#father corona

[askthesunjackers]

Unscheduled Stop

[sundown-trotten]

You're fine. Well, unless there are ponies from your universe with their own blogs on Tumblr.

Alt Title - Turn Tables: Be The Other Horse

[eskildit]

fun fact! to my knowledge, ianthe is the only character to actually use the words "terrorist" or "terrorism".

edit: correction! judith also uses the term once in cohort intelligence files.

[evilhorse]

Jay Garrick: The Flash #1

[chernobog13]

Merry Christmas from the M78 gang!

[middleofadventure]

Bottle

When I hear a bottle being opened I think of you,

I think about how you chose it over me.

I think about your anger, 

Faster than a car on the quarter mile. 

I think about telling you good news,

For the response to be you lifting it to your lips. 

I think about how your face lights up, 

Staring at your glass with the amber liquid swirling around.

I think about seeing you smile at me,

Just to realize you’re smiling at the waitress handing you another.

Maybe if I was the bottle, I could’ve had a dad. 

Maybe if I was the bottle, you’d remember I exist. 

Maybe if I was the bottle, you’d love me. 

I’m not a bottle, and you're not my dad.

[moltenhair]

It's 2022 and I still sigh over how Cass's bitterness was mostly based around first world problems while she took her anger out on a woman who was literally kidnapped at infancy and had nothing to do with said problems.

"you got kidnapped by MY MOM and as a result I had to be ADOPTED by a man who loved me. And grow up in a household with CHORES where I had to learn to be RESPONSIBLE. Then when I grew up I had to do a JOB I DIDN'T LIKE while i trained for the job i wanted and ultimately received. I had to EARN MY KEEP while living in a CASTLE in a city of hundreds of other people doing the same thing every single day without the same level of privilege or access that I did. But because I didn't automatically get everything I wanted without having to work for it, life is so UNFAIR and that's YOUR FAULT"

Yeah there are class elements that prevented her from getting ROYAL treatment but 1. She never acted like she wanted that and 2. She wouldn't have gotten it regardless of if Rapunzel entered her life or not. Her anger was literally just that she had to work just as hard as everyone else in her life to achieve her goals and I am BAFFLED that someone chose to write a character this way.

[tonirockyhorror]

Corona Capital 2022 regresa con un gran cartel y 3 días de fiesta

Corona Capital 2022 regresa con un gran cartel y 3 días de fiesta

Se llegó la hora de la presentación del Corona Festival 2022, después de 2 años de ausencia el regreso es más que bueno, con una fiesta de 3 días donde se presentarán bandas como el regreso de My Chemical Romance, Andy Shauf, Cigarettes After Sex, Two Door Cinema Club y Viegra Boys el viernes 18, los ya de casa Arctic Monkeys, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Black Midi, Bright Eyes, Liam Gallagher, Spoon el…

[askthesunjackers]

Fall in Flame

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

Who the bloody Hell is Zoey and why is she important enough he would mention her to his mother.

Dad is too goddamn 🤓 smart.

*looks at picture*

She was like daddy used to float me when I was here as her.

My sweet Jane perhaps.

[lady-harrowhark]

A list of characters who are described with some variation of “waxen”:

Harrow’s parents

Protesilaus (Beguiling Corpse Edition)

Naberius (Tower Prince Edition)

Kiriona

Ianthe

…One of these things is not like the others.

If I were going to put on my tin foil hat, I might start thinking about how Ianthe says she was born via “surgical means” after Corona had “removed [her] source of oxygen” which put her survivability “somewhere around definite nil” (emphasis original). I might also start thinking about how badly their father “wanted a matched set.”

The first time she’s described as such, it says she “looked so completely like a shoddy wax cast of some more beautiful sculpture.” And if I had my tin foil hat on, I might notice that this sounds suspiciously like the exchange right before dios apate minor, when Augustine tells her she looks like “a statue of some lost goddess hauled up from the waters, painted lineaments removed but marble intact.” To which she responds, “Covered in moss, mould, and gunge… You should see my sister.”

Good thing I don’t have my tin foil hat on.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Spencer Reid x reader, Rossi is readers father, she is not part of the BAU, Curvy and much younger than Spencer at 26, loves how smart he is and likes to learn about facts she’s just not as smart, loves baking. Smut?? Maybe?? Thank you!

comfortable (spencer reid x fem!plussize!reader)

in which you & spencer discuss telling your dad, David Rossi, about your relationship

warnings: NSFW!!! MDNI!!! smut, smol age gap, fingering, praise kink, soft!dom Spencer, pet names

word count: 3658

A/N: thanks for this request 🥹 it was really fun and I think maybe a pt 2 where they actually tell Rossi could be a lot of fun, can you imagine the way Rossi’s eyes would bug out of his head 💀

He was standing in the doorway of your off-campus apartment with this goofy grin on his face. He was older than you - only by a few years, but still in an entirely different stage of life - and he worked with your dad, but you’d never felt butterflies like these before.

It felt like movie love. Like romance novel love, and not those cheesy paperbacks with the Fabio-type model on the front. But like the more modern ones, the ones with the cartoon people on the covers and the big, colorful block letters. You had about a hundred of them on your bookcase. You could go reference them right now if you really wanted to.

Spencer Reid blinked those big, brown eyes at you and your mouth flickered uncontrollably into a soft smile. “Your doorbell doesn’t work,” Spencer pointed out by way of greeting. He still had that goofy grin on his face as you stepped aside so he could come in. You locked the door behind him.

“Didn’t I tell you that?” You mused, turning around to face him. He’d been to your apartment before, but usually trailing after you. Never meeting you here. He shook his head.

Then he lifted the bouquet of flowers in his hands and your smile grew into a full-blown grin. “What’re these for?” You squealed, taking the bouquet and immediately raising them to your nose. Baby pink carnations. He remembered your favorite flower.

He remembered everything, you reminded yourself.

“They’re your favorites. You said they reminded you of your mom’s house,” Spencer said, then took one of those sharp breaths that told you he was about to bequeath upon you a boatload of information. You barely had time to swoon over the fact that he remembered why carnations were your favorite.

