#become a poncho man!!!!

[radiosummons]

Y'all ain't ready for how fucking feral I'm about to be.

[artemisia-black]

Wizarding clothing and fashion

This meta/list of HCs has been sitting in my drafts for a while. But here is my meta about wizarding fashions. 

1.0 An insular culture with its own unique dress

No shade to people who enjoy seeing and drawing characters in muggle clothing, but I think that the majority of wizards and witches dress in wizarding clothing. 

Indeed, the fact that most wizards can’t dress as muggles and are quite conspicuous is mentioned in the first chapter of the series: 

“People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.” PS 

And then becomes a sort of running joke: 

“Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho” GoF

And in DH it is (partly) how Harry recognises that people are watching Grimmauld Place: 

“The lurkers were never the same two days running, although they all seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks in this heat.” DH

Side note: it is peak Londoner to barely take notice of something odd. And this also implies that robes and cloaks are all year wear and that wizards potentially don’t have seasonal clothing.

Given that wizarding culture is very insular (with its own economy, government, and education system), it would make sense that while it may occasionally borrow trends from the muggle world, wizarding fashion and clothing are unique. 

In fact, only the younger generation are seen in muggle dress, with Harry commenting: 

“Their children might don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying states of shabbiness.” GoF

2.0 Class and generational differences in dress

The previous quote demonstrates two things: much like in real life, there is generational and class stratification of dress. The condition and quality of wizarding clothing serves as a non-verbal cue about a character's economic status. This disparity is not just a background detail but is frequently brought into focus, such as through Draco Malfoy's derisive comments about Professor Lupin's tattered robes.

“ Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated suitcase.” PoA

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses like our old house-elf.” PoA

Even Harry comments on his robes and observes that: 

“Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes”

The patched and frayed nature of both Lupins and Weasley’s robes seem to indicate that robe repairs can’t be done by an individual (or when it is done, it is really visible). Another example of this is when Ron removes the lace from his dress robes and leaves: 

“...the edges still looked depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.” GoF

Additionally,  in Padfoot returns Sirius’s prison robes still appear tatty despite him having had a haircut and left the country. This indicates that he either can’t obtain new robes or can’t/hasn’t bothered repairing his Azkaban robes. 

This is interesting, given that Molly Weasley is able to make jumpers and scarves yet can’t seem to alter robes. While knitting and sewing are separate skills, it seems odd that there aren’t means of repairing robes. 

This suggests that robes can only be repaired and bought at official vendors such as Madam Malkins/Gladrags/Twifitt and Tattings. 

 It is also interesting that both Fred and George buy clothing when they become successful (also a parallel to the real world). They gift their mum:

“….a brand-new midnight blue witch’s hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.”  HBP

However, things being ‘frayed’ aren’t always an indication of poverty. Tonks is first introduced wearing an outfit that is a mix of muggle clothing but with something that is distinctly wizarding: 

“Tonks stood just behind him…. wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD SISTERS.” OoTP

This outfit is heavily reminiscent of Sirius and James in the Elvendork prequel: 

 “Both were dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with a large golden bird; the emblem, no doubt, of some deafening, tuneless rock band.”

3.0 The underwear question

Something that gets bought up a lot is whether wizards wear underwear. 

Harry (who was raised by muggles certainly seems to): 

“He was just piling underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind him.” GoF 

And:

“He was shivering now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he continued to strip off until at last he stood there in his underwear…”  DH

So does Neville (in the UK, Pants means underwear)

“He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.”

And infamously, so does Snape: 

“Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs and a pair of graying underpants.”

Also we get some information about witch’s underwear from Sirius’s very Freudian joke: 

“Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old bloomers.”

Bloomers are a type of historical, baggy underpants (think boy shorts, but make it victorian). 

In conclusion, Archie, who wanted a breeze around his privates, was probably an outlier.  

4.0 Materials and accesories

So what is wizarding clothing made of? 

For robes and cloaks the materials most mentioned are silk/satin and velvet: 

“ She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.” GoF

Additionally in GoF, we learn that even witches and wizards from other countries wear robes and cloaks: 

“Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred.” 

And 

“...Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold.”

Other materials include Dragon hide which appears to be used to make practical gloves and boots but also fashionable jackets. 

“... followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragon skin.” HBP

Additionally, robes can be embroidered: 

“ The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread” DH

“Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald green robes embroidered with silver” HBP

“Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street toward them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown embroidered with dragons.” HBP

Interestingly, both men and women appear to wear heels: 

Dumbledore: 

“He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots” PS

Madame Maxine: 

“Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage..” GoF

Monsiour Delacour: 

“However, he looked good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.” DH

Madame Rosmerta: 

“ Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels,” POA

Furthermore, witches carry handbags: 

“Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly” COS

“ She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm.”  GoF

“Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag”  OoTP

“Ron was rummaging through the little witch’s handbag.” DH

5.0 My HCs

When I imagine what male robes look like, I imagine something akin to a Morrcan thobe or an Indian Sherwani.

I imagine robes to be enchanted to move and in my fic Pietas, I describe my OC Aeliana’s robes as follows: 

“She smiled slightly, smoothing the front of her dress, which was decorated with embroidered flowers and birds that had been enchanted to flutter their wings.”

I also HC some cultural variance in robes- with certain countries using different cloth or the skin of magical animals that are native to their countries. With hotter countries, having lighter robes and cooling/anti-perspiration charms.

[cherry-holmes]

Glimpse of a life with Javier Peña (series)

Chapter 10

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Javier is desperate to save what he had built with you. Could you trust him again?

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Lots of angst. Sad!Reader & Sad!Javi. Mentions of pregnancy (but not what you’re thinking). Mentions of oral sex female receiving. Mentions of violence typical of the series.

A/N: So, Halloween Hangover is REAL🤕 but I managed to survive the weekend. However, I couldn’t managed to get to the university today😅 Anyway! WELCOME TO CHAPTER 10!❤️✨ I hope you like it🙏🏻🙈

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn't want to get out of bed. All you desired was to stay there all day, curled up in the cocoon of your misery.

The pain in your heart felt suffocating, and your eyes were swollen from hours of crying. You cried until exhaustion pulled you into a deep sleep.

As the sun's rays gradually pierced through your blinds, there was no escaping the relentless march of time. When you finally found the strength to get out of bed, you made your way to the bathroom for a cold shower.

It was Sunday, and you had the day off from work. Instead of going to the embassy, you stayed alone in your apartment, replaying the painful conversation with Javier in your mind. The hurtful words still weighed on your heart, and you couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal.

You tried to watch TV or read a book, but nothing seemed to distract you from the image of Javier. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Was it that difficult for him to stop seeing her? A tear fell onto the page of your book, one that hadn't turned since you opened it.

What if he slept with her while he was "waiting" for you? Maybe he was infatuated with her, maybe he cheated on you...

Your stomach turned just thinking about it. The uncertainty and pain had made a hole on your chest.

You went to the kitchen, but the fridge was empty. During the shower, you searched for a bottle of shampoo and soap, realizing that, little by little, your life had become intertwined with Javier's.

The absence of Poncho's bowl in the corner of your kitchen counter was a stark reminder the everything you needed and had was now at his apartment – even your heart.

You returned to your bed, hoping to get at least a couple of hours of sleep to avoid the hurt.

Javier, on the other side, couldn't stop thinking about the terrible things he had said yesterday. He felt like a complete asshole. He had spent the entire night thinking about you, the unfortunate words that came out of his mouth, and your tears. Your eyes were full of hurt and disappointment, and he couldn't forgive himself for causing you that pain.

He cared more about making it up to you than the threats of Diego Ibarra. He believed they were just empty promises from a drunk man. However, he knew he had to address the situation and eliminate the threat. Helena had information, but Javier thought that it would be just drunken ramblings.

He knew he had to rebuild your trust and repair the damage he had done to your relationship. He thought about ways to make it right, not just by avoiding Helena but by showing you how much you meant to him. He needed to convince you that you were his priority and that he would choose you over anything or anyone else.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The persistent knocking on your door woke you up. Judging by the time displayed on the alarm clock beside your bed, you'd only managed to sleep for an hour and a half. You climbed out of bed with caution, your bare feet barely making a sound on the floor.

Moving towards the door in silence, you paused for a moment before discreetly peering through the peephole. On the other side, Javier stood, his ear pressed against the door. When he knocked again, you instinctively pulled back.

He called your name softly, his tone gentle. "Please open the door; we have to talk," he urged. However, you remained immobile. "I know you're right there; I can smell your perfume," he added, causing your cheeks to flush.

"I don't want to see you," your voice still carried the traces of sleep.

A lingering silence followed, stretching into what felt like minutes, yet you knew he hadn't moved.

"I'm sorry," he finally pleaded, his voice tinged with remorse. "I'm an idiot, I know."

Javier's apology lingered in the hallway between you two. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and you were torn between letting him in and keeping him away from you.

You decided to speak, your voice soft but tinged with a mix of emotions. "You hurt me," you finally said. "I don't know if you can understand how deeply."

There was a pause on the other side of the door before he responded, "I know, bonita. I can't bear the thought of you being hurt because of me."

You found yourself torn. On one hand, you still cared for him deeply, but on the other, the hurt from the night before was very fresh. You leaned against the door and let out a sigh. "What do you want, Javier?"

His voice was earnest as he replied, "I want to make things right. I don't want to lose you."

You considered his words, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. After a moment, you hesitated but eventually opened the door to let him in.

Javier's expression was a mixture of relief and gratitude. His big, brown, puppy eyes staring at you with hurt and regret.

"May I come in?" He asked.

You nodded, and he stepped inside as you closed the door behind him. The atmosphere in your apartment was thick with tension, and you found it hard to meet his gaze.

He broke the silence. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said what I said. It was wrong, and I didn't mean it. Please, forgive me."

You sighed, the weight of the situation heavy on your shoulders. "What you said really hurt me. It made me doubt everything between us."

He approached you, reaching out to gently touch your cheek. "I know, I know." He sounded desperate, his voice thick with emotion. "But you must know that you mean everything to me."

"Then why didn't you choose me over her?" Your eyes welled up with tears again, "I'm your girlfriend, Javier. I just don't understand why you would risk us for this."

"I choose you over anything and anyone, mi amor." He took your head between his hands, lifting it up so you could see right into his desperate gaze. "I know it doesn't justify me, but between what she said about Diego and the frustration of finding a solution it made me talk shit that I don't really mean." Your eyes were full of tears and hurt, it broke his heart. When he talked again, you could perceive the fear in his voice, "I-I don't want to lose you. Te amo como no tienes idea, preciosa. Por favor, ¿qué tengo que hacer para que me perdones?"

Your hands went to his wrists. You weren't sure if you wanted them off your skin or closer. However, you didn't allow your emotions took over your brain.

"I..." you needed to ask, but you were so afraid of his response. But you have to, you have to... "Did you ever cheat on me?" The words came out of your mouth in a shaking whisper, "I mean, not just with her, but with anyone."

"What? No, of course not, baby," he looked panicked, but you could see the sincerity in his eyes and the firmness of his voice. "I would never do such a thing to you." He hesitated but then added, "I've never paid for sex, I want you to know that. You well know I would never force anyone to be with me; I'm not that kind of person."

For Javier, the seconds you spent looking into his eyes, hesitating about your next move, felt like an eternity. He would beg on his knees for your forgiveness if necessary. He knew he wouldn't die of love, but he didn't want live a life without yours. So when you finally spoke, his heart shattered at his feet.

"I think we should take a break."

"Are you breaking up with me?" the question came out of his mouth in a shaking breath.

You didn't want to say it, but you didn't want to give him hope either. "I just need space to think about this. I can't be in a relationship where I'm not a priority."

"You're my number one priority, bonita. I'm fully committed to what we have," he said, his voice full of emotion.

"Please, just leave," you pleaded, tired. He attempted to add something else, anything, but you cut him off. "Goodbye, Javier."

He let his arms fall to his sides, his fists clenching as anxiety crept up his body. But he nodded, defeated.

You followed him to the door, and when he was out, he turned to you again and said, "Probably this wouldn't be in my favor, but you should know that I'll call Helena today," he said, but it didn't surprise you. "I have to ask her about Diego, it's just that. I swear I won't call her again," he promised.

You shrugged, as if you didn't care, as you said, "Haz lo que quieras, Javier."

The hurt on his eyes was evident. His heart sank on his chest as a lump formed in his throat. He couldn't believe he was losing you.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The first few days, Javier offered take you home after work so you don't have to be alone at night.

"First of all, I don't need you to protect me," you had told him, "Secondly, Martha offered to take me," you let him know.

You did your best to avoid him, even when you inevitably crossed paths in the office's kitchen or in the hallways, and he attempted to talk to you. He was doing his best to be patient, but he missed you so damn much. He felt a constant pang in his chest, especially when he saw you or when he longed for your company at night. You missed him too, feeling a hole in your chest.

When you were a child, you used to be always sick. Your grandmother used to say it was because you had a weak immune system due to always being sad about your family's problems. However, your mother always said you faked the symptoms because you were too spoiled and didn't want to go to school.

