that gasp as she takes you back in, as you fill her.

You’re moving with purpose now, her walls tight and wet and hot around you, clenching and releasing in time with your slow, deliberate thrusts.

Hanni’s breasts bounce in front of you, up and down with every pump, small peaks begging for attention. You’re kissing them again, sucking one into your mouth, suckling on the pink tips.

“So beautiful,” you’re repeating it, speaking it into her skin, because it’s all that’s on your mind as she takes you in. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

And she looks it too, even though she’s not even trying; with her hair falling out of her bun, sticking to her face with sweat and saliva, her mouth hanging open, swollen and red from your kisses, her body writhing and jerking with every thrust.

Yet she remains focused, eyes glued to yours, like she’s afraid if she looks away she’ll miss something. Like if she doesn’t keep watching, she’ll wake up and find out it’s all been a dream.

But it’s not.

It’s you and her, in this bed, the sun peeking through the curtains, her naked body riding yours, hotter and hotter with each pass.

It’s you and her, together, wrapped up in each other making love like the world outside doesn’t exist.

It’s you and her, and it’s—

“So perfect—you feel so perfect,” Hanni finishes your thought for you, finishes each of your thrusts with her own hips; opening her body up to you, welcoming you in deeper with each stroke. “I think I’m gonna cry it feels so good.”

Her legs lock around your back, heels digging into your spine, until you’re fully seated inside her; so deep it feels like you’re a part of her. With a whine that’s half pleasure, half need, Hanni braces herself on you, rolling her hips on your cock, grinding down, taking as much of you as she can.

You grip her tight, one hand around her back, the other under her ass, fingers squeezing into the soft, tender flesh. Bouncing her up and down, watching her face as she takes you, as she keeps repeating ‘so perfect’.

And you know, you know she’s not just talking about the physical—that’s definitely there. It’s how you’re making her feel, it’s the connection. The way you’re looking at her, the way you’re holding her, the way you’re loving her that has her floating.

“I-I think I’m ready,” Hanni whimpers, “I can take it—you don’t need to—don’t hold back anymore.”

With a grunt, a nod, and a choked ‘Hanni’, you’re sweeping her up, keeping your cock buried deep inside her as you lift her. Your hand cushions the back of her head as you lay her down on the bed beneath you, her legs spreading wide on their own to accept you.

A moment to steady herself, to prepare.

A smile. A kiss on her forehead.

And then you’re in, all the way, again. Completing her pussy with your cock; one swift motion that knocks the wind out of her in the sound of your name.

“God—Hanni—”

It shouldn’t be like this—it should be impossible to be this much hotter, this much wetter, this tight.

But she is.

She’s squeezing herself around you, muscles, thighs flexing. Eyes shut, mouth wide open because there’s no way to stop from crying out; and her body, her lovely, perfect body, arching up to meet your every thrust.

You give it to her.

You’re building up speed, stretching her wide, hips moving in that perfect rhythm you’ve discovered together—the one that makes your name echo off the bedroom walls.

Hanni’s whimpering, mewling, whining, “Tell me—tell me how good it feels.”

You tell her everything—how tight, how wet, how perfect she is. You praise her, shower her with very compliment that comes to mind. She eats them up; her lips leaving marks on your neck, your shoulder, her fingers on your back, her hips swallowing you whole.

But Hanni still needs more, needs to hear more. Not just that she’s good, not even that she’s perfect. She needs to hear that she’s only yours.

“Like heaven, Hanni,” you manage, your voice hoarse, strained. “So perfect for me. Only me.”

“Really?” Hopeful. Ecstatic. So turned on.

“Always,” you repeat, the truth echoing in your voice and across her skin. “Always so perfect.”

“Mmm,” Hanni moans, nodding along, soaking in every word that flows freely from your lips.

“You’re so beautiful, Hanni. Your pussy is so perfect.” You kiss her again, a little harder this time, a little more possessive. “I love how you fit around me.”

Her breath catches in her throat, there’s that spark in her eyes, and she’s taking you deeper, urging you on. “Oh-oh. Keep talking—please—keep talking.”

“Made for me, aren’t you Hanni?” You continue, the steady stream of praise and admiration, caressing her as surely as your cock in her pussy. You can’t get enough, can’t get over how perfect she feels, how right it is to be inside her. “Like a perfect glove around me.”

Her eyes meet yours, her smile shy as she whispers your name. Whispers it like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word she knows (like it’s the only thing that can give her peace).

She’s so close, getting there, it’s in how she’s pulling you closer; with her arms and her pussy. How she’s saying please, with a little quiver in her voice, alternating it with your name when you hit that spot just right.

“This feels so good, but-but-I think—” Hanni’s voice cracks, even now, still so shy, so adorable. She’s gasping, out of breath, trying her best to string the words together. “C-can I? Can I please cum?”

It’s all you need to hear. You kiss her, hard and deep, push into her. “Of course, baby,” you say, “Do it. Do it for me. I want you to cum for me.”

The effect it has on her—how it ripples across her face. She’s so thankful. So, so thankful for your permission, for what you’re doing to her. “Then please—please don’t stop.”

Harder, faster, deeper now—making her unravel beneath you. Hands holding her in place, feeling her, feeling her tense, quake around you.

Keep going, because she’s almost there, because she’s repeating it, that desperate ‘please’, over and over again.

‘Please-please-please’—with every thrust, saying it without saying it, with every clench of her walls, with every little gasp she lets slip.

Because that’s what she is—who she is—at her most honest, her most vulnerable. Pleases and thank yous on her lips, a constant stream of gratitude for you, for being here with her, for making her feel so much.

“Thank you,” Hanni manages, words almost a moan. “Thank you for making me feel like this, for making me feel so—”

But she can’t finish the sentence, can’t find the words to explain the storm that’s building inside her. So she just says it again, rising in pitch each time as the pressure builds. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you—’

Her nails dig into your shoulders, the first time she’s ever inflicted anything close to pain on you; begging you to stay in place, to not move, to not pull out. You feel her need, feel it in your bones, feel it from the heat of her pussy.

“Feels so—” Hanni’s crying, sobbing now, trembling uncontrollably. You’re holding onto her, deep inside her, giving all the time she needs to let it out. “—so good, so deep, so, so much—”

She gasps. She tightens. She screams.

Hanni’s voice breaks off into a keening wail as it all comes crashing over her; and you don’t stop, can’t stop, can’t do anything but keep her tethered to you as she loses herself to her climax.

“Please—don’t pull out—please—don’t stop—please—please—please—”

She shudders, clenches around you, pussy tightening in the sweetest way possible. It’s that look on her face, saying everything she can’t manage to say, everything she can’t put into words—how much she loves you, how much you complete her, how much she needs this.

It’s a wave, pulling you under, and you let it take you, let it sweep you away until you’re drowning in the feeling of her coming apart around you, under the heat of her eyes and the grip of her body.

Her juices all over your cock, her pussy spasming around you, that blissful agony on her face. Hanni’s so sweet when she cums, so damn gorgeous, it just takes your breath away. She’s perfect, so perfect it hurts.

And as she comes down, as she rides out her orgasm and kisses your name into your lips, she begs of you, once last time: “Your turn.”

With strength you didn’t know she still had, her legs pull you in, anchoring you to her. Her walls pulse, her body begs for you to follow.

And you do.

“Give it to me, please, cum for me, love—”

You let go. Let the tension in your body melt away as you thrust into her one, two, three more times. Until you’re releasing, until you’re cumming, until everything’s white-hot pleasure and Hanni on your tongue.

Load after load inside her, a hot, deep stream that leaves you groaning, that leaves her sighing, panting, joyful. Filling her up until she’s complete, until she’s overflowing.

You cum hard and fast, and Hanni tries her best to keep up, tries to take it all, and she’s smiling—laughing even, the joy of making you feel this good lighting up her features.

“H-Hanni—” you try, your cock twitching inside her, your cum spilling out of her and onto the bed, onto your thighs.

She’s kissing you, kissing your neck, letting you make your mess; your glorious mess of cum and sweat and saliva and her.

It feels so good, everything feels so good about her, everything she’s doing. She’s holding you so tight, so greedily, shivering with every throb of your cock inside her, savouring every moment of your release.

There’s a moment of silence, where you just lay there, bodies entangled, hearts racing, breaths mingling. Just looking at each other, basking in the thickness of sex and satisfaction.

And Hanni smiles, so wide it could split her face in two, a smile that says she’s never been happier.

Then, with a sigh, she relaxes, her legs loosening, ankles unlocking behind you. You roll onto your side, pulling her with you, keeping her close. She’s still with you, still keeping your cock inside her, and you can’t help but feel like this is it.

This is home.

“Best. Morning. Ever.”

She laughs. “I don’t want to get up. Don’t ever want to leave this bed.”

“I don’t think I can get up,” you admit somewhere into her hair.

And then it hits you. Something in the air, something in the light hitting her naked body, something in that blissful expression on her face.

It spills out of you before you can stop it: “I think I’m in love with you.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, to read your face. “Careful, we’ve got all day for that kind of talk.”

But she doesn’t protest as you hold her tighter, feel the warmth of her body, the smell of the skin, the way she nests into your side. Fitting perfectly—like she’s always been there.

So yeah, you may have said it too early, but whatever.

Today’s the day for breaking normal rules and codes of conduct.

For breaking routines. For her.

For the promise of a long day filled with nothing but lazy kisses, whispered secrets, the sweet taste of her skin.

For staying in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, forgetting the outside world.

For more of this. Of Hanni. Of this perfect, perfect feeling.

So, you stay there. Not moving, not speaking. Just holding onto the moment, as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky.

And as your eyes start to drift close, as you sink into the comfort of the mattress, with her in your arms and on your mind, and you’re thinking this day couldn��t get any better, Hanni whispers:

“Idiot. I’ve always been in love with you.”

[bet-on-me-13]

Misunderstandings really really suck

Edit: Part 2 is Up

So heres the deal, it's a normal Vivisection AU where Danny had to run away to Gotham after his parents try to kill him, and let's say that he takes Ellie with him too.

They stay there for a few years and after a while they manage to establish a little life for themselves. Danny is running a small Shop that makes them enough money to live comfortably in the apartment right above his Shop, meanwhile Ellie is going to Gotham Metro Academy on a scholarship because she is really smart and they managed to fake some school records for her when they were making themselves new Identities.

(Side Note: Danny is now 26, while Ellie hasn't started aging yet and still looks 12, but she will begin to soon since she just hit her 12th birthday)

Danny also runs a small Ghost Shop out of his store, just selling small bits of Distilled Ectoplasm or Ecto-Infused Treats to the local Ghosts in return for small favors or help around the shop.

But here's the thing. Ellie is still an unstable Clone, even if they did managed to find a reliable treatment in the form of Ecto-Dejecto. But Danny's parents were the only ones who knew how to make that stuff, and the Ecto-Dejecto they stole all those years ago is beginning to run out.

Danny begins to work tirelessly trying to replicate it, diving full on into his Mad Scientist side to try and find a way to make more ED for Ellie. He manages to make some prototypes, but he is nowhere near confident that they are good enough.

He decides to call in some favors from the local Ghosts. He calls the ones he is confident will survive this and asks them to try out his Ecto Dejecto to see if it will work for Ellie, but he does warn them that there will probably be unexpected side effects that they will probably not like.

The Ghosts agree to do it, because in the years that the Fenton's have lived there they have grown extremely attached to Ellie. She is like a little sister or daughter for many of them, they would throw away their afterlives if it meant helping her.

For most of the samples, the ED doesn't work at all. Some of them work for a single moment before cutting out, others don't do anything, and some have crazy effects that affect them for a little while before disappearing abruptly. One guy turned into a Dog, not the worst outcome but not the intended one. Another began to glow brightly and couldn't turn it off, that one lasted for an hour.

They keep testing them, out in the nearby Alley since they don't want to destroy the house or Danny's makeshift Lab, for a few weeks.

They problem comes when they are spotted one night by Red Hood.

...

Jason was crossing the Rooftops while on Patrol. He was going a little farther than his normal patrol range, since he had the time and he wanted to make sure there was no trouble in the nearby areas either.

As he was about to hop from one rooftop to another, he got a weird feeling. It was strange, he didn't feel anything on his skin, he didn't smell anything, he didn't even hear anything, but he somehow knew that there was something strange happening in the nearby Alley. It was like he could sense it.

Peeking over the edge of the rooftop, he saw a group of about 10 people. It was a bunch of strange looking people with green-ish skin, and one normal looking person. The normal looking one was wearing a lab coat, and seemed to be about 25 yrs old. Jason felt like there was something off about that guy, but he couldn't place exactly what. He was holding a box of something in his hand, and talking to the group.

"Ok guys, I'm really confident this time!" He said, "I think one of these may be the one!"

The man placed the box on a nearby Dumpster and opened it up, taking out a strange glowing green Vial. He handed it to one of the Greenish people and watched as they injected themselves with it.

Jason watched as they began to glow slightly before their arms suddenly grew to be longer than they were tall. The Man in the Lab Coat sighed in discontent, before saying "Ok, not that one. But we still have a few to try out!"

Jason watched as one by one the people below injected themselves with the green Liquid, each of them having some strange phenomenon happen to them before moving on to the next. The strange thing was that none of them seemed to be concerned with the changes, just commenting on it felt before moving on.

Finally, they got to the last person in line. As they injected themselves, Jason felt a sense of Anticipation well up in his gut. He didn't know why, but he felt like this was going to he important.

He was proven right as the Man who had injected himself began to glow brightly. Jason was overwhelmed with the sense of Pure Power coming from him. It was intense, he didn't know how, but he could actually feel the man begin to grow stronger and stronger. The feeling was nearly suffocating, but he managed to regain his senses long enough to hear Lab Coat laugh maniacally. He looked over to see that the entire group was enthusiastically high-fiving and fist-bumping eachother, all cheering at the success.

"Hahaha! Yes! Finally!" Labcoat Cheered, "It's done! Once I make some more, we'll be able to-"

The overwhelming power suddenly cut out. It was so abrupt that even the people below didn't speak for some time. They all just stood on slight shock before Labcoat spoke up, "Ok...ok this is fine. All I need to do is take that formula and find a way to make the effect Permanent. After that we're all set." He said, a thoughtful expression on his face, "I think we'll be good to go within a Week!"

The group of people muttered in agreement, and Labcoat thanked them all for a bit before they all began to walk away. It seemed like the meeting was over.

Jason took a moment to collect himself, before deciding to follow some of the group so he could question them. Unfortunately, everybody he followed disappeared into thin air after a short time.

It occurred to him that he hadn't tried to intervene at all. Usually he would have jumped down and beaten them all black and blue for testing drugs right in front of him, but he didn't this time. Why? He also realized that he should have followed the Lab Coat guy first, not waited until it was his last option. Why did he not go after that guy instantly? Why did he hesitate? Was it something to do with that Ominous Feeling that led him to the meeting in the first place? There was just something about the guy that made Jason feel inexplicably sacred of him.

Either way, he needed to tell the others.

Because from what he had seen, a Mad Scientist had been working with a group of Metahumans to create a Super Soldier Drug right there in Gotham, and they needed to stop them.

[vivwritescrappythings]

velma

eddie munson x fem!reader

You attend a Halloween party with Eddie, things don't go quite as planned when Jason Carver acts like a jerk.

cw: allusions to curvy reader, drinking, drugs, blood, violence, eddie fights off screen, body insecurities, kissing, not proofread, working on writing fluff

Word Count: 5.5k

masterlist

—

“Are you gonna go to Chelsea Hanover’s Halloween party?” Eddie asked, long legs hanging out the back of his van. His stained Reeboks were planted firmly on the concrete, knees pushing out of the rips in his black jeans. You sat in the parking lot of the movie theater, eating the remainder of the snacks you hadn’t finished earlier. The night was quiet, most Hawkins residents already tucked safely into their beds.

You paused midway through trying to shove a handful of popcorn into your mouth, is Eddie going insane? “Are you going to Chelsea Hanover’s Halloween party?” You were practically gawking as you swung your sock-covered feet in the crisp night air. The sneakers you wore had been abandoned in a pile on the shag carpet. 

You thought Eddie was over all the stupid high school activities at this point, with it being his third go at senior-year and all. He’d never talked about going to a party in the past six months of your budding friendship, and, in Hawkins, there were plenty of parties to attend. 

He was quiet as he took another drink from his slushie, red-stained lips turning up into a smirk. “I was thinking about going to sell. Make some money off the rich kids.” 

“What, do you want me to come entertain you?” There was an edge to your voice that you didn’t expect. Your chest felt tight as soon as he brought up the party, anxiety knitting your lungs together. You traced the cracks in the asphalt with your eyes. 

Your frustration wasn’t meant for Eddie, it rarely ever was.

You had to stop pretending that all your so-called friends from your junior year of high school weren’t because of Billy. None of them had even bothered to speak to you since he dumped you like trash last summer. And especially not since the day of his funeral. They were fake and plastic people.

Eddie chuckled, fishing his carton of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t seem to notice how stiff you’d become, your legs rigid in the night air. “Well, yeah. If you want. It could be a night of making fun of Hawkins’ finest.” 

You smiled weakly, trying to hide the sour mood that had come over you. Eddie just wanted a friend to be there–you knew Gareth and Jeff would say no immediately. You didn’t want to throw him to the wolves alone. Chelsea Hanover’s parties were awful if you didn’t know anyone or didn’t want to dance. Eddie didn’t seem like much of a dancer to you. “You know what, sure. Count me in, Munson.”

His pearly white teeth lit up in the glow of his lighter as he brought the cigarette to his lips, a smile radiating across his masculine features. A tendril of anxiety wrapped around your throat as you filed through worst-case-scenarios, each growing more and more catastrophic. 

Your stomach did a flip as you pushed the bucket of popcorn aside, trying to be subtle as your thoughts raced. You suddenly obsessed about how your thighs pressed together and your bra cut into the layer of excess fat in your back, all new discoveries in the past couple of months. Your mother had reminded you that being thin at eighteen would be harder than being thin at seventeen—you’d locked yourself in your bathroom to cry for the better part of your birthday after stepping on the scale.

Eddie didn’t seem to notice your turmoil, methodically chewing as though everything was fine. Of course he wouldn’t notice, he didn’t understand the intricacies of girlhood that made your skin feel too tight. You fluffed your sweater out, suddenly self-conscious about what areas of your body it was snug against. 

Robin would help you find a costume. 

—

The high socks squeezed just above your knees as you made your way up to the front door, red skirt swishing around the middles of your plush thighs with each step. You took a deep breath, a wave of heat and sound rolling over you as you opened the door. There were people in a variety of costumes everywhere inside. A few classmates nodded at you in acknowledgment as you shut the door and stepped into the humid living room, quickly turning their attention back to their friends. 

Where was Eddie? You did a once over of the room, scanning the edges of the dance floor for the shaggy-haired boy. The couches had all been pushed out of the way to make space for a makeshift dance floor, the stereo in the corner booming Cyndi Lauper. It was a miracle that it couldn’t be heard outside. 

The clusters of people spilled into the kitchen. There was limited space to weave through the crowd, you kept whispering apologies as you made your way to the other room. Upon entering, you were handed a cup of red punch from a boy you vaguely knew from English. You offered him a smile, a nod in his direction as you raised the cup to your lips.

You wrinkled your nose as you took a sip, it was strong. 