“Did you know that carnations were actually mentioned in literature as far back as Ancient Greece? The name is believed to come from the Latin corona - meaning crown or wreath, as it was one of the more common flowers used to make laurels and crowns,” Spencer rattled off.

“We should make flower crowns out of them,” you proposed with an excited giggle, walking past Spencer and into the small kitchen of your apartment. He chuckled and followed you, standing behind you as you took the plastic sleeve off the bouquet, holding the flowers over the sink so water wouldn’t get on the floor. “Oh,” you murmured, not realizing how thick the stalks of the flowers were. “We can’t tie these together,” you pouted.

Spencer’s hands found your hips as he stood behind you, his palms contouring to match your curves. His lips met the side of your head, between your temple and your hairline. “You could put them on your table?” He suggested.

You felt stuck with the dripping flowers in your hand and the overwhelming desire to turn around and kiss your boyfriend silly. “Vase,” you blurted out instead of speaking like a normal human being. Spencer made your brain turn into mush.

“Where?”

“Shelf by the fridge.”

Spencer’s hands left your hips, but not before he gave them a gentle squeeze, as if to say I’ll be back soon. You turned your head to the side and watched as Spencer grabbed the vase off the shelf, returning to your side in moments to help you set the flowers in it.

This relationship was still very new. It had been about three months since you went out to lunch with your dad on some random Thursday, and he brought you back to work with him to introduce you to his team. It had been eight weeks since Spencer took you out for the first time - dinner and a walk around the nearest park, where Spencer had grabbed your hand for the first time, where he’d rambled off some fact about willow trees you couldn’t be bothered to remember because shortly after, he’d pressed his lips to yours and you’d made out underneath one.

He was away a lot, which was to be expected, given the nature of the BAU’s work. But he called you when he could, and he made every effort to see you when they weren’t on assignment. You couldn’t really talk with him about work - “it’s classified,” he’d always say with a thin-lipped smile, as if to say he’d really like to tell you, but he just couldn’t.

“What’re you thinking about?” Spencer asked as you floated from the sink to set the vase of flowers on the kitchen table. His voice always pulled you out of your own head.

“Nothing in particular, really,” you told him, turning to face him. Spencer reached a hand out and took yours, tugging you to him. “You, mostly,” you teased as his palms lay against your hips. “I think it might be time.”

“Time?” Spencer asked as he craned his neck down to kiss you, briefly, on the lips. So, his mind was obviously elsewhere.

“Time,” you confirmed. “To tell my dad. About us.”

Spencer pulled his head back so he could look at you properly, his fingers dug into the soft, sensitive flab above your hip bones, and you scrunched your nose up because it tickled, resisting the urge to giggle. “You do, do you?” He asked, a playful smile crossing his lips. “And here I thought you enjoyed the secrecy.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I hate it,” you laughed breathily. “I hate lying to my dad.”

“For the record, we haven’t lied about anything,” Spencer pointed out. “We’ve just withheld information. It’s entirely different.”

That was true, you supposed. When your dad asked you last week at your monthly dinner at his house if you were seeing anyone, you just nodded and told him you weren’t ready to tell him about it yet, and he respected that. You didn’t not tell him it was his coworker.

“I guess so,” you replied, your lips pursing into the corner of your mouth.

To Spencer’s credit, the whole keeping-it-from-your-dad thing was your idea. You’d done it for a multitude of reasons - mostly so you could figure out if this thing with Spencer was going to go anywhere before your dad was in the loop, so you could go with Spencer at your own pace, get to know him without any third-party interventions.

“We’ve talked about this, Y/N. It’s not anything to feel guilty about. Yeah?” Spencer reminded you, lifting one of his hands from your hips to curl his index finger and tuck it under your chin. He guided your gaze to meet his. “You’re an adult, and you can see whoever you want to see. When and if you tell Rossi is entirely up to you.”

“I know,” you nodded, sighing softly, your arms lifting and reaching up to wind around his neck. Spencer’s lips broke out in a soft smile at the action. “Isn’t it weird for you at work, though?”

“Not really?” Spencer phrased it as a question, shrugging his shoulders a little bit. “There’s never really time for personal conversation when we’re on a case, and if there is, I usually just deflect to someone else. Although, there was a close call while we were on our way back this last time,” he began, the hand under your chin dropping and moving back to your hip, guiding you back so you were flush against the kitchen counter.

“Oh, god, what happened?” You asked as you hopped up so your rear splayed out atop the counter, and Spencer moved to stand between your legs. Despite the lack of gap between your thighs, Spencer’s lanky frame fit comfortably between them. His fingers spread palm-side down against the tops of your thighs. You were biting your lip as your boyfriend continued with his story.

“I guess I was grinning down at a text you’d sent me, the one about your Short Fiction Analysis exam,” he explained, referring to one of the classes you were taking this term. “You’d said you thought Shirley Jackson was underrated, that The Lottery was one of your favorite short stories ever and you would stone anyone who disagreed,” you snickered at this, and Spencer’s hands slid just slightly further up your thighs. “That was the same reaction I had,” Spencer pointed out with a small laugh. “And Rossi’d been the one to catch it. He said that my expression was one that could only be caused by a beautiful woman.”

You shook your head, rolling your eyes. That sounded like your dad, all right. “And what did you say?” You asked, willing the blush in your cheeks to go away. Spencer knew already that he made you feel like you were on fire with just a simple touch, but still. Your lack of experience and the fact that you were younger than him, still in college… it always made you feel even more flustered.

“I said I could neither confirm nor deny,” Spencer laughed self-deprecatingly, rolling his eyes at himself. “And then I changed the subject. I pulled Derek in the conversation and asked him about his girlfriend.”

“Very strategic,” you commented with a bob of your throat.

“But if you want to tell him, and you think you’re ready, then I think we should,” Spencer added, and you smiled just slightly at this.

“Okay,” you smiled hazily, just as Spencer bent down to kiss you. His hands traveled to the waistband of your sweatpants and your breath hitched in your throat.

“This okay?” Spencer asked just as his long fingers curled around the waistband on either side of your hips.