When your father left, you were seriously ill for weeks, and you even had to be hospitalized for a stomach bug. The doctor said it was related to your anxiety and your immune system responding to your sadness.

Being separated from Javier had taken a toll on your physical well-being. You had been experiencing nausea for a couple of days, which you initially attributed to stress. However, one of those days, you called in sick at work. You had been throwing up since the afternoon before, and in the morning, you felt terrible.

At first you panicked at the intrusive thought that you might be pregnant. Even though you convinced yourself it couldn't be, you took a pregnancy test.

It was negative, of course. You thought that being pregnant would be the worst thing that could happen to you at that moment. Becoming a mother was something you always wanted, but not like this, not at this stage of your life.

You sighed in relief when you saw the result, but still couldn't shake off the fact that you felt so unwell. In the midst of the sickness, you found yourself missing Javier even more. Despite your best efforts to push him away, there was a hole in your life that only he seemed to fill.

••••••••••

It was like a deja vú, when you were sleeping on your couch and you heard a knock on your door. You decided to ignore whoever was at the other side, you just wanted to sleep. Then, you heard his voice calling your name. It was Javi and, honestly, you were too weak to fight back.

''C'mon in,'' you mumbled, not even making an attempt to get out the couch.

Javier entered, concern etched across his face. He noticed you lying there, pale and unwell. The apartment was dim, and he moved cautiously, trying not to disturb you.

"You don't look well," he said softly.

"Thank you?" You couldn't help but smile a little.

"I heard you called in sick at work. I wanted to check on you," he said, kneeling beside you, his hand caressing your hair and your forehead. ''You have a fever,'' he sounded concerned.

''I know,'' you said, your eyes closed, absorbing his touch and his presence. ''Connie came and prescribed some medicine. It worked, actually. I was worse.''

''Connie? She didn't even call me,'' he furrowed. ''Why didn't you call me?''

''I am not your responsibility, Javier. And I asked her not to,'' you answered.

''Don't call me like that,'' he whispered, clearly hurt.

''Why not? It's your name,'' you forrowed, but your eyes were still close.

'''Cause it sounds like you don't love me,'' he whispered, hurt lingering in his voice.

You opened your tired eyes, finding him close to you, and you gave him a weak smile, ''Siempre te voy a amar,'' you confessed. It was true, and you were too tired to pretend otherwise.

Javier's eyes softened, and he moved a little closer. "También te amo, mucho más de lo que imaginas," he admitted with a hint of vulnerability.

You couldn't help but feel a mixture of emotions as you looked into his eyes. There was still so much love between you, but it was buried under the weight of recent events. You reached out and touched his cheek gently, and Javier leaned into your touch.

"I miss you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I want to make things right, but I understand if you need more space."

You thought for a moment, your feelings a swirling mess. Finally, you said, "I don't want to lose what we had."

Javier nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Me neither."

He allowed you to sleep throughout the afternoon, and when you woke up again, he had prepared dinner for the two of you. Honestly, you thought that probably he would return to work or his apartment, but you were glad he didn't.

You were feeling slightly improved, enough to stand up and join him in the kitchen.

"I did my best," he said, presenting to you his attempt of caldito de pollo.

You were indeed very hungry but still felt a bit weak in the stomach. Despite that, you made an effort to eat.

"It's not bad, actually," you admitted, making him smile with pride. "I didn't know you could actually cook."

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve," he winked playfully, and you blushed at his charming response. His hand reached for yours, caressing the tip of your fingers, his playful demeanor gradually shifted into a more serious one. He gently squeezed your hand, his eyes searching yours for a moment of sincerity.

"Listen, there's something I need to tell you," he said, his voice soft but uncertain. "I hope you don't mind, I use your bathroom."

You looked at him, a mix of curiosity and amusement due to his peculiar confession. "It's not a crime to use someone's bathroom, Javier."

He smirk as his gaze dropped to the table, and he continued, "I found the box of the pregnancy test on the sink."

Your heart raced as his words sank in. You had forgotten to throw away the box; you had only discarded the test stick. You hadn't expected him to find it.

"I'm here for you, no matter what," he reassured you, his eyes filled with sincerity. "You won't face this alone."

You shook your head in surprise. "Wait, what?"

"I mean it," he answered, determination in his eyes. "I know I messed things up, but I want to fix it up with you." His hands captured yours, and you could see a sparkle in his eyes. Oh, no. "I'm not saying this just because of the baby, but if this is going to happen right now, I want to do it with you."

"Javier, I..." you tried to say, but he was so eager to share his plans.

"I'm serious," he gently interrupted you. "After I finish my work here, we'll go to Laredo. I have a house, and I can work on my father's ranch, and..."

"Javi, I'm not pregnant," you finally said it, and he seemed taken aback.

Javier blinked in surprise. "You're not pregnant?" His voice carried a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

You shook your head. "No, I'm not. I just got sick, and for a moment, I thought it might be something else, but the test was negative."

"Oh," you noticed that the sparkle had disappeared, but he also appeared somewhat relieved. "I'm sorry; I made the connection between your symptoms and the tests, and I..."

"It's okay, I also thought I was pregnant due to my symptoms. I've been feeling nauseous the whole week," you explained.

"And why didn't you tell me?" He asked, sounding a bit hurt. "We see each other every day at work. Even if we're apart, you can always talk to me, especially about something as significant as you thinking you're carrying my child."

The statement made you flush at the mere thought of actually having a child with him. You couldn't help but wonder if everything he was saying when he still thought you were pregnant was real for him. Did Javier have the capacity for such commitment? Hadn't he been scared of marriage, as you had heard?

Of course, you had thought about what it would be like to marry Javier Peña, but you never wanted to rush anything. If it was meant to happen between you, it would happen in its own time.

"It's not that I didn't want to tell you. I just thought it was a false alarm, and I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily."

He nodded, understanding your perspective. "I appreciate that, but I want you to know that I'm here for you, and I want to be a part of your life, no matter what."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Javier spent the entire weekend at your apartment, taking exceptional care of you. Nausea still lingered, but the vomiting had subsided, and your color began to return to your face. He made sure you ate well, stayed hydrated, took your medicines on time, and rested as much as you needed.

He even brought Poncho back to your place so he could feed him without leaving you. You also noticed that he'd bought a larger bowl and more food for the fish, showing how well he'd been looking after your little aquatic companion.

Despite his attentiveness, you and Javier hadn't progressed beyond some innocent caressing. There were no kisses, and he hadn't tried to invite himself into your bed. You had set boundaries, which he respected, understanding that you were still hurt from the past.

You knew it might be best to create some space between the two of you, not to give him false hope, but at the same time, you couldn't resist having him by your side. His presence made you feel like you were floating over the moon. You craved his warmth, his touch, and his brown eyes, just as much as he yearned for the same from you.

You wished you had more self-control over your heart in matters of Javier Peña, because you knew he could easily be the total ruin of you if you allowed him. You found yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. His presence wrapped around you like a warm, comforting blanket, and despite your attempts to keep a safe distance, you couldn't help but crave his touch, his smile, his everything.

Yes, you still felt angry and upset about everything that had happened, but you couldn't deny how much you wanted to be with him, to give him every single piece of you and claim every piece of him as your own.

So, you had to decide if you were willing to risk it all to be with him again or spend the rest of your life wondering what would it be.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was Monday, and you were in your room getting ready to head back to work. Javier, who had heard you showering so early, knocked on your bedroom door.

"Are you sure you're ready for work?" he asked, concern for your health still visible on his features.

You saw him through your vanity mirror as you put on your earrings. "I don't survive on air, Javi," you said, adding a touch of humor to your comment.

"Don't worry about that. I can cover the expenses for the days you need to recover," he sincerely offered.

You stood up and approached him. When he looked at you, he was mesmerized by your beauty, and one look from you was enough to weaken his knees. You made him crave every morsel of your love, and he knew he had to earn it. So when your delicate hands cupped his face, with your thumbs brushing his cheeks, he closed his eyes to savor your touch, feeling like a man who had stumbled upon an oasis in the middle of a desert.

"That's so sweet, Javi," you whispered. Then you leaned in to reach his lips.

Your kiss conveyed warmth and tenderness, a silent promise that you still cared deeply for him, despite the complications between you. Javier's eyes opened slowly as you pulled away, and he felt a mix of emotions swirling within him. "You've done so much for me, Javi. I'm really grateful for your help."

His lips curved into a warm, gentle smile. "I'll always be here for you," he said, caressing your face. The sincerity in his eyes was undeniable, and it touched your heart.

"No more secrets, Javi." As you said that, Javi's eyes lighted up with hope and relief. "If we're going to be together, we have to trust each other."

He nodded like a child, a smile adorning his feature, "No more secrets, I promise."

"And you're not going to see Helena, ever." You waited for another round of stubbornness, but instead, he nodded immediately, looking into your eyes with determination.

"Yes, of course, baby," he said finally, his thumb softly caressing your cheek..

"I'm going to trust you, and I would let you meet with other informants," you continued, and he could see the determination and seriousness in your reddened eyes. "But if you ever, ever, betray me – we're done and you won't see me again."

Javier swallowed hard, his eyes softened as he looked at you like a scolded puppy.

"I don't usually give second chances, but this is your third one," you warned, "so review your priorities."

"You're my priority," he promised, drawing closer as his hands encircled your waist as he leaned in to gently kiss your lips, your cheeks, and then he focused on the space between your jawline and your shoulders, planting sweet pecks on your delicate skin. You smelled delicious, delicate and femenine. Javier was starving for your body, your warm, your kiss.

"We're gonna be late," you warned, but he didn't stopped tracing your neck with his lips.

"I've missed you," his hands clenched around your hips, pushing your body back to your bed.

"Javi..." you tried to insist, but he knew exactly how to make you feel good.

"Shhh, I know you missed me as much as I did," his hands lifted you enough to get you over the bed, where you laid down as his hands started working on lift your pencil skirt.

Quickly, he get rid of your tights, along with your panties and your heels. "Fuck," he said as he finally saw your already wet folds, "you don't have idea how much I missed your pussy," he groaned.

Before you could say anything, his face hide between your legs, making you gasp and get lost on a wave of pleasure.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The end of September arrived, and your relationship with Javier had evolved in ways you both had never anticipated. The love between you two was undeniable, and you found yourselves deeply entwined in each other's lives. Every day with him was filled with love and laughter, and the nights were passionate and intimate.

Javier was a passionate and caring boyfriend, always attentive to your wishes and needs, taking you on romantic dates and cherishing the time you spent together. The sex was awesome, more than you could ever imagine. He introduced you to his father, albeit through a phone call, and you did the same with your sisters and your grandfather.

Your bond seemed to be heading toward a serious commitment, and you couldn't help but think about what he said when he thought you were pregnant.

Suddenly, you found yourself pondering the idea of marriage more and more. What would it be like to build a future with Javier? A family. Your heart told you it was what you wanted, but your mind was cautious, telling you that you should take things slow. You knew that you should be out of Colombia before forming a family, when both of you were safe and have time to talk about it. For now, you decided to enjoy the present with him.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Javier was driving to work with you. His right hand on your thigh and the other on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the road.

"Ay, no," you murmured, and he looked at you.

"What's the matter, bonita?" He asked, his brow a little bit forrowed.

"I forgot my coffee," you pout, "I left it on the table."

"Want me to buy you one?" He offered, making you smiled.

"You're the best, you know that?" You said as your hand reached the back of his head and scratched his scalp, causing a pleasant sensation run down his spine.

Javi pull over on the first coffee shop he saw and crossed the street to buy coffee for the two of you.

He only last about ten minutes ordering, and when he was about to pay, hell broke loose.

The sound of gunfire and people screaming filled the air. His instincts kicked in, and his hand reached for the gun tucked in his back. Panic spread like wildfire as people scattered in all directions, searching for a place to hide. All he could think about was you. He had left you in his truck...

Javier stepped out of the restaurant and witnessed chaos unfolding. A car sped down the street, disappearing around a corner. His heart sank as he noticed the damage: bullet holes riddled his truck, shattered windows littered the street, and dust hung in the air. But you were nowhere to be seen.

Fear gnawed at him as he realized you were alone in the midst of this chaos. Without a second thought, he raced towards his truck, not knowing if you were safe, injured, or worse.

Javier's ears buzzed, and the echo of his own racing heart pounded inside his head as he approached the truck. He was terrified, hesitant to confirm what he feared most. The thought of your injured body overwhelmed him, but he had to know.

As he neared, he noticed the passenger door was wide open. His heart sank as he first saw your feet, and then he spotted you, lying face down on the hard ground, surrounded by shattered glass.

Panic seized him; you weren't moving.

NEXT CHAPTER

[sepublic]

Continuing my ramblings on Predator (1987), there's an interesting choice of cinematography when the protagonists start fighting back against their titular antagonist; Once Anna explains the Predator's schtick as a chameleon, our heroes begin making new traps meant to fool the Predator. And as they do, there's some pretty choice shots emphasizing the bulging muscles of characters like Dillon and the like. Dillon is interesting especially given he's framed as the least masculine of the guys due to being a dishonest pencil-pusher; Here, it seems as if everyone, even Dillon, is reclaiming their masculinity with this chance to fight back. With this chance to turn back the odds and restore their conventional status as action heroes.....