There were no traces of Eddie anywhere. The room was filled with Indiana Joneses and Maddonas and Ghostbusters and Flashdance characters. No curly-headed metalheads in sight, though. Eddie didn’t seem like someone who would wear a Halloween costume, not for a party he was planning on dealing at. 

You leaned against the breakfast counter lazily, watching the people on the dance floor bump into one another. The plastic cup stuck to your fingers as you gulped down the rest of the drink, grimacing at the after taste of vodka. You traced the edges of the porcelain tiles as you took up your place as a designated wallflower. 

You downed four more cups of the punch before you got restless, deciding to investigate the rest of the party before accepting defeat. Your feet shuffled in slow motion as you approached the sliding glass door on the other end of the room. It was open, allowing teens to trickle outside and spread across the dark backyard. 

The smell of cigarettes and weed wafted through the door as the autumn breeze picked it up, sparking a small flame of hope that your best friend was outside.

You tripped on the door track as you stepped into the much cooler night, steadying yourself and your sloshing drink against the doorframe before looking up. There were a few groups outside, most nursing drinks or joints or cigarettes and murmuring to one another. The music coming from the living room was so faint that you could barely make out the lyrics.

“Hey, Velma!” Your head slowly turned towards the voice, your lips buzzing as the alcohol settled in. Eddie was illuminated by the soft light diffused by the curtains in the kitchen window. He sat at a metal table with his trusty lunch box, head cocked slightly to the side as he absorbed your costume. You realized he was wearing a dark green “Corroded Coffin” t-shirt under his leather jacket and dark jeans, meaning you vaguely matched. 

If you squinted, or drank too much.

You fell into the chair next to him with an oof!, crossing your legs at the ankles as you leaned back. Your head lolled back to rest on the weathered cushion as a breathy laugh escaped your throat. “We match,” you said, looking at how the stars were swirling in the sky. Your breaths were heavy as you waited for the world to still, a smile stretching its way across your face regardless. 

“I didn’t know you were gonna come in costume, princess,” Eddie laughed, busily rolling joints to keep his hands occupied. You placed the sticky plastic cup on the table before stretching your arms out in front of you. Your gaze traced the wide cable-knit of the orange sweater, wiggling your fingers as you contemplated.

Self-consciousness reared its ugly head, making you sit up and lean closer to the brunette. “Do I look bad?” you whispered, fingertips finding the edge of your skirt. Your eyes were wide as he paused to study you, a soft grin breaking out on his face. You waited for his judgment, fiddling with anything in your reach before landing on braiding a thin strip of your hair.

“You look great,” he assured. There was a beat of silence, your heads still bent together conspiratorially. Eddie looked like he was thinking, his tongue licked his bottom lip. “You should’ve told me you were gonna dress up, I would’ve done it with you.” 

“You already look like you did, Shaggy,” you murmured with a sly half smile, taking another drink as you settled back into the metal chair. Eddie grinned, glancing down at his own outfit. 

Everything got all fuzzy on the edges as you finished the red liquid in your cup, joking with Eddie between drug deals. The basketball players who came by barely looked at you, only sparing glances as Eddie overcharged them for weed. 

He didn’t notice the cold shoulders, or he at least pretended not to, making fun of their costume choices as soon as they walked away. You pretended like they didn’t bother you. It felt strange to be at one of these parties after everything that happened with Billy, you’d never felt more invisible. 

But Eddie saw you, his brown eyes drifting to you more often than usual. You couldn’t tell if it was just because he was worried about how much you were drinking. You found yourself liking the way he talked, hands waving wildly as his voice slid into different impersonations of the people around you. He was always so genuinely Eddie, you wondered what it would feel like to be like that.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said as Eddie’s attention was pulled away by a group of juniors with wide eyes and crumpled dollar bills. He gave you a thumbs up as he rifled through the contents of his stash. 

You swayed a bit as you stood, your grip on the plastic cup crumpling it slightly. The juniors eyed you as you walked around the edge of their little group, Eddie’s voice spitting out prices calling their attention back to him.  

Armed with a deep breath to ground yourself, you shouldered your way back into the house. There were even more people than before. With no room to move properly, you jammed yourself into the throng of people that were making their way to the kitchen. Despite how many people were here there was surprisingly still plenty to drink. 

You had never known Chelsea to be so generous, at least not during your short-lived friendship.

You stopped in front of the punch bowl, staring at your wobbling reflection in the liquid as you filled your cup with the ladle. Maybe it was the alcohol, but you hardly recognized yourself. The proportions of your face were so different than when you primped and prepped in the mirror, your gaze felt less harsh as you stared at the girl in the punch bowl. You could feel the heat radiating off your cheeks as you glared at the rose-colored image of yourself, wondering what you actually looked like. 

A hand clasped your shoulder, an anchor back to reality. You pivoted on your heel, thinking that Eddie had come to talk to you about something, maybe ready to leave and go find somewhere to park and talk and listen to music. 

Your face fell when you recognized Jason Carver’s blue eyes.

It had been ages since Jason had so much as talked to you. He used to follow Billy around like a puppy, hoping that it would make him the captain of the basketball team after graduation. Of course, Billy had treated Jason like the rest of you, rewarding his neediness with a cold shoulder.  

“You know, Billy would be so disappointed if he was still here.” Jason may as well have spit on you. You stepped back, your spine pressing into the chilly counter as you tried to put some space between you. His eyes had a hard time settling, staring you up and down as you tried to remain still under his gaze. “He probably wouldn’t even recognize you, especially now that you’re hanging out with the losers.”

You scowled, rage making your throat tighten. “He didn’t even like you, Jason.” Blonde eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m sure he’s rolling in his grave knowing that the pathetic Jesus kid who would’ve blown him if he asked is in charge of the basketball team.” 

You were getting a little too loud, the people standing nearest to you were turning their heads to see what the commotion was about. Jason evaluated the crowd before grabbing your wrist, a sick smile spreading across his face. “I think you’ve had enough.” There was a threatening edge to his voice as he leaned to whisper in your ear. 

You strained against him, the punch sloshing over the edges of the cup and down your fingers. Droplets flecked onto his yellow Teen Wolf costume like blood. Panic started to creep up your throat, the reminder that none of the other people at the party were going to help you made your blood run cold.

“Jason, stop,” you muttered, your voice thick. More punch slid down your hand as you tried to tug yourself from his grip. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you attempted to find a way out. “Let me go.”

He squeezed your wrist even tighter as hot tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. You were sure long lines of mascara were left behind, you couldn’t even move your free hand to wipe them away. Fear paralyzed you as the pounding of the music filled every space in your mind. Your mind whirred uselessly, so caught off guard by the aggression that you hardly knew how to respond. 

A ringed hand wrapped around Jason’s forearm; you flinched at the sudden intrusion. Eddie was bristling next to you, squeezing the jock’s arm until he let you go. You pulled your wrist back to your chest, your brows knitting together as your lips fell into a pout.

The metalhead pushed his lunchbox into your stomach, his eyes dark as they scoured your face. “How about you go wait in the van, princess? The keys are inside the box,” he murmured, his expression leaving no room for protest. You hesitated a moment, causing him to jerk his chin smoothly toward the front door. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, his jaw set.

Suddenly shy, you dropped your gaze to the floor. Everything was swimming around you, the party too loud and the room too hot and your hands were so sticky with punch. You’d never felt more overwhelmed. 

Nodding once, you gripped the handle of the lunchbox for dear life as you scurried out of the house. By the time the night air hit you, you realized you were still holding the cup, most of it empty as it coated your hand and stained the skin. You choked back the rest of its contents, crumpling it in your hand and tossing it into the grass. Eddie’s van was parked across the street, looking out of place amongst the other cars.

–

You were almost asleep in the passenger seat by the time Eddie threw the door open, scaring you into waking up. He was obscured by the lights of the house behind him as he climbed inside. “Eddie, what happened?” you croaked as he tried to jam the keys into the ignition, his hands practically vibrating. 

You gasped as he turned to look in the center console. His right eyebrow was caked entirely with blood, a gash splitting it nearly in two. Blood was smeared in a trail down his face, following the curve of his nostril and making its way over his pale throat and to his shirt collar. He plucked a cigarette carton out of the glove box, the streetlamp illuminating the smears of blood across his pale fingers. His knuckles were blown apart. 

“Eddie,” you murmured, reaching across the center console hesitantly. He still didn’t look at you, rummaging around for his zippo. The house beyond was relatively quiet, no signs of a party other than all the cars parked along the sidewalk. Jason walked into view of the upstairs bathroom window, glaring at the van before pulling down the shade. His face was smeared with blood, his costume ruffled.

The chains on Eddie’s jacket sleeve jingled as he lit the cigarette, taking a drag with a sigh. “Eddie.” You hesitated for a moment before you pressed your palm into the worn leather. You could feel the muscles in his shoulder jump under your fingertips–you rarely ever touched him. It just felt like a boundary the two of you never crossed. “Y-you didn’t have to do that,” you said. 

The heater and the radio jumped to life, Dio blasting in the small space. Eddie’s brows furrowed as he turned to study your face. “Of course I had to,” his voice was surprisingly soft. His hand came out of nowhere, a warm thumb wiping your cheek. Your nerves must have been fried, because you leaned into his touch without thinking about it. “That idiot made you cry, couldn’t just let him get away with it.”

You pulled in a ragged breath, a bit surprised by the amount of tenderness in his voice. His hand was so warm, his fingers wiping away the lines of makeup that ran down your cheeks when you cried. Shaking fingers brought the cigarette back to his pink lips, you watched him take a drag and blow the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Can we go?” you whispered, your voice hoarse as your throat tightened. It was all you could do to keep from crying, you didn’t even know why you wanted to cry this time.

He smiled, nodding as he pulled away from the curb like a maniac. His hand dropped from your face, turning the radio up until the heavy sound of a guitar riff was blasting through the speakers.

—

Apparently it was Wayne’s night off, so the trailer was off-limits for a late night sanctuary. That was how you ended up at the quarry, the side door pulled open as you and Eddie sprawled out in the back of the van. You’d guzzled a bottle of water as soon as you parked, already starting to feel like a bit of a human being again.

Eddie had cleaned up his face with the bandana he kept in his back pocket. The gash in his eyebrow looked painful, but he kept assuring you it was fine. He sat against the wall of the van as he wiped his knuckles, the largest one on his right hand slightly torn.

It was like once you all had crossed the barrier of touch, Eddie didn’t want to stop. He just kept touching you, be it a hand brushing against your arm or his leg jostling yours. It felt shockingly comfortable, making you wonder why you had been so resistant to touching him before. 

“Those rings must not have felt nice,” you commented absentmindedly, laying on your stomach on the carpet as you watched him. Moonlight flooded in the van through the open door, glinting off the silver that adorned his fingers.

He smiled, flexing his hands as he looked down at them. “Carver didn’t seem too excited about them,” he murmured, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

You’d cleaned most of the makeup off your face on the drive to the quarry using a baby wipe you kept in your purse. He hardly ever saw you with a clean face, the moonlight revealing a few blemishes on your skin. The urge to cover your cheeks still lingered, but it felt nice to have it off.

“Thanks for like, defending my honor and stuff,” you murmured, looking down at your chipped nail polish. “You really didn’t have to do that, Eddie.”

The idea that he would go out of his way to fight Jason Carver on your behalf was still hard for you to wrap your head around. Eddie loved to talk and bitch and complain about the basketball team and larger society regularly, but he wasn’t violent. 

“I did.” His eyes searched yours, wide and honest as always. A joint found its way between his long fingers, he took a deep drag. You watched him through heavy eyelids as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, he continued until he’d finished nearly half the joint. “I couldn’t just let him mess with you like that, not my girl.” 

My girl. My girl. My girl. The phrase went off in your head like a bell. You didn’t know if he’d said it just because he was high or if he actually meant it like that. You wet your lips with your tongue, glancing at him for a moment.

“Well, thanks,” you breathed, twirling your fingers in a loose thread on one of the weaved blankets he kept in the back of the van. You had wrapped yourself in it on multiple occasions, mostly on cold nights when you were ungodly high. But tonight, alcohol thrummed through you like liquid fire.

Eddie finished the remainder of the joint on his own, his warm brown eyes tinged with pink as his smile stretched easier. There was a fluidity to him when he was stoned, his normally theatrical mannerisms mellowing out to something that seemed less like a performance and more genuine. His movements became more languid, his lanky form sprawling out on a half-deflated bean bag. His calf rested on top of your leg.

The cassette that was playing ended, the power chords fading into silence as you heard the player whir to a stop. The water lapping at the cliff face below and the breeze rustling the foliage outside the van seemed louder, indicative of the transition from fall to winter that was soon to come.

“You want to pick the next one?” Eddie asked, his voice soft and breathy like it always got when he was stoned. It was sweet of him to ask, considering you knew that he already had a playlist of what he wanted to put on next written out in his head. He was particular about music, always wanting to be in-control of what was playing no matter where you were. 

You knew he meant for you to pick from his cassette collection.

“Yeah,” you answered, a smirk starting to spread on your face. You stood up, your feet digging into the shag carpet as you crouched to avoid hitting your head. “I’ve got a Madonna tape in my purse that I’ve been wanting to listen to.” 

“Madonna?” You could hear the anguish in his voice as you stepped over his long legs to reach the front. There was an air of disbelief at your choice, Eddie couldn’t stand Madonna.

You laughed, nodding as you pulled the aforementioned tape from your bag and flashing it to Eddie. “You said I could pick,” you teased, hunkering down in front of the radio to exchange the cassettes. Stunned silence filled the space behind you as you waited for the Dio tape to be spit out, you tapped the Madonna cassette against your kneecap.

What at first was silence burst into a flurry of motion behind you.

Before you could react, Eddie’s hands locked around your waist from behind and elicited a squeal from your throat as he yanked you back. “I’m not listening to Madonna,” he said, twisting his body around yours to try to snatch the tape from your hand. 

You scrambled, holding the cassette out of his reach and angling your shoulders to keep him away. “Eddie! You said I could pick!” you exclaimed with a peal of laughter, feeling the length of his body pressed against the back of yours. He pulled you close with a forearm curled around your waist, reaching over your shoulder. 

“Yeah, you can pick from good music!” His chin bumped the top of your head as you both fell forward from losing your balance. The floor absorbed most of the impact, Eddie’s shoulder banging into the floorboards next to you. You let out a soft grunt as Eddie landed partially on top of you, pressing you into the carpet. 

“This is good music,” you insisted, digging your elbow and knees into the thick carpet so you could shimmy forward. Eddie slammed an elbow in front of your shoulder, stopping any forward movement. There was no time to redirect as he melded you into his shadows, lanky limbs moving over where you were prone. His other hand curled around your wrist, so close to taking the tape. “You’re just judgmental!”

In a last ditch effort you twisted your arm from his grip, pulling your hand under your body and pressing the tape between your stomach and the rustled blanket. “You’re not being fair!” You were still giggling, Eddie stuffed his fingers between your forearm and your stomach in an attempt to follow the path of your arm. 

“It’s my van, princess,” Eddie said with a breathy laugh of his own. He lifted himself off you, letting you breathe for a moment before his hands scooped beneath your shoulders and flipped you onto your back. “I can judge however I want to.” 

You tried to push him away with your feet, matching smiles on your faces as he reached for you around the assault. With a shove your legs were out of the way, his torso settling between them with your knees on either side of his ribs. He leaned over you, managing to pry the tape from your hands and slide it into the pocket of his leather jacket. 

You still had some fight in you, reaching for Eddie’s pocket before he grabbed your wrists and pressed them to the floor. “Eddie!” you whined, squirming in an attempt to throw him off. 

He was smiling above you with all his teeth, the two of you panting as you stared at one another. The distance between you decreased, long fingers threading through yours as his head dipped lower. You were so close that you could practically count his eyelashes. Eddie scraped his teeth over  his lower lip, a clear sign that he was about to ask you something. You nodded before he could, your heart pounding in your chest as you prayed that you weren’t reading into things.

When he pressed his lips against yours you knew you guessed right.

You sighed into it, your eyes fluttering closed as your mouth moulded to his. Butterflies had made a home in your stomach, part of you wondering when you started having feelings for Eddie. Why did it take you so long to do something about them?

His mouth was so soft, slotting against yours in clumsy open-mouthed kisses. You both were smiling, giggling nervously when your teeth clashed or noses bumped. It was as though you both were clumsy and new to this, the anxiety of wanting to impress making you forget how to relax for a moment. His hair tickled your cheeks and neck, curling wildly in every direction. You desperately wanted to thread your fingers into it, your hands flexing against his.

A strong gust of wind blew dried leaves into the open door of the van, the chill cutting through your clothes making the two of you pull away from one another with laughs. Eddie tugged the door closed in a quick motion, leaning back on a bean bag and patting the side of his thigh in a motion to come over there. 

The moonlight was diffused through the windows on the sliding side doors, illuminating Eddie in a beautiful silver as you practically crawled on your hands and knees to him. You were a bit off-balance, partially falling against his chest. He chuckled, curling an arm around your back and pulling you closer with a wide hand pressed against the curve of your spine.

“Been waiting to kiss you like this for months,” Eddie murmured, his calloused fingers tracing along your cheek. You leaned into his touch, your hands resting on the soft Corroded Coffin shirt he wore. 

“Yeah?” you asked, your eyes wide as you looked at him. Part of you didn’t want to believe him, you’d thought his taste in women leaned on either far-end of the Morticia Addams to Chrissy Cunningham spectrum. Maybe you were wrong, or at least you prayed that you were. When considering the Eddie Spectrum of eligible women, you were situated somewhere near the middle.

He nodded, stamping a quick kiss to your lips. “Of course, princess,” he said, his other hand coming to rest on the curve of your thigh. Goosebumps pricked along your skin, his fingertips tracing up and down the bare section of your leg between the skirt and high socks. “And you make a very cute Velma.”

You rolled your eyes at the compliment, shrugging it off. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered, eyes cast down at the blood soaked into the collar of his shirt. Shyness consumed you, it had been a while since a guy had flirted with you like this.

Well, Eddie’s fingers drawing figure-eights on the outside of your thigh felt like a little more than flirting.

One of his eyebrows lifted, disappearing beneath his bangs as he looked at you. “I do mean it.” Before you could argue with him, he pulled you into another kiss. 

It was enough to take your mind off of it, your head tilting up toward his as you twisted your body closer to him. Your hips turned, the handcuffs serving as his belt buckle digging into you through the thick fabric of your skirt. Thick thighs split apart over his knee, your spine curving on instinct. 

Normally, you wouldn’t have considered the back of Eddie’s van to be romantic, but now there was nowhere else you would rather be. 

Unable to think of much else, the kisses became messier. The sloppy smacks of your mouth against his made you giddy, fingers curling over his shoulders and keeping him close. His hand slipped under your sweater, palm pressing into your ribs like a brand. A submissive whimper was pulled from your throat, a dizzy feeling filling your head. You didn’t know if it was from the lack of oxygen or the alcohol you’d drank earlier.

Heat was pooling between your legs, making your thighs momentarily squeeze against his. The feeling of Eddie touching you made your insecurities about how your body had changed melt away, he didn’t seem to mind the softer parts of you as much as you did. Your hands traveled to his belt and traced the silver buckle of it, making Eddie pull away with a shake of his head. “Not tonight, baby,” he murmured, a sheepish smile curling his pink lips.