You’d pulled the sweatpants all the way up over your belly button, and your tummy was incredibly ticklish. So your voice was breathy and shaky when you responded. “Mmhm.”

“If it’s not, you need to tell me,” Spencer reminded you in a low whisper, his lips planting along kissing your neck, each one tacky like a postage stamp.

“It’s okay,” you reiterated, forcing your voice to sound more full. Your hands had moved to lay flat against his chest, but now your fingers curled around the crinkly fabric of his blue dress shirt. You’d never dated anyone who dressed so grown up before. “I’m good.”

“Good,” Spencer murmured as his lips traveled up to your chin. He was mapping out your entire face jawline with his lips, until finally your mouths met. He was slow and intentional at first, like he was savoring it, probably making observatory notes in his head. When his tongue teased your lips apart, you allowed him in, a small whimper escaping you.

You had scooted forward on the countertop, squeezing Spencer’s body between your thighs. Your toes curled as one of Spencer’s hands lifted to cradle the back of your head, holding your face to his like an oxygen mask. And he kept breathing you in, his tongue expertly dancing with yours, kissing you so that when he finally pulled back, you couldn’t breathe.

You were panting, your whole face red as Spencer’s hand moved from the back of your head to one of your full cheeks. His thumb swiped across your cheek and the corners of his mouth just flickered upward. “I really missed you,” he whispered, his hand moving to tuck your hair behind your ear. His other hand still rested on the waistband of your pants, fingers dipping beneath it and padding around your stretch marks.

“I missed you, too,” you murmured back, and Spencer just smiled at this lazily. “Do you… do you want to…”

Spencer’s smile slowly turned into a patient smirk. “Do I want to what?” He asked all-knowingly, his eyes meeting yours. Your cheeks flushed again, bashful and embarrassed to even ask him.

“Do you want to go to my bed?” You exhaled, and Spencer’s head dipped to press a brief kiss to your lips.

“What makes you think I can’t take care of you right here?” He smirked, and the hand on your cheek floated back down to your waistband. “Can I please take your sweatpants off, pretty girl?”

Your breath stopped and you nodded. “Yeah, but… Spence?” You pressed the pads of your fingers into his chest. His gorgeous brown eyes met yours.

“What is it?”

“If you’re going to, like, you know, right here,” you began, your chest rising and falling slowly. “I just don’t think I can, like, spread my legs apart enough for you to…”

“Would you be more comfortable lying down, Y/N?” Spencer asked. What you loved was that he wasn’t impatient about it, he wasn’t annoyed. He could just tell you were having trouble articulating your concerns and he wanted to help. He was reading your mind - well, scientifically speaking, he was probably reading your behavior and your body language - but he just got it so quick.

“Yeah,” you nodded, sighing softly in relief that he understood.

“Then let’s lie you down,” Spencer agreed. He kissed you once more, briefly, stepped back, holding his hands out to help you off the counter. Your knees were weak for multiple reasons as you wobbled towards your bedroom, letting Spencer guide you so you were flat on your back, looking up at him. “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer hovered over you. One knee outside your leg, the other very much in between them, his hands gripping your shoulders. Spencer craned down to kiss you again, as if a car had been jump started, and you were once again lost in it, unable to think about anything else but the man on top of you and how much you loved the way he touched you.

He wasn’t afraid of your body or how you’d react - rather, he seemed to find arousal in you being comfortable. His hands moved down to your waistband once again, obviously his fixation for the day, and he asked you again if it was okay that he remove your pants. You just nodded and told him, “yes.”

Even though the word had come out softly and raspy, in the back of your mind, you were screaming for the love of god, yes. If you stop touching me, I might commit heinous crimes.

Soon your pants were off, with some strategic shimmying over your hips and thighs, and you watched with a slightly amused expression as Spencer tossed them aside carelessly. He never did anything carelessly, so the action was a nice ego boost, knowing you could cause his system to glitch just as much as he could yours.

Spencer’s hands went back to your hips, sliding under the bottom hem of your t-shirt, inching closer to your breasts as your pelvis lifted, searching desperately for any kind of friction, your center making contact with Spencer’s knee between your legs. He dug his knee in a little further, your underpants acting as a thin divider.

“Can I take your shirt off, beautiful?” Spencer asked, and all the nerve endings in your face went numb.

“When are you gonna lose some clothes, pal?” You asked breathlessly, taken aback by your own sassiness. Spencer was too, but he laughed, a brimful sound that would have knocked you over if you weren’t already lying down.

Spencer’s laugh still lined his voice as he looked down at you. “I guess it’s only fair,” he chuckled. “Which would you-“

“Shirt,” you tugged at his collar pathetically, your fingers shaking as you tried to undo the buttons.

That stupid smirk rose on his face and Spencer kissed your nose teasingly before he took his hands in yours. “Need me to get those for you?” He asked, and you nodded. Deftly, his fingers worked the buttons until the shirt was shrugging off his shoulders. You watched with your mouth hung ajar like a garden gate.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Spencer bent down at his waist again to continue his cartographic exploration of your neck and jaw, his kisses feather light and so, so frustrating. His hands slid up your shirt again, gliding smoothly over your supple skin, his fingertips tracing your stretch marks. “Now that we’re on a level playing field,” Spencer said between kisses. “Can I please take off your shirt?”

A sound escaped you, a combination of breathy laughter and a desperate whine. “Yeah,” you murmured. Your hands moved to run through his perfect hair. It was so soft, so clean. How did he have time to keep it so clean? Your fingertips dug at his scalp as Spencer’s knee dug once again into the space between your legs. You groaned as Spencer guided you to lift your torso so your t-shirt could be tugged off over your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he commented, and you felt your cheeks redden. He kissed your lips, his swollen and plump against yours as his hands traveled down. He swung the knee that was in between your legs over so that he fully straddled you now. He seemed to want to be everywhere - your breasts, your stomach, your lips, between your legs. It was like he couldn’t decide.

“What do you want, Spence?” You asked him, and Spencer’s eyes snapped to yours. Your tongue jutted out to moisten your lips.