And then we know how it all goes down; The Predator breaks free of the trap, and kills its last four victims of the film to leave only Dutch and Anna. The Predator as a dark reflection of the characters' machismo makes more sense when you consider how he can mimic the voices of the others, and the wound that puts him down is identical to that of his final victim Poncho; Both are felled by a log trap.

From the perspective of the Predator, other characters' voices become noticeable high-pitched; I wonder if this is, in a way, meant to show how even a badass like Dutch is 'feminized' in the eyes of the Yautja. The line between Predator and the protagonists is further blurred when Dutch achieves his own form of cloaking that is also sabotaged when he comes into contact with water; He learns to fight more like the Predator, relying on stealth, ambush, and the environment around him to hide and attack. So now the Predator becomes the hunted too. Its final words are to repeat Dutch's only lines back at him before laughing in Billy's hearty voice.

You know that one post circulating around here, where people joke about what if the Predator was more the exception to his home's culture, rather than the norm? What if he was the Yautja equivalent to bored middle-class dudes who decide to go on a hunting trip for fun, to collect trophies from lions and other animals that are otherwise harmless and victimized, to flex how 'badass' he is? And meanwhile everyone else back home is rolling their eyes because what a loser. What if that's really just what the Predator is meant to symbolize, in the context of the original film at least; People who like to kill and hunt to show off how masculine they are.

But in the end, it's quite easy and cowardly, arguably, to rely on a cloaking device, whilst sniping oblivious targets from afar. Beforehand, I wonder if we could take into account how animals are treated by the human protagonists beforehand; One of the characters kicking a bird aside, Mac stabbing a scorpion. Them flexing their macho attitudes by killing an animal that for all intents and purposes is pretty helpless against the one who gets it. And then the roles are reversed where the human protagonists become the game for the Predator to make trophies out of.

I find it fascinating Dutch's reaction when Mac admits that Blain was his friend; You get the sense that this is quite uncharacteristic a thing for Mac to do. Nowadays it seems like a pretty obvious and understandable thing for any guy to do, but for someone like Mac, it IS quite the confession of emotional vulnerability here. Plus there's Poncho being a sad sopping wet cat for the rest of the film, once Hawkins is the first to die.

If Predator is a slasher film, then it subscribes to its own version of the rules, just as it has its own version of a 'final girl' in muscled badass Dutch, played by Arnold Schwarzenegger. You know how those who have premarital sex die first? It seems Predator operates on similar rules; Hawkins makes crude jokes about female genitalia and is killed first. Blain calls everyone else the f-slur and proclaims his own sexual prowess, in addition to being your typical badass macho man who's too tough to feel pain, and then he's unceremoniously killed off pretty early too. This is despite, or rather because of, being the "big guy" who wields a giant mini-gun.

Mac and Billy are stoic, but Mac unravels psychologically and sings lyrics about objectifying a woman shortly before his death, and Billy remains rattled throughout by the Predator's presence, even openly admitting to Poncho that he's afraid. And of course there's Poncho, who is on the verge of tears 24/7 once the movie's genre shifts, voice constantly wavering.

On a final note, one could be half-joking about homoerotic undertones between Mac and Blain, at least on Mac’s end. Which could be an interesting discussion in and of itself when you also account for Blain’s use of the f-slur and how he’s the most stereotypically masculine of the group. Because I know the military is known for being a place where homosexuality was often discovered and explored. How would that factor into the larger themes of masculinity in this film, I wonder?

[maddascanbe-blog]

Meet our lovely Mariposa family! (Okay technically Dama Mariposa should have been here too- but who really cares about her *cough*)

Bellona Nyx, fun fact, has become one of my least favorite designs for Mirabel overtime. Like- I don't think it's particularly bad but I definitely wouldn't design her that way now. Her hero outfit as Mariposa is one I greatly prefer. I cut her cloak for this drawing since I didn't want it crowding Antonio

Morado Rey meanwhile is probably one of my favorite butterfly designs in general! He's just so cute, simple, but so very adorable. Though I can't decide between him and Azure.

Satyrin! How did you find me!?! Have you crawled your way out from my nightmares!?

I hated drawing him. Hate. I had such a bad time trying to design him when I first wrote A Petty Ladybug. It's part of the reason I abandoned it, all of the designs were giving me trouble. Here I tried to combine his poncho/ruana with the wings idea, also the man ponytail and old man shoes were a must. Who do you think I am? Since it's Bruno I imagine he's not a very flashy Papillion. So he's very grey with only one real purple in the mix.

[rdr2stories]

"Those beautiful features." Jovier fanfiction.

A short fanfiction about Javier admiring John's features as they sit around the fire in camp.

Javier’s soft voice was carried out of the camp and into the cool night by the breeze coming in from the lake surrounding Clemens Point. It sent a shiver down his spine, but the fire kept him warm enough to stay, that and the sight of the man on the other side of the fire draped in the poncho he had offered him a few hours prior, the man who kept his heavy eyelids from falling in, the man who often accompanied him when the rest of the gang had fallen asleep.

Over the guitar, Javier glanced at the beautiful man on the other side of the flames. He was singing of those features in the language of his home, the language that at camp was his, in a language, he could speak secrets in and they would remain his. He could sing about his love freely in a way he never could at home.

The man’s dark brown eyes were slid half closed, he was at the edge of drifting off, finally relaxing after a tense day, a tense life, a life where his guard was up by default. His stubble beard was growing long, enough that Miss Grimshaw had complained that he looked like a caveman as if the healing, still swollen scars didn’t do a good enough job at that. They were the most beautiful features Javier had ever seen, he wanted to remember them forever.

He had never been much of a poet, he could never make words sound beautiful, but he could make songs sound beautiful, though not anywhere enough to do the silly grin or rough laugh justice. No one knew what the song was about, they didn’t know he sang about the long beautiful hair or sharp yet soft jawline, and he was grateful for that because no one could know how much he wished he could have the man he knew he could never have.

“I think I will call it a night,” Charles said as he stood from the place he had sat next to Javier who had at the same time completely forgotten that he had been there yet been painfully aware of him.

Javier gave Charles a small nod as he left the singing man and his muse to themselves. He continued to sing, every now and then glancing up at John who sat slumped up against the wooden box that Arthur had sat on earlier that night when it hadn’t just been the two but the whole camp around the fire. He had finally fallen asleep, a rare sight but one that Javier found was recurring more and more frequently around him. It made his heart flutter knowing that the man who was already on guard, ready to jump, trusted him enough to relax around him.

He would rather give his life than break that trust.

Javier leaned his guitar against the side of the chair he sat on, taking a moment to admire the man in the light of the fire and the silence of the night where he lay vulnerable and bare. How strange he looked, like a small scared boy trapped in the body of a man with too much on his shoulders. A man whose childhood had gone too fast, a man who deserved better. Underneath those scars was a mere boy wearing the face of a man to protect himself.

Getting to his feet, Javier couldn’t help but smile to himself. He made his way around the fire to the sleeping man, quietly sitting down next to him. John trusted him enough to keep him safe and so he would, becoming a shield that the grown boy could behind from the world behind.

By the time the fire was dwelling out, Javier still sat by John’s side, enjoying the moment of silence and peace in his hectic life. He was watching the stars, imagining what it would be like to be up there amongst them, looking down at the world, providing beauty for all to see. He didn’t even notice John stirring awake ever so softly and laying his head on the shoulder of the man beside him.

Javier stiffened and looked down at John with wide eyes, terrified that his heart might jump right out of his chest and bare his feelings right then and there.

“Thank you” John spoke lowly, avoiding to look up at Javier’s eyes as his own cheeks went red.

“Of course, compadre,” Javier replied, his heart aching in his chest at the sudden affection that he knew would only be momentary, a choice made by a sleep-deprived John who wasn’t fully thinking straight, but no matter how much it hurt Javier would never turn it down. No matter how much it hurt, he would never refuse it.

John’s breathing quickened in the silent night before he looked up at Javier, his eyes wide and frantic, terrified yet pleading, asking for something that Javier couldn’t figure out as he readjusted himself, worry taking over his body as he took in John’s panicked face. “What is it-?”

Before Javier could get to finish the sentence John’s lips were on his, gentle as if he was scared his rough and cracked mouth would break the other man.

Javier could feel the stubbled beard scratching against his chin and cheek, caressing him and pulling his fluttering heart back into his body, back into the moment. His hand went to John’s cheek, his thumb tracing over the healing scars, gently letting his skin memorize the feeling of his. Whether this be a decision made in foolishness or one of truth, he would enjoy it like it was the last because he knew that it might be.

[charleecat-bat]

Horror/Slasher AU designs for Mighty, Matilda and Ray!

Mighty and Ray are ghosts, while Matilda is alive but is seen as a creepy and offputting girl or as a bad omen, as death seems to follow her—and that's mostly thanks to the two ghosts that are attached to her.

Some notes on the designs and then backstory below the cut:

-Mighty appears like this when 'calm' but when Angry, he appears like a large fiery almost demon like being. The gaping hole in his chest ignites into flames when he's angry, as well as his eyes and even develops horns along his shell. When he appears in a non-threatening look he takes a lot of punk rock sort of look. He doesn't know why he looks like this...

-Matilda actually dyes/paints her shell green. Her natural colour is brown. At first she chose to dress in all dark and gloomy emo clothes and now it's just all she has since sh'es constantly on the move and only could pack a few things.

-Ray's eyes are sunken in, and his tail is similar to what roadkill would look like. His Poncho is supposed to be similar to the flying squirrel skin and also like the typical sheet ghost look. He's also missing a shoe and his ear is almost torn off his head.

The backstory is very tragic but i'll try to keep it as short as possible.

The Armadillo siblings had a rough family life. In this AU, their mother wasn't around, and they had their awful father, who was a very abusive sheriff-type figure. He only really cared about his reputation, so while he'd act 'decent' in front of others, to the kids, he was abusive. Especially to Mighty, he and Mighty would frequently get into fights.Their father was the one man that Mighty would lose his temper at.

Their closest friend was a lone neighbourhood kid, Ray, who had a rough situation himself that mostly involved him being heavily neglected so he just wound up playing and wondering around alone. He and Matilda are actually the same age as teenagers but Ray's growth was stunted due to his neglect so he just looks smaller...

At some point, Ray just... vanished. He stopped showing up to hangout with the siblings and it got to a point even his family noticed. They found his body in the forest and assumed it was some accident despite the injuries looking suspicious. The real story of Rays death was that he was walking alone in the rain and was struck by a car, being driven by Mighty and Matilda's father. While it was unclear if it was an accident or a malicious act, his selfish act of dumping ray's body in the nearby woods instead of taking him to a hospital to get help still solidified his awfulness.

During this time of grief, Matilda started to see Ray around. At first she was scared but then would start trying to talk to him, and even try to convince Mighty of what she was being told. Mighty was reluctant to believe her but soon started to when she said details that seemed too specific to be made up... as well as weird happenings starting to occur.

Soon, though, another fight broke out in the Armadillo household. Matilda cowering a distance away while Mighty fought his father. Now, due to his position, of course, the father had a gun and would threaten them with it or even shoot close to them to scare them. This had become an unfortunate norm. This time, the fight was particularly bad, and Mighty had dared to try and take the gun off of him.

Everything froze when a loud bang was heard. The gun had gone off when their father had attempted to take it off of his son and accidentally pulled the trigger.

Before he could even say a single word, Mighty had already dropped to the floor, his eyes wide and bleeding badly through a hole in his chest. It was Matilda's screaming and cries that triggered their father in action and he fled to the phone while Matilda was left trying to help her brother despite not knowing what to do... the bleeding wouldn't stop and he was barely breathing. It wouldn't take long for him to go completely still.

Her brother was gone...

What put the nail in the coffin for her, though, was what her father did as a selfish attempt to cover his own precious reputation. He said Mighty did it to himself. A suicide, right in front of them. She was threatened to keep quiet, but that didn't stop her from letting her rage simmer quietly. Her only company was Ray's spirit, who stayed alongside her... and then it eventually hit her. If Ray had died and somehow returned to her, maybe her brother could do the same. But she couldn't leave it up to chance, she wanted to make sure it happened.

So then began Matildas obsessive research into the occult, including getting her hands on an old worn book.

And despite her inexperience in performing anything like the book asked, she tried anyway. She didn't care what happened at this point, all she knew was that she despised her father with all her heart and wanted the one member off her family back in her life. miraculously, it worked... but not like she intended.

Due to her inexperience, as far as she believes, Mighty had come back, but... he wasn't quite himself. He looked, scarier? Like Ray but he didn't appear just as how he died. He covered in spikes, a dark gaping hole in his chest. Fiery coloured eyes and sharp jagged teeth. He almost looked like a demon.

