#glassy water

[herbalnature]

Catch a glimpse of serenity with this stunning sunrise over a glassy lake in Ontario, where the sky's reflection paints a perfect mirror image. A peaceful start to any day, simply breathtaking.

[honeydots]

stuff from my (xanlow) mermaid au~

[misskohane]

"Like liquid glass..."

[aratinarainstorm]

another one of my favorite genshin impact headcanons is the idea that kokomi is secretly a deep sea eldritch horror, sent by an ancient force to avenge the death of orobashi

this is most definitely not canon but imo it’s a really compelling idea. sangonomiya kokomi, divine priestess of watatsumi island, grace and elegance and benevolence incarnate, is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. a monster in disguise, risen from the barren depths of the sea, with one ultimate goal in mind.

make the shogun and her people pay.

every drop of blood, every life lost to the war, is more nourishment for her god. the shogunate’s soldiers will be fine prey for orobashi, and if the people of watatsumi die too? so be it. it doesn’t matter who dies. all that matters is that, in the end, what remains of orobashi is sated

i also like the idea that kujou sara is the only one who knows this. she’s the only person who has ever seen kokomi as she truly is, and as such, she dreads the thought of facing her on the battlefield. she knows that whatever demon hides behind that elegant facade will strike her down in a heartbeat. because all that lives, and all that comes from raiden ei, is nothing more than blood to water orobashi’s fields — and kokomi? she is no different. she simply exists to ensure her god is fed.

also before the war maybe kokomi goes hunting every now and then to drag the bodies of pirates or wayward sailors or shogunate samurai either to the depths of the sea, or to watatsumi. because after all, she is the divine priestess, and do priestesses not sacrifice too?

[joraszinhaz]

hailstorm

[gingerwerk]

I know I’ve said it before but one of my favorite things Timothy does is how instantly he makes raylan act irritated/upset when he’s around arlo, regardless of the context of their conversation

[nightingale-prompts]

Ghost Beauty Standards

So what if ghosts have their own scale for beauty?

Waxy pale skin, half-lidded eyes, empty eyes, colorless lips, ashen complexion, and sunken cheeks.

These are considered the most attractive features of a ghost without the extra bells and whistles.

Tim did not know this when he sat at his desk after pulling a week straight of sleepless case-solving and his desk neighbor was staring at him.

Danny had never seen anyone more beautiful until he noticed Tim. He looked like he could drop dead at any moment. Did he even drink water? Eating?

Those beautiful glassy vacant eyes made Danny blush. He couldn't take his eyes off him.

When class ended Tim sat up Danny heard his back crack from his still position. Thoughts of rigor mortis filled his head and the sound of popping bones was almost a turn-on. Danny didn't even know what that said about him.

Danny had to consider what to do next to tame his feelings. He could stop his attraction by helping his classmate improve his health. Or he could satisfy his urges by courting him.

[dmitriene]

experience of period leakage is uncomfortable, waking up through the grogginess that lingers on your eyes, making them glassy, bloated stomach wrenching with cramps that knot in the lower area of your abdomen, making you bent with muffled whine, trying to relieve the pain as your spine flexes with your movement, when you feel something sodden beneath.

oozed blood, staining the twitching skin of your thighs as you shake from the weakness, sheets beneath you now a darkened burgundy color, seeped out from where your panties now have the same rudy stain as the duvet, making your eyes swim with annoying sting, before it rips out of you with bubbled sob.

it's wakes simon up, stirring beneath the blanket that pooled at his hips as he propped himself up, one hand rubbing at his darkened, lidded with sleep eyes, ears picking at the small sound of distress immediately, and he sits up through cracking bones to see your shaking, twisted form.

noticing the reason of your distress as well, brushing his hand along the dried spot of blood beneath, no doubt soaked in the mattress by now, and the thought makes your fingers curl at the sheets in sadness that morphs itself in the anger, to the way you feel, to what you endure, buzzing in your ears along ragged sobs that make simon's heart knot in sympathy.

you didn't even noticed that he woke up, jolting lightly at the sudden touch that envelops the side of your body with comfortingly seeping warmth, until you're being scooped between two burly, spread legs and slotted gently against sturdy, rumbling chest, the cooing hoarseness of his voice suddenly overcomes the distressing buzz in your ears, calming your senses.

you melt against him, letting simon cradle you against his chest with gentle touches, and despite that you feel uncomfortably dirty because of the smudged blood on your panties, you cuddle closer with little sniffs, curling yourself in a ball, as his lips brush against your temple, nose catching at the salty wetness of your tears.

simon will take care of everything, fill the bathtub with warm water so you'll be able to wash yourself up so slipping into the clean underwear and one of his shirts would feel even more comfortable, as he'd change the sheets and dump them to washing machine along with your panties, hell, he'd even buy a new clean mattress, anything, just to not see you upset again.

you come back to the room not on your legs, but nuzzled against simon's solid chest as he carries you to the clean bed, adorned with a dark shade of sheets in case something will happen again, as he settles you beneath the softness of the blanket and lays behind you, cloaking your form with his, moving his palms to rest them on your tummy, rubbing twining, lulling circles on your relaxed skin.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[wisconsinweed]

[herbalnature]

A serene sunrise reflects over a glassy Ontario lake, with fluffy clouds mirrored in the tranquil water. The gentle hues of dawn paint a peaceful scene, inviting a moment of quiet reflection.