Despite the small part of your mind that was still rational, it felt like a slap to the face. You stiffened in his hold as you yanked your hands back like you’d touched a hot stove. “Oh, uh, sorry. I misunderstood,” you murmured, trying to tamp down the sting of rejection. You didn’t want him to feel bad, there wasn’t anything to feel guilty for.

Eddie snorted, shaking his head again. “Trust me, I want to,” he breathed, gently cupping your cheek. Something burned in his gaze. His thumb pressed into the corner of your spit-slicked lips, his chocolate brown eyes lingering for a moment. “Just don’t want to when you’re drunk, not in the back of my van.”

There was a sincerity in his tone that made you melt, rejection fading into yet another reason you felt like you were starting to fall head over heels for Eddie. “Okay, you’re right,” you said sweetly, turning your head to kiss the pad of his thumb.

“You want me to pick another tape?” The silence that had fallen over the van became noticeable. 

He laughed, seemingly having forgotten what had gotten the two of you tangled together in the first place. “No Madonna in the van, those are the rules,” he said, his fingers caressing your jaw. “Even for pretty girls like you.”

“Oh shut up,” you sighed, your face heating up despite yourself. “You’re just trying to butter me up so I pick Metallica.” 

Eddie snorted, the width of his shoulders squaring with confidence as he kept you in the space between his arm and torso. You could feel how warm he was. “You really think so?” he asked, the soft lilt of a tease in his voice.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” It still felt like there was lightning between your ribs, electricity pooling at every juncture where you and Eddie touched. 

“But, I was teasing you. It’s a Van Halen cassette… you would know that if you’d bothered to read it before you decided to wrestle me for it.” You stamped another kiss against the tip of his nose. He wrinkled it endearingly, making you smile.

“Well now I’m glad I didn’t.”

[teenidlegirl]

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ౨౿  ׅ ۟   ֪ 𝓕eel 𝓨our 𝓗eartlines ۪ ׂ   𓈒 ୭

꒰⠀⠀⟡⠀.⠀vaquero!miguel⠀𝓍⠀fem!reader⠀.⠀⟡⠀⠀꒱

‧ ִ ۫⠀♱ 𝓢𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. your family bought a new ranch next door to the o’haras. both families grew acquainted with each other. you and the eldest o’hara brother grow an interesting bond which lead to something more but your father isn’t necessarily fond of.

‧ ִ ۫⠀♱ 𝓒���𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. rancho!au, neighbors/enemies to lovers, forbidden love, fluff, angst, drama, tension, arguments, jealousy, smut, protected sex (yessir), fingering, truck sex, swearing, pet names, happy ending, hispanic/latina!reader ( mdni )

new start at a new home.

your parents bought a new ranch after selling the old one. it’s been in your family for generations but the time has come for a new home. however, there’s another ranch property next door.

the o’hara ranch.

rumored to be a woman and her two sons. according to your parents, they weren’t opposed to have another ranch near their property. in fact, thrilled to have neighbors. that ranch your parents bought hasn’t occupied in a few years.

the opportunity to meet them is the day you move.

the radiate sun was your enemy. the humid air made the move unbearable. a layer on sweat glistening over your skin from walking back and forth carrying boxes. summer is the worst time to move.

one particular box was a bit heavier than the previous ones you carried. your hand fails to grip it from underneath, causing it to slip out of your hands before another pair of hands catch it in time.

“i got it.”

a rich, baritone voice makes you look up to who it belongs to. your eyes dilate immensely.

a man who towers over you to a insane level. way too tall for the average male. thick brows with a pair of brown eyes. sharpest cheekbones you’ve ever seen on a man, so sharp you’ll get a paper cut if you drag your finger over it. and last, a set of very plump lips.

ay dios, he is handsome.

“cuiadado con eso.”

carlos, your older brother, walks by. “ay tonta, i told you i’ll get it pero no haces caso. gracias, miguel.” he turns to the man standing in from of you.

oh that’s his name.

you just roll your eyes at your brother. face turned to the said to conceal your embarrassment and frustration. cheeks slightly flushed.

“todo bien, carlos. i manage to catch it in time before miss manos de trapo here dropped it.” miguel chuckles, shooting a glance at you for emphasis.

your mouth dropped in offense and he smirks.

what an ass.

well yes, you were dumb to believe you could carry that damn box and should’ve waited for carlos to come get it. you were being stubborn but also trying to help as much as possible.

both men laugh at your reaction.

“cabrones.” you grumble, looking off to the side.

“cuiadao, hermana. don’t be mean to our neighbor.” carlos teases, nudging your shoulder.

you figured this man, miguel, is your neighbor. one of the o’hara brothers. one of the sons.

“well, i don’t think i’m the mean one when he’s talking shit about me with my brother.” you deadpan.

that elicits a chuckle from the said man. “ay chiquita, i’m not being mean. just stating the truth.” a teasing smirk graces his lips.

“no me llamas eso, cabrón.” you glare up at him.

the smirk grew wider. you want to slap it off.

“oh okay! lets get a move on, vale?” carlos clears his throat, sensing the tensions between you and miguel. clearly he didn’t expect this.

you walk away in a sassy manner, not sparing one last glance at your asshole neighbor. what you don’t see is him watching as you leave. brown eyes following your figure before he heads inside the house to put the big box away.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

it’s been a few weeks since you settled into the new ranch. you’ve grown to adore it. decorating your room was your favorite part. throughout those few weeks, you and your family quickly accustomed.

the only thing you weren’t accustomed to was the weekly visits from your neighbors. your dad, brother and the o’hara brothers been working together with both ranches. your mom and their mom, conchata, have grown to be friends. you don’t mind conchata or gabriel, the younger o’hara brother. the woman seems very nice and caring. she adores her two boys with all her heart. very determined and resilient woman. her husband died when the boys were young so she raised them on her own since. an admirable woman. gabriel is such a sweetheart, completely different from miguel. you first met him and he was very polite but also a big flirt. you like him more.

miguel, the o’hara sibling you dislike. ever since he started working with your dad and brother, you practically see him everyday. his large frame catching your eye form the window or porch. luckily, there hasn’t been many encounters other than quickly glances and smirks. he’s too busy working to talk to you and you prefer it that way.

however, you can’t deny observing him from afar as he worked outside. always wearing a pair of blue jeans con sus botas. switches between black, white or gray shirts that hug his muscles a little too tight. so tight you can see the outline of his abs. so tight on the sleeves his biceps are on display, those hairy muscular arms. flexing whenever he grabs or works on something. you’ve noticed la virgencita hanging around his neck when he passed by you at the ranch one day. he also wears either black or tan hat. when he takes it off, those messy brown curls are revealed. you bite your lip when he runs a hand through those curls then quietly curse to yourself when you catch yourself in the act. you hate him, not like him.

seeing that stupid smirk on his face when he notices you makes your body ignite on fire. brows furrowed and hands balled into fists while your heart beats like crazy. his entire existence makes your skin crawl. you’ve only met the guy for a few weeks and you despise him. he drives you fucking insane.

why do you wear the cutest outfits when he’s there? why do you apply extra perfume when he’s there? why do you check your breath a million times when he’s there? why do you keep doing these things?

he’s driving you fucking crazy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

as you exit your room and step foot into the kitchen, your mother asks if you’ll take fresh lemonade for the men. part of your wanted to rip your hair out because you know you’ll run into miguel. as the obedient girl you are and know not to argue with your mother, you make the lemonade and take it outside.

carrying the tray of four lemonades, you walk over to the ranch. as you approach the table, you notice miguel at the stables from across. you were lost in trance as he maneuvered with the horse he was dealing with. quickly blinking, you snap out of it and place down the tray of lemonade. the family dog lola, a german shepherd, comes to your side. you happily pet her, smiling her happy face and wagging tail.

“nice to see you again, chiquita.”

the smile on your face vanishes and is replaced with a irritated look. slowly turning around, you see miguel standing in the opposite side of the table.

damn how the fuck did he get here so fast? he was literally just at the stables a few seconds ago.

“i said don’t call me that, cabrón.” you scowl.

“ay no hagas asi, hermosa. you love it when i call you that.” the bastard smirks as he drinks his lemonade.

“you’re so fucking annoying.” you spit. “rude and never listens. i applaud your mother for putting up with your stupidity.” you look away, arms crossed.

you don’t see his smirk falters a little. “hermosa, i’m not being rude or trying to be. it’s just teasing.” he sound a bit serious but you don’t buy it.

“whatever.” you roll your eyes. “vamos, lola.” you tap your thigh to signal her to follow you back to the house, which she did with her tail wagging happily.

a pair of brown eyes follow you, watching you leave. you fail to see the slight slump on his shoulders. miguel sighs before taking a another sip of the delicious lemon then heads off to join the others.

you and miguel both fail to see a third set of eyes form afar. a light, skeptical frown settles on your dad’s face as he witnessed the interaction. he can sense the tension and it didn’t sit right with him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

one evening, your parents decide to host a carne asada for family and friends. that also means the o’haras were invited, meaning miguel was invited.

oh you wanted to die.

but family members and friends would be there so you’ll be distracted with them. as long as you stay away from miguel, you’ll be fine.

after a fresh long shower, you wear a cute gingham dress con tus botas blancos. you add a few small white bow clips in your hair as accessories to feel more cute. makeup and hair done.

the background is filled with people, relatives and friends. loud music playing from the speaker. food on the table ready to be served. oh the delicious smell consumes your senses, making your tummy growl. you grab yourself a plate of food then venture off to meet up with your cousins. it’s been a while since you’ve seen them so you wanna catch up.

after finishing your food, “la chona” starts playing and everyone goes berserk. once you throw away your empty plate, you and your cousins rush to the dance floor along with everyone else and dance.

while dancing, a young man approaches you with a gentle smile. he’s introduced as javier, son of one of your father’s friends. tall, dark brunette, quite fit but not too much, sweet and handsome. you two dance together as you talk and occasionally flirt. apparently, he’s a comedian because he’s been making you laugh every time he tells a joke or funny stories.

what you fail to notice from afar is a pair of brown angry eyes. watching your every move the entire evening. miguel never took his eyes off of you, only when someone was speaking directly to him. the minute you stepped foot into the backyard, his pupils dilated and heart raced in his chest. how gorgeous you look that cute dress and tus botas. watching you dance for a bit finally gave him the courage to join you until that idiot waltzed in. his grip on his moledo tightened when javier wraps an arm around your waist and pull you closer towards him. his grip was so tight, miguel almost broke it in his fucking hand. a sting of jealousy and slight possessiveness bubbles in his chest. a huge frown on his face. oh he is pissed the fuck off. he didn’t like this encounter one bit.

after drinking lots of water and jamaica (drink), nature calls. quickly telling javier you’ll be back, you make a beeline for the house then the bathroom upstairs. luckily, no one’s in the house so it’s empty inside. after doing your business and washing your hands, you fix your appearance. detangling your hair and patting down any creases on your dress.

a subtle knock on the door makes you jump a little. “just give me a minute!” you call out nervously.

it truly caught you off guard. there’s a bathroom downstairs but perhaps it’s occupied too. there’s the master bathroom but supposed people don’t want to invade your parents’ privacy.

you finish fixing your appearance so the next person doesn’t have to keep waiting. just as you unlock and open the door, a gasp left your lips.

“miguel? what the fuck?”

the man stands before you. however, his sour expression captures your attention. you don’t have time to say anything else when he silently enters the bathroom, causing you to step back. he close the door behind him, his gaze never leaves yours. anxiety consumes your body at the sudden proximity. the hallway bathroom is quite small, leaving barely any room left for you to step back.

“miguel, what the fuck are you doing?”

“you seem having fun tonight.”

your brows furrowed. “it’s a party, of course i’m having fun.” you cross your arms.

“a little too much fun.” he takes one step closer.

“the fuck are you talking about?”

“ese pinche huevón who’s been probably telling you shitty jokes or whatever.” he takes another step.

javier. why the hell is he talking about him?

“you’re spying on me?! what the fuck, miguel? what’s wrong with you? what’s your problem?”

“my problem?” miguel’s frown deepens. “that fucking idiot had the fucking nerve to come up to you, dance and flirt with you like that.” he takes a step closer with each phrase.

you flinch when your back hits the wall. now miguel stands right in front of you. bodies merely touching, barely any space between you two. his hot breath hitting your face, or forehead due to the height difference. you have to crane your neck all the way up just to meet his gazes. your heart pounds in anticipation, lashes fluttering.

holy shit, he’s jealous.

“so you’re telling you have a thing for me this entire and decided to wait until i was with another guy?” you were half assumed and surprised.

his pissed off demeanor falters a little, softening up a bit. “y-yes…” miguel admits shamelessly, broad shoulders slumped a little. “i wanted to tell you but you hate me so much and refused to talk to me so i didn’t really have the perfect chance.”

you huff, shaking your head. “of course i hate you because you’re a fucking asshole. always throwing smartass remarks or insults at me.”

“i wasn’t insulting you, or at least i wasn’t my intention.” miguel frowns. “i was teasing because i like you, chiquita.” he said softly.

oh your heart did a summersault.

“seriously?” you were surprised wholeheartedly.

miguel scoffs, rolling his eyes with a smile. “que si, tonta. i’ve liked you since the moment i met you, catching that big box you almost dropped.”

you cringe at the memory. if only you knew how stupid you looked carrying that big ass heavy box. if only you knew he was watching.

“and i know you like me too.” miguel leans closer.

“it’s a mixture of infatuation and hatred.”

“see, infatuation.” he smirks smugly.

“don’t push it, cabrón.” you glare at him.

miguel lowly chuckles, amused by your sassy attitude. his eyes drop to your lips. glossy and begging for his. “do you know how many times i wanted to kiss those pretty lips but knew i couldn’t?”

your heart flutter at that confession. you wanted to say the same about his lips or wished he did kiss you but you decide to tease him.

“that’s too bad you couldn’t.” you fake pout, tilting your head in a teasing manner. “i was thinking the same with javi.” a smirk graces your lips.

you watch his brows furrowed immediately. that seductive look replaced with a pissed off one. his jaw clenches at the name of that guy.

damn, jealous looks so good on him.

“he’s so sweet and very attractive. a great dancer and has very kissable lips.” your smirk grows smugly.

there was no time to reaction when miguel grabs the back of your head, pulls you against him and smashes his lips on yours. you can’t resist smiling at his eagerness as you both endure in a messy makeout session. his lips devour yours with such hunger, basically eating your face off.

your arms reach up to his shoulders and wrap around them, standing on your tippy toes due to the height difference. miguel’s back is slightly bent so he can reach you but doesn’t give a shit if it hurts. both his hands travel down to your waist and pull you closer so there isn’t any space left between you two.

broad hands roam over your back, groping each curve. you melt under his addictive touch, becoming putty in his hold. you gasp when he lifts you up in his arms, grabbing the back of your thighs. your grip on his shoulders tighten instinctively. miguel plants you on the sink and settles himself in between your legs.

his lips trail down to your jawline then in the crook of your neck. you dig your fingers into his brown curls while the other hand wrapped around his thick neck. your eyes closed, relishing those kisses on your neck. a gasp left your lips when you feel his lips sucking that sensitive spot on your neck.

his hands fiddle with the top strings of your dress that conceals your breasts. after leaving a mark on your neck, which he smiles satisfyingly at, miguel trails down to your chest. he quickly glances at you for approval and you eagerly nod. untying the strings, miguel dives into your cleavage. leaving hot open-mouth kisses on the soft skin. his hands cupping and kneading your breasts. a soft moan escapes your lips at the sensation. throwing your head back, resting against the mirror. you take off his hat so you can play with his hair, tossing it on the toilet seat. he kisses, licks, and kneads your covered breasts with such desire and affection. he lets out a muffled groan when your fingers tug on his hair.

miguel moves down your body, leaving a trail of adoring kisses on the fabric of your dress. grinning at how your body sweetly responds to him. just as he reaches down to the one place where you desperately want him, he moves away and stands up.

“aww…” miguel mischievously chuckles at your pout and pissed off expression. “you thought you’d get what you want, huh bebita?” he brings a hand to your chin and lightly tilts it upward to meet his eyes.

“asshole.” you scowl, swatting his hand away.

“ay bebita, no hagas asi.” he taunts with a head tilt. “you were drooling about that huevón a few seconds ago. don’t you want him?”

you glare at him and he laughs, completely unbothered by it. oh you want to slap that stupid smirk off his devilish handsome face.

“es la verdad, hermosa. don’t you want him here instead of me?” his fingers lightly brush against your exposed thigh, sending jolts of excitement through your body. the hem of your dress scrunched up a bit.

you know he knows the answer. of course he’s fucking teasing you about this.

“i’m going to rip your balls off.” you threaten.

the bastard chuckles. “i don’t think you wanna do that if you want me.” very slowly, his fingers trail up your thigh, more towards your inner thigh. he chuckles again when your legs twitch at his touch.

“fine, fuck this shit.” you move to jump off the counter but his hands firmly hold you in place.

“ay bebita, you’re so stubborn.” miguel coos, gently tracing your cheek with the back of his index finger. “i’ll give you what you want—“

“ay no me jodas, miguel! just fucking touch me.” grabbing the back of his neck, you yank him towards you and smash your lips on his.

the movement caught him by surprise but indulges in it. his fingers trail up your inner thigh, sliding under your dress. you softly gasp when you feel his fingers gently rubbing your cunt through your panties.

“fuck— estas mojada, bebita.” miguel groans at the feeling of your soaked panties, all because of him. the pad of his fingers rubbing your covered pussy lips. he feels himself grow hard in his jeans.

his fingers slyly slide under your panties and play with your little cunt. a soft moan leaves your lips when he rubs your throbbing clit. fingers rubbing and flicking almost experimentally.

“you want me?” he whispers against your lips as his continues playing with your clit.

“fuck, yes~” you moan, cupping his face.

your lips collided again in a heated kiss as miguel slowly slides in two fingers in your pretty little pussy. you moan a bit louder in pitch at the sensitive before his other hand covers your mouth.

“as much as i want to hear those pretty sounds, can’t let anyone hear.” miguel whispers, a mix of seductiveness and sincerity. the last thing he wants is getting caught in your house.

he pumps his fingers at a slow pace. endless moans falling from your lips but muffled. fuck his fingers are so thick and long. they feel so fucking good.

“fuck, so tight, bebita.” he groans when your walls clench around his fingers. “driving me fucking insane, how you clench around my fingers like that.”

his fingers soon pick up pace. thrusting in and out of your tight cunt. instinctively, you roll your hips to meet his thrusts. desperate for more. miguel buried his face in the crook of your neck as he continues fingering you. you have one arm wrapped around his shoulders while leaning on the other, gripping the ledge of the counter for dear life.

you squeal when his thumb flickers your puffy clit as his two fingers continue pumping into you. your walls clench harder around his fingers.

“you’re gonna forget about that pinche huevón and think about me, si hermosa?” he asks, lips against your ear. “porque you want me, verdad? because i want you.” he states wholeheartedly.

you nod while being a babbling and moaning mess. miguel leaves kisses on your neck as he keeps pumping his fingers into you. with a few more flicks to your clit, you come with a muffed moan. gushing over his fingers, coating them in your sweetness.

very slowly, he slides out his fingers from your now sensitive pussy. you lean back against the mirror as you try catching your breath and recover from your high but his hand on your waist prevents you from slumping completely. miguel examines his two fingers glistening in your sweet nectar. two clear strings connect between them as he spreads them apart. he brings them up to his lips, licking off your sweetness. a moan of satisfaction.