Matilda was scared of her course but what she tried had technically worked, she had her brother back... but something didn't feel right. Despite all this... he didn't seem angry at her, he looked more sad, or confused. And for that moment, it felt like everything might be okay.

And then her father showed up. Hearing that distant angry yell made the spirit of her brother contort in anger and his form started to change. Almost appearing demonic, the hole in his chest igniting a flame and his eyes doing a similar act. He appeared larger and more monsterous as he quickly went to attack him.

At first Matilda had no remorse, she hated her father and her brother was getting revenge.

But the coming bloodbath was too much for even her to bare. Not even her own brother was capable of something like that... not the one she knew. He would never do something like this spirit did, not even to their own father.

It scared her.

It went quiet again shortly. The fire spirit of her brother fading into the form he had before, no longer angry.

He could tell she was scared, he didn't understand why he did what he did. But he was just trying to protect his sister.

That night, she left, as shellshocked and scared as she was. She took her brothers hand and left that home.

And since then, she's been from town to town, trying to deal with these two spirits now attached to her and being her ghostly bodyguards. While she's happy she still has them... she can't help but be scared and stressed when the news gets around to towns that she seems to be an omen of death...

[bendycxmet]

content: 825 words. fluff, lil suggestive (mostly in another language), spanish speaking wolfwood, cowboy/vaquero wolfwood

Cowboy!Wolfwood who needs a farmhand for his ranch. He sees the desperation in your eyes as you peruse the shops in town, and offers you the position.

Cowboy!Wolfwood who is smooth in every way possible, all lingering gazes, hot, fleeting touches as he instructs and shows you how to fix the gate fencing in his cattle. The first time he brought you to his ranch miles away from town, he hopped off his horse and immediately helped you down as well, but instead of letting go of your hands, he gripped them tighter, turning them over this way and that, inspecting something you perhaps hadn’t seen. Your heart rate increases, a blush spreading along your body as he rubs his callused hands and fingers against the soft flesh of your own. “Que delicadas…” he muses, and drops your hands, sadly, the warmth of him whisked away with the biting wind.

Cowboy!Wolfwood dresses always in his signature suede sombrero, with a black and silver embroidered poncho constantly hiding the matching black underneath, the only difference being the brown leather chaps just running short from the bottom of his dirtied and muddy boots that stomp down the hallway early in the morning, rousing you from your sleep in your assigned bedroom. It’s an outfit that wouldn’t be flattering if it were on anyone else but Wolfwood. 

Cowboy!Wolfwood and you slowly become used to each other’s company, working in fluidity to keep the ranch running like a well-oiled machine. You discover he has a joking side to him once the ice thaws between the two of you, cracking constant jokes at you with a toothpick lodged between his teeth–a habit he now has as he attempts to kick cigarettes since you mentioned you hate the smell. 

As easygoing as he is, he takes his ranch responsibilities seriously. You watch as he rides his stallion, hands off from the reins as he twirls and lassos a stray calf, muscled thighs hugging his steed, hips following the rhythm of her trotting. Your eyes never leave his form, your body hot from watching his. A loud whistle cuts through your ogling.

“Mind opening the gate?” he shouts, chuckling at your stuttering. You quickly open it for him, watching as he guides the calf inside to join her herd. He stops in front of you, poking fun at your flustered state.

“I just think you ride Angelina so gracefully! I wish I could ride a horse as good as you.” 

He laughs lowly and moves to leave through the gates, but not before you hear him mumble “tengo algo más que puedes montar…”

Cowboy!Wolfwood isn’t just a cowboy living on the outskirts of a town that welcomes him, but he also holds the duty of a priest, going into town for Sunday morning mass, shaking hands with everyone, exchanging easygoing smiles and inquiries into each and every person’s daily life. From your spot across the street, you would think he was a different man from the one who curses when he gets a splinter, but a glance down erases all doubt as you see the same dirty boots that traverse the ranch home’s hallways peeking out from his priestly garments.

“Not very Catholic of you to wear your boots with those robes you know. Why not wear the dress shoes you have shoved in the back of the hallway closet?”

He leans down from behind to whisper in your ear, rosary gracing your shoulder. 

“It’s simply not how I work, mi cielo,” his answer comes quickly, quick enough that he’s conversing with a blonde churchgoer by the time you whip your head around. 

Cowboy!Wolfwood’s lingering gazes no longer linger, the grazing touches turning into caresses even in the midst of your duties. Your bantering and joking only intensify as does your chemistry, but Wolfwood begins to throw in more flattering remarks about your work, and you. Mi alma. Corazón. Tesoro. His nicknames for you begin to flow and ebb seamlessly into your conversations, so smoothly said that you nearly miss them each time. But he never turns his loving words into actions. You begin to get impatient.

Cowboy!Wolfwood’s eyes widen, his toothpick falling from his lips.

 “Come again?” he asks you. 

“Si no me besas en el próximo momento, ya me voy de aquí. Wolfwood, please.” 

He crosses the distance between you in half the time it would usually take him. 

“How long have you known what I have been saying?” he begs you, the embarrassment evident on his tanned cheeks, the callused hands you have been dreaming of holding you like that first day coming up to caress your jaw. 

“Desde el día que te conocí,” you say. Since I met you… I have loved you since the day I met you. 

He brings his face down to you, soft and sun-chapped lips meeting yours, his sombrero tipping to fall to the dirt behind him. 

a/n: pspsps @ayyydra and @aboveweirdest for all our screaming about cowboy wolfwood, i deliver some HCs xoxo

i tried to keep it gender neutral as possible but damn spanish is a very gender heavy language (that being said, there is many nicknames i wanted wolfwood to call you e.g. precioso/a (precious), hermoso/a (beautiful), querido/a (beloved) but the ones i wrote out are for everyone.

some translations:

“Que delicadas…” = "How delicate..."

"Tengo algo más que puedes montar…"= "I have something else you can ride..."

"Mi cielo. Mi alma. Corazón. Tesoro." = My heaven/sky/darling (idk it can mean many things). My soul. My heart. My treasure.

“Si no me besas en el próximo momento, ya me voy de aquí." = "If you don't kiss me in the next moment, I'm leaving this place."

"Desde el día que te conocí." = "Since the day I met you."

masterlist

divider

[breakfastteatime]

Comfortember Day 2: Sweater Weather

“It’s no good. I can’t do it.” Greez slams his empty mug down on the bench. “Not a second longer.”

Cal looks over at him. The droid too. “Something wrong?” Cal asks.

“Something wrong. Is something wrong?!” Greez can’t believe him. The kid is shivering. He is huddled in his not-thick-enough poncho, hands clutching the finest mug of cocoa this side of Alderaan. Two days they’ve been on this wintry, rain-soaked planet. Two days of Cal insisting ‘I had it worse on Bracca, Greez, relax.’

No. More. They’re going to be here for a few more days while Cere checks in on a lead, the Mantis undergoes a system upgrade, and Cal… “Finish your drink. You’re coming with me.”

Cal and BD-1 share a look. BD says something, Cal replies with a ‘I don’t have a clue’ and does as he’s told. Greez leads him through the town to the clothing district. He finds a massive store, one promising clothing to suit all bodies of all species and genders, and drags Cal inside.

“Greez, why are we – ”

“Shh!” He looks at the store map, sees a section for two-armed Humanoids, and leads Cal to it. Neon signs proclaim there’s 25% off everything. Even better. Kid can’t complain about spending money that way. “Alright, find something warm to wear.”

Cal takes a breath.

“Ah! Nothing outta you about not needing it, or we can’t afford it or any of your usual nonsense. You’re getting something warm to wear, and you are doing it right this instant, young man!”

“Ooh, he ‘young man’d’ me,” Cal tells BD, who cackles in binary glee.

“Hey, either you can choose, or I will, and you and I have pretty different tastes in fashion.” Greez looks Cal up and down. Scrapper chic really ain’t his style.

To his relief, Cal disappears. He comes back quickly, holding a hooded sweater, the blue and orange matching his poncho. He holds it out as though awaiting judgement. Greez grabs it, appraises it (wouldn’t hurt the kid to be on the receiving end of these little games now and then), and nods. “That’ll do, Cal. That’ll do.”

Cal practically deflates with relief.

Greez buys it, throws it back at Cal, and insists he puts it on under the poncho. Cal does as he’s told and now when they’re out and about he doesn’t look like he’s minutes away from freezing to death.

(Also, the sweater becomes one of Cal’s prized possessions and he is never without it on a lazy day. It’s also the first thing he puts on after Ilum. Greez decides to buy him a few more as soon as he can. And maybe some cozy sweatpants too…)

[sars-wulf]

From Dust to Dust AU explanation:

The story behind this AU is that Anne is a farm girl. She lives in the new state of Texas, and is your average honest farmer. But one day, when she’s away from home, the outlaw, Bog and his gang raid her farm under orders from mayor Andrias to squash any dissenters. Anne’s parents are vocal about Andrias’ acts of corruption and they’re a thorn in his side, so he has them killed. They hurt Hop Pop, and scared Sprig and Polly.

Anne actually meets them on her way back, and Bog says “you’d better go on home, Boonchuy.” He doesn’t kill her because he doesn’t see her as a threat.

She arrives to the burning farm, and is just in time to see her parents take their last breath. They die warning her not to do anything, as Andrias is untouchable. But Anne doesn’t listen.

She takes her father’s revolver, and her mother’s bloody yellow poncho, and leaves in the middle of the night to avenge them.

On her journey, she catches up with bog and his gang, but they defeat her before they shoot her in the chest. They leave her body for the coyotes to eat, but her trusty steed, Bessie, drags her to a light in the darkness. This light is the camp of one Tritonio. Tritonio patches Anne up, and teaches her how to shoot a gun, shoot on horseback, and over all just how to survive. They even rob a train together!

After Anne learns all she can from him, he leaves (not after stealing her cash). Anne wanders into a bar to find a job doing bounty hunting, and encounters Sasha “the blood heron” Waybright.

Sasha helps Anne retrieve her stolen horse, and they end up bonding over wanting to capture and kill Bog. Turns out that Bog was part of Grime’s gang, and he ran off after shooting Grime in the arm, leading it to get amputated. They’re both after revenge. They end up bonding even more and Sasha catches feelings first. She rides off into the night as she can’t fall in love, she’s a hardened outlaw. So she leaves Anne alone, heart broken.

ATP, Anne has made a name as Calamity Anne. She’s a bonafide outlaw now, and she’s getting closer and closer to Bog and his gang. One day, she walks into a bar and encounters the sheriff, Marcy.

Marcy was Anne’s childhood friend, and they had a sort of strange will they won’t they thing. Marcy has been looking for Anne all this time, and Anne is looking for clues on Bogs whereabouts. They talk for a bit, but Anne finds out that Marcy is supposed to bring her in. She panics but a confidant of Bog’s sees her and calls out her name and causes a bar fight.

Marcy is like “YOU’RE CALAMITY ANNE?!?”

And Anne is like “Did the shoot out clue you in or was it the guy calling my name out?”

Marcy tries to convince Anne to give up her outlaw ways, but Anne is hellbent on killing Bog, and then going after Andrias. Anne catches up with Bog and his gang, and she kills them, FINALLY. But Marcy was watching from a distance and she’s shaken by how cold blooded Anne has become. What happened to the warm farm girl she fell in love with?

Marcy is also gathering evidence and documents to expose Andrias’ corruption. She begs Anne to wait, but Anne can’t wait. She needs to see that man dead in the ground. They part ways, finding that they can’t be together, if Anne is an outlaw and Marcy is sheriff. Anne rides off into the sunset, her heart grows colder as she hears Marcy’s cries for her to come back.

Now, about sasharcy. When Marcy was just a deputy, she met Sasha. Sasha wanted to get some incriminating documents for her gang to use. So she used Marcy, and basically swindled her into falling in love with her. Unfortunately (fortunately), Sasha kinda felt something back. So she runs away with the documents, never to be seen again. Marcy had her heart broken that night, and it was one of the reasons she doesn’t trust Sasha after they all get together.

One day, deputy Yunan is sent to capture Anne. After an intense firefight, Anne is captured, and dragged to the town to be executed. Sasha hears about this, and decides to save her, as she’s done some soul searching and doesn’t want to give up on love anymore.

Marcy also hears about this, but by the time she makes it back, Anne has already disappeared and the town is in chaos. She displays the evidence to everyone and gets Andrias outcasted from the town. But after that, she runs after Anne and Sasha, hoping to catch up with them. She also discards her sheriff badge, tired of politics and the job she’s become disillusioned with.

Marcy catches up with the two outlaws, and joins them in trying to go after Andrias, who has now fell into his role as a crime lord. Anne learns to open her heart up again, and finally accepts the two women as her romantic partners, (only after a lot of sweet talking and I’m sorry’s). Ofc Sasharcy gets together after they have an argument and tussle on the ground, kissing. Hate kisses!

There will be more details later, but this is what I have for now!