[icangiveitback]

I'm gonna HAVE to give a go at illustrating conviction's soul name concepts. I know it's been two years but I also think it'd be a good environment practice maybe?

[svuguru]

Suguru who always does the work for you. He pampers you like crazy, to the point where you basically don't even have a brain around him! Of course it starts off with the gentleman-like gestures, such as opening the door for you, pulling out your chair at restaurants or even just at home.

Then, he'll carry you to bed, always grabs your drinks even if it's just a glass of water, turn on the television, serve you dinner, sometimes he'll even spoon feed you and have you sip through a straw for water, with him holding the glass up, of course. Especially in public, he'll do everything for you. Not that you mind, in fact, you actually like it.

This is no exception for the bedroom; his hands on your hips as he bounces you on his cock, your lips stuck out in a pout as you whine every now and then.

"Sugu," you slur, throwing your head down as you close your eyes. "My legs are tired.." in response, Suguru sticks his lower lip out in sympathy, leaning towards you and grabbing your jaw with a gentle grip, tilting your head up so you can face him.

"Aww, poor baby," he coos before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You slowly open your glassy eyes, meeting his loving ones. "Wanna lay down? Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmur and close your tired eyes again, waiting for Suguru to flip you over so you can relax, and that he does.

He shifts positions so your back is on the mattress, with him hovering above you and your legs wrapped around his waist.

"Sweet baby was all tired, poor thing," Suguru whispers, sliding his length in your pussy slowly as his eyes watch your jaw go slack, your eyes still closed but your eyebrows drawn together. "Okay, you rest now, yeah? I'll handle the rest,"

[sprout-fics]

Thinking about Ghost who's a service top to the point where he's addicted to overstimming you.

MDNI, nsfw below the cut. AFAB reader

Giving you so many orgasms you go kinda loose and pliant, yes. That he adores. But Simon has a weakness for pressing his rough thumb into your oversensitive clit hard enough that you gasp and bow off the bed, hands fluttering at him with a 'Please, please Si, it's too much-' only for him to use his massive frame to sink you further into the mattress, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

He rubs circles into your overworked clit hard enough for you to kick out a feeble leg, pleading, begging for mercy all while his cock twitches back to life inside you. There's tears in your eyes, your voice catching on a sob, and there's a sensation singing in your veins that screams too much, too much-

And Simon, with his eyes that burn into your skin, mouth watering at the sight of you weakly thrashing, overstrung and sensitive- Simon, who coos darkly down at you. 'C'mon lovie, lemme feel it. One more fr'me. Be good.' even as you toss your head against the pillows, moaning weakly as something tightens too fast, too warm below your belly. You try to tell him you can't, but part of you knows better. You're going to cum again not because you can, but because he wants it.

and when you do, voice catching on a little cry, toes curling, eyes scrunched so tight you think you might go blind, you come back down to the sensation of liquid pooling below you, of Simon's devastating smile as he gently rocks into you. Barely holding back, getting off on just the sight of you coming entirely undone underneath him. He chuckles a little, grabs your jaw and shakes you just to see your head loll against his hand with your pretty, glassy eyes.

"There we go." He murmurs, voice dragging inside his chest. "Just lay back, pet. Lemme do all the work."

[eilidh-eternal]

“Single mom x Johnny” this, “single mom x Simon” that.

I want single dad Johnny/Simon and the single reader next door who is helplessly in love with them and their kid.

18+ MDNI

You never wanted kids. You’re convinced you would turn out to be just like your parents. That’s probably why you don’t have a ring on your finger or any sort of boyfriend or partner to speak of.

You never wanted kids.

Until Johnny goddamn MacTavish.

You’re in love with the man who always walks his little girl to school every morning, crooked pigtails flouncing with each too-big step she takes to keep stride with his long legs.

Madly in love with the way he smiles down at the tiny girl, even tinier hand held firmly in his as she dodges cracks in the pavement, and the shriek of her laughter when he lifts her by the arm, swinging her through the air to the next chunk of concrete.

Hopelessly in love with the broad shoulders he hoists her up on, little legs swinging with arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her chin resting on top of his head, blowing stray hairs of an overgrown mohawk out of her face.

Dangerously in love with the way he lets her cling to his front when it rains, like a little koala wrapped around this tree of a man who holds an umbrella in one hand and has a firm hold on her with the other.

Happy. He looks so happy with her. Like she’s the sun he orbits; the star that lights up his world.

You’re just a comet who occasionally passes them by.

——

Johnny never thought he would be doing this alone.