“What do I want?” Spencer repeated, looking at you with an incredulous expression. “I want to make you feel good, angel. Do you want me to do that for you? Do you want me to make you feel good?”

“God. Yes.” You huffed. Spencer’s mouth was on yours in an instant, kissing you repeatedly as his hand traveled down. Hovering over your underwear, Spencer’s thumb pressed against your fabric-covered center and you felt him groan, the sound reverberating through your mouth.

“You’re so wet, Y/N,” he observed and your back arched instinctively, needing him.

“Spence,” you rasped.

“Say it again,” Spencer’s eyes met yours and his brow arched just as you felt him dip his index and middle fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“Please, Spencer,” you managed to get out.

“That’s it,” he smirked, kissing your lips once as a reward before sliding your underpants down your thighs. You lifted your legs and he helped you out of them, tossing them aside like they were just collateral damage. His index finger was quick to tease at your folds, and you wondered if he had been thinking about this all day. “Open your legs a little bit more for me, angel,” he instructed.

You succumbed to his request almost instantly, and when Spencer’s finger rubbed against your clit, you had to bite back a moan. “What have I told you about holding back?” Spencer chastised you, and your eyes locked onto his. “I told you, don’t ever muffle yourself, baby. I want to hear every noise.”

“Spencer…”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Don’t you dare.”

“That’s my girl,” Spencer smirked, and began to pump his two fingers into you. Your legs began to close on instinct, but Spencer’s other hand pushed your hair out of your eyes. “Keep ‘em open, beautiful,” he said patiently, his fingers increasing exponentially in speed. “You hear how wet you are?”

“Mmm,” was all you could say as the filthy, wet sounds emitted from your middle.

“And that’s all for me, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you choked out as your hips bucked towards his fingers.

Spencer’s fingers were relentless as he fucked you with them. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your vision going white and hazy from the pleasure, from your walls tightening around Spencer’s incredibly deft digits.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Just hang on a little longer, yeah?” Spencer cooed, his voice genuinely, tooth-achingly sweet, and you felt his lips beneath your ear. He kissed the skin there, and you felt him move his lips up to your earlobe, taking it briefly between his teeth. “You’re doing so good, baby,” he reiterated in a low whisper.

Your hands clawed desperately against his bare back for some iota of purchase, moving from his back to his hair, to his neck as he fucked you senseless. You were getting so close, whiny, needy little whimpers escaping you as Spencer continued to pump into you. And finally - finally - you reached your peak. Spencer didn’t let up, letting you ride your orgasm for as long as you could. Stars blurred your vision, and all you could see were those dark brown eyes looking so lovingly down at you.

And when you finally started to come down, Spencer’s movements slowed. He was never the type to immediately pull out. No, he merely turned down the intensity as you caught your breath, rubbing your clit gently as his fingers - soaked with you - slowly came out of you.

“How do you feel?” he asked as you panted, your eyes meeting his.

You opened your mouth to say something - anything, but no words came out. “Baby, use your words,” Spencer encouraged, and you huffed, frustrated with yourself, that you couldn’t say much of anything right now.

“G-good,” you whispered with a hoarse voice. Spencer used his clean hand to brush your hair out of your face. “Very good,” you added.

“Very descriptive,” Spencer teased with a smirk, and you were too ravished to play back.

You managed to prop yourself up on to your elbows just as Spencer moved off of you, laying down on his side so he could kiss your neck soothingly. “Y/N?” He asked.

“Yeah?” you breathed, turning so you were on your side, so you could face him.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered, and your eyes widened. You thought for a second he might be playing some sick joke, but then you looked in his eyes and saw how clear, how serious they were. Your lips flickered into a small, tired yet ridiculously happy smile. “You don’t have to say it back if you-“

“I love you, too,” you whispered, your lips meeting his in a long, slow, lazy kiss, feeling deliriously, stupidly happy.

——

A/N 2: I’ve never actually written smut before (I’ve read plenty lmfao) so if something is weird OR if you have any suggestions plzzzzz tell me I can take constructive criticism on this front xD

[henrywintersslut]

after being dead since july, let me supply yall with some imagines for my newest obsession; tate langdon

i <3 my boyfriend🤭

__________________________________________________

this post contains sexual contents, don’t read it if you’re uncomfortable wirh sexual scenes

__________________________________________________

imagine tate coming back from a therapy sesh with ur father, and being crazy mad cause your father just told him that he has a strong fear of rejection, so he bends you over your desks and fucks you from behind while whispering in your ear, “you’d never reject me, huh sweetheart? you’ll always be my littlw slut, and never say no to me, isn’t that right?”

imagine tate observing you quietly before yall ever talked, and getting hard from seeing you walk around in your pretty, short skirts with your sexy little butt on display for him, so he just can’t help jerking off to you every night in the shower

imagine tate sneaking into your room while you’re in online class (i never attended those while corona time lmaoo) and snuggling in under your desk, resting his head on your plush thighs cause he’s upset about a fight he had with his mother, but he cannot stop himself from prying your thighs apart and eating you out, making you yelp in surprise and having to mute yourself in the chat

imagine tate falling asleep while sucking on your tits after having a bad fight with his mom, and he keeps on suckling in his sleep, completely overstimulating your poor nipple and making them all sore, but you couldn’t care less, as long as you could comforf your boy :(

imagine tate bucking his hips upwards and pushing himself further down your throat while u’re giving him head, just to see you look up at him with tearstained eyes, feeling your throat convulse around him in a gag

imagine you pulling tate’s hair while making out and he whimpers into your mouth and bucks his hips into your thigh, making you smirk and shake your head at how much of a needy slut he is

[feistyfreaks]