“sweet, just like i imagined.” he hums contently.

grabbing a few sheets of toilet paper, miguel gently cleans up the mess in between your thighs.

“you okay?” he asks sincerely, tossing the toilet paper in the trash while his free hand gently moves away strings of hair from your face.

“yeah, never better.” you let out a weak laugh.

miguel smiles at your cute little laugh then gently kisses you, which you happily reciprocate. one hand cupping your cheek and the other on your thigh.

a ding! from your phone breaks the kiss. grabbing it next to you and looking at the screen, you see a text from your mom asking your whereabouts.

“gotta go before my mom flips out.” you chuckle.

“understandable.” miguel chuckles with you as he gently lifts you off the counter by the waist and carefully sets you on your feet.

you quickly glance down at your phone then at the huge bulge in his jeans. “sorry…” you shoot him an apologetic look.

miguel shakes his head with a soft smile. “no te procupes, bebita. maybe next time.” he winks as he helps you fix your dress.

you swat his arm and he laughs as you both exit the bathroom to rejoin the party.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

a forbidden romance between you and miguel blossomed. however, there were suspicions. conchata knew the minute she caught miguel staring at you from afar numerous times. it makes her smile to see her son falling in love. she knows you’re a good woman and treats you like her own. you’re perfect for her son. gabriel knows as well, he has seen the intense encounters between you and miguel. arguing and brickering but also longing gazes when one isn’t looking. he would give miguel shit and tease him all the time. suppose all that teasing finally paid off.

your mom is like conchata and every other mother. adored to see her daughter falling in love despite the tension between you and miguel. carlos was skeptical at first but accepts it because he knows miguel is a good man. your father, on the other hand, isn’t too thrilled of the idea. it’s not that miguel isn’t a good person but because he’s a known womanizer. your dad has seen the various women swinging by miguel, flirting and battering their lashes at him. he doesn’t want you to fall victim into lies. that’s why he’s been a bit harsh towards miguel lately.

although you’re unaware of everyone’s suspicions, you and miguel keep it very secretive. sneaking off to secluded places like the stables. have heavy makeout sessions, miguel fingering you. unfortunately, things couldn’t get spicer without almost getting caught or someone calling your name.

one day when your parents were gone into town, miguel sneaked you into his truck. he parked in a secluded area on the outskirts of the ranch.

“miguel, we can’t do this. what if they’re looking for us?” you can’t resist giggling as his lips leave butterfly kisses along your neck. you sit on his lap, straddling him in the backseat of his truck. both of you shirtless, you remain in your bra.

“your parents are out and won’t be back for a while. besides, gabriel and carlos got us covered.” his large hands roam over your body.

“miguel!” you swat his shoulder, giggling.

“¿que paso, bebita? they’ll let us know when your parents come back, lo prometo.” he continues those kisses among your neck.

you sigh softly, trusting him with your heart. you grow putty in his hold like always. his large lands roaming your body. your lips meet in a passionate kiss. your hands cupping his face. the tips of his fingers fiddle with the hem of your white skirt. you assume he wants to do the usual but the pleading look in those browns eyes say otherwise.

“do you… do you wanna do this?” he asks anxiously, eyes boring into yours.

you know immediately what he’s asking.

“yes.” you nod sincerely, caressing his cheeks.

“are you sure? i don’t wanna pressure you.”

your heart melts at his caring words. “si, bebito. i trust you and i want this.” you wrap your arms around his thick neck. “i want you.”

fuck. that’s all he needs to hear before worshipping the goddess you are. miguel captures your lips in another kiss. his fingers slide underneath your skirt not only to make you cum first but also to prep you.

after making you cum over his fingers twice, you were prepped enough. miguel hurriedly reaches a hand in his front pocket and pulls out a condom. he rips the tiny packet with his teeth. the sight makes you bite your lip. you follow suit by lifting up your skirt as he yanks out his aching cock from its confinements. the tip angry and red, desperate to be inside you. he rolls the condom over his cock. a shared moan mingles in the air as you slowly sink onto his cock. you grip tightly on his shoulders as support. his own gripping your hips.

“breathe, bebita.” he advises in a soft tone.

fuck he’s so big. when you first got a glimpse of it, you believed it was impossible for it to fit. of course it’ll be hard to take him. his soothing rubs on your thighs relaxes you a little as you try adjusting to his size. any “stop” or “wait” convinced him to pull out but you told him. just need time to adjust.

once you had time to adjust, you couldn’t hold back a moan at the feeing of being utterly full. he’s so deep inside, you can feel him in your tummy.

you both moan in unison as you slowly roll your hips. you move up and down in a slow pace, riding his cock. fuck he feels so amazing.

“fuck— asi, bebita. ride me.” he praises so sweetly.

you oblige, riding him. you didn’t save a horse but you’ll definitely ride a cowboy.

miguel soon picks up the pace due to your pleading for him to go faster. rolling his hips to meet yours. hands gripping your hips, your skirt brunched up in his fingers as his cock pounds into your tight little cunt. moans and groans mingles in the steamy air. the windows begin to fog up. miguel throws his head back against the seat, relishing the feeling of your pussy squeezing the life out of his cock. he’s practically going insane at the sensation.

self-resistance flies out the window as miguel quickly turns you both over. you lie down on the seat and he hovers above you as miguel continues thrusting into you. your hands grip onto his back, nails leaving scratch marks and crescent indents, eliciting a groan from the man above you. miguel doesn’t give a shit. in fact, he loves the idea of seeing your scratch marks when looking at his reflection. it’s a reminder of you and your love for him.

due to his rough thrusts, the truck shakes. luckily, the area is secluded. miguel groans when your fluttering walls clench around his thick length.

“shit— you clenching like that is driving me insane, bebita.” miguel moans.

you can’t even response since you’re a babbling mess underneath him. the bulbous tip of his cock repeatedly hits your cervix, making you arch your back off the seat like waves.

miguel can’t help but smirk at your trembling form. brows scrunched up and mouth letting out the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard. a literal angel underneath him. one hand reaches down in between your bodies and flickers your puffy clit. you let out a squeal at the sudden sensation, arching your back off the seat for the millionth time.

“let go, mi vida. i got you.” he coos in your ear.

with a few more flicks to your clit, you come with a loud cry of his name. coating his condom covered cock with your sweetness. oh that sight is forever imbedded in his mind. how beautifully you sang out his name as you each the pinnacle of ecstasy.

miguel soon followed suit. his hips stutter before letting out a groan as he releases thick hot ropes of cum into the condom. secretly wishing it was your pussy but protection comes first. his thrusts slow down, riding out both your highs before stopping. he buries his face beside yours, panting against your ear as you both recover from your highs.

after a few minutes of recovery, miguel lifts up onto his elbows and looks down at you. “you okay? did i hurt you?” he voice his concerns, gently moving away strings of hair sticked to your forehead.

“no.” you shake your head. “i’m okay.”

he softly smiles at your answer. worries washed away. leaning closer, miguel captures your lips in soft, gentle kiss. “té quiero.”

“té quiero.” you softly smile at him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

your parents decide to head to town again to buy some stuff. carlos left to meet up with some chick he met at a bailé the other night. that means you’re left alone, which also means miguel comes over.

you both makeout on your bed. hands roaming each other’s bodies. a soft sigh escapes your lips as you feel his lips pepper your neck with kisses, playing with his hair. that’s going to be the hundredth hickey he has left on you. the amount of concealer you applied on the dark mark so your family doesn’t notice says a lot. neck, breasts, inner thighs. marking you endlessly and making you feel like a dalmatian.

“que linda eres.” miguel mumbled against your soft skin, lips peppering adoring kisses.

a gasp leaves your lips as you feel large hands squeezing your breasts. “miguel~ my parents will be back soon.” you whine then followed by a giggle, tugging on his curls to gain his attention.

“the marketplace is packed. they’ll be gone for a while so we have time.” he kisses your worries away.

you softly sigh as miguel travels down to your breasts and makes out with them. calloused hands kneading them through your dress.

“my favorite pillows.” miguel mumbled between kisses and licks on the soft mounds. his fingers spread the opening of the top of your dress to gain more access to your cleavage.

“you act like they don’t hurt because of your big ass head.” you deadpan, still playing with his hair.

“well, that’s why i massage them.”

you can’t see him from this angle but you know he has the biggest smirk on his face. the thought makes you lightly slap his head, earning a chuckle from him.

those adoring kisses trail down to your tummy then back up your body towards your face before your lips collide once again. as his hand slwoly trails down towards your inner thigh, scrunching up the hem of your dress, the sound of the door opening cause you both to jump in surprised. miguel hurriedly lifts off from the bed. your eyes land at the opened door to find your parents with shocked expressions. your father face is red of anger, profoundly pissed off.

“te mato.” he glares towards miguel. fists fidgeting at his sides but never makes a move.

“papá, pro favor—“

“no me hablas.” he points a finger at you, sending the same glare then looks back at miguel. “i trusted you with this ranch. with this home and you betrayed that with taking an advantage con mi hija.”

“papá, no! please—“

“señor, i’ve never took advantage of your daughter or your trust. i respect and love your daughter with everything.” miguel defends himself.

you watch your father’s eyes narrow at miguel’s words. “you don’t truly love my daughter if you allow other women to chase after you.”

both yours and miguel’s heart drop at that accusation. anxiety invades your body. you whip your head at miguel with a shocking expression. he meets your gaze with the same expression but also a look of hurt. your heart breaks at the sight. you know it isn’t true but your heart says otherwise.

miguel looks at you with remorseful eyes then looks back at your father. “pro favor, señor. none of those rumors are true. i walk away from those women, they never leave me alone. the only woman i want is your daughter.” he states sincerely.

a pregnant pause fills the room. the tension lingers in the air. you watch as your father exhales heavily then takes a step towards miguel.

“you’re banned from this house and ranch.” he states through gritted teeth. “and you’re banned from speaking to my daughter. if i ever catch you near her, té mato. entiendes?”

miguel briefly looks down with a frown. shoulders slumped in defeat and frustration. much to your and his dismay, he agrees with a nod. your heart breaks, tears swelling in your eyes. grabbing his hat from the bed, miguel shoots a brief sad glance at you before exiting your bedroom, walking past your parents.

“y tú…” your father turns to you. “you don’t leave this house.” and with that, he walks away.

you collapse on the floor and break down into tears. the wall broke and the waterfall fell. your mother swiftly comes to your aid and pulls you into a tight, comforting embrace. you weep into her shoulder as you cry out your broken heart.

two hearts broke that day.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

she knew something happened.

the minute her eldest stepped foot into the house and stomped his way upstairs to his room without greeting her meant something was wrong. conchata knows her children well like most mothers do. she has her assumptions but rather know the truth.

with a sigh, she placed down the knife and heads upstairs to consult with her eldest son. she leaves a subtle knock on the door.

“mijo? estas bien?” she knew he wasn’t but she hopes he’ll allow her entry.

no answer.

she frowns but her concern increases. “mijo, if there’s something wrong, you can tell me.”

footsteps past by behind her. turning around, she sees her youngest walking by.

“do you know what’s wrong con tú hermano?”

he shakes his head. “no, he walked passed me at the ranch without saying anything.”

she frowns once again as gabriel heads towards the bathroom. glancing back at the door, she lets out another sad sigh before walking away.

later that evening, miguel finally makes his appearance. as she prepares the table with food, conchata noticed her son walking in.

“mijo, qué paso? did something happen?”

he remains silent but helps her with preparing the table. his face lacks of emotion, or at least lacks of his normal content self. mouth flat and tired eyes.

“miguel, por favor, dijeme.” the woman pleads. “is this about her?”

now he finally speaks.

“i’m banned from their ranch.”

conchata’s heart stops for a moment. “banned? como?” she sounds in disbelief but also concern.

his head hangs low, refusing to meet her gaze. “su papá doesn’t approve of me.”

now she feels heart drop. “doesn’t approve you? como que he doesn’t approve my son? you’ve worked so hard helping him at his ranch. he has lost his damn mind ese pinche cabrón.”

“he doesn’t approve me para su hija!”

now conchata is speechless but still in disbelief. “pero… you like each other…”

“pues el no le gusta porque he thinks i flirt with lots of women and believes i took an advantage of his daughter. believes i don’t love her.”

fury boils in her blood for your father to say such vile things about her son. but also heartbroken to see miguel so upset. she’s aware of his unpleasant encounters with idiot women so throw themselves at him, making him feel uncomfortable. it makes her want to give putasos con la chancla for bothering her son. she also feels for you too. understanding the dealing with heartbreak. of course someone gets in the way of true love. always a misunderstanding.

“ese cabrón knows nothing of my son.” she states firmly. “i know my own son and he’s nothing like those pinches mentiras. you’re a good man and have a good heart. i know you love her and she loves you. as much as i want to go beat that man con la chancla,” that elicits a chuckle from miguel. “i don’t want bloodshed between families because they’re good people and have been kind to us.”

the tension eases a bit on his shoulders. pleased to hear his mother’s supportive words.

“i know heartbreak isn’t easy, mijo… pero she’s a smart girl and she, and su mamá, will talk some sense into that man. it may take some time but don’t give up hope, her.” she gently takes his hands in hers.

the corners of his lips curl up into a soft smile. “yo sé, gracias mamá.” he pulls her into an embrace.

“siempre, mijo.” she hugs him back.

miguel wasn’t giving up on you. no, never. all he wants in his life is you. he’s willing to do whatever it takes to show his love for you. hoping it’ll change your father’s mind about your relationship.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

you don’t even know what day it is. you’ve been cooped up in your room since you’re not allow to leave the house. each day has been filled with tears and anger. tears stains on your pillows are proof of the heartbreak. your mom had to change them twice because of your mascara stains on them. anger boiling in your veins. pissed off at your father’s insane behavior about this shitshow. your mom and carlos have been comforting you. your mom soothing your broken heart with hugs and forehead kisses. carlos also gives hugs and tells his stupid ass jokes.

your father hasn’t spared a glance at you since the argument, as if you don’t exist. it hurts since you’ve always been his little girl. it hurts he disrespected miguel with those hurtful lies. it hurts he stripped your experience of love away from you.

besides moping and crying, the only things keeping you occupied is watching tv, scroll on your phone, draw or paint, listen to music, and sleep. your dad really meant not leaving the house because you can’t even visit the stables to greet the horses. your only source of happiness during this period of misery and imprisonment is lola. she’ll join you on the bed when you take naps. play with her, tossing toys at her.

it’s just been so fucking miserable.

the only chance you’ll get to see miguel is whenever he’s outside. you sit by your window and observe him working on his family ranch. you know he knows you’re watching him. god you miss him so fucking much. his kisses, his hugs, his voice, his hands.

you can’t text or call him since your dad deleted his contact off your phone when you left your phone in room behind when you visited the kitchen one day. at least he didn’t delete gabriel’s so you had some type of method to keep in contact with miguel. you’ll text gabriel, asking how his brother is doing. upset and frustrated were what you were expecting.

the love of your life stripped away from your heart by the hands of your father. how fucking sad that is.

you want to make him understand but the man is stubborn as hell and believes his opinion is the only relevant opinion. you understand your mom’s frustration with your dad after years of marriage.

you need to make him understand.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

your growling tummy sends you downstairs to retrieve a snack. heading for the kitchen, you see your parents talking. your mom preparing for tonight’s dinner while your dad drinks a glass of water. he must’ve returned from the ranch.

a wave of determination courses through your veins. you’re fed up with this nonsense and imprisonment. he has to respect your wishes and life. although you’re his youngest and only daughter, you’re a grown woman. you have your own goals, wishes, desires for your life. he can’t strip that away from you. this is your life and he needs to understand.

“papá.” you stand near the kitchen island.

the man turns around and sees you. a frown settles on his face. “¿qué quieres?”

your fists tightened. “this needs to stop.”

his frown deepens. “ya te dije que no.”

“this is ridiculous!” you exclaim with your hands in the air. “you can’t ground me for falling in love! especially with someone who’s a good person!”

“he is not a good person.” he sets the now empty glass of water down on the counter with a bit of aggressiveness. luckily it didn’t break. “ese huevón flirts with a bunch of women behind your back. you can’t love someone if they lie to you.”

“he doesn’t flirt with them, papá! those women flirt with him!” you cry, making him go silent. “they throw themselves at him and it makes him uncomfortable. women twice his age! he tries to be polite and tell them he’s not interested. he already told me about this.” a thin layer of tears forms up in your eyes. “he said he’ll never betray me, never break my heart because he loves me, papí.”

your father only remained speechless. your mother too, who stopped cooking since you spoke.

“being with miguel, i’ve never been so happy. he makes me so happy.” you smile sadly. “yours and mom’s relationship is what i’ve been seeking for. being together for many years, spending the rest of your lives together. i found that with miguel. he’s the one i want to spend the rest of my life with.”

a sorrowful look in his eyes. your mom is on the verge of tears, happy tears of course. she couldn’t be more proud of you, defending yourself and miguel.

“please don’t take that away from me.”

the crack in your voice makes him wince. the anger now vanished, replaced with sorrow and regret. seeing his little girl on the verge of tears breaks his heart into a million pieces like any other parent.

“i… lo siento, mi cielo.” he covers his mouth with a hand. sighing as regret plagues his body. “i’m so sorry… i didn’t mean…” the next few words died when he feels you arms around his body, embracing him.

“yo sé, papí. yo sé.” you whisper.

he accepts your embrace, not wasting a second. “i was just protecting you from heartbreak. i couldn’t bare to you see like that.”

“i know.” you sniffed, smiling a little.

“but i was wrong about him… ay dios, all those things i said. now what you told me…”

“he’ll forgive you.” you pull away, softly smiling. “miguel knows you were protecting me.”

he nods sadly. “still, i need to apologize to him. lo siento mucho, mija.”

“it’s okay, papí. thank you.” you hug him one last time before your mothers joins you both.

it was going to be okay.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

your father apologized to miguel. he immediately accepted because he understood your father’s reasons. the apology concluded with a hand shake before your dad pulls miguel into an embrace. everyone was pleased the shitshow was over. conchata also accepted your father’s apology. no bloodshed was made. just two happy families.

the words “son-in-law” accidentally slipped through your dad’s lips and it made you and miguel flustered a little. it was pleasing to know your dad was envisioning a future of the family including miguel.

afterwards, you and miguel finally pursue this relationship without fear. opened to the world.

riding in his truck, you drive to the beach. windows down and the hot summer breeze flowing through your hair. parked in the same secluded spot from previous times, you and miguel share a little intimate moment. lips connected in a passionate kiss.

with one final kiss, miguel sucking your bottom lip, he slowly pulls away to admire you. eyes filled with adoration, simply and only for you.

“té quiero tanto, mi alma.”

you softly smile. “té quiero tanto, mi vaquero.”

little did you know five years later you and miguel would have a ranch and family of your own. a daughter who’s an exact replica of her father. like your parents, you and miguel spend the rest of your lives together. like true soulmates.

◟ ࣪⠀ׅ ♱⠀𝓝ote. this is probably one of best fics i’ve written imo. holy shit the creative flow was flowing with this, lowkey proud of it. this is most definitely one of my favorites.