He’s so far out of his depth. Never even had the chance to dip his toe in the water before he was shoved into the churning ocean.

He still remembers every life-altering detail of that day. The phone call after the 16 hour flight back to base. The frantic drive to the hospital. The impossibly tiny, wailing little girl, all alone in the social workers office.

She’s all he has left of her. Of them.

His best friend. His partner in crime, for more years than he can remember. The person who understood better than anyone who he is, saw him through his darkest moments, and loved him with her whole heart.

Gone.

But he smiles for her. Because of her. Isobel is the light in the abysmal darkness that he’s drowning in. The buoy he clings to when he can no longer hold his head above the surface. She’s everything. His past, his present, and his future. And she’s sitting at the table refusing to eat her dinner.

“’s not right.” Her little nose scrunches, turns up at the meal, and she pushes the bright green plastic away, matching miniature fork sent skittering across the table by the force of it

Johnny lowers his own fork and swallows his frustration with a sigh. “‘s yer favorite. Wha’s wrong with it? ”

Her brows knit together as she studies the tray, little creases forming between them and she slumps in her booster seat. “Mommy didn’t make it.”

No. She didn’t.

Johnny was never the cook in the family. That was all her. She’d chased him out of the kitchen after he’d burnt one of her expensive pans and he was thus forth relegated to chopping, and occasionally peeling, duties.

“I know.” His chair scrapes against the floor when he pushes back from the table, moving to crouch down where she sits beside him so that he’s at eye level with her, and he pulls the fork and tray back towards her. “But mommy wouldnae want ye to go to bed hungry, aye?”

“I wan’ somethin’ else.” He watches her little bottom lip jut out, brows still pinched and face twisting into a stubborn pout.

“Wha’d’ye want?”

“Quesadilla.” She drags out the ‘ee’ sound, emphasizing her clumsy command of the foreign language in her already thick Scot’s accent.

He enjoys Mexican food. Loved the tacos Alejandro and Rudy shared with him and his team during his time in Mexico. She’d learned how to make them for his birthday.

Nowhere in Glasgow made anything like it. Not then, and not now.

“I cannae make a quesadilla, leannan.” Her little lip wobbles, eyes turn glassy, tears already welling up in the corners and threatening to spill down chubby cheeks. She sniffles, drags the backs of her hands across her eyes, and Johnny feels what’s left of his heart splinter, another little piece of it withering away to nothing with each fat tear that rolls down and collects at her chin. He unbuckles her from the booster and gathers her into his arms as he stands up, taking her with him to sit in his own chair at the table.

Her little shoulders shake, hiccuping with each muffled sob against his shoulder and tiny fingers fist the material of his shirt. “Miss ‘er,” she warbles, and his arms tighten around her small frame.

“Ah know, leannan.” More hiccups. More tears that seep through his shirt and brand his skin.

You should be here. You’re supposed to be here. With her. With him. With them.

“How ‘bout we go down to the shops? Ye can pick whatever ye want for dinner. Dinnae think they’ll have quesadillas, but I’m sure we can find somethin’ ye like.” She lifts her head from his shoulder, tips it back to peer up at him with bleary eyes and sniffles. Wipes her hand across her eyes again.

“Cheesy noodles?” It’s thin and reedy, poor little throat still tight and full of grief that he knows feels impossible to speak around.

“Aye, we can get cheesy noodles.” He brushes an errant strand of hair away from her face, tucking the unruly curl behind an ear where it probably won’t stay. Just like her mum’s. So much like her mum. She considers him, his offer, and toys with his shirt.

“And sticky pudding?”

“Whatever ye want, leannan.” She really shouldn’t have something so sugary right before bed but he doesn’t have it in him to deny her. Is just glad the tears have stopped. That she’s willing to eat, even if he has to bribe her with junk food and sweets. He sends her to put her shoes on while he cleans up in the kitchen and grabs his own shoes and keys.

——

He’s there.

He’s standing in the pasta aisle with his little girl in the buggy, smiling at the way she makes grabby hands at the dismal selection of boxed macaroni, and he pulls one down from the shelf to hand to her. She inspects it, turning it this way and that way, pointing to something on the packaging and saying something that makes him laugh.

You’re frozen in place, jar of pasta sauce halfway to the basket in your other hand, and you can’t move because the sound of his laughter causes something in your brain to misfire. Causes the electrical signals between neurons and synapses to jumble together and sets your nerves alight. You think you might really be frozen, body unwilling to move an inch away from where you stand now, by your beautiful neighbor in the middle of a goddamned Tesco, until a little voice is addressing you.

“Hi miss neighbor!” Johnny’s head whips around and when his gaze lands on you it feels like your stomach’s turned to lead. “We’re havin’ cheesy noodles f’r dinner!” She holds up the box in her hand and kicks her feet excitedly.

You’re currently kicking yourself for making what you’re sure is an expression closely resembling that of a fish out of water. Mouth agape, brows raised and eyes slightly widened