REQUEST IF UR OK WITH THEM!! dbf!miguel is so hot… hairy dad bod. knos what he’s doing. smells hella expensive (downside is that his breath smells like corona LOL)…

inspired by one of ur works - i can just imagine reader sitting in miguel’s lap nd getting fingered in her bedroom while everyone is downstairs drunk out of their minds, perhaps a family get together nd miguel got invited bc duh he’s basically second family

as much as miguel wants to breed reader nd fck her to oblivion he’s a smart man nd doenst want to risk getting caught nd losing his fav doll :( .. (even tho that scene turns him on) so fingering it is. but i can just IMAGINEEEEE the words he’ll be saying to her.. commenting on how tight she is.. how loud, creamy nd wet her coochie is.. how he wish he can just stick his dick in it.. lord the thoughts

i’m not good at describing the scene so sorry if i’m just saying a lot of nothing 😔 BUT INCLUDE SQUIRTING AND DEGRADATION LOL THX I LOVE UR WORK

( ! porn with a taboo subject ! ) don’t like it? don’t read it.

lo prohibido ⋆·˚ ༘ *. 🤍

pairings ❀⋮ dbf!miguel x afab!reader

₊❏❜ content⋮ huge age gap (reader is 18-19 n miguel’s in his early 40’s again 😭.) fingering, degrading, humiliation, squirting, dirty talk, sex with a taboo subject, sorta sneaking out, and underage drinking.

note⋮ i’m sorry if i took a while love, i legit had to write this like three times because tumblr wasn’t saving my drafts 😪🙏🏼. but ughh yess i agree dbf!miguel is 😩!! I LOVE THIS SCENARIO. ur good don’t worry, n tysm anon 🫶🏼💋

you finished laying the plates and setting the utensils out on the large rectangular table that you were helping your mom with. you were excited for the family gathering. not just because you were going to see your family — but because you’ll see him again.

you wore the dress he had given you a few months ago; light grey and short that hugged your curves tightly, giving you that snatched waist effect. telling you to wear it on occasions like this because.. he likes easy access.

you paired the pretty dress with white soft - round at the toe - wedged heels. the door bell rung as you walked towards the door eagerly, flattening your dress like the good girl you were before opening it and welcoming in the guests; aka your family.

“hola como estan?” you ask, wrapping your arms around your aunt, kissing her cheek as the others step inside. (hey aunt, how are you guys?) “bueno mi amor, gracias por preguntar. y como esta mi princesa?” your aunt asked, pecking a kiss on your cheek. (good my love, thank you for asking. and how is my princess?)

“estoy bien gracias tia.” you smile. (i’m doing great, thank you aunt.)

“vaya, ese vestido realmente te queda bien, hija.” your aunt compliments. (wow, this dress really looks good on you.) “guau chica!” (wow girl!)

you laughed, clasping your hands together. “gracias tia, me alegra que te haya gustado tanto como a mí.” (thank you aunt, i'm glad you like it as much as i do.)

“ay, ¿dónde está tu papá?” your uncle asks, voice gruff. “èl está afuera preparando la carne asada.” you answer. (he’s outside preparing the grill/barbecue.) your uncle nods, grabbing the box of coronas and slides the back door open. “let’s drink!” you hear your uncle yell out with an accent as you giggle. your aunt rolls her eyes in disappointment. “que tonto.“ she grumbled. (how stupid.)

you kept the door open, greeting in your older cousins and traditionally kissing their cheeks. “oh my gosh y/n, i haven’t seen you in like three billion years!” your cousin exaggerates as she hauls you into a big hug. “oh, i know right!” you squeal as you greet your fathers other drinking buddies, preparing yourself for one hell of a night.

“perdón, tuve que hacer algunos mandados.” miguel apologized, entering the house. (sorry, i had to do some errands.) “miguel!” you grin widely. “ay mija is that you? guau, you’ve grown so much. mírate, te ves hermosa.” he says, patting your head as you kiss his cheek. (wow, look at you, you look gorgeous.)

you could legitimately say the same for him except he looked hot with that white button up that was buttoned half way; sleeves rolled up to his thick forearms, black slacks paired with black leather chairman’s and a heavy watch wrapped around his wrist as you ogled his veiny hands. oh gosh. and that smile. you could stare at it all day.

“ay miguel, te ves sexy.” you whisper in his ear quietly, placing your hand on his chest as you hugged him. he smiles, leaning in to return the kiss on your forehead as he pulls back.

“i bought you your favorite chocolates, pequeña.” miguel grins, grabbing your hand and hooking the bag onto your fingers. “gracias.” you smiled, staring up at him. “y tu papá?” (your dad?) “afuera.” you hummed, walking him outside where your dad was barbecuing. (outside.)

“miguel mi buen amigo! la carne casi está lista para comer.” your dad fists bump miguel. you and your cousin give each other a look. (miguel my good friend, the meat is almost ready to eat.) “aquí hermano, bebe.” your uncle greets miguel by hitting his back and offering him beer. (here brother, drink.) your uncle turns on the radio, blasting rancheras on the speakers. your cousin walks towards you handing you her drink; opening the cap as you take a couple of glances at miguel from the corner of your eye before chugging some of the beer down. the alcohol tingling into your system as you both head back inside to help your mom finish cooking.

✧.*

“la comida está lista.” you hear your dad call out, “ven a comer, lleva tu comida adentro.” (the foods ready, come and eat, take your food outside.)

your family gets busy entering in and out of the house taking their seats with their big plates of food; and miguel just so happened to take the empty seat right next to you. the strong smell of alcohol fills your nostril as soon as your uncle follows behind you dad, already drunk. as expected. “¿qué carajo van a comer si su comida fue la cerveza que bebieron?” your tia scolds the men at the table. you take a quick glimpse at miguel who’s noticeably a little tipsy. (what the hell are they going to eat if their food was the beer they drank?)

your uncle bursts into laughter as your tia hits him in the back of his head angrily, and the room fills with noisy laughs from your family. the table gets loud and busy with people eating, chattering and drinking. miguel can’t help but stare at you with hunger, not for the food. but for you.

you ignore his stare, facing your cousin who’s gulping down her beer. you get busy with finishing your own plate, picking up a conversation with your cousin; gossiping about university drama and what not. you reach for your drink taking a sip before you felt a large hand squeeze your thigh.

you practically choked on your drink, giving miguel a hard side eye. he gave you a sly smile; giving you that look and you knew what he was up to. “you good?” your cousin asks, almost tipping over her own drink. “i-*cough* am f—*cough* ine.” you choke out, putting on your best act.