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

[bumblesimagines]

The Cold Stars

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Daenerys encounters a lonesome stranger in Meereen who shares a bitter history with Ser Barriston

Pronouns: He/Him/His

TW/CW: Suicide mention

~~~

"I cannot hide behind walls forever, Ser Barriston," Dany spoke gently, dragging her eyes over the small marketplace in the city. She knew the dangers of being out in public but she had trust in Ser Barriston and Grey Worm, her loyal subordinates. They'd never allow harm to come to her, she knew that very well. Besides, she needed to show the people of Meereen that she cared and valued them. Trust had to be earned, not given freely. So, despite the worries expressed to her by Ser Barriston and Daario, she marched forth into the marketplace, eager to see what her people were selling. 

"I know, Your Grace," Ser Barriston sighed quietly, his eyes just as diligent and alert as Grey Worm's, bouncing around from cart to face in search of anyone with less-than-innocent motives. Most of the people watched them silently, the caution on their faces making Dany frown. She needed their loyalty, not their fear. She couldn't comprehend it well. She freed them from their masters, breaking the chains that made them slaves and they'd seemingly loved her for it. But the hesitation and unhappiness on some of their faces made her heart twist. 

"Do you think King's Landing will receive me like this?" Dany asked the older, more experienced man as they rounded a corner, slipping out of the market into an alleyway, her head angled over her shoulder to peer back at the two. Ser Barriston's lips parted to respond but his eyes flickered away and Dany noticed Grey Worm reaching for his sword. Her head snapped forward, preparing herself for the worst only to notice the young man leaning against the wall with an apple in hand, his eyes-

His eyes...

Cold and displeased and undeniably violet. Her mind flickered back to Viserys, to the mentions of her parents and Rhaegar, to all the portraits she'd seen of her ancestors and all the stories told about them. She felt as if the air had been knocked out of her, and she suddenly yearned for her family, for the mother that died moments after having her, and the father that earned the title of Mad King. For Rhaegar and even cruel Viserys. But the man before them lacked the notable silver hair and appeared more... Dornish.

"(Y/N) Dayne," Ser Barriston gaped, eyes large and pale skin as if he'd seen a ghost. "You... are a long ways from home, child."

"As are you, Selmy." His bitter voice seemed to jolt Ser Barriston, his mouth clamping shut and bushy brows knitting together. (Y/N) raised the apple to his lips and dug his teeth into the crunchy fruit, a trickle of juice dripping down his chin. He chewed slowly as he studied each of them, his hardened gaze only momentarily growing indifferent when he turned his attention to the perplexed Grey Worm. "You are far from King's Landing, Ser. As are you, Targaryen."

"You are in the presence of Queen Daenerys Stormborn, child, you will refer to her as such. Your brother fought fiercely for the Targaryens during the rebellion."

"And he died." (Y/N) licked his lips, the apple beginning to crack and drip with juices under his grasp. The bitterness, near hatred in his eyes sent a chill down Dany's spine, yet she found herself unable to tear her own eyes away from his face. "You claim to have loved and respected Arthur and Ashara but where were you when they died? Where were you when Stark slaughtered my brother and my sister threw herself into the sea?" 

"I would've given my life for either of them, you know that." Ser Barriston responded sharply, almost bristling at the silent accusation. 

"You would've given your life for the Prince." Her trance broke immediately at the mention of her brother, of the man Ser Barriston always recalled fondly. Her lips pulled back into a deep frown and (Y/N) turned his attention onto her. "You should've been willing to give your life for Elia and her children. That Targaryen-" The sneer when he spoke said plenty of his opinions on her family. "-abandoned them to die like a coward."

"Mind your tongue!" 

"My siblings are dead because of him!" (Y/N) snapped back at the knight, the apple finally breaking under his hold, different parts flying around while some of it turned to mush in his palm. Dany flinched and stepped back, one piece sliding right up to her feet and almost disappearing beneath the skirt of her dress. (Y/N) shook his hand and scoffed, pushing himself off the wall and barely sparing Grey Worm a glance when he stepped in front of Dany defensively. Ser Barriston's shoulders sagged, the fury dying immediately. "If he'd done his duty as a husband, Allryia, Aran, and I wouldn't be mourning them, Ser."

Dany raised her hand and placed it over Grey Worm's shoulder, meeting his questioning gaze with a reassuring nod. He stepped aside, allowing Dany to step forward, her shoe kicking aside the apple piece before she lifted her head to look at him once more. "Why have you come here, Lord (Y/N)? If not to ally yourself with me, why?"

"To see if the rumors were true. They say you have dragons and you'll use them to take back the Iron Throne. Ashara told me stories of dragons when I was a child. Elia, too. Dorne fought back against them during your ancestor's conquest."

"I have no qualms with Dorne," Daenerys told him softly. "And I am sorry for your losses. I am not my father nor my brothers. I wish to do things differently. The Lannisters, a common enemy between us, rule Kings Landing, do they not? We can ensure they will not bring harm to anyone else, not under my rule. House Dayne of Starfall is a noble house in Dorne with... close ties to the Martells of Sunspear. As I know it, the Martells despise Lannisters as well."

"Why would we fight for you? Justice is a mere action when you'd be getting the Iron Throne. Dorne has been at peace for many years."

"Perhaps..." Dany paused and glanced toward Ser Barriston. The older man met her gaze with an arched brow and a curious, almost concerned glint in his eye. She pursed her lips. She needed stronger allies, she needed angry allies... and even queens require heirs. "Perhaps House Dayne would be more pleased if one of their own became King Consort of Westeros." 

(Y/N)'s eyes only narrowed in response. The crown would be tempting to any man, especially one of noble birth, but he only appeared annoyed by the offer. "I'm afraid my brother, Lord Aran Dayne, is content with his wife, and Edric is far too young to marry. I've had the freedom of being the youngest all my life. Why would I give it up to become a king when I can do whatever I please?"

"Kings do whatever they please, do they not?"

"Kings like Robert Baratheon and Aerys Targaryen, sure. Your brother did whatever he pleased as prince and plunged the kingdom into war. Rulers do what the people want, what they need. You haven't exactly been keeping your people happy, Daenerys. Dorne will only ally themselves if we know we'll win. You may have your army but Tywin Lannister and his dog have been commanding far longer than you and I have been alive. Prince Doran will never allow a child parading themselves as ruler of a city anywhere near Dorne's army. You'll have better luck asking for Prince Oberyn's hand in marriage."

"It almost sounds as if you believe you can do a better job than me... if so, join my council. You'll have your freedom and when the time comes, you'll have your justice. Perhaps then, you'll feel more inclined to accept my proposal. I know Dorne is known for its... queer customs. You view bastards as equal, women are seen as fine rulers, and having multiple lovers is common. Many have their opinions of Dorne but... I'd be rather happy with a Dornishman. I will grant you the freedom of doing as you please, if you become my consort, as long as we have a-" Her voice nearly broke, forcing her to pause again and clear her throat. "A healthy heir. What do you say now, Dayne?"

[i-am-church-the-cat]

I have a flower shop/tattoo parlor maxiel + loscar AU building from a tropical storm into a hurricane in my head so here are some thoughts

+ When Max hires him, this is what he says to Logan’s arrangement: “It is not the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I can make it better.” What he really meant was that Max could make Logan better, but he wouldn’t come to understand that until later.

+ There’s a phone that sits on the back wall of Max’s shop. The first time it rang while Logan was working, he’d mistakenly answered it. He’d watched Max’s face go bleach white from across the shop as Logan answered “Hello, this is Verstappen’s Floral, how can I help you?” The barrage of angry Dutch he’d gotten back in return had shocked Logan into silence, making it easier for Max to steal the receiver from his hand. Now, Logan knows to just let it ring.

+ Oscar is pretty sure Daniel only gave him an interview because their moms are in a book club together. The owner of Honey Badger Tattoos was always friendly and outgoing but he was notoriously possessive about his art. In the ten years the shop has been open, it’s had four employees. Daniel Ricciardo, the founder, Daniel Kvyat, Daniel’s partner who he bought out after the first year, Lando Norris who worked part-time at the front desk, and now Oscar.

“I’ve never had an apprentice before, I probably wouldn’t be very good at it,” Daniel says during his interview. He’d said he liked Oscar’s work and already showed an interest in teaching Oscar more of his signature American style. But the guy was still hesitant, fidgeting with excess nerves. “Just ask Lando.

Lando nods from his seat at the front desk which Oscar can see from the open door of Daniel’s office. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, I wouldn’t trust him to teach other people.”

Daniel does not look like that’s the support he was going for, wincing at the dry criticism but not arguing.

“That’s fine,” Oscar confirms with a shrug. He’s already done the majority of his apprenticeship under Mark Webber. But when the man decided he’d had enough of the South of France and was selling the shop and moving back to Australia, Oscar had to look for somewhere else to work. “I only have six months left before I can get my certification.”

Daniel doesn’t look very reassured. Oscar can take a hint so he decides to get out before he’s kicked out.

“Hey, it’s cool, mate, thanks for meeting with me anyway-”

“Can you start next week?” Daniel asks, leg bouncing up and down and rocking the desk he’s sitting behind. He sees Oscar’s confused expression and sighs. “I really need more help here.”

“Yeah,” Oscar decides, not looking a gift horse in the mouth. “I’ll text you my schedule.”

And that’s how he starts working for the Honey Badger.

+ “This is a tulip,” Max is saying in French, word draw out and pointing at the multi-colored bulbs. Logan has tried telling him that he’s lived in Europe for the majority of his life at this point and can do his job in English, French, and Spanish but Max doesn’t believe him. At least Logan’s starting to pick up more Dutch.

Logan is rescued from his impromptu language lesson by the bell on the door ringing. He turns towards the sound, customer service smile already in place.

“Hi, welcome to Verstappen Floral, how can I-”

“Oh, it is you again.”

Logan stops and looks at Max who is frowning at the guy who just came in. The man is curly-haired and tanned, with tattoos scrawled over the majority of visible skin. His grin is big and toothy when he shoots it at Max.

“Hey, Maxy, aren’t you happy to see me?”

Logan blinks in shock at the nickname. Even their regular customers don’t get to act that familiar with Max. Logan doesn’t get to act that familiar with Max.

Max crosses his arms, lips pursing. “For the last time, I do not know what these flowers mean. I speak four languages and plant is not one of them.”

“Always a ray of sunshine, aren’t you, Max?” The man asks, unphased by Max’s grouchy demeanor. He leans forward onto the glass counter, certainly leaving smudges behind, but Max surprisingly doesn’t yell at him about it. “Lando sent me to pick up his order.”

Lando is someone Logan knows. He comes in about every other week and talks to Max about streaming and video games that partly goes over Logan’s head. He always leaves with a red and white bouquet, though the flowers change each time.

“Why could he not come get them himself?” Max grumbles, heading in the direction of the cooler where they kept to-go orders. Daniel shrugs and wraps his knuckles against the glass.

"He was late for a meeting or something, you know I don’t ask about his other job,” Daniel supplies. He changes his focus to Logan and the blond is met with the full force of the man’s mega-watt smile. Logan blames his mom’s genes for how easily he blushes. “Hey, you’re the new guy, right?”

Logan opens his mouth to answer but Max is suddenly im between them, Lando’s bouquet in his hands.

“Yes, this is Logan, no, he does not want any of your garish tattoos.”

Daniel pouts at Logan’s boss. He wonders how it doesn’t look strange for a guy who’s at least 30 to be pouting.

“Don’t be mean, Maxy. I wasn’t even going to mention the tattoos.”

Logan racks his brain for tattoo shops nearby. They obviously have a close relationship outside of just Lando. And Lando did say he worked for an artist…

“Oh hey, are you the Honey Badger?” Logan asks, moving his head to be seen around Max’s wider frame. Daniel jerks his eyes away from Max’s, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “I pass by there all the time. Not a lot of shops do American style out here.”

Daniel’s face lights up, looking between Logan and Max. “Max, you hired an American?”

Max sighs, more long-suffering than Logan thinks is necessary. “This is why I did not want you to speak with him. I knew you were going to be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird!” Daniel argues. “I’m just surprised!”

Max and Daniel have another weird silent staring contest. Logan clears his throat reluctantly and they both snap to him.

“Um, where’d you learn to do that style?”

Daniel looks ready to excitedly burst into the story of his tattooing style and his interest in America, but Max cuts him off by pushing the bouquet into his chest.

“We do not have time for that, these are going to wilt. Take these to Lando.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Daniel murmurs, picking up the bouquet gently. He doesn’t sound annoyed by Max’s demands. Rather amused, actually. He shoots Logan another grin over Max’s shoulder. “I don’t envy you, mate. But hey if you want to talk tattoos, come by the shop sometime.”

“Definitely!” Logan agrees before Max can say anything else on his behalf. Daniel shoots him a one-handed finger gun before turning back to Max. His smile becomes a lot less joking and more sincere.

“See you later, Maximus”

Max loses some of his prickliness, voice soft when he says, “Goodbye, Daniel.”

+ There’s a man talking to Lando at the front desk when Oscar comes in that day. It’s neither of the two Oscar is used to seeing who come talk to Lando pretty regularly. Oscar’s pretty sure one of them’s his boyfriend and the other is his business partner but he can never tell which is which.

“Did you leave Logan alone at the shop?” Lando is asking while Oscar sets his station up.

“Well, I had to do it at some point,” the guy says, his accent reminiscent of German or Dutch. “What is the point of hiring another employee if I cannot leave for a few minutes?"

“Daniel never leaves me alone here,” Lando points out, a tad resentful. Oscar snorts.

“That’s because he has control issues,” Oscar claims. Both of the men look at him, one in amusement and one in confusion.

“Who are you?” The mystery guy asks. Weird, Oscar was going to ask him the same thing. He looks to Lando who makes the introductions.

"Max, this is Oscar, Daniel's new apprentice. Oscar, this is Max, one of our neighbors."

Oscar frowns. "I thought Max was your..." he trails off, leaving space for Lando to fill in the blank. He waves his hand.

"Different Max. This is Max Verstappen, he run's Verstappen Floral."

The new Max is still looking at him strangely. "Daniel does not take apprentices. He says he is a bad teacher."

Oscar shrugs, not sure what to tell him. He doesn't know how he got the job either. Luckily, he's saved from having to respond by Daniel coming out of the back office.

"Oscar, good, you're here, I wanted to talk about-" Daniel stops abruptly when he sees Max standing in the lobby. His entire demeanor shifts when he says, "Max, hey! What are you doing here?"

Daniel is normally a friendly guy, sometimes too much in Oscar's opinion, but he's practically glowing as he bounds over to Max. While Max's expression doesn't shift, his body language opens up to Daniel like one of his blooming flowers.

"I am talking to Lando about our stream tonight," Max answers. "He has not been very forthcoming with the details."

Lando tries to protest but even Oscar can see that it's a lost cause. This new guy showed up and suddenly it's like nothing else exists to Daniel. His boss giggles at nothing and that's when Oscar decides to get back to work.

[kaiser-s-bitch]

Can everyone PLEASE stfu about video game characters’ skin tones??

I would like to remind everyone that just because Hoyo is taking INSPO from irl regions and cultures, it absolutely does not mean that they’re trying to be "historically accurate" in any way.

I would personally also enjoy seeing certain characters with a lot more melanin, I also enjoy the edits of people making that happen. But I don’t go around hating and shitting on an otherwise perfectly fine character designs JUST because of the skin tone.

Of course I generally do understand that some people would prefer more "diversity" and would like for Hoyo to be more "accurate in their representations". But then again: they’re NOT TRYING to accurately represent anything!!

Just look at the Liyue characters, the region clearly referencing the Chinese culture: No Chinese person naturally has pale blue hair and eyes (Chongyun). No Chinese person has platinum blond hair and red eyes (Ningguang) (edit: YES except for people with albinism but that’s beside the point here). Even Yun Jin, arguably the most "Chinese" character is not ACCURATELY Chinese. Know any Chinese person with bright red eyes? No? Thought so. And no one’s been hating on/complaining about that.

Same goes for all other characters: they’re not meant to be REALISTIC. No one is talking about their "inaccurate" eye colors, body types etc, everyone is focusing on and getting worked up over SKIN TONES, of all things. It doesn’t make any sense.

Hoyoverse is a Chinese company, and it’s no secret that the Chinese are generally fond of paler skin tones, and therefore paler characters sell well. That alone doesn’t make them racist, and it does not warrant the amount of hate their newer characters are getting all around (atm Ororon specifically).

It’s giving: "I like pizza!" -"Oh, so you hate pasta".

The worst part about this is the fact that most of the people hating the most insistently are WHITE, trying to be self-important. It’s embarrassing tbh.

———

Sorry for this little outburst, I just had to get this off my chest. I might be missing some pieces to the puzzle that some of you might be aware of, but I’m just sick and tired of people hating all around bc of this.

[holylulusworld]

Bound Tight - Kinktober 30

Summary: You're in trouble...

Pairing: Mobster!Guy March-Philips x fem!Reader x Mobster!Anders Lassen

Warnings: mafia au, restraints/being restrained, scared reader, I’ll label this one dub-con, implied future smut/threesome, I’m a tease…

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2024

Privacy is essential to your boss. You should’ve known better than to walk into the office on his boat without knocking. A phone call distracted you, and you forgot to knock before you entered the room.

Gus, your boss, was in the middle of a conversation with his bodyguard. Anders, the guy you only call giant in secret, pushed his cute glasses back up as his eyes landed on you.

He sucked in a breath as your eyes drifted toward the huge money stack on Gus’s desk. Your eyes widened because you never saw so much money in your life. Gus couldn't have so much money. You’re his bookkeeper and know how much money he makes with his business.

“Anders, would you excuse?" Gus’s features darkened as his eyes drifted toward you as you stood in the room, his cup of coffee, and the latest numbers in your hands. “Someone’s being sneaky, my friend. I think I should have a serious conversation with my bookkeeper now.”

Gus leaned back in his chair, making it creak under his weight. Your boss enjoyed the fear flashing over your face. He dipped his head and hummed as your hands began to tremble.

Anders nodded at your boss, turning to leave the office. He brushed past you, sniffing at your hair as he passed you.

“Wait—” Gus snapped his fingers at Anders. “I need your assistance. You’re very skilled when it comes to punishment.” Your boss slowly got up; like a lion ready to pounce on his prey, he kept an eye on your trembling form. “And ropes.”

You whimpered, expecting the worst. For a few weeks, you had the feeling that something else than selling expensive boats was going on in your company.

“You've been a bad girl,” Gus purred as he stalked toward you. He took the cup out of your hands and threw the manila folder over his shoulder. He was dwarfing you with his size, making you whimper as he encouraged Anders to step behind you. The giant placed his hands on your shoulders.

“Y/N, you should know that bad girls need to be punished." Anders’s rough voice sent a shiver down your spine. “I’d love to try my new ropes on you, sugar plum.”

Curly hair...curly hair... You focussed on Gus’s dark curls as he cupped your face with one big hand. Staring up at him like the lamb you were between these wolves, you trembled even harder.

What if your boss was not an eccentric boat builder? What if your presumptions were right, and he was a criminal, hiding things from you?

Gus darted his tongue out. He looked down at you, eyes roaming your body hungrily. You whimpered again, this time for a different reason. “What do you say, Anders? Do you want to test your ropes on her?”

They talked about you as if you weren’t even there. You were just a toy for them to play with after you made the mistake of walking in on them.

“Hmm…yeah. I always imagine how cute she’d look with a rope wrapped around her ripe body,” Anders purred in your ear, tickling your skin with his breath. “I’ll make her my masterpiece.”

Firm hands gripped your upper arms as Gus’s hand remained on your face. He hummed, eyes glued to your parted lips. “I think she’ll look pretty old tied up on my desk. What do you think?”

Bare. Exposed. Vulnerable. You’ve never felt so small before.

Anders, true to his words, got his ropes to dangle them in your face. He laughed when you pulled away and tried to hide behind your boss.

Gus didn’t show mercy either. He got a knife out, cutting off your clothes, leaving you in nothing but your birth suit. Your boss pushed everything off his desk, even the money to lift you on it.