Thanks for reading all of my rambling lol

[princeblack]

cleaning the fan switches takes forever, using a rag that’s quickly becoming too greasy for the job. the winds of tatooine are heavy today, making the sand sting his eyes as he works. he pulls his scarf up over his face, squinting as he reaches to clean the last switch.

no one bothers him in his work because he belongs to watto, resident toydarian, junk dealer and human trafficker. regulus grew up in slavery, being put to work as soon as he was old enough to pick up a wrench. his mother always told him he was a miracle, her gift from above when she was purchased by the hutts. she said she was given him to save her; her one and only joy in a bleak, unforgiving life.

and regulus tried to be a good son, despite how difficult it was sometimes surviving the harsh weather of tatooine, bringing food home for his mother and learning tasks most would consider too complex for his age. but he became an expert pilot as young as eight years old, building droids on the side. watto found out about most of them, selling them so he couldn’t make any money. but he managed to get compensation for at least a few he built in creative places, slowly stockpiling his family’s meager savings. if it weren’t for the transmitters he needed to disable, he could’ve escaped this planet by now.

he’s almost done with his task, letting the scarf fall from his face. just then he’s interrupted by the rumbling voice of watto, beckoning him into the shop in huttese. regulus begrudgingly gets up, hurrying back into the dusty junkshop. it’s empty except for watto and two figures; an older man with dark brown hair, dressed in a poncho, and a young girl around his age. her beauty makes him do a double take, surprised by the sight of the prettiest face he’s ever seen. people aren’t often beautiful like this; in fact, they never are. she’s almost ethereal, from her soft auburn braids to her perfectly sculpted features. she has big blue eyes, full lips and a delicate bone structure. there’s almost an innocent, clean look about her, as if she doesn’t belong on this planet. regulus has seen many traders and pilots and sometimes their children, but none looked like like her.

“coona tee-tocky malia?” watto demands angrily in huttese, asking regulus what took so long.

“mel tassa cho-passa,” regulus responds, assuring him he was cleaning like he was tasked.

"chut! chut! gando doe wallya. me dwana no bata." he practically barks the words, demanding regulus watch the shop so he can do business out back. his yellow eyes are narrowed almost greedily at the man in the poncho, who regulus assumes is about to be swindled out of whatever money he owns. the blue toydarian’s wings flap as he leads the older man from the building, a nasty smirk revealing those yellowed tusks jutting from his mouth.

regulus wonders if the princess still standing in the junkshop has ever seen a toydarian before. he strides over to the counter, taking a seat on it and fixing curious green eyes on her. “you must be from one of the moons of iego. i heard from a space pilot once that angels live there– the most beautiful creatures anyone's seen in the known universe.” his tone is light-hearted, although he means every word. she’s the most gorgeous person he’s ever met, and there’s something angelic about her. 

he doesn’t know that she’s the naboo queen undercover, anonymously trying to help a jedi find parts to repair their ship so they can make it to coruscant and report on an invasion on her planet from the trade federation. he only knows that she’s beautiful and far too clean for tatooine, seeming like a fish out of water. he’s drawn to her; some tug that he can’t ignore. he knows better than to ask for details about her business or how she wound up in the outer rim, because one of the first lessons he learned as a slave was not to ask customers for details. it was bad for business. / @devcted

[sheriffgrimes-archerdixon]

So I am autistic, not very high on the spectrum, and I would love to ask for a fluff request with Daryl Dixon but as a father figure. The girl is like 19 and she is Rick Grimes daughter or whatever. So she had moments when she’s excited or happy, maybe nervous she fidgets and won’t stop moving around. She will also just make random noises just to calm nerves or something. Big crowds bother her and cause her to be just overstimulated so maybe Daryl takes her away from like the party and outside where he calms the reader down? I know from experiences that I am a very touch sensitive person with textures, so what if he uses his poncho knowing it’s a texture that is for comfort for her, or Dog could be used for the comfort too. Just overall him being a dad figure to the reader. But I am obsessed with fluff

Thank you so much for the request!! I’m so sorry for how long it took! I hope it’s what you were looking for! I of course don’t go through what you go through so this might not be realistic/ authentic and I apologise if it isn’t! But I hope it doesn’t disappoint!

Simple reassurance

The small party being held in the Monroe families house within Alexandria’s protective walls. You were already feeling incredibly anxious and this didn’t help you one single bit. You always struggled with crowds and lots of people, it made you uncomfortable and well… this was making you increasingly uncomfortable, your hands fidgeting by your side- a slight clicking coming from your mouth. It was a sound you made without even being aware of… but it happened every time you were anxious, worried or embarrassed. Almost like a cringe… because you truly didn’t want to be there. Parties during the apocalypse just seemed bizarre. Absurd. It felt wrong.

And unbeknownst to you your closest friend had spotted your odd behaviour. Daryl was incredibly observant and he knew just by your body language that you were uncomfortable, people drinking around you, attempting to engage you in conversation yet you were clearly anxious and didn’t want anything to do with it. “Hey y/n,” the older man called grabbing your attention, your hands almost stimming as you struggled to keep them still, fingers wiggling as your wrists almost hit against your sides. It wasn’t your fault… you just felt incredibly sick. So many people. So many different smells of food and beverages, you just felt sick to your stomach. His hand gently grabbed a hold of your wrist where he quickly lead you outside and into the fresh air, where you automatically calmed down, body language becoming calmer and more neutral “you good?” He spoke gruffly your hands now squeezing in and out of fists, body feeling tingly in the most revolting way. Textures often helped make these feelings go away- sometimes you’d just touch your clothes and that would help but that wasn’t solving the issue this time.

“I- I feel like I have a fucking microfibre cloth on me… it’s freaking me out..” you expressed to Daryl you grew more concerned, he knew what you were like and how textures often helped “here,” he reached his hands out towards you, offering his hands “hold my hands.” Daryl wasn’t a very touchy person… never in fact… but he cared very much about you and just wanted you to be okay. He knew what it was like to feel… odd… feet not grounded on the floor. It was almost anxiety inducing. He also understood the fact that you were touch sensitive, so he was always cautious no matter what. Your hands shakily gripped onto his rougher dirtier hands his touch gentle and reassuring as he gave your hands a simple squeeze yet within ten seconds you had to pull away

“I- I’m sorry… I just…” “no. Don’t apologise. Come with me..” he spoke before nodding in the direction of his home before he began walking, you trailing slightly behind him as you followed after him before eventually being lead into his home. You sat down on the couch in the living room, Daryl disappearing before returning crossbow in hand and an arrow, you took the crossbow into your hands the cold texture making that little crack in reality shine through as a soft breath soon left your lips “you know you really shouldn’t force yourself to do things you aren’t comfortable with…” he spoke softly the look on your face proving it all as he let out a soft grunt, quickly shaking his head “I know what you’re goin’ to say. You’re a people pleaser.. ya need to learn how to say no.” He spoke sternly his eyes full of concern yet a lot of care and affection for you. He was always a reserved man but seemed to hold a lot of care for you.

Your thumb traced over the arrow head before you glanced back at Daryl “teach me how to say no.” You spoke Daryl not responding to that as instead he whistled, tapping his thigh loudly “dog! Hey dog! C’mere boy!” He called, dog happily trotting into the room greeting Daryl before the dog bound over to you, snout immediately pushing into your lap, the arrow now beside you as instead your palms were stroking against the dogs fur , entangling within his soft winter coat the texture immediately bringing you comfort, dog wagging his tail as he licked your cheek tail at a medium height, wagging happily. “Even dog agrees.” He spoke, you glancing at Daryl before letting out a soft laugh “you know I can’t say no.” You murmured Daryl shaking his head in disagreement before sighing softly “I’m okay now.” You reassured continuing to fuss dog, Daryl raising his brows at you knowing there was some sort of a catch to your words “I’ll go back to the par-“ “nope.” He cut you off shaking his head “but you can come with-“ “no y/n. I don’t like people. And I know you’ll panic if you go in there again.” He spoke you knowing he was right as you instead focused on dog, running your fingers through dogs fur, dog licking your cheek again, paws coming to collide against your thighs his tail wagging faster and faster “dog come,” Daryl soon called hearing your soft laughter as dog continued to lick your face your eyes squeezed shut- as if the animal knew you needed something to laugh about, not listening to Daryl as he continued licking over your face, daryl watching with amusement before shaking his head “dog, hey boy!” He called again clapping his hands the dog bounding over to him before Daryl stood up fussing dog before walking over to you, you standing up before watching him carefully “can I hug you?” He asked you, he knew your boundaries and knew what made you uncomfortable but also what you struggled with so always asked no matter what. You nodded your head the man getting closer to you before pulling you into his embrace his hug gentle and careful but also secure and safe.

“Please learn how to say no.” He spoke to you a small smile tugging at your lips before you sighed softly “okay… I’ll try to.” You reassured with a soft laugh Daryl soon pulling back hands resting upon your shoulders “good. You better.” He spoke a playful threat coming from him but you knew he was just playing around “now first… will you go into that party?” He asked “no.” You said after a moment or two Daryl smiled “good. You’ve got no one to please other than yourself. Now go pick up that crossbow and we can go hunting yeah… get our own food.” You smiled amused you loved hunting with Daryl. It was your favourite thing ever.

“Squirrels?” You asked and he nodded

“Squirrels… or maybe even deer if we’re lucky.” He chuckled out making you smile widely. Gods did you love him.

[whateverisbeautiful]

🀄️reflecting on richonne

Wordless Richonne Moments That Spoke Volumes 

Honestly, Rick and Michonne’s relationship kept us so fed that even brief moments where not a word was spoken still communicated so much about the love they have for one another. Reminiscing about them (as is routine 😌) I thought about how many great and meaningful wordless scenes shed light on how important and special they are to each other, even apart from the always A1 hugs, kisses, and moments that will land on my top 30. Without even counting those, there is still so much powerful and heartfelt stuff captured in just quick wordless actions. And I just have to revel in some of my personal favorites. ❤︎

6.09 

A personal favorite pre-canon wordless moment is in No Way Out. It’s the moment when Michonne helps Rick remove his blood-covered garment after Carl’s been shot. Up to this point in the series, it was clear that Michonne had become a mother to Carl, especially in moments like the one in the episode prior, Start to Finish, where she helped cover him in walker guts. So it made perfect sense to see her so panicked and doing everything she can to help Carl after he was shot. But that subtle act of her helping Rick with his clothes as he’s understandably too dazed to think straight...it was this exchange in 6.09 that really communicated Michonne isn’t just mom in this infirmary, she’s a wife too. Her concern was for Carl and Rick.  

I so love that this exchange was included because in a moment of extreme crisis for them it showed how much Rick and his wellbeing was a priority to her. How much she loves him. From the second they realized Carl had been shot, Rick and Michonne both seamlessly went into protective parent mode and operated like a well-oiled machine to get him to the infirmary. And when Rick later walks out of the infirmary to take on the walkers, Michonne immediately knows Rick needs her and joins his side, even despite the danger and wanting to stay by Carl’s side. Seriously, when Michonne told Rick “either way, you need me” back in Season 3 it really remained the gospel truth throughout the series. So yeah there’s just something genuinely caring about that super quick poncho moment in the infirmary and it’s a nice effective way to show how much he means to her.

6.10

Another great wordless moment is in the next ep, 6.10, when Rick finds that toothpaste with Daryl. My absolute favorite aspect of this subtle moment is when Rick grabs one of the toothpaste boxes and checks to see which type it is. Y’all. 🤭 I love this. Because see, a man who is just getting toothpaste for his friend would see that they found a box of toothpaste and just think “oh good, my friend wanted that.” But a man in love, a man in love says yeah we found toothpaste but lemme check this box real quick and make sure it’s the exact type my woman said she wanted.👌🏽 I’ll always appreciate how this whole toothpaste/mints through-line during the day was used to show Rick’s feelings for Michonne before they got together romantically that night. Because it showed how it wasn’t just about getting the basics the group needs to get by, he wanted to give her what she wanted and to do something nice for her beyond bare-bones survival. Rick really stays remembering all the details about Michonne, including her favorite type of toothpaste. And when she blessed his life by being all glowy in that robe earlier that morning and told him what she likes, he wanted to be sure he delivered. Hence him later being shown pocketing those oh so special mints. Forever here for it. 

6.11

Of course another top tier wordless moment is in 6.11 when Rick reaches for Michonne and she holds his hand in the RV the morning after they finally got together. Their energies in that RV were just flat-out adorable. 🥰  I love how bashful but happy Michonne is and how blissful and content Rick is. It’s so sweet how Rick can sense her without even looking and lovingly reaches for her, and then smiles wanting her to know how happy she makes him. The joy they bring each other and the perfect partnership they are is just so on display without a word being spoken. I love this as the first sort of private (despite a full RV and Jesus eyeing them lol) post-canon moment we get to see them share after that night. Rick and Michonne both fully aware they’re in love is just perfection. And again, this moment is so meaningful because this wordless handhold is really all they needed to assure each other and know they’re in it for the long haul. 