“si me d-disculpan, necesito usar el baño.” you forced an excuse to a mob of scolding and drunk people. (if you’ll excuse me, i need to use the restroom.) your soft voice didn’t compete with the loud crowd, so you just got up. walking towards the dark hallway and waiting for miguel to excuse himself as you sigh.

you walk upstairs, miguel following behind as his shoulder slides against the wall. you finally get to the second level, pushing him into your room and closing the door. locking it secure.

“what the hell was that about? we could’ve gotten caught.” you lectured miguel. “you know we can’t do this..” you whisper, but he lifts your chin and wraps his arm around your waist, completely ignoring your warning as he kisses you.

you inhaled the smell of beer. “estas borracho no?” you murmur, but were shushed when he pushed you onto your bed. continuing to make out with you and taking things further as his hand creeps up your dress. (you’re drunk aren’t you?)

“just a little.” miguel’s voice is husky yet soft when he pulls away from you, his hard on rests against your thigh and his smirk is devious. you reach to unbutton more of on his shirt and catch a glimpse of his hairy chest.

things escalate as you attempt to straddle his lap, but before you could even get your own way and dryly hump him — he turns you around, your back coming in contact with his front. his hand travels down your stomach and tugs your dress up. “miguel.” you groan, exhaling a heated breath. his lips brush against the shell of your ear slowly sliding his hand down further into your panties. he grins; kissing your earlobe and licking the flesh hotly. his forefinger rubs small digit eights on your clit as you try your best to not make too much noise.

your pleas dissolve into soft moans and whimpers as they bounce off the walls within your bedroom, “you get wet so easily.” you hear miguel groan.

“you get turned on so easily with my teasings, don’t you pequeña?” he hums, his fingers messily rubbing against your slit; collecting your moisture. “it’s all your fault.” you whine, desperate for more. “can you just fuck me already?”

“baby, if i could i would.. but it’s too risky.” he coos, sliding his thick digit into your pussy. “so tight my other finger doesn’t fit.” he growls, feeling up your ridgey walls. “how do you expect to take this big of a dick hm?” he chuckles, “so wet n warm, wanna stuff my cock in this tight pussy n fuck you all day.”

you moan as his fingers slide in and out of your hole; you spread your legs farther for better access. the excitement sent a wave of euphoria to wash over you.

yet the desperation, the need miguel had to fuck you right there was undeniable. the way you clamped and tightened around his fingers drove him insane.

“you love getting your pussy played with don’t you baby? you’re just a whorish cumslut f’me.” he degrades, “have you creamin’ all over her daddy’s best friend, such a fucking whore aren’t you y/n?” he mutters. “what would everyone think if they knew that their precious little girl was all a facade and in reality a freak show?”

before you could say anything he cut you off again; “n why is a big girl like you still doing with stuffed animals on her bed?” he teases.

“b-because they’re cute — oh!” you tried to snap back, but midway your back arched, hips rolling forward into his palm. you felt embarrassed, and humbled.

“well why don’t we entertain them for the moment, think they’ll enjoy watching you writhe pathetically for me?” he laughs, forcing another finger inside you as the pace he set increases.

“so cute yet so slutty.”

“oh fuck!”

miguel’s hot breath fans your ear as he spits out vulgar profanities, and with each shove of his fingers your eyesight flashes with a blur. his fingertips hit that sweet gummy spot inside you that sent you over the edge - your clit palpitates as you spurt out your orgasm. “there she goes, go ahead baby, cum.” he coaxes you into your orgasm. you make a wet mess on your bed as your moans were muffled into miguel’s palm. your breaths were heavily unsteady, back curved into a perfect arch and thighs enclosed around his hand.

your back slumped into his chest, tired n out of breath. “mira el puto lío que hiciste.” he chuckles. (look at the fucking mess you made.)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Take Me Home Tonight

Summary: You run into a familiar face while working. (Bucky Barnes)

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, fingering, dry humping, flirting.

Note: look, we didn't expect Applebee's to inspire one fic, but now it's done two fics. Shit. We are deranged.

Please enjoy and let me know what you think. Please also reblog because it’s a lot longer than I intended.

You hug the menus to your chest as you approach the booth of four newly sat in your section. As you do, you stutter step, unsure if your eyes are seeing clearly. You know that hair, the subtle wave of brown with strands of silver woven in. You step up and give a smile to the men.

“Good evening,” you place a menu in front of each of them; the burly blonde comedically crowded into the corner beside the man with dark hair and darker eyes, the blonde you vaguely recognise from his acquaintance with the most familiar face at the table, “Mr. Barnes.”

“Oh, hi,” he sits up and sets the drink menu back at the centre of the table, “uh,” he gives you a peculiar look, “I thought you worked down at the Denny’s.”

“Used to. Just got hired here,” you chime, “uh, so, are you all ready to go with your drink orders?”

“You mind?” The blond with the short hair nudges him.

“Yeah, go ahead, I’m still thinking,” he sits back.

“Heineken,” the man orders with a tweak of his eyebrow.

“Seems you don’t carry Hansa so I’ll have a jolly rancher cocktail,” the big blond intones. You almost laugh, thinking of him with the bright blue drink with a gummy worm for garnish.

“Shirley Temple for me,” the other says, “designated driver.”

“Oh, of course,” you note each order in your head, “and you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Mr. Barnes,” the man across from him goads.

“Bucky,” Mr. Barnes corrects you, “uh, I’ll take a Corona.”

“Alright, Heineken, jolly rancher, Shirley Temple, Corona,” you list off, “I’ll be back with your drinks and to take your order.”

“Thanks,” Bucky smiles.

“Yeah, thanks, doll,” the blonde at his shoulder winks. You don’t miss the elbow he receives from his seat partner.

You go to the bar and put in the order. You do a round to check in on your other tables, grabbing a few napkins at request and clearing plates. When the drinks are set out neatly on a tray, you carry them to the booth and dole them out.

“So, are we starting with an appetizer?” You ask.

“We’ll do some nachos,” the man across from Bucky says, “thanks, sweetie.”

“Beef, chicken, or veggie?”