You squirmed under his gaze, not daring to breathe wrong when he told you to lie down. Feeling the cold maple wood against your heated skin made you shiver.

At first, it was just a little rope around your wrist, nothing more. Anders made quick work; eyes glued to your exposed body. You could see the hunger in his eyes.

Something soft brushed against your ankles; Gus was tying both feet to one of the legs of the table, making sure they were firmly secured. Your left hand was being tied up to another leg.

You were at their mercy now.

“So pretty and soft,” Gus murmured. He ran his fingertips over one breast, pinching your nipple. “I dreamed of having you like this.”

You watched them circle you like prey, featherlight touches making goosebumps erupt all over your skin, never getting even close to your cunt.

“Please,” you whimpered as Gus stepped between your spread legs. He stared down at your slicked cunt, biting his index finger, wetting it.

“Oh, sweetness,” he purred your name and nodded at Anders. “We are going to ruin you once and for all.”

[planetsano]

◟* ♡ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : hybrid reader, guns, hunting mention.

Sometimes I think about a hunter— a big, tough macho kind of man who can hold a gun that’s heavier than you ever probably had to lift because all you do is pick berries and herbs all day.

A real man, you know? One of those men who could survive in the wilderness alone with just his bare hands. Hands that are so big and rough— ones that radiate warmth. I think about those same hands that have never touched or.. really felt a soft pair of silken bunny ears.

He would have had to met you in the wild, right? I imagine he’d had to have been at least 30 feet away looking through a scope on his rifle— he saw your ears first. Floppy sweet things that were beautiful in color. Shiny and healthy, a rare type of pattern speckled against the base color of your hair’s locks.

If your head hadn’t popped into view at the last second, surely you would have been someone’s dinner or a new fur scarf. A vegan’s worst nightmare, really.

His brows would furrow in a burly pinch, lowering his weapon before letting out a sigh. Well, he couldn’t kill you now. That would go against his morals but he’s well aware that there are plenty who would just be jumping to sink their claws into a hybrid. To either sell, kill, skin or keep as a pet— even a slave. There was just so much opportunity, which is exactly why hybrids like you were in such a high demand.

He’s never actually interacted with your kind before so he’s curious. He’d inch closer, careful not to spook you. It’s no surprise that for such a big man, he’s surprisingly light on his feet when he’s in his element. There’s too much experience under his belt to carelessly step on a twig. It’s life or death in some cases.

You’re at a pond— the crystal-clear waters mirror the vibrant greenery that surrounds it, while lily pads float gently on its surface. There’s a waterfall pouring into its depths. It looks unreal, and you’re just the cherry on top.

You’re nearly nude, only tattered pieces of various pieces of cloth almost stylishly worn to your body. You seem to be at peace giggling as your feet make the water splash while your chase a butterfly. He’s never seen anything quite so innocent

It’s your eyes. Your eyes it’s just fucking big doe eyes that do him in when you finally spot him. He’s fully ready for you to make a run for it but You don’t seem afraid at all— he’s surprised. Even more so when you cautiously walk over as if you don’t want to scare him. It’s just that.. he’s a man.. you’ve never seen one before. You’re so curious, too curious for your own good.

Your fingers would gently trace the contours of his face and run through his hair, a sense of confusion deepening in your eyes. Unlike the hybrids you’ve encountered before, there’s a startling absence of ears on his crown. You would take one of his hands and allow him to touch the softness of the floppiness of your own, silently asking him where his were.

“I don’t have ears like yours—” He’d suddenly cut himself off at your expression. His voice..! It’s so.. deep! It’s amazing, you want him to say more words but you don’t quite know how to communicate in a way humans would understand. You’re just so excitable you want to explore every inch of him but alas, you hear your friends approaching near. You give him one of the wild flowers stuck in your hair before disappearing onto a deeper part of the forest.

And he wonders if he’ll ever see you again.

— ushijima, kita, iwaizumi, toji, choso, nanami, eren, reiner.

+ bonus: dilf gojo specifically, and single father bakugo.

[space-blue]

I still cant wrap my head around how vi eventually joined enforcers after years spent in prison and cop brutalities she experienced first hand. I’d try to rationalize it but The only logical reason i can think of is because of Cait and vi’s bias towards her that influenced her to join enforcers

I think, the issue that Arcane presents with Vi is one of archetypes.

Some fans have a tendency, even in my own posts notes, to defend and construct Vi as a real person. But she isn't. She's a fully fictional character, part of the great human art of storytelling.

I think that the issue at hand is that Vi's story as depicted in Arcane, doesn't follow very normal/standard/popular archetypes.

Her backstory is that her and her family are relentlessly harmed by cops, she spends half her teenage years in the worst prison. It would be a great backstory for someone like say, SILCO!!! Someone who goes on to hate Piltover and go to great and terrible lengths to oppose and fight them.

Transitioning her to her "game end state" is extremely hard, because her in-game status is that of a cop who polices her own people for Piltover;s sheriff. Ekko has barks that call her out for betraying Zaun. Vi used to have barks that were police brutality jokes. She has art where she's a US like donught eating cop. It's a vibe, and not a vibe that screams "I was abused by police my entire life!"

In the show we're not there yet, and we may not even go there at all (I'm of the opinion that if they make her Vander 2.0 it'll be more palatable and also provide a new skin to rack the money in with.)

But the transition is pretty brutal because they hurried to sell us on a Caitvi romance in season 1.

I think more people now are feeling iffy about Vi's actions because she goes along with the whole gassing operation, but IMO it is consistant with what we see from her in season 1. I'll explain.

I've seen the argument around that she only joins because the other option would be worse and she's basically a limiter for Cait, but no, sorry, she could argue with Cait for Zaun's protection, and be happy she decides on a smaller strike force while being horrified/opposed to the use of the Gray. She could be grateful Cait reduces her actions and still refuse to join her. She could not kiss her in the pipes while they probably both smell of mustard gas lol.

All of Vi's actions put together depict a picture so far, out of 12 episodes, and that picture just isn't very heroic or very nice. It's also very much not archetypal, so it's a lot more unpredictable. Some of her fans also have a tendency of defending her every action instead of embracing the darkness we see peeking through, which muddies the waters.

But I'm now pretty comfortable in my assessment that she's a good Vander 2.0.

She had a hard and broken childhood, ends up hardening and getting skills in prison, but not class consciousness. This isn't shocking, because Silco is taking over Zaun, and she hates that everyone seems to be working for him. Vi has zero awareness that her young self and Silco share the exact same goals (a Zaun that's not inferior to Piltover, where someone like Powder could live happy and safe).

Worse, Vi has her priorities all mixed up. The story is just complex and human. Vi is forced to raise Powder and also lead Claggor and Mylo her entire childhood. That's not great... She basically didn't get to be a child at all. Vander put a shit ton of responsibilities on her. We know from the Enemy video that she was pretty rough at times, which is a realistic depiction of a kid struggling under a lot of pressure in a rough environment. Then the sister who is so difficult to care for goes and kills the whole family seconds before they could all escape, the blow is dealt, they're separated…

And when freed, Vi has now 3 things on her mind:

-find her sister,

-kill Silco and destroy his operation/get revenge,

-and, oh wow that cop lady sure is hot!

Rescuing Zaun from Piltover is nowhere in her head. She complains about the Lanes having easily fallen to Silco, but at no point does the show hint that Vi may have greater goals of rescuing the Lanes from Silco.

Despite Vander's dying wish being "Take care of Powder", Vi's priority list is spoken right to Silco's face: She's going to find Jinx and undo what he's done to her head, but FIRST she will dismantle his business. Like, do you think Vander would be good with that agenda? lol

And don't come into my comments to argue that she's only saying this because she's facing Silco. Vi follows up by hitting Silco's factories and then wiping out the Last Drop and beating Sevika. Let's not forget name dropping her sister to the Council.

Saving Powder just ISN'T HER PRIORITY!!!

So what is her main drive? If it is "getting revenge" then the enemy of her enemy is her friend. Ekko, and Cait.

Vi going to Ekko's Firelight hideout and not becoming an instant member and not returning to them after season 1 also speaks VOLUMES about her priorities and her lack of "belonging" within Zaun.

You'd think she doesn't feel at home in the Lanes but may want to join and help the Firelights, right? They're the hope of Zaun… They're against Silco. But no. In season 2 she remains with Cait, hanging out awkwardly at her palatial home.

She goes and drinks in the street rather than seeking out the Firelights to see if they are fine or if she can help. As far as we can tell, she never saw Ekko after he took a bullet for Cait's plans and then a bomb to the face to stall Jinx!

So she just doesn't have any sense of home, any attachment to Zaun as a place or concept, despite being raised in it. She has resentment for Piltover and enforcers, but not enough to not fall for Cait and bend her principles. She cares for her family, but when it becomes complicated and difficult, she caves and changes her mind. She's also all talk about killing Jinx. She just can't, and after 2 missed opportunities, Cait is also mega fed up with it xD

Now Vi is going to go destroy her life with booze while rising and falling in the pits as a fighter. Then, from the trailers, seems like she'll get her shit together and fight Noxus.

I think in that way she's a Vander-esque character.

Rough start in life. Very angry. Prone to punch first ask later. Then, lacking guidance, they latch onto someone who is happy to give them direction (Silco/Cait). Then comes a breaking point (whatever triggered the drowning of Silco/Cait dumping Vi after the Jinx fight) and they switch to other occupations (running the Lanes/Pit fighting) and this is followed by another trigger that produces their end state as a collaborator (The bridge and adopting the girls/Whatever will happen fighting Noxus).

I think Vi can be given the space to basically gain a healthier view of Piltover (as an occupying force that can't be trusted for Zaun), while also being close to an enforcer for the good of Zaun (Vander worked with Grayson, Vi can work with Cait after Zaun becomes independent).

Vander is also a very flawed character. Lots of fans like to just see him as a sweet loving daddy, but he's a brutal killer who runs a racket business in the undercity lmao. We first meet him killing a man with his gauntlets, and the second scene he's threatening 2 people of death if they don't behave on his turf. Vander lacks the incentive that Shimmer is, so you bet your ass he was staying in power because "hound of the underground" had a gnarly reputation. Even foreigners know him by name.

He's the guy who was insane and violent enough to coldly drown his best friend with his bare hands. And let's not project any fanon here: He straight up apologises to Silco, says he's always regretted his actions, never says he was justified, and never contests Silco calling his actions a "betrayal".

Vander BETRAYED Silco, who trusted him. And Vander tells us he respected Silco, everyone did!

If we saw his arc live before us, I fucking bet it would be as swivelly and mystifying as Vi's. Poor slum kid becomes second in command to fanatical Zaun wannabe leader and revolutionary, creates the Lanes with him, then betrays him by trying to drown him with his bare hands, then takes over the business alone, hides his injuries, then leads a revolt due to some unknown inciting incident, then adopts kids, keeps running a smuggling/racket/protection business, whatever it is, while also collaborating with enforcers in secret, before being killed when his demons catch up with him???

I'm sure there's plenty of moments on such a journey that would make people scratch their heads. It's not very archetypal either.

And as a result Vi also only work if you see her outside archetypes. She's not an abused kid turned revolutionary, Silco style. Or abused kid turned freedom fighter/gang leader, Ekko style. She's not a very good sister, never was, never could be, simply from her circumstances. She's not super loyal because she has pretty weak principles. She's not driven by a strong sense of justice. She gives her word, then goes back on it. Acts strong and talks big and then buckles. And Cait can't have that, since it gets in the way of killing Jinx twice now.

Vi is mostly self interested, and driven by revenge and anger. Now that Silco is dead and revenge obtained, she's falling back on her sweetheart, and her lack of strong principles or loyalty show again, like in scenes where a bit of buttering up make her accept an enforcer badge.

I fully disagree with people who try to tell me she takes the job to protect Zaun! She takes it because she realises how much it would mean to Cait, and she has NOTHING BETTER TO DO with herself. She should be joining Ekko, at a minimum, but she isn't loyal to Zaun and isn't out there to save it. She cares about her family, but this only manifests in her being incapable to actually kill Jinx.

And like, it's OKAY!! Personally I'm okay with that.

I think Vi still has 6 episodes to gain a real, strong conviction, the way Vander did with the kids. And I'm also okay if that ends up being as a collaborator to Piltover. I would have written things differently because I think a longer and more non-romantic build up of trust and care with Cait would have been more beneficial, but I'm liking where things are going, because I've written Vi off as a good character.

She's very grey, and pitiable, but not sympathetic in her choices. A lot like Jinx, too. Jinx is just too cruel and sadistic to be sympathetic, but she's very pitiable.

And neither of the girls' flaws are their fault. They are the by-product of Zaun, of generational trauma and abject poverty and oppression. They are the fucked up women created by Piltover's fucked up rule.

As always, it's all Heimerdinger's fault, and I'm a little frustrated to see him cheapen Ekko's character with his Jar Jar humour right now.

Anyway, that's a pretty long answer, sorry lol

I'm always happy to get Meta posts, so thanks a lot. Don't hesitate to reply and elaborate.

[dan-the-womans-blog]

Title:Domestic Possession

(Had an idea, wrote about it, i have no regrets.

Derek morgan x fem!reader)

Derek Morgan was known for his confidence, his charm, and the undeniable magnetism that drew people to him. Working at the BAU, he'd seen the worst of humanity, and it only made him treasure the good parts even more. That's why when he found someone special, he held on tight. And you, without a doubt, were the most special part of his life.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and the two of you had decided to spend the day exploring the local farmer’s market. Stalls were bustling with vendors selling fresh produce, handmade crafts, and a variety of delectable treats. You walked hand-in-hand, laughing and talking, enjoying the normalcy that days like this brought amidst the chaos of Derek’s job.

Derek had a way of making you feel like the only person in the crowded market. His presence was commanding, his laughter infectious. As you stopped to admire a display of flowers, he stood close behind you, one hand resting on your hip, a casual, possessive touch that was more comforting than anything else.

You picked up a bouquet of wildflowers, their bright colors vibrant against the backdrop of the market. "What do you think of these, Derek?" you asked, turning to show him.

"They're beautiful," he replied, his eyes not leaving your face. "But not as beautiful as you."

You blushed, a warmth spreading through you at his words. Derek had a way of making you feel cherished, loved, and his words always carried a weight of sincerity that was impossible to ignore.

As you were about to pay for the flowers, you noticed a man standing a few stalls down, his eyes lingering on you a bit too long for comfort. His gaze was intense, appraising, and it made you feel exposed in a way you didn’t like. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore him and focus on Derek.

Derek, ever perceptive, noticed the change in your demeanor immediately. He followed your line of sight and saw the man who was staring at you. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features, quickly replaced by a determined glint in his eyes.

Without a word, Derek moved closer to you, his hand sliding around to your lower back, pulling you into him. His grip was firm, possessive, and undeniably protective. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, "You're mine, sweetheart. Don’t ever forget that."

The sensation of his breath against your skin sent a shiver down your spine. You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze, finding his eyes dark and intense, filled with a mixture of protectiveness and desire.

The man who had been staring at you seemed to get the message loud and clear. He looked away quickly, clearly uncomfortable with the silent confrontation. Derek’s presence was enough to send a clear warning without a single word being exchanged.

You let out a small breath of relief, feeling safe and secure in Derek’s embrace. You paid for the flowers, and as you turned back to Derek, he was watching you with a look that made your heart race. There was something about the way he looked at you that made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

"Thank you," you whispered, standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

Derek’s grip on your hip tightened momentarily before he let his hand slide up to cup your face, pulling you in for a deep, possessive kiss. His lips were warm and insistent against yours, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that you were his.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a comfortable haze of laughter, affection, and stolen kisses. Derek’s possessive touch never strayed far, a constant reminder of his love and protection. As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the market, you found yourself grateful for the man by your side.

Back at your apartment, as you put the flowers in a vase, Derek came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. He nuzzled your neck, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

"You know," he murmured, "I don't like when other guys look at you like that. Makes me want to remind them who you belong to."

You turned in his arms, wrapping your own around his neck. "I don’t need reminding, Derek. I know who I belong to. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

His eyes softened, and he leaned in to kiss you, slow and deep, pouring all his love and possessiveness into that single kiss. When you finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I love you," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"I love you too, Derek," you replied, knowing that no matter what, you were safe in his arms.

Send requests if you want something else, i write for all genders but i dont do smut

Ϟ(๑◕ ․̫ ◕๑)づ🌹🌹🌹

[solivagantingrebel]

Thinking about how... Ghost never felt wanted, appreciated or loved in his childhood home, about how he did his best to run away from those memories; erased them, removed himself and the people from the place, and kept his distance until it was refurbished. It was different by the time his brother inherited it, the colours were different, the furniture was different and some of the rooms were renovated to be indistinguishable from before.

Ghost's life was different too, he made sure of it.

There were moments, when he visited, where if he stood for a second longer, closed his eyes briefly — even for a breath —, he'd feel the familiarity of his past creeping in, haunting him. He'd remember how he couldn't relax in the living room, or in the hallways, or anywhere he wasn't allowed to close the door of, always anticipating those heavy footsteps and that terrible, sneering scoff before his days got worse in ways he couldn't anticipate. Blood, tears and sweat leaving scars underneath his skin, ones he could only fool himself to hide.

He felt a sense of dread whenever he visited — slept over —, remembering the moments in the kitchen when he went for a glass of water whenever he couldn't sleep, like his mother was right there with him, hunched over with whatever she could get her hands on, tears streaming and ignorant to the world until Ghost softly asked if she was alright. She'd have an awful, dead look in her eyes, any hope and light devoid before she properly focused on him, shaking her head and telling him to go back to bed.

He'd get himself the glass and feel the heavy weight of her gaze on the back of his head, and by the end of it, she would tuck him in; some semblance of normalcy lending itself so that he could go back to sleep. He still felt her gaze, sometimes, never realising that he might've saved his mother more than once by unintentionally waking up late until it was too late. His mum wasn't perfect, no one could be in their situation, but he could never fully blame her for what they all suffered.

It should've been something, seeing Johnny walk so freely through the house, following him like a lost dog would. His steps were Ghost's, a beacon for his wayward soul. Johnny didn't know the table he was leaning against was where he used to hide his brother when it got worse. The dining table was different back then, but the house was a witness to all those fights, its walls always large and silent to their protests. He didn't know how his father got away with it for so long. His memories were a mess, remembering only the worst of it while shrouding the rest — days, weeks, months and years melting into this concoction of experiences, never to see the light of day again.