6.16 

Rick’s reaction to finding Michonne’s hair in the traumatic season 6 finale is such a telling wordless moment. It will always stand out to me how confident Rick had been at every turn in this episode, even as they began feeling cornered, and it wasn’t until finding his love’s hair that he began to really let fear and stress sink in. The way he still holds onto the hair even when they return to the RV and just seems completely distraught that she and some of his closest friends could be hurt somewhere. 😢 Indicating they have Michonne really was the Saviors most effective tactic that day cuz it shook Rick to his core and likely triggered the memory of only finding Lori’s hair hanging from that walker’s mouth after she died in s3. It was already so evident that Rick deeply loves Michonne but this moment in that RV just really hammered that point home. It also emphasizes that “you’re okay/I’m okay” thing R&M have cuz he now knows she’s likely not okay and that instantly makes him not okay. She’s his other half, and his world seemed to be feeling off balance without her. I appreciate that they let this moment with Rick and her hair linger for a bit as just how much Michonne means to him was made blatantly evident. 

And that’s only Season 6. They have several more. So It wouldn’t be me if there wasn’t a part 2. 😋

[furious-rogue-stuff]

CONGRATULATIONS!!!! Your trully really deserve it!! So can I request 🗡🥺🐣please?

Sending u love and hugs🫶🏻🫶🏻

My dear friend! I'm sorry for the ridiculous wait on this, but I finally got around to this wonderful prompt. This is my first time writing Pero Tovar, so I hope I've done him justice.

Thanks, as always, to @just-here-for-the-moment for putting up with my ass and beta reading to make sure this wasn't complete trash and smutty enough.

Disclaimer: Written in 2nd person narrative, you can safely assume our heroine and love/lust interest is a Spanish woman, written by a Latina. Here's my philosophy on my writing, for further context.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word Count: 6,500+

🚨Author chooses not to include detailed warnings, but the following: Mentions of marriage, impersonating a soldier, past violence, scars and war wounds, breeding kink, graphic depictions of unprotected sex, and period-accurate tropes.

Yearn

The air outside was crisp with chill, making it all the more pressing for him to traverse the muddy road towards the small cottage. The smoke from the stone chimney signaled you’d started a fire for supper, and the twinkle of candlelight from the condensation-covered window facing outward to the road and frosty meadow beyond told him you’d intended to keep your promise from that morning.

 The gnaw of hunger had settled in from the long day of labor, but the ache behind his sternum was one of longing, one he’d been nursing since the day before, and it took precedence over any need to fill his belly. He quickly trotted the steed into the rickety barn he’d yet to get around to patching the holes in the roof of, and once the animal was stabled, he trudged determinedly up to the door of the cottage.

He entered quickly and shut the chill out behind him, dark eyes adjusting to the dim lighting once he furrowed his brow and loped towards the weathered hearth. The steps that led to the loft above, where your marital bed was housed in a snug, insulated nook, were empty, and the table was already set with bread and wine while the savory stew kept warm in the caldero tucked near the fire. Yet, no sign of you.

“…Are you aloft already, condesa?” Pero speaks firmly, so his query can be heard clearly from above. 

There is no answer, so he paces towards the steps, senses on high alert now. His instincts bellow for him to retrieve his sword from whence it’s stored, hidden in a nearby trunk, or to at least unsheathe the hidden blade he keeps on his person. He palms the handle of his dagger, tucked in its scabbard at the back of his leather belt underneath his well-worn poncho. His expression becomes stony, scar over his left eye resembling an etching, one that reveals the capacity of brutality suffered and meted out in return. 

It's the soft flutter of clothing he hears first before he sees the movement from the shadowed corner that has him pivoting and effortlessly catching you as you leapt out at him from your stealthy ambush spot – the pantry cubby you’d climbed up into and waited for the right moment to pounce. 

“Gotcha!” he growls triumphantly as he swings you around with impish delight, making you encircle your arms to hold onto his broad shoulders while you squeal mirthfully whilst your tunic skirts flutter about. “Trying to get the jump on me? Really, tigresita?!”

Not to be foiled completely, you wrap your legs around his hips and toss yourself backwards, creating a momentum that forces him to swing around until he’s able to break both your falls onto the bench you’d improvised using two bales of hay and an old tapestry draping you’d found discarded upstairs.

Pero lands with an exhaled huff, and you victoriously use his distraction to grab his thick wrists and pin his arms above his head.

“Bueno, I’ve bested the great guerrero, the most fearsome man with a blade, who said I was too noisy for my own good to ever get the drop on him, was it?” you’re gloating as you stare sultrily into his sardonic, handsome expression. “Well? Do you yield?”

“You are much too playful for me to try besting, my love, so…” Pero draws in that graveled rumble of his, musing and melodic before he suddenly bucks you off of him and rolls to pin you under him instead. “No, I do not yield.”

You scoff haughtily, arching a smug brow as you chime, “Good, because this is where I wanted to end up anyway.”

“Oh, is that right?” he husks, unable to muster the faux scowl any longer, so he smirks and croons in that bass-filled melodic murmur, one that always sets your nerve endings on fire, as he intensely stares into your eyes. “You wanted to end up on your back and underneath the tired and dirty mercenary-turned-farmhand that’s made you his wife? Well, I should hope so, mi amada.”

You smile enchantingly at him and arch your hips up into his. “It is so, mi marido,” is your silky purr as you lean up and brush your soft lips over his. 

Pero grunts approvingly and deepens the kiss, hand cupping your jaw possessively as he plunders the cup of your mouth with his voracious tongue.

Equally as possessive are your hands as they grope and cling to his thick tunic under his poncho before eagerly shoving upwards in order to tug at his undershirt in an attempt to slip beneath to touch his skin. He smells of soil, grain and leather, musky scent heightened by his salty sweat. It makes your head spin with lust, and has arousal cloying from your center. His mouth is warm, and you ache to feel his powerful and overheated body against your bare skin as he presses into you with need.

You are desperate to undress him, and he realizes how much so when you dig your heels into the back of his trousers and groan into his mouth a pleading command.

Breaking the kiss, Pero pants against your gasping mouth before grumbling, “What was that?”

“I said I want you inside me now, Pero,” you airily repeat, the tone of your demand though is softened by your excitement now that he’s pointedly ground his arousal into your tingling center. “Mmm, please—”

“Such a needy little thing, begging so,” he chuckles ruggedly, timbre hitting that octave that has desire beseechingly pulsing in the seat of your core. His dark eyes crinkle as if he can sense how aroused you are, and just as you whine for him to comply, he slips a hand between your bodies and hikes it up the front of your skirts to cup you at the haven of your thighs. “And here I thought you were simply keeping your promise to wait up for me, no matter how late my return from the merchants. But instead, you try to best me into submission so you can have me fill this warm cunt, eh?”

His fingers trace along the crest of your sex before gliding along your warm, wet seam, parting your folds just as his thumb presses into the hood of your clit. “Ah, Pero!” you whimper, hands clutching at his sides and gripping sturdy fabric as you roll your hips, seeking the plunge of his fingers into your sheath. “Please—”

He revels in how desperate you are for him, so he presses his luck by testing how far his depraved desires can muster getting you to that fine line of wanting to give into your urge to be dominated versus having dominion to ensnare him into succumbing to his own needs. 

So, he licks your plump bottom lip before grazing his teeth over it licentiously. 

At your gasp and jolt against his edging fingers where you ache for them, Pero mutters coolly, “Is that all you can say, condesa? My fierce little noblewoman-turned-warrior can’t use her words when her sweet cunt is touched?”

The way your eyes sharpen is exactly what he wanted just before he plunges two thick fingers inside you. 

You moan that glorious sound of pleasure that makes him feel like he’s touched the sun and it’s filled him with grace, and the beatific expression of rapture that comes over your lovely face has him straining in his trousers to replace his fingers with his cock. 

But, he persists in this carnal play, and coos, “Look at you, bebita. It’s almost like you’ve yearned for my touch all day—”

“Pero,” you whine when he finger-fucks you slowly while taunting you so. He chuckles at the pleading way you arch up into him, so you dig your nails into the layers until you can feel his solid torso, and hiss, “No me tortures, por favor—”

His musing hum is rich and earthy, and to your aroused senses, it’s like a warm wine hitting your bloodstream. Feeling his broad, strong frame pressed over you, and the teasing prod of his ramrod cock only heightens your need, as does the musky smell of him, the sweat that clings to his skin and the heat of his mouth grazing along your cheek now. 

Scenting your hair by nosing into the locks at your temple, Pero laconically rumbles, “I’d never torture you, sweet girl. I just want you to be mi tigresita valiente and admit you’ve been in heat for me, that you’ve been thinking unchaste thoughts all day—”

He feels your molten sheath clench around his fingers at his words, but the defiance is starting to scintillate in your eyes before you snap thinly, “And what sort of filth have you been thinking, husband?”

Pugnaciously, he smirks like a cunning tentador before husking, “Oh, this very thing. Of having my fingers in your warm cunt – making you restless and insolent, desperate to have my cock inside you instead.” 

At the indolent pump of his fingers changing to a pleasurable curl that brushes the digits against the nested pleasure point inside you, a gasped mewl falls from your mouth as you writhe up into him. 

“I thought about all the ways I’ve given you pleasure, and all the ways I still intend to give you pleasure,” he tells you in that damnable aloof way that makes you burn and melt. “Tell me one naughty little ember that’s kept you hot like this all day, esposa, and I’ll put my mouth on you until you reach bliss on my tongue.”

With a proposition like that? You are turned to clay, features heating from your blush as you confess, “I thought about you, undressed before me, and letting me worship your body with my hands and mouth before getting bare for you so you could make me yours by the fire.”

His fingers pause inside of you and he looks at you with unfettered hunger in his dark eyes. 

You expect him to shift up so he could make that fantasy a reality, but instead, he grunts – as if placated, before receding his fingers from you, crawling down your body to bunch up your skirts so he can bury his face between your thighs. 

The lascivious swipe of his tongue through your drenched folds has you gasping and hiking your knees up to make room for his broad shoulders, writhing in ecstasy as Pero devours your cunt and rubs his fingers over the hood of your pleasure point. He groans when your thighs squeeze around him, and chuckles against your mound when you bury your fingers into his hair and tug. 

The look he shoots up at you from below his brow while he nuzzles shamelessly into the heady curls above your sex makes your pulse spike with exhilaration, and when he shifts your wool-stocking-covered legs further apart for him to angle your pelvis further up to better access your honeyed cunt, you groan imploringly, “Mi amor,” and bite your trembling bottom lip.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

He is unabashed and libidinous with his mouth after he bows his head between your thighs once more, and true to his word, you’re climaxing in minutes on his tongue while you ride his rapacious appendage and grip the thick tufts of dark hair at the crown of his head with one hand whilst moaning blissfully into the back of the other.

The deliriously exquisite feeling that washes over you is divine, and you sigh softly while he laps at your climax and grunts, as if satisfied with your state of euphoria.

So, when you feel cool air between your thighs, your eyes glossily open to stare dazed up at him, confused as he looms over you and grumbles a humored, gloating hum before popping his sullied fingers into his mouth and sucking your slick orgasm off. 

He then stands from the makeshift bench and declares, “I want to eat,” before pivoting to lope unhurriedly to the wooden stool nearest the table so he can plunk down on it and scoot it closer to the fireplace to dutifully stir the stew with the ladle.

You’re flabbergasted. 

Sitting up on your elbows to gape – comically appalled – at him, you watch as he serves himself a bowl of the savory stew while trying to keep the wry grin from pulling at his full lips. He fails miserably though when he looks over at you with that droll expression on his features before he smiles behind the bowl he raises to his lips. It does little to conceal his goading amusement, and you’re glaring at him now that your wits have returned to you.

Once he’s had a few hearty sips of the flavorful meal, he gruffly drawls, “Come stay warm by the fire, mi amada.”

You decide then that two can play this game.

Straightening your tunic skirts down and squeezing your knees together, you sit on the edge of the improvised bench and start unfastening the corseted vest that keeps your tunic and smock cinched to your form.

“I am already very warm, thank you,” is your blithe lilt as you stand and shed the vest. 

Pero turns to watch you with clenched jaw as you remove the dark top tunic, leaving you now in just the green smock and a thin pale linen chemise that teases the shape and ample swell of your breasts. You can feel his eyes on you as you shimmy out of the smock next, leaving you now in just the chemise that hits just above your ankles. The glow from the fireplace hits the light linen and creates a spritely silhouette of your curvy, supple form hidden beneath, and when you hike up the hem just enough to allow you to adjust a wool stocking back up to your knee, you finally look over at him and smile.

“How is the stew?”

“…Come here.”

“Is it not to your liking, my love?”

“…Come here, mujer.”

“Do you prefer mead over wine with it?”

“…I prefer for you to cease teasing me so and come sit with me,” Pero tells you in a guttural croon as he sets his bowl aside on the table and holds his hand out to you in an assertive petition.

You feign meekness as you susurrate, “You said you wanted to eat, though. I am loath to disturb your meal—”

“Come sit on my lap and eat with me already. You’ve made your point,” he yields in a snarky huff, but the smile in his eyes is evident before they crinkle from the appeased smirk that warms his chiseled features when you slyly grin and saunter over to him. 