“Chicken,” he answers.

“Hey, I know you,” the blond drapes his arm over the side of the booth, “you’re the neighbour girl.”

“Steve,” Bucky reproaches under his breath.

“What? It was killing me. I just couldn’t place the face.”

Bucky utters your name, almost reluctant to do so, “I’m just out with buddies,” he explains, “buncha old men catching up;” he jabs his thumb towards the man beside him, “Steve, Thor,” he points to the other blonde then to the man across from him, “Sam.”

“Sounds like fun,” you chirp, “well, I’ll go get those nachos. Are we planning on entrees?”

“We’ll just share the chips,” Bucky assures.

Sam leans back and pats his chest, “heartburn.”

You humour him with a smile and nod before spinning away. You flit off and head for the kitchen. It’s strange seeing Mr. Barnes– Bucky outside the neighbourhood. He’s always just been next door. Odder even seeing him without his family. Well, you guess he deserves the break. Every time you see him, he’s on his way somewhere.

🍻

The night wears on. Your shifts always pass quickly as you’re kept afoot by patrons and managers alike. Several times you find yourself visiting Bucky’s table to top up drinks and they grow rowdy as the game comes on the big screen. 

You’re almost amused as you’ve never seen your neighbour like this. He’s always so stern and standoffish. A small wave as he mows the lawn or a ‘morning’ as you pass by him unlocking his car. Even your father claimed he was the most serious man he’d ever met.

“Sweetheart,” Sam smiles at you as clear the empties, “can we get our check? I gotta get them out of here before they break something.”

“Sure thing,” you say as you stack the tray with bottles and glasses, “separate or together?”

“Together. I’ll have to chase them down for the difference,” Sam answers.

As you take the clear Corona bottle from in front of Bucky, he rests his chin in his hand and watches you. Your eyes meet his and your cheeks round even more. He’s definitely drunk.

“Hi,” he babbles.

“Hello, Mr. Barnes,” you return.

“I told you, it’s Bucky,” he grins.

“Bucky,” you repeat, “you want some water?”

He sits up and drags his elbow off the table, “I guess I should…”

“For all of them,” Sam says from your other side, “please.”

“Alright, check and waters.”

You almost click your heels before you sweep off on your mission. It’s almost closing time and the place is sparse. A few stragglers along the bar but no more hectic families of screaming toddlers breaking crayons and tossing napkins.

You go to the till and print out the bill and grab a handheld from the charger. You place both on your cleared tray and fill three glasses of water. You carry them back to your last table and gently set the condensating drinks before each diner. Sam takes the bill as he holds his card between two fingers.

“You go to school?” Steve’s voice startles you before you can summon small talk.

“Uh, yeah, second year,” you answer him.

“I thought so,” he says, “college girls…”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky grumbles, putting his hand up to block out Steve, “ignore him. He’s trashed.”

“Speak for yourself,” Steve swats his hand down and receives a swipe back. 

The men slap at each others’ hands as Thor stands and leans over, his size deterring the men as he shoves their arms apart, “enough. Or I’ll drag you out like stray cats.”

You try not to show your discomfort as Sam hands you back the machine and it loudly prints his receipt. You offer him a copy but he insists you go and enjoy your night. You bid them all the same and set off to clear the last of your tables.

Your coworkers start their own closing tasks and the music turns off as closing time hits. You glance up, everyone’s gone. You go back to the booth and gather up the mostly untouched glasses of water and wipe it down. With your tables done, you turn in your apron and go to get your cut of the tips. Your tally comes up higher than you expect thanks to the table of middle-aged men.

You head out the back door and round to the front of the shining marquee. You’ll uber home since your mom is out of town. As you step up on the little pavement lip in front of the restaurant, a figure stands from their perch on the ground. You don’t recognise Bucky until he says your name.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” You ask as you lower your phone.

“Ah, well, me and Steve…” he rubs his neck and chuckles, “I’m waiting on a cab but none have passed by.” He shrugs, “plus, I figured we’re headed in the same direction…”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess,” you say, “I was just ordering an uber. Kinda don’t like taking them alone so late at night anyway.”

“Great,” he slurs, “uh, sorry about tonight. My friends are… a lot.”

“It’s fine, you were having a good time,” you select a ride and black out your phone. “Just make sure you drink lots of water.”

“Hmm,” he hums, “you’re so nice… I’ll be fine, you know? I can take care of myself.”

“I know, I just… I hate hangovers.”

“Oh? Didn’t take you for a drinker?”

“Well, don’t tell mom but once in a while.”

“My lips are sealed,” he surprises you as he reaches to squeeze your shoulder. “And I’ve never broken a promise to a pretty girl.”

You want to laugh. He’s tipsy and it’s kind of cute. The glare of headlights flash over you and he drops his arm away from you. The uber approaches and you check the plate, pointing Bucky in ahead of you. 

He sidles over the seat and yawns as you climb in next to him. The driver confirms your destination as you let yourself relax against the seat. The tension of your shift slowly drifts away.

Bucky slowly slides until he’s leaning against you, “I’ll pay you back for the ride,” he grumbles as he rests his head on your shoulder. 

The tension seeps back into you but you try not to overthink it. He’s just your neighbour, a friendly neighbourhood dad, a bit discombobulated from his night out. He probably doesn’t get many of those.

“Been a long time since I went home with a girl like you,” he chuckles.

You laugh, a nervous tickle in your throat as his weight bears down on you. You can smell a hint of citrus from his hair. Hopefully he’ll forget this all by the morning.

You’re quiet as the driver continues on. By the time you get to your street, you’re sure Bucky’s fallen asleep. You’re worried about getting him back to his place. As you get close to your house, you point the driver to the house right beside your own. That’ll be easier.

To your surprise, Bucky sits up and lets out a sleepy grumble. You thank the driver as your neighbour grabs onto your hand and tugs you towards his side as he opens the door. You let him and he clings to you as the uber leaves you in the shadow of the Barnes’ abode.

“Let’s go to bed,” he pulls you towards the walkway.

“Bucky,” you utter, “uh, Mr. Barnes?”