Johnny didn't have it great either, he'd speak of his cousin, more highly than his mum and dad, leaving vague comments about disapproval and rejection and frustration and Ghost would nod along, because he understood. Parts of it, anyway, and while he might've not faced the same issues, he knew how it felt to be distanced from family to the point you'd have to drag yourself on your hands and knees to make sense of it. There wasn't a shot to down in the vicinity, nor a smoke to share, so Ghost settled for the next best thing; drowning himself in those ocean eyes completely fixated on him. It didn't matter what came out of his Sergeant's mouth, every word poured out of those pretty lips numbed the reopened wounds in his chest.

When Ghost cornered him against that table to kiss him, he didn't pull away. He rarely does, even in the moments he couldn't anticipate it, quick to melt once he knew it was Ghost and eager all the same.

"I'm gonna sell it," he says when they pull away.

The statement confuses Johnny - a sentiment Ghost shares for a second, before he realises why it was necessary.

"Ghost."

"I can't risk it."

I can't risk the same story repeating for us.

I can't risk losing more.

Ghost exhales, loud and ragged.

I can't risk losing you, he doesn't say. Instead, the silence fills the space in-between, the confession buried from the tip of his tongue down to the rotting confines of his heart. Johnny gets it. In his infinite patience for Ghost, he looks like he understands, and the familiar scrunch of his brows ease away as he nods and steps closer.

The touch on Ghost's waist is grounding, a silent, gentle permission for more, and he lets him. Johnny hugs him like he is trying to melt into him, share the warmth that overflows from his heart to fill Ghost's empty husk-like chest. He hugs him like there is nothing he'd rather be doing, seemingly content on standing there, holding him for hours on end if he needed to.

"Johnny."

Everything falls into place like it was always meant to. The torment of a life spent wanting, wishing and begging for more, quenched through the existence of one man alone.

"We'll get it sorted, Simon."

Ghost rarely believes in reassurances, promises that can't hold up in the face of a cruel, uncertain future, but he wants to try. If not for himself - he wants to try for Johnny.

"We always do."

He supposed they did.

As long as Johnny is willing to stay by his side, everything will be alright.

[wri0thesley]

home - hawks x reader (6.7k)

you miss him when he's not here.

cw: not sfw. reader is afab but no gendered language is used. chubby reader, insecurities mentioned. established relationship. possessive hawks. blood, injury (mild). cunnilingus, scratching, biting, multiple orgasms.

this was a commissioned work.

There are drawbacks to being a Pro Hero’s partner.

Oh, there are some positives, too - the nice things that you get sent, sometimes, in the hopes that you’ll post them on social media and the business in question will get some extra footfall from being papped on the significant other of the more popular Pro Heroes (putting aside the occasional frustration of paparazzi always tailing you, the free clothes and free tech and free gear and free meals are very nice). The fact that Keigo has a sizable fortune that he mainly uses to make sure that you and he have the best life he can provide. The swell of pride that rises in your chest when you think about him, and all of the lives he has saved, all of the people who are grateful for him. 

The sunshine in Keigo’s face, too, when a small child tells him how much they look up to him - how they want to be just like him. The money that is funneled back by Keigo into charitable institutions for children. The fact that you’re doing a small part of good in the world despite your reasonably useless quirk (making flowers bloom at a touch is only useful when the flowers are not yet in season, after all - it’s a quirk that you can use maybe three months out of the year, and you’ve noticed flowers don’t seem to last any longer just because you’ve grazed them with your fingertips) by making Keigo happy, the way he deserves to be. 

But there are plenty of negatives. 

Those same paparazzi who sell photographs of you and Keigo to gossip magazines and comment on your appearance, your hair if it’s messy, your figure that you’re already not all that confident in. The online gossip-mongers who spend their time bemoaning how much of a better fit they’d be for a man like Keigo, if he’d just stop ‘pitying’ you enough to date you. 

The nights you spend stroking Keigo’s hair as he buries his head in your neck and all of the ugliest parts of his job fall out of his mouth; the fear of being a pawn for the HPSC for the rest of his life, the things he’s asked to do that remain secret except in whispered gasps into your ear, his hands clinging to you so tightly you think about talons puncturing your skin. The long, long nights when he’s out doing hero work and you fear that he may never come back to you. The way time stretches interminably on when he says he’ll be gone for a little while and you don’t know if it will be days or weeks or months. 

You wouldn’t trade anything for him. Keigo makes you feel seen and beautiful and loved and cherished in a way no other person could ever compare to. You get butterflies when he smiles at you. You cannot imagine a life in which you did not find each other, somehow. 

But tonight, your bed in Keigo’s penthouse (big glass windows, so he can feel like he’s flying - a huge bed, with room for his wings) is empty and cold. You wear a too-big ‘Hawks’s Baby Bird’ nightshirt that falls down to your knees, a gag gift from one of your friends who is a member of your boyfriend’s fan club. The little cartoon depiction of him is not enough to make you feel as though he is there with you.

Tonight feels like one of those nights that might last forever.

You roll over in the bed uncomfortably, legs tangling in cool sheets that you wish were warmed by your partner. The space seems to stretch on for an eternity without Keigo’s wings there for you to good-naturedly grouse about as he laughs and pulls you in even closer. 

You think not hearing anything might be the worst. 

You know what he does is important, you know that he doesn’t always tell you where he’s going because he’s worried about you - you know that being shrouded in secrecy is better for both of you. But not knowing where he is or who he’s with or what he’s doing makes all kinds of worrying scenarios play out in your head as you wonder if you’ll ever see him again, or if the last time you kissed him on the cheek and told him to be careful (and he looked at you with all of the love in the world lighting his gold eyes, his gaze saying far more than his easy laugh and his promise he would come back) would be the last time. 

Ugh. You flop onto your back and stare up at the ceiling. 

Maybe you should try making yourself a hot drink; distract yourself from the thoughts swirling around your mind and the loneliness that’s eating at your edges. That sounds nice. You swing your legs over the side of the comically oversized mattress, the soft hem of your nightshirt riding high on your thighs - and then you hear a familiar sound, and your heart feels like it swells to double its size in your chest. 

You quickly walk from the bedroom into the lounge, following the sound of beating wings and displaced air and something clinking against glass. There, on the balcony outside, stands Keigo - still in his hero costume, red wings in the process of being tucked behind him, keys tinkling in his hand. 

Through the window, he catches sight of you - and his smile is so wide it could split his face in two, eyes crinkling at the edges. He fumbles even quicker with the keys, eager to get inside and back to you - and you walk across the room, your feet warm on the cold tiled floor, to meet him.

Up close, you can see that the night has not been kind to him. 

Despite the smile that lights up his eyes and transforms his face, there are grazes all over his face; a rip in his hero costume at the sleeve, where he’s bleeding a little. His wings seem fine, but high on the left wing the feathers are bent out of shape and uneven as if he narrowly avoided trapping it somewhere. Your stomach drops somewhere in the region of your feet - and then, Keigo is through the window and it’s clinking closed behind him and you are embraced by all of him, all red feathers and fur jacket and arms wrapping so tightly around you that you can barely breathe. 

“Keigo,” your voice comes out in a choked squeak. “Keigo, you’re hurt--!”

“I’m so glad to see you,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, his normally light tone heavy with emotion. “I missed you so so much. I . . . I thought I might not see you ever again--”

His gloved hands cling to your generous hips, squishing into the soft flesh there, dragging you against him. He noses against your neck, breathing in your scent, as if he’s trying to reassure himself that you’re real and true and there. 

“Let me look at your injuries--” You try to say, but Keigo instead pulls you into a searing kiss that makes your knees feel weak. Despite his relatively small stature - compared to most other Pros, anyway - he trains long and hard, and he pulls you into him as if you weigh nothing at all, the softness of your curves and pudge not presenting the smallest of problems. His mouth is hot and beseeching against yours; this is a kiss that says ‘I am alive, and I thought I wouldn’t be’. Fear is still rolling hot through your stomach, but it’s hard not to melt into him when he knows every spot of your mouth and every nerve of your lips as well as he knows his own. His teeth nip needily at your lower lip and you open your mouth for him - let his tongue mark you out as his, sliding across that spot behind your front teeth that makes you full-body shiver in his arms. 

It doesn’t seem to matter to him that the two of you are in full view of the windows (not that any paparazzi would be fool enough to try and photograph from here, after the last time) - all that matters is that the two of you are entwined, that Keigo is there and you are there. His hands slide down your hips to knead at the soft globes of your ass, a motion that’s meant to be teasing but instead simply feels desperate.

You break apart from him with a gasp, your heart beating frantically against your ribcage.

“Keigo,” you say, hoping you sound more sure of yourself than you feel. “I need to clean your w-wounds.”

He looks at you all half-lidded and wanting, his mouth swollen from the kiss - actually, you don’t think his gaze has strayed from you once since he first laid eyes on you. 

“I needed to kiss you,” he says to you, and he cracks a small smile that doesn’t quite mask the wildness in his eyes. “I needed to remember exactly what you were like. Remind myself you were mine, birdie.” 

“The kiss could have waited,” you say, exhaling in a way that’s part laugh and part exhaustion. “You’re hurt.”

One gloved hand raises to your face; his thumb strokes over your cheek. The smile on his face is so sad and so wanting that it makes you ache. 

“I could never wait to kiss you,” he says. “Not a second longer than I have to.”

You tug gently on his sleeve; there’s dirt all over the tan fabric. You wonder what happened to him on this mission, but you don’t ask - Keigo never wants you to have to worry about things. He keeps you as safe as he can - makes sure you can work from home, insists that if he can’t go shopping with you groceries are delivered . . . on another person, it might be suffocating. But on Keigo . . . 

He hasn’t told you much about his life pre-Wing Hero: Hawks. Still, he has told you more than almost anybody else in the whole world knows, and you understand why he clings to the vestiges of a home he’s managed to build around himself. It’s hard not to be flattered that he considers you home - and you, in return, feel exactly the same way about him. 

“Come on,” you say to him, a little more forcefully this time, and you give him a gentle smile so he doesn’t feel like he’s worrying you too much. “Let me clean these scratches and get your uniform off, and I promise you can kiss me as much as you like for as long as you like.”

He lets out a soft laugh but lets himself be tugged across the room anyway. 

“My uniform off?” He asks, lightly teasing, the edge of desperation slowly ebbing away now that he is with you and knows you are safe. “Why, birdie, you’ve only gotta ask! Little forward, but I’m not gonna complain--”

You roll your eyes at him, but laugh all the same, as the two of you enter the kitchen and you bully him lovingly into taking a seat on one of the stools by the long breakfast bar. You reach up onto your toes to reach the first-aid kit kept in one of the high kitchen cupboards, feeling the hem of your shirt rise up to reveal the thin red satin underwear you wore to bed--

“Are those Hawks brand, too?” Keigo asks. You can’t see him, but you can just imagine the shit-eating grin that’s painted itself over his face. “Look, I know you want me to stay still whilst you tend lovingly to me, but you’re making this really difficult--”

“Shh,” you tell him, turning around with the little metal tin tucked beneath your arm. “You’re just trying to get out of the antiseptic swabbing, aren’t you?”

It takes you by surprise how quickly he’s shed his garments. You suppose that speed is his greatest asset, but still - you’d heard only a little rustling, and yet Keigo is suddenly sat behind you totally shirtless with his uniform discarded on the stool beside him. You can see almost all of him; the lean muscles of his pectorals, dotted with old scars - the corded forearms, the surprisingly strong hands . . .

You’re grateful to see that the wounds and scratches are only surface-level. They’ll need cleaning and bandaging up a little, but that’s all - he’s not at risk of any infections, doesn’t need to go see any healers or hospital workers. You’re glad - you don’t want him to be out of your sight for any longer than he has to be now that you finally have him back for a while. 

You cough as you rifle through the medical kit for anti-bacterial wipes, feeling your face heat up at his proximity and his nakedness. Keigo laughs softly, angling his body closer to you.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” he says to you, his voice low and soft. “C’mon. See something you like?”

“Could you stop flirting for one second?” You ask him, as you wipe over one of the nasty grazes on his arm - you don’t think you could look into those golden eyes right now without falling into them like molten pools. “I need to get this cleaned up.”

“You’d be flirting if the prettiest thing in the whole world was touching your naked body,” Keigo says to you, reasonably; and he laughs again when you fumble with the bandage you’re trying to affix to the spot in question. “C’mon. You’re even wearing my merch! How’m I supposed to just sit here and let you look after me when I’m thinking about pinning you to the breakfast bar and having my wicked way with you, huh?”

“Have your wicked way with me when I’m done,” you tell him, and now you have no choice but to turn your hand to the grazes on his cheek - and looking at Keigo’s pretty face takes your breath away in the same way it always does. His eyes are liquid gold, burning you as you gently wipe the blood from his sharp cheekbones. At the touch of your fingers on his face, he takes a sharp intake of breath - and one strong hand lands on the outside of your thigh, thumb pressing softly into the skin there. Your own breath stutters in your chest. 

There’s a bloom of heat low in your core, to be looked at like that. Possession and adoration and hunger all mixed up in his gaze, your own body screaming at you that Keigo wants you and you want him and everything else should be thrown to the wayside in pursuit of the pleasure the two of you are clearly longing for. 

He breathes out after a moment that feels like it lasts a week, and his voice has dropped a semitone into something rich and low and starving hungry. 

“You’re nearly done now, right?” He asks, swallowing, the bob in his throat visible. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stop myself.”

You do not break eye contact as you drop the gauze, as you close the lid of the first-aid kit. 

“I’d think a Pro Hero would have more control,” you say to him breathily. “Stop yourself from doing what, exactly?”

He smiles up at you with a wickedness that makes you weak at the knees, and you feel all of your concern about his grazes and bruises and the feathers that have been bent and ruffled in his wings melt away in favour of the persistent pounding in your core.

He moves lightning-fast; utterly deserving of all of his accolades, and before you know it you’re pressed against the breakfast bar, your ass pressed flush against the rim of the surface, and Keigo has dropped down onto his knees. 

“Stop myself from eating you all up, birdie,” he says, with a grin bright and hungry, as he presses his nose softly against the plumpness of your thighs. “You’re looking delicious, and I’m starving after being away for so long. Won’t you let a guy have a taste?”

You gasp as he moves his face; as his nose nudges at your mound through the Hawks branded underwear. He breathes in deeply, savouring the scent of you on the air.

“I can tell you want it too,” he teases you. “I can smell you from here. That’s how I know how delicious you’re going to be.”

“Keigo,” you breathe out lightly, but there is no complaint in your tone. Your boyfriend takes this the way it is; your consent for him to do whatever he wants to you, and his smile is knife-sharp in the darkness as his fingers hook into the elastic of the underwear and slowly begin to edge them down your legs. 

“Spread for me, angel,” Keigo murmurs, dropping a kiss just above your knee, peppering the skin he can currently get to with more feather soft touches of his lips. “Show me how much you want it. Let me see you; I’ve missed you. Feels like a century when I don’t see you for a day.” 

You fall over yourself to please him. You’ve missed him just as much; too deeply for you to care if you seem desperate, when you spread your legs further and let him see the wet mess between your legs. Keigo’s eyes go half-lidded and wanting as he trails the pad of one of his fingers up your thigh to dip between the lips of your sex and into your slick. 

“Look at you, pretty birdie,” he says, low and awestruck. “This is all for me? Aren’t I the lucky one? Aren’t you just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen?”

Your face heats up at the compliments; Keigo is never shy about giving them, of course, but when the position is so intimate and he looks so fascinated it’s hard not to feel woozy with the want that drips off every syllable. Keigo moves his face closer; kisses at the plump spill of your very inner thighs, where they’re damp with your own arousal. Teeth bite into the flesh gently, nipping at you until you gasp. 

“Y-you were being serious about eating me up, then?” You ask, a huff of laughter on your lips, as Keigo shifts his attentions to the other thigh, sucking love bites into the soft flesh. 

“Just making sure you know you’re mine,” he says, breathless. “Marking you up so you know who you belong to. After I’ve eaten you up, I’ll get on to eatin’ you out--”

He kisses over your sex this time; his breath fanning hot against your most sensitive parts. Your knees almost buckle, and you have to cling to the rim of the breakfast bar to stop yourself from just falling onto him completely. You feel a couple of well-placed breaths away from collapsing onto the floor.

“Is that a . . . a promise?” You ask him, and Keigo chuckles and the vibrations seem to travel from between your legs and right up your spine. 

“For you?” He murmurs, and his tongue darts out - laps up your cunt from perineum to clit, and you swear you see stars. “Of course it is.” 

Once Keigo has had a taste of you, there’s nothing you can do. You know it from past experience sprawled out on the bed beneath him as he works you over until you’re putty in his hands - when he wants someone, when he wants something, when something is his and it’s his responsibility . . . he will not rest until he’s wrung several orgasms out of you and you can barely move. The kitchen is a brand new development for this kind of thing, but Keigo is more than a little possessive and when you’ve murmured in the heat of the moment about christening every surface in his apartment it’s always gotten him going--

So it’s all you can do, really, to let him eat you out like he’s a man starved and he’s having his final meal before his untimely end. 

To let your fingers curl around the rim and to give yourself into Keigo’s mouth as it hotly works you over; his tongue dragging through your folds as if he’s trying to drink you in. Your own mouth falls open as your breath escapes you in little surprised gasps; it seems that for every slow lap of his tongue, he manages to do some kind of swirling trick of athletics that makes you feel like you’re melting into a pleasured mess. 

In between the licks and the sucks, he turns his attention back to the soft fullness of your thighs; drops little growling interludes of;

‘Mine’. ‘So beautiful’. ‘So good’. ‘You’re mine’. ‘Mine, mine, mine’. 

Kisses and bites and licks and mumbles, the soft abrasive scratch of his scruff making you dizzy and light-headed as you feel all of the pleasure that he brings you work itself into tight knots in your stomach. Sometimes he bites just a little too hard, as if he wants to ensure that the mark takes - and though on another partner, you might push him away, with Keigo it’s hard to not just let your lashes flutter and a soft moan escape at the thought of just how much he wants you to be his. 

There’s something to be said about having the mark of ownership of a man like Keigo upon your skin. 

He rubs his cheeks against your thighs, uncaring of how your slick is fair dripping from your sex; covering himself in your scent the same way he tries to cover you in his own. You’ve heard him complain when you switch shower gels or perfumes or shampoos; you know he can’t get enough of the natural scent of you. He never cares about cuddling up to you when you feel sweaty or gross - in fact, a couple of times, you’ve thought that it really gets him going--

It’s getting much harder to think the longer Keigo uses his mouth on you. 

It’s hard to think of anything other than the sensation of his tongue, the prickling pleasant heat that’s running through your veins, the groans of pleasure that he keeps putting forth with every new lap and suck and kiss of your clit. Your fingers twitch, your thighs shaking wildly, as you hover on the precipice of your orgasm.

“That’s right, beautiful,” he murmurs softly. “Come on. Come for me.” 

There’s no question of doing anything but. 

Your entire body goes taut all over, like a string waiting to be plucked - and then snaps, as your orgasm washes over you in fierce waves, making your body tingle like fireworks are being set off beneath your skin. You don’t try to muffle your noises - Keigo had coached that out of you with kisses and begging and telling you how much he loves hearing you - so soft whimpers and moans come issuing forth from your mouth, bouncing against the kitchen walls. Keigo makes his own noise in response; a coaxing kind of reassurance that you can let yourself go with him, you’re safe. His mouth is still pressed against your sex, though, his tongue still drinking in the slick you’re pumping out with every clench and pulse of your release. 