He swoops you into his lap before you’ve completely maneuvered around, and you scoff sassily at him as you loop your arms around his shoulders. He nuzzles into your neck and fondles his big, warm hands along your curves, making you sigh dreamily and lean into him.

“Have you eaten?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Hm. Next time, you fill your belly first. Don’t wait on my account, ternura.”

“I will, precioso,” you retort affectionately, earning the expected eye roll and dubious snicker from him. “No seas tan gallardo, y come,” is your fussy quip as you grab his bowl, maneuver nimbly in his lap to reach for the ladle and add more stew to it before handing the bowl to him so you can grab a piece of bread and tear a chunk off to add in as well. 

He smirks broadly, so much so that his boyish dimple is unearthed from his right cheek. “No seas tan porfiada y come, condesa,” is his dashing counter, putting the bowl into your hands before grabbing the other from the table to serve himself some stew. 

You eat together, and you enjoy the warmth of his body as you remain perched on his lap while he leans his back into the wall and gorges himself. He asks where you sourced the meat that’s in the stew, and is proud when you tell him about the rabbit traps you set. You’re resourceful and smart, cunning, yet tender-hearted. It makes something warm and vast expand in his chest, having you be his, and how content you are to belong to him. 

Once the ache in his belly is quieted, he licks his lips before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, eyeing you intensely as you sip from the shared cup of wine.

He belongs to you, too. It stirs blazing desire in him, and fills him with serenity, knowing he’s yours, and how fiercely you made it so.

The longing of before tugs at his heart now as he’s reminded of how you’d sat opposite him the evening prior, balancing the small tyke on your knee as you’d both shared dinner at the farmer’s homestead. The former soldier had settled this land years prior, married, and started a family. Winter had been fast approaching, and after a chance encounter with the man on the road, you’d both accepted the offer to board at the vacant cottage on his land, exchanging labor and help prepping for the winter for room and board. 

Pero had watched you while the farmer and his wife chattered about the foodstuffs stored earlier and the barley he’d help transport to the merchant market the following morning, how long the journey there and back would be – ‘M’afraid it’ll take up most of the day’ – all while you’d entertained the little one that had become mesmerized by your smile and the silly faces you made to amuse him. 

A heavy desire had settled in his chest, one he couldn’t place, until you’d passed the small toddler over to his mother and offered to pick up the infant that had begun to cry in its woven bassinet. Seeing you hold the wailing baby to your chest and rock it softly as you sat back down and showed the mother how to use the feeding bottle that you’d made out of an old clay pot with a spout you’d improvised in order to supplement her milk with that of the cow’s? How gentle you were once the babe was sated and you could maneuver her in your arms to make sure to burp all the gasses out of the little baby before cradling the sweet infant to sleep? 

It had suddenly awakened something in him that made him feel clumsy – out of his depth. 

He shakes the reveries off when you hum and offer the cup of wine to him. 

“Do you want more?”

His features take on that stoic look, becoming marble as he nods and takes the cup to drain it of the remaining wine. 

Thinking he’s become weary from the day now, you take the bowls to be set aside for rinsing in the makeshift dish tub you’d fabricated from an old wine barrel.

Pero watches you hesitate before setting the bowls onto the shelf near you, and then turn back towards him to ask gently, “I have clean water. Would you like me to bathe you?”

His scarred brow cocks up at you, sarcastic as he deadpans, “Would you like me to bathe? Do I smell that bad? Is my stink too odious, condesa?”

Mischievous smile lighting up your features, you feign remorse before shaking your head and chiming, “No, not at all. I happen to like your stink, anyway,” at his amused snort, you continue silkily, “I was just thinking you’d like to feel the warm water over your skin. I heated it over the fire once the stew was ready. It’s tepid now, but still nice.”

He grunts as if charmed, then nods and stands to remove the poncho from his shoulders before tossing it over with the rest of your discarded garments. You pleasantly work to maneuver the tub with the clean water across the floor closer to the hearth and end up smiling when he chivalrously comes over and picks it up for you to be set right next to the stool. 

“This is poor substitute to the bathhouse, I know—” you begin to chuckle.

“You mean the one you went into while impersonating a soldier? Or the one you snuck into to seduce me?” he counters roguishly as he removes his belt, knife, and tunic next.

“No, travieso. I was meaning the one with the eucalyptus leaves and lovely oils that they put in the bath water – from the place we stopped at in the merchant’s quarter?” you deride playfully as you soak a rag in the tepid water before wringing it out. At his sardonic grunt, you stand and turn to bossily grab the waist of his trousers before yanking at the fastening. “Now, be good, husband, and let me undress you.”

His cock has been filled out since he collapsed onto the bench with you, but at your sultry tone, it throbs in response as it stands ready, arousal outlined prominently against the inseam of his trousers. 

You take your time removing the remaining layers of clothes from his torso, then kneel at his feet in order to remove his dirt-caked boots before you finally resume stripping him of his pants.

The glow of the firelight illuminates his tan skin and the myriad of scars that map his body across contours of muscle and vast expanses of flesh. Some are old and worn smooth by time, others are silvery pale and etched, others are a darker olive and raised. He’d once been self-conscious about your gentle, appraising touches – of the doting caresses over the jagged reminders of brutality and pain that had been carved into him by steel blade, arrowhead or iron-made punctures. But now, he yearns for your touch, relishes how you brush your lips over a scar along the curve of his ribcage, and burns with pride at the reverent way you glide the wet rag to scrub the dirt and sweat from his skin. 

He's not even bashful about standing in the nude before you while you remain in your chemise.

No, instead his timidness is palliated by the new fixation crossing his mind’s eye. One that’s conjured you in a kaleidoscope fantasy, where you’re standing before him in the same chemise, but instead it is clinging to a rounded little belly while your beautiful smile broadens as you look upon him. How you would look nude and with child, the way you’d react to his erotic touch – one hand between your thighs, with the other caressing your soft womb.

Before he could get carried away with the curiosities – would she taste sweeter between her thighs, would her scent be more ripened on her warmer skin, how sensitive would she be to being touched and kissed – Pero cleared his throat and his mind as best he could in order to guardedly watch you tend to him.

“So, this is what you’d fantasized about?” he murmurs warmly as you lean back on your haunches after crouching down to rinse the rag in the tub and wring it out once more. 

The chill is warded away mostly by the fire in the hearth, but truthfully he’s so aroused by you that he’s become even more of a furnace than he is normally. You’re glad for it, loving the extra excuse to touch him and revel in his masculine scent.

“The bathing is a windfall, but yes,” you quip as you stand now so you can scrub up into his underarm and whisper conspiratorially, “Another thing I thought of? Was how gorgeous you look when your face is flushed after I suck your cock until you spill in my mouth—”

“Misericordia, mujer,” Pero exhales in a floored scoff as he pauses your scrubbing and cups his hand at your jaw in order to tilt your brazen smile up to him. “You cannot say such depraved filth to me and remain clothed,” is his raspy taunt as he crowds you against the edge of the table. Your titillated stare has him smirking as he tugs at the neckline of your chemise and orders, “Take this off. Now.”

You plop the rag down into the tub and do as you’re told, undressing before him. 

He watches you with his dark, intense eyes, shadow cast by the fireplace shrouding half of his features as you discard the chemise, then your boots, leaving you in only the wool stockings. 

You’re about to ruck one down when Pero surprises you by kneeling and doing it for you. 

“So, how was your day, aside from the erotic daydreaming?” he’s asking in that melodic baritone as he chucks the stocking over his shoulder before moving to the next one, as if his face isn’t an inch from your womanhood and his gloating stare can’t see the debauched effect he’s having on you.

“It-It was fine. I spent most of it in their root cellar, helping stock the things from the barn,” you stutter as he hums to indicate he’s listening while he tosses the other stocking aside and starts fondling his hands up your supple thighs. “With the little ones clinging at her apron, she needed help milking the cow and feeding the chickens—”

“How were the little piglets today?” he jokes, wry glance up at you clear indication he’s referring to the children rather than the actual piglets from the sow in the barn.

You playfully pinch his shoulder. “Que malo,” is your sardonic giggle before answering, “The baby was needy for milk. But she’s practically tapped after the little one has his fill, so I tried to get him to eat some porridge—”

Pero grunts musingly and brushes a sloppy, open-mouth kiss over your womb. “The little glutton is old enough to eat. La pobrecita will be malnourished if she doesn’t get enough milk,” is his aloof grumble, kissing a path up your body as he slowly stands. 

Arousal swoops into your stomach and curls tantalized tingles into your thrumming core. 

“I-I know,” is all you can breathe out as he boxes you between him and the table at your back before looming at his full height to stare hungrily at you. “H-Hopefully they can wean him s-soon—”

“You wanted me to fuck you by the fire?”

Your clench hard at that, nipples studding and desire making you wet with anticipation while his broad frame stands so close, yet so far still. You know he’s being cheeky, trying to put you off-kilter to his whims, but you’re tickled more than anything that he’d try. 

“I said I wanted you to make me yours by the fire,” you retort with a spritely look in your eyes.

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?” he says in a contrarian drawl, lips pouting at your snickered response. “Well? How is it not?”

“Because! You can fuck anyone, but you can’t make just anyone yours,” you declare with a logical air, hands gliding up his chest now to loop around his neck so you can slink up against him and his warm, bare body.

“Hmm…makes sense, I suppose,” he judiciously replies before confidently hoisting you up.

You giggle effervescently as he carries you over to the makeshift bench, makes short work of shoving it to be closer to the hearth before laying you onto it and hitching himself between your welcoming thighs. 

Pero’s kisses are greedy as he ruts his ramrod shaft between your dripping folds, eager to slicken it in order to spear it into you and make it feel divine for you both. Your hands cling to his muscular back, mouth seeking the warmth of his own for a luscious interlude before you feel him notch the head of his cock at your dimpled entrance. 

He’s content to let you pillage his mouth with your tongue before twirling his own against it, desire a stoked fire in his center that he intends to nurture for as long and as many times he can bring you to climax before he’s overcome with his own release. 

“Por favor, mi amor, dámelo,” you supplicate in a honey-sweet tone, eyes pleading as your body clings to his strong frame. 

He can’t deny you any longer. 

His thrust has you arching, pelvis angling up and knees clutching at his sides as he fucks into you to the hilt while you moan his name and he swears in awe at how sensational this feels every time. 

“Cristo amado,” he groans as he thrusts into you again, passion boiling over in him at the way you mewl against his jaw approvingly. “Wanted this. Needed it—”

“Oh, Pero,” you exhale as he sets a pounding pace and holds you to him like you are liquid, and in danger of coming apart in his arms. “Want you all the time—”

“Yeah?” he groans, nuzzling your neck to suckle a possessive kiss into your delicate skin before he grits, “Need you, amada—”

“Tell me, husband. Mmm, tell me what you need,” you stammer out as he keeps rocking into you in that toe-curling way that has his cock grinding into the ruinous parts inside your fluttering sheath.

Ardently, he growls, “Need you—need to fill you up, keep you full of me. Want you to be mine—” 

You moan in that glorious way again, and it almost drives him over the edge, so he adjusts to loom over you so he can concentrate on your pleasure. To make you reach bliss before he lets his baser, primal desires carry him off. 

He keeps pounding into your squelching cunt as he begins suckling on your nipple while he presses the pad of his thumb over the hood of your bundled pleasure point. 

It sets you alight, and you wail in overawed pleasure as he plucks you so with his cock, fingers and mouth. “Ah, D-Dios mío—” you cry out when he sucks hard on your pebbled flesh and grinds his wanton pleasure to ignite a scintillating climax to burst free. 

You moan as your sheath squeezes around his cock and floods him with your warm orgasm, carried off by the throes of ecstasy he’s unleashed in you.

Punch-drunk from the achievement, Pero moans before he licks a path to the other nipple to toy the tip of his tongue along it until you shiver and whimper from overstimulation when he purses his lips around it. 

“Pero,” you whine airily, eyes heavy-lidded as he frees your nipple and leans up to gaze rapaciously at you. He tenderly pets your sweaty hair from your face and traces his thumb along the apple of your cheek before you sigh, “You didn’t do it.”

He frowns, trailing his thumb to your mouth, intending to caress it over your plush lips before you kiss it dotingly. “Didn’t do what?”

You exhale girlishly before cupping your hand to his cheek. “You didn’t fill me,” is your silly reply, eyes warm with mirth and smile affectionate when he grunts and scowls. “And you held back. There was something you wanted to say—”

“There was, but it…” he pauses before shaking his head and scoffing, “I’m still inside you, amada. Let’s forget it—”

“Pero Tovar, are you timid, so suddenly?” you can’t help but razz, smiling slyly at him when he gives you his intimidating glower. “Oh no, that will not work with me, marido. Your nostrils flaring crossly are cute—”

“You are a maddening woman,” he huffs in that gravelly tone, but the amusement is clear in the creasing of his eyes. “I…I have been thinking things I haven’t before. At least that I haven’t ever considered, and, they are clumsy thoughts. I—I’m unused to being unsure, ternura…”

“Unsure about…what?” you ask and lean up to lovingly gaze into his tense stare. When he hesitates, you can’t help jump to conclusions for him, knowing how reticent he is about discussing his feelings. “If it’s about things here? We could always take William up on his offer – go north to visit him in the spring? Or if you’re not content with, well, this,” you gesture to the shabby interior of the cottage, “we could ask to stay in the hut next to the barn? It’s dryer and closer to the work—”

“It’s none of that. Although I haven’t done well enough of a job in that, I know. Not found us much of a life out here…” Pero grouses, but at your frown, he amends, “This is not the life of nobleza. It’s beneath your stature—”

“Fuck my stature,” you scoff and sit up to roll your positions so you can straddle his lap while he gapes up at you. “I’ve told you plenty of times now that my station in life is for me to decide, and I’ve chosen to be happy and free, with you. Now, mi guerrero obstinado, tell me what you’re unsure of, and I shall tell you if you have cause to be unsure.”

He’s still inside you, and the way his cock throbs in your still tingling sheath while he gives you a penetrating look with those dark brown eyes tells you this is something very primordial. 

“I want to fill you up, make you full of my seed until your belly is soft and round with my child.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, but your hands caress his chest in a soothing, encouraging way that has Pero shutting his eyes and letting out the breath he’d been holding. 

“Our life is not suited for such a…we travel, and such a life would mean settling down,” he tells you firmly before opening his eyes.

He’s disarmed by the fond, radiant look softening your countenance. 

“Well, sure, we would need to settle down, but only for a brief time. Until the little one can come along with us on our travels,” you tell him as you idly undulate your pelvis, grinding his pulsing cock along your silken walls before squeezing your sheath around it for good measure while your breasts bounce from how vigorously you begin fucking yourself onto him. 

The wind begins to howl outside and seep through certain cracks in the door and window, but neither of you seem to care enough to notice as you sensually grind down on him, hair swaying with the way you lean forward to passionately kiss Pero when he groans and clutches your waist tightly, powerful fingers dimpling your flesh as he starts guiding you to ride him harder.

His breath is ragged as everything starts to spin up between you, his lust and adoration tangling around the incredulous realization that you’re in tune with the clumsy thoughts he confessed. 

Still, it scorches something feral and covetous to singe through him as he husks, “You w-want that…? You truly want to be mine—to be with child?” 

You moan and plant your palms to his warm, flexing pectorals as you ride him with desperate vigor now, expression beaming with delight. 

“There’s nothing I want more,” you declare with genuine enamored satisfaction, albeit pantingly so as you ride him and mewl in pleasure.

Pero is torn asunder by your words as much as by how exquisitely you’re riding him, and he’s so propelled to the precipice of climax and primal need to triumph in it that he effortlessly sits up and manhandles you to flip positions so he can fuck you with passionate zeal and get you there with him just as his cock swells and twitches in imminent release. 

“Mi alma, I’ll fuck my seed deep—make it so nothing spills free from you—have you filled full with it, and rejoice once a child is in your womb,” he’s professing against your jaw as he hammers his cock into your fluttering sheath while your heels dig into his lower back and your fingers knead below his shoulder blades, rapturous pleasure engulfing you with every ferally growled word, until he flings you into a blistering orgasm by moaning, “Will keep making you mine even then. Give you everything—keep you pregnant, protect you and our sweet ones—keep you forever—”

You cry out and arch up under him, rapturous sob catching in your throat as you reach a zenith of bliss that has you clinging in enthralled desperation to him, which snaps the tether of control loose from him and spurs his own fierce orgasm.

Pero moans hoarsely against your neck as he spills his climax deep, cock buried to the hilt inside you as he holds you possessively to him and hums soothingly at your loving nuzzles and whispered words of, “Te amo, precioso.”

Huskily, he rumbles, “Te amo y te adoro con todo que tengo, mi alma.”

You sigh wistfully at his words and melt further under him, reveling in the decadent bloom of warmth that diffuses through you. 

The crackling of the fire is the only other sound of consequence over the ragged, shallow breaths you’re both trying to steady into calm once more while you come down from the soul-shattering lovemaking. 

“Pero...?”

“Hm?”

“Would you still love me if I became plump and had little ones constantly hanging on my skirts?” you whisper meekly, hands languidly caressing along his sweaty back. “And if I even became shit at fighting?”

“That’s impossible, tigresita,” he laconically rumbles against your neck. At your fretful hum, he props himself up in order to loom over you and give you his steely, no-nonsense stare. “I started to love you when I thought you were an awkward, short soldadito, my love. I think it’s safe to say I’ll love every version of you to come,” is his bass-filled retort, sincere affection not dulled by the humor of his tone. 

You press your forehead to his, appeased.

He pulls out of your now tender cunt, and avidly watches his seed begin to drip in his wake, so he scoops his fingers to prevent it from spilling further, and pushes the pearly essence back into you. 

You shiver and sigh, resting a hand over your womb while you caress his shoulder with the other as you shut your eyes in the moment of blissful tranquility, post-coitus.

“I just hope I make a worthy enough father.”

You don’t mean to snort, but you do. “You will, mi amor. The real concern is whether we’ll be able to muster the stamina to work on the farm chores and fuck like this until you put a baby in me,” is your vivacious chuckle as you hook your arm around his shoulders to guide him back down to lie on top of you while he scoffs irreverently at you. 

“I have plenty of stamina, always,” he purrs against your mouth before brushing his lips against it.

“Good. I yearn to be ravished by you daily, after all, so you’ll need it,” is your alluring coo before kissing him amorously. 

You only break the kiss to bat your lashes at him before susurrating, “I want you to make me yours again and again, until dawn comes, and then all over again, precioso.” 

He chuckles that deep, gravelly laugh before crooning melodically, “As you wish, mi amada.”

_____________________________

Spanish-English Glossary:

Caldero = Cauldron, for cooking over a hot flame

Condesa = Countess; a woman of nobility

Tigresita = Tiger Lilly; little tigress

Bueno = So; also ‘Good’ or ‘Well’

Guerrero = Warrior (male)

Mi amada = My beloved (female)

Mi marido = My husband

Bebita = Little baby (female)

No me tortures, por favor = Don’t torture me, please

Mi tigresita valiente = My valient little tigress

Tentador = Tempter (male)

Esposa = Wife

Mi amor = My love

Mujer = Woman

Ternura = Tenderness; akin to saying ‘sweetheart’

Precioso = Precious (male); gorgeous one

No seas tan gallardo, y come = Don’t be so gallant and eat

No seas tan porfiada y come, condesa = Don’t be so stubborn and eat, countess

Travieso = Naughty/Mischievous boy

Misericordia, mujer - Mercy, woman

Que malo = So bad (male)

La pobrecita = The poor little thing; poor little girl

Por favor, mi amor, dámelo = Please, my love, give it to me

Cristo amado = Christ beloved

Amada = Beloved

Ah, D-Dios mío = Oh, my God

Nobleza = Nobility

Mi guerrero obstinado = My obstinate warrior 

Mi alma = My soul; passionate term of endearment that eludes to the profound love someone feels, aka to the soul

Te amo, precioso = I love you, precious boy

Te amo y te adoro con todo que tengo, mi alma = I love and I adore you with all I have, my soul

Soldadito = Little soldier (male)

Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a comment and sharing your feedback. I would be eternally grateful.

Taglist:

@redsilentwolf28 | @just-here-for-the-moment | @mandosmistress | @sarahjkl82-blog | @knittingqueen13 | @mamacitapascal | @hylasposts | @hnt-escape | @eri16 | @gracie7209 | @casssiopeia | @athalien | @qwertymx | @rosiefridayrogersunday | @pascalesque | @maknimuk1 | @kirsteng42 | @greeneyedblondie44 | @littlemisspascal | @southotheborder | @rosegxoxo | @in-for-a-pennyx | @dolly-on-the-dotted-line | @harriedandharassed | @deadhumourist | @trickstersp8 | @pedropascalsx​ | @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine | @angstylittlepascal | @mrsparknuts

[archangeldyke-all]

can i please request sevika with an arab reader, people always write about poc but never arabs specifically

sure!

just a disclaimer! i'm not arab-- so if i get anything wrong please feel free to let me know and i'll change asap!

men and minors dni

first of all, if you speak arabic, sevika would be enchanted by it. she'd always ask you to speak arabic to her-- even though she can't understand any of it, she just loves the way you sound speaking your language.

sometimes, if she can't sleep at night, she'll have you read something in arabic to her. it doesn't matter what. sometimes, you read her a book, but sometimes, you can just read her an instruction manual to a table in arabic. she doesn't understand it, and either way she'll be snoring in minutes.

she'd be obsessed with the food. hummus, dolma, kebabs, falafel, fattoush, shawarma-- she loves it all. i always picture her as someone who likes savory, spicy flavors the most, and arabic food has sooo many delicious dishes that highlight these flavors.

she's always begging you to cook for her. and if you can't cook, she starts teaching herself how to cook so that the two of you can indulge in your culture's food whenever you want.

she's convinced arabic poetry is the most romantic poetry in the world. for your anniversary, she buys you guys a big book-- a collection of arabic love poems, written in both arabic and english, so you can read it together, side by side. (it's littered with post-it notes when you receive it-- all of them placed by her next to lines and poems that reminded her of you)

this becomes the go to book for you to read to her when she's trying to fall asleep.

she starts to practice the language. she's always having you teach her new words, and you laugh each time at her pronunciation, but she really does try her best.

she also loves seeing you write in arabic, and she's always asking you to write things for her. especially her name.

she learns how to make tea the way you like it, so that she can always press a warm cup in your hand. she knows that it's a custom in arab homes to have tea with most meals, and she wants you to feel at home with her.

if you're a hijabi (i know that not all arabs are muslim, but i think about 90% are) she's constantly coming home with new scarfs for you to wear. and if she can, she gets a poncho in the same fabric-- so you guys can match.

also, if you're muslim, sevika loves watching you pray. she'll find you on your prayer mat while she's searching the house for you to ask you a question, and she'll freeze in her tracks, softly admiring you as you pray. sometimes, she'll sit down in the nearest chair and watch you until you're done.

you always jump when you turn around and find her behind you, smiling sweetly at you. she always laughs.

"what do you want?" you ask as you roll your prayer mat up. she just shrugs.

"dunno. i was gonna ask you something but i got distracted watching you." she says honestly.

she's always playing arab music at home for you. she doesn't understand what they're singing, but she likes the way you smile when you hear the familiar music in your home. sometimes, it makes for funny moments, like when she puts on a song she thinks is incredibly sensual as she tries to seduce you and you have to stop her half way though to laugh when you register that the lyrics of the song are actually about a man planning on lighting his ex's new boyfriend's car on fire.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby

[olympain]

‘Andor’ Costume Designers Break Down Looks of Mon Mothma, Luthen Rael and Imperial Prisoners

For Diego Luna’s Cassian, Wilkinson draped him in warm, earthy tones with fabrics that were textural.

When audiences first meet him, he’s in “beautiful oilcloth from old leather jackets with iconic details such as a high neckline and a hood.” By the end, the silhouettes become leaner and streamlined.

“He has a beautiful tailored long-length linen coat that we made for him that moves beautifully for all the action sequences. It’s a grown-up silhouette.”

To outfit Genevieve O’Reilly’s Mon Mothma, he looked at prominent people, including leading senators and United Nations members, keeping power dressing in mind.  “I imagined to what extent the futuristic off-planet version of that would look like,” he says. “I leaned into the pale neutral tones.”

Her blue senate robe with a gold lining is “extremely architectural and quite austere,” Wilkinson says. “With her, there was a lot of adventurous tailoring and an exploration of silhouettes and layering that we did in her costumes, which reflect her switched-on sophisticated sense of aesthetics.”

Clothing for Mon Mothma’s more private moments “where the mask slips” hint at another side of her personality. Wilkinson relaxed her silhouette when Tay Kolma (Ben Miles) visits, for example, giving her outfit a flowing look.

“It almost feels like a dressing gown,” he says. “That private look contrasts quite a lot with her senator robes.”

He was able to explore a duality for Stellan Skarsgård’s Luthen Rael, an antiques dealer and the leader of a start-up rebellion looking to take down the Galactic Empire. “Luthen had this lovely layering of velvety textures and high-end fabrics,” he says.

The jewelry was custom-made, as Wilkinson was “inspired by rings made from brushed titanium and rare metals.”

When Rael is out providing support for a growing Rebel Alliance, he wears a linen poncho.

“He’s a man of action when he’s off, Wilkinson says. “We go from jewel tones to an earthy look with natural fabrics such as linen and cotton.”

The stark white costumes worn on the Narkina 5 Imperial Prison Complex proved to be a design challenge. Stark white, they needed to feel mass-produced and disposable.

“It was one costume worn by hundreds and seen over three episodes. I knew I wanted the outfits to be bright white with a strong graphic,” says Wilkinson. “So, I used a hot press to fuse the orange graphics onto this white paper-like fabric we found that had a high-tech feel.”