Is he that drunk? He must not realise you’re not his wife. You look around. You don’t see her car. That explains his little boys’ night. She’s probably visiting family again so he’s all alone.

“Hey,” you laugh unevenly as he drags you up onto the porch. He’s very strong. “Mr. Barnes, it’s me.”

He stops and sways. He squints at you and feels his pockets, jangling his keys through the fabric. He steadies himself and grins. His eyes hold yours, drowning you in pools of oceanic blue.

“I know,” he says soberly, “it’s you.”

You stare at him in confusion, blinking as he slides his hand into his pocket. You glance over your shoulder at the dark siding of your parents’ house. You face him again as he pulls his keys out but drops them between his shoes. You put your phone in your purse and shift the bag to rest on your hip.

“I should– oop,” you look down, “Mr. Barnes,” you bends to grab the keys, “alright, I’ll just get you inside and head home.” You stand up and hold up his keys, “which one?”

He points to the square gold one and you shove it into the slot. You push the door inward and gesture him ahead of you. He shuffles over the threshold, tripping before barely catching himself on the frame. You follow him in and look around cautiously. You’ve never been inside.

“Let’s get you to the couch, Mr. Barnes,” you grab his arm as he wobbles, “you just need to sleep this off–”

You tug on his arm but he doesn’t budge. Once more, all unsteadiness fades and he’s suddenly immovably still. He turns his head slowly and puts his hand over yours.

“I told you,” he faces you as he guides your hand up his arm, “it’s Bucky.”

“Um, alright, uh–”

He backs you up and you collide with the door, the impact forcing it shut. You gulp and press yourself against the inside as he pens you in, clutching your hand to his shoulder. The beer on his breath mingles with the citrusy scent that cloys from him.

“Mr. Barnes, what–”

“Shhh,” his hand slips from your and he grips your chin, “it’s okay–”

“St–”

He smothers your protest with a kiss. You’re too stunned to do more than flatten yourself against the door. His grip makes your jaw ache as his other hand crawls up your thigh. You squirm and push against his shoulder with a whine.

He doesn’t relent. He pushes his foot between yours, edging them apart as he picks your fly open. You curl your fingers, jabbing your nails into him. He growls but doesn’t stop.

You turn your head, forcing your mouth away from his.

“Mr. Barnes… Bucky, please–”

He hushes you again as his hand falls from chin to throat. He squeezes, crushing out any hope of screaming for help. He nuzzles into the side of your neck, his nose tickling the line of your jaw. You whimper as his hand delves beneath the cotton of your panties.

His fingertips brush along your trimmed vee of hair and he swirls the short curls with a purr. He extends his middle finger, feeling along your folds and dipping between. He flicks his finger back and forth, exploring you until he finds your clit. He rolls his finger, stoking a heat beneath his touch.

You wriggle and trail your hand down his arm, gripping his wrist as you fight him. You’re too weak. You croak through your tight throat as you try to fight the swirling tide building with the friction of his roughened fingertip. This can’t be happening.

He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not like this.

A million thoughts race with as many sensations. You stand on your toes as your muscles knots and the tension coils in your core. You shouldn’t feel like this. This is wrong. This isn’t real. Your eyes roll back and you hide behind your eyelids.

His finger glides as you slicken against him. He quickens his pace, toying with you as he breathes against your neck, puffing damply as his hand remains firm on you. He keeps you pinned as he goads your body on, fueling a fire you’ve never lit before.

You squeak as you twitch without permission. You succumb to the brewing storm, blown away in the whirlwind as your mind is stifled by your body. You gulp and gasp, your hand slipping down to his chest as your other falls away from his arm.

“You’re so sexy,” he purrs as he lets you go.

You brace yourself against the door, breathless and paralysed as you watch him raise his hand. He presses his fingertips to his mouth and you see the glisten on them. He pushes them inside and sucks them clean with a growl.

“And so sweet, baby,” he steps forward, crowding you again.

The afterglow has you helpless. He feels along your side as his other hand wanders down your leg. He pulls your knee up and brings himself flush to you. He bends his knees as he presses his crotch into yours. You murmur at the hot weight between you. 

He curls his arm around your neck and your head lolls back. He bows to kiss you, devouring you as he slowly rocks his hip. A fiery heat builds between the layers of fabric, the friction of your seam rubs you through the damp cotton of your panties.

He gasps into your mouth as his pace quickens. The door shifts and squeaks with his motion as he pounds you into it, hips pumping as his bulge pokes through his jeans rigidly. Your head droops to the side and his wet lips smear over your cheek. He bites into your ear lobe and snarls.

Another tickle flares and you moan. A small burst that has you just as senseless. Your delight leaks onto your panties, spreading to the edges.

“Mmmmm,” he hums and releases the pinch of his bite, “fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me go– right in my–” he chokes as his fingertips sink into the bottom of your thigh and he pulls your leg higher, “jeans–”

He shakes and lets out a long rattle, sprinkled with deep groans and soft mewls. He leans into you completely and shudders, stilling at last. He sinks down with you, bringing you to straddle him as his knees meet the floor.

You heave and lift your head, gaping at him as his eyelids droop sleepily. He smiles, the expression crinkling around his eyes. He leans in and kisses you again, nibbling on your lower lip before pulling away.

“I won’t tell your mom about that either, kitten.”

[nose-coffee]

okay okay so corona and ianthe's mother's name is canonically "violabeth" (whence "coronabeth" gains the "beth"). viola is latin/italian in origin, meaning purple; corona means crown or wreath. congrats, your third house monarch (whose assigned house colour is purple) is called purplebeth and crownbeth

but also! in pondering this, my mind was also drawn to viola from shakespeare's twelfth night - one half of a pair of twins, forced by circumstance to take on the guise of her brother for her own safety. we talk and talk abt who out of ianthe and corona came up w the "corona should pretend to be a necromancer" scheme, and also who enforced it; but is it not fucked up if it was violabeth? (especially considering ianthe specifies their father as the one who "wanted a matching set") and if it wasn't, isn't it still fucked up that, based on literature that existed before the houses, their mother's name is all but a prophecy?