He stays there even as the orgasm slowly subsides and feeling returns to your extremities. You’re sensitive, your thighs shaking - and Keigo chuckles, pulling back and looking up at you with his eyes all blown with adoration. 

“I’ve missed the way you taste,” he tells you, tone teasing. “I’ve missed the way you sound, too. I’ve missed . . . all of that.”

“I’ve missed you more,” you say to him breathlessly. “A-are you going to let me repay the favour?” 

Keigo laughs again, and the sound makes happiness bloom in your chest. 

“No,” he says, sounding very sure of himself. “I’m not done with you yet, birdie. I need to make sure that every perfect inch of you remembers me; I need to make sure that you’re always with me, that you’re imprinted onto every part of me, that you know just how much I love you and I need you and that I can remember every part of you with my eyes closed--”

Your cheeks are hot at this profession of adoration. It’s not that Keigo is shy about these things - he said ‘I love you’ before you did - but . . . he’s not always prone to these big, grand gestures. He holds your hands and pulls you close and keeps you next to him, plays with your hair and remembers your favourites and checks in on you to make sure everything is alright as often as he can. Love story confessions are not his style--

And that’s how you know that he means every single syllable. 

“Th-that’s not fair,” you say weakly, as Keigo takes your hand and tugs you through the apartment instead, a mirror of you taking him into the kitchen to clean his wounds. “I want to do all that for you too--!”

“Ah, but you didn’t get to saying it before me, did you?” He shoots you a broad grin, pulling you into the bedroom. The sheets on your huge bed are still rumpled; he raises one eyebrow. “Not sleep well without me, birdie?”

“You know I never do,” you whisper, and his face goes impossibly soft. He pulls you closer to him, pressing his nose against your own so that the two of you are staring directly into one another’s eyes. 

“I love you,” he says, plain and simple. His hands go to touch your hips, to slide up to your waist and to your chest, his touch reverent like a sculptor and his masterpiece. “I love everything about you. If it were up to me, I’d spend every waking minute with you - I’d never let you leave our bed. We’d have everything we need. I . . .” He swallows. “I want to be with you forever.”

“I want to be with you forever, too,” you breathe out - you bring your hand up to stroke over his shoulders, to delicately curve over the musculature in his back to where his wings stand proudly out. He lets out a soft noise of pleasure at the soft touch of your fingers on the downy feathers at the base, his cheeks going pink. 

“Then let me take care of you,” Keigo murmurs, softly. “Let me come inside of you so many times you don’t remember what it feels like to have anything inside of you but me.” He takes a shuddering breath - and despite your earlier orgasm, your breath catches and your pulse beats between your thighs as if it’s agreeing that he can do whatever he wants with you. “Please.”

“Keigo--”

“Say I can, birdie.”

His touch gets desperate. His thumbs dig into the soft meat of your waist, the plump pudge there. You make the mistake of flickering your eyes away from his gaze, to between you and below your eye line, to see the way that his cock is tenting the front of his pants in need. You think about Keigo’s cock - about how it feels inside of you, about how perfectly it fills you up, about the sensation of having him come inside and keep going, keep pumping himself into you--

“Keigo,” you breathe, eyes flicking back up to him. “Of course you can.”

As much as you want to get on your knees for him and bring him the same pleasure he’s already brought you today, you can tell that this means a lot to Keigo - and so you’re not surprised when he groans out loud and pulls you back into a fierce kiss. Your lips are nibbled on, your tongue danced with, your entire body dragged into a kiss that Keigo puts every muscle into - until he pulls back, breathless. 

“Can we get this off you now?” He asks, tugging at your nightshirt. “Kind of weird to be looking at myself right now, even if I do look very cute as a cartoon--”

You laugh as you pull the dark red cotton over your head. You have a brief moment of doubt - that same flash that comes across you every time you fully disrobe in front of Keigo, a voice in your head saying that you’re not good enough or pretty enough for him - but it’s a doubt that Keigo quickly dispels as he pushes you back onto the bed and begins to pepper every inch of your newly exposed skin with bites and kisses. 

“I love these,” he murmurs, palming at your chest with rough calloused hands, plucking your nipples between thumb and forefinger until they stand to stiff attention. “They’re so pretty.” A pinch, and you whine, back arching. “And so sensitive--!” 

His tongue follows the path of his fingers, swirling around the nipple and sucking on it with a soft pop until you’re whining even louder, spreading your thighs apart for him in a silent plea to get on with it.

“You’re being needy,” he tells you, with a bite to the swell of your breast that you can tell will leave a bruise. “And I love it. Ask me nicely, pretty birdie--”

“Please fuck me, Keigo,” you say, breathless with need and want and the dizzying desire to have him inside of you. “Please, I want you inside of me--”

He kisses you fiercely again; fabric is displaced lower down his body as he works his trousers off without for a moment breaking the contact of your two lips. His cock slaps against the roundness of your tummy, leaving wet precome in a smear over your navel - hard and long, stiff and aching to find anchor in your port. 

“You have no idea what hearing you say that does to me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “Spread wider, angel, alright?” 

You obey him, spreading your thighs so wide that it’s almost painful. 

The two of you have had to experiment with positions many times - Keigo’s wings provide an interesting challenge for ensuring that both of you are comfortable. Even now, in this simplest of positions, his wings make a canopy over you and give a soft red-warm glow to everything beneath them. Keigo smiles at you so softly that it feels like melting, and then his cock is nudging the lips of your sex apart and slowly slowly slowly sinking inside of you. 

It’s gratifying, to finally be full. His tongue felt good, but there’s a kind of intimacy in this that it can’t replicate - a feeling that the two of you are melding together, hearts beating as one. Keigo’s eyes flutter closed, a soft sigh escaping his pretty mouth.

“You have no idea how you feel,” he chokes out. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you--”

“You feel like home,” you say to Keigo, and he whines and sheathes himself fully inside of you. 

His arms wrap around you, pulling you up so you’re not just laid directly on the bed. His nails - fingers a little sharp, like talons - rake down your back, scratching into you, as he gets used to feel of you hot and tight and wet around him. The two of you are both panting, your own arms wrapping around his neck so you’re as close to him as you can possibly be. 

He crashes his lips against yours at the same time as he begins to move his hips in hungry little circles. He isn’t yet fucking in and out of you in wild abandon, but this is still overwhelming after being without him for a few nights and forgetting all of the places inside of you that are stoked like a brand new fire by his cock, stretching you out. You move your hips against him in tiny increments, his abdomen rubbing against your swollen clit in a way that sends pleasant little frissons of electricity up and down your spine. 

The electric mixes with the scratches of Keigo’s hands, an overwhelming symphony of sensation that is at once too much and not enough. You lose track of time - you lose track of anything but the feel of Keigo inside of you, the pleasure of being stretched and fucked and taken and knowing you are loved. 

His lips against yours, his words against your ear with whispers of how much he loves you and how beautiful you are and how good you are for him. Your own words, coming out slurred and breathless as you both chase your orgasms, wanting to crest that hill together. 

“Keigo,” you’re whimpering. “Keigo, Keigo, Keigo.” Chants of his name spilling out of your lips like prayer beads, prayers that he drinks up with his kisses and his own soft entreaties of your name. 

“I’m going to--”

“I want you to--”

“Fill me up, please--”

“Fuck--”

You both lose track of who is actually the one speaking; the words come out in a spill that’s mirrored by the twitch of your thighs and the coil of heat in your stomach. Your orgasm hits you like a train, and your fingers curl into Keigo’s short hair at the same time as he digs his teeth into the soft place where your neck meets your shoulders and his cock pulses inside of you, spilling his seed into your sex, marking you out as his. Your own release gushes over his cock, your cunt clenching around him as you pant and whimper. You’re light-headed and dizzy as you chase your aftershocks, gyrating your hips on his softening cock to eke out every last drop of pleasure you can. Keigo’s hands stay on you, sliding to the small of your back, encouraging you as he sucks and kisses on the bitemarks and lets his own pants fill the air. 

The comfortable silence that follows your releases lasts only a moment. 

He’s come inside of you once, and your body feels full and satiated with your own orgasm, but that’s not enough for Keigo. Even as he pulls out, his cock is already hardening again, a soft groan falling from his mouth as it slaps against the soft flesh of your inner thighs.

“Tell me I can fuck you again,” he murmurs. “I want you to be full of me, birdie. I want you to be dripping with my come for weeks. I need t’fill you up so bad--”

You manage to screw up all of your left-over energy - not that there was much of it - to roll over, gathering yourself up on your hands and knees, spreading your legs further apart and balancing yourself on your elbows. It’s a position the two of you have used often, made all the more comfortable by Keigo’s expensive bed. It means that you don’t have to do much more work than stay there and thrust your hips back into him - and, crucially, it means that Keigo gets so deep inside of you that you swear you feel him in your stomach. 

“Yes,” Keigo breathes, already gathering himself up onto his knees. He drops kisses onto the places on your shoulder blades and spine he scratched earlier, soft feather-light whispers of how much he adores you. “Fuck, angel--”

He fits inside of you like a glove; your earlier exertions making him slide inside of you so easily you barely feel the stretch. Your fingers clench into the sheets as you moan out a prayer that sounds like his name, as Keigo continues to drop wet messy kisses all over you. He’s rambling now, about how beautiful you look like this and how good you feel.

“I should fuck you on every surface in the house,” he whispers, as he begins to work his hips back and forth, sliding easily into a rhythm. “I should christen every single one of them, so it feels like home--”

“Okay,” you breathe in return, moving your hips as much as you can. You’re going to come again, you realise, embarrassingly quickly. He just feels so deep inside of you - like there is no end to where he starts or you begin, like there’s nothing in the universe but the two of you and the places you’re joined. One of his hands slaps over yours, holding it as best he can in the position you’re in. 

“I need to fill you up,” he’s panting. “I need you . . . need you to be mine, need you to know how much I love you, need you need you need you--”

“I need you,” you reply, in a whimper that feels like a sob as he adjusts his hips just so and oh, the spots he hits inside of you with every thrust . . . You feel born anew again; like this is the first time Keigo has fucked you and you’re as sensitive as a virgin. You squeeze your eyes closed. “I need you more-- please fill me up, I want to be yours, please please please--”

“Say my name,” Keigo begs into your ear, the words broken up with pants. “Say you love me.”

“K-Keigo--!” Your voice pitches as your orgasm clenches all up inside of you. You feel yourself tighten around him. The feeling of him inside of you, the wet glide of his cock, the sting of the bites and scratches from your earlier extremely enthusiastic love-making, all converging together until you can do nothing but let the white hot feeling take you over completely. “I l-love you--”

A moaning whimpering groan of your name, and the two of you are coming together. Keigo’s cock is twitching inside of you, spilling more thick ropes of his come as deep into you as he can to join his earlier load. You moan as you feel it trickle down your thighs, as he fucks it in deeper chasing the aftershocks of his orgasm and your body collapses into a jelly-like mass of nothing but feeling. Keigo lets you collapse and follows you down, breathless laughs turning into moans as you lie there for a few moments sweating and panting in the afterglow of your lovemaking. 

It takes a little while for the two of you to disentangle yourself fully; for Keigo’s cock to pop out of you (followed by a little rush of your mixed fluids), for him to drag your sweat-soaked body against him without caring for how you must be messing up the sheets. 

“I love you too,” he says, a belated reply to your call as you’d come. Your face goes hot at the reminder.

You curl up against his chest shyly, cheek pressed to his beating heart. Your fingers come up to trace patterns over his skin, and he makes a noise low in his throat almost like a chirp, pleasure at your touch melding with the pleasure of what has transpired between you both. He’s always a little more bird-like in this state; relaxed and sated and happy. 

A phone rings somewhere in the distance, and he groans. Eyes fluttering shut. 

“It’s in my pocket,” he mumbles in annoyance. “It’ll be the Commission.”

You make a soft noise of displeasure at the Hero Commission already wanting to monopolise his time when it feels like he’s been home for an hour or two at most. 

“I’d hoped we’d have a bit longer this time,” you say, and you hope that you don’t sound petulant. You don’t want to resent Keigo’s job! You know he’s one of the top heroes for a reason! But curled up in bed, it’s hard to reconcile Wing Hero: Hawks and Keigo, your boyfriend, your lover, your home. You want longer with him. You want to keep him for yourself. 

His mouth twists. Resolutely, he wraps his arms back around you. 

“We will,” he says, as he continues to ignore the ringing. “We’ll have more time. They can wait a day. I still have more things I want to do to you.”

“Unfair,” you say, hiding your smile in his chest. “It’s my turn to do things to you.”

He laughs and presses a kiss on the top of your head. The scratches and bruises and bites from your earlier exertions sting pleasantly; a reminder of home, a reminder of Keigo, a reminder of belonging. 

“Okay,” he says, with a faux sigh. “It’ll be a challenge, but I’ll take one for the team. I guess you can do things to me next time.” 

Both of you laugh and snuggle in closer to one another. 

The bed feels so much more right with Keigo in it beside you. 

[schniggles]

1 thru 6 for the slay the princess ask game!

(Explore) What's your favorite Chapter?

I HAVE to say Chapter 3: The Princess and the Dragon. what can I say, I think The Long Quiet is big sexy and we don’t get to look at him full-on anywhere else!!

(Explore) If you have a least favorite Chapter, then how would you go about changing it?

Chapter 2: The Nightmare for sure. It just feels… not scary! And I’m a huge weenie so that’s saying something! It needed more buildup. I didn’t feel really threatened, even despite the best efforts of VotParanoid’s delivery when the Nightmare got too close. Maybe it takes longer for the Nightmare to jump you if you walk around a bit in the maze. (Then again, I’m sure Black Tabby made it the length it was for a reason so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

(Explore) Who's your favorite Vessel?

Honestly? Damsel, possibly. First Vessel I got in the very first demo, for one thing! The skin of the construct feels particularly close, with her. She doesn’t want to hurt The Long Quiet, so — in concert with his actions — she becomes something that can’t hurt him. Her route is genuinely unsettling. (Shout-out to Smitten for selling the creepy, lmao.)

(Explore) If you have a least favorite Vessel, then what do you think would make you like her?

Do I have a least favorite? Hmmm… I mean I don’t vibe with the Tower but that’s just because I want to be the dommy mommy, I don’t think that’s a problem with her.

(Explore) Who's your favorite Voice?

HERO!!! HERO HERO HEROOOOO, MY BELOVED!!! The worst thing you ever did was respect the decider’s choices too much. Mwah mwah mwah. 

(Explore) If you have a least favorite Voice, then what do you think could make you like him?

Broken, but specifically in his own route. Idk I think if he was more overtly needy it might be more compelling. I get that he’s the part of TLQ that doesn’t want to be hurt anymore, but c’mon dude.

(Even so, I love how the Voices are all parts of a whole personality, I love how they’re both reflections of the player/TLQ and shards of the Narrator/Echo. The Narrator can control TLQ in chapter 1, but after that, the Voices take over. It’s such a great ludonarrative integration.)

(Slay the Princess ask meme)

[hokusu]

Takami Keigo origin story ft. Dabihawks hurt/comfort

. . . . .

Takami Keigo remembers exactly where he came from.

There isn’t any confusion, any repressed memories from the day that he gets picked up off the streets to the day that he debuts at the bright age of eighteen and starts a name: Hawks, the wing hero. Hawks, who turns heads and makes the headlines–the fastest hero who climbs the charts of the top-ten rankings the very same year.

He remembers and he could never forget.

But pro-hero Hawks, the origin story–

Are the words that get passed around from one reporter to another, one interview to the next. Another talk show host who blinks at him with rose-colored eyes and asks innocently where he debuted from, the burning question that they all want to know, need to know–who was he before he was Hawks?

Who is Hawks?

Hawks, the origin story.

And Hawks plasters on his PR approved smile and lies, one lie after another like he was born to sell this story, that he's just a small town boy. Someone from a normal family. Nothing memorable, nothing to write home about and that's why they haven't heard of him.

And they eat it up, because everyone loves a good story. Loves the image of a small town boy who grows up and makes it.

But it's not true; it isn't that he's got nothing to write home about, it’s not that he lived a terribly normal life before he was Hawks; it is that he was nothing, born of nothing.

There are no ties to his name, there are no family to do them proud, no legacy to carry on; he’s just a byproduct of a poor man’s exchange, his mother’s life of luxury for his entire life of a good little soldier.

So Takami Keigo plays his part; he dawns the mask of Hawks and parades as the hero the people want to see; the blood of his hands and the dirt he was born unseen.

Those get buried beneath the weight of his wings, reserved only for him and his dreams.

His dreams, where the worst of them aren’t that of violence. Aren’t that of the pain he remembers from the burn of a cigarette to an arm, the kick of a shoe, a cut of a glass, or the slice of a knife under skin and the number of quirks used against him meant to teach him.

They aren’t that of any shouts or degradation, nor that of another insult, another hand to reprimand him. He was bought for this job, he will die in this job.

And the worst of his dreams aren't even faces. Not his parents, not the worst of his trainers, nor the nameless number of faces he couldn't save. 

Sometimes Hawks dreams and it's just... him.

Takami Keigo and trash.

Piles and piles of trash that he digs through but can't ever climb out of it. The mountain of trash that drowns out his cries and dumps atop of him. The trash that he sleeps on and the trash that he breathes.  

Because after all this time, he is still trash. 

Takami Keigo could never forget where he came from.

Could never forget all of the days he spent in the shack at the edge of the forest picking up trash and becoming one with trash, because if he could blend with the trash, he could escape that house.

He wished, forbiddenly and hysterically then, that they would throw him away for good. He can feel it in their looks, can it taste in the air. They want to; he wants them to.

But the commission buys him and conceals all his trash. Polishes all his harsh edges and hides his scars. Another blemish, another quirk. But that doesn't change anything on the inside, doesn't take away from who he is.

Dirty hands and dirty wings; he was born of trash and he can never escape.

So he waits, for the day the commission throws him away.

A ticking countdown.

It’s only a matter of time.

The time comes when they send him off to the League, a suicidal mission at best playing double agent, a spy, like Dabi of all people will fall for his theatrics.

But if one night, Dabi finds him in the midst of his apartment trash?

It's because it's where Hawks belongs.

It’s because on some nights, Hawks climbs into a dumpster and buries himself with the trash. The trash that cushions against his back and sits by his arms, the trash that surrounds him and quiets the beating in his chest, the trash that doesn’t suffocate him and keep him up all night.

The trash, that is the only thing that doesn’t hate him. It's where he belongs and he knows trash far too well.

But if there's disgust on Dabi's mind, he doesn't show it. If there's confusion, insanity or a demand of what's wrong with him, he doesn't voice it. If it’s the option to leave him there, he doesn’t take it.

Instead, Dabi will go against all of who Takami Keigo is, and scoop him out of the trash without a thought, as if a dirty Hawks isn’t a full body infection against his skin.

Dabi, who carries him back into his apartment, back where he wants him. Rinses him in the shower, brushes at his wings. Cleans against his hair, his nails, and scrubs at the dirt on his face. 

Dabi, who holds back the blood of his tears, and the crease between his eyes to swallow away the words that Hawks can never understand.

Dabi, who holds him against his chest, the beating of his heart drowning out the trash that blinds his thoughts, and Dabi, who whispers that he’s fine, he’s clean, he’s… just birdie.

His birdie.

And he… wants Hawks for all that he is, all that he's not.

Loves Hawks.

Like he didn’t just pick Hawks up from out of the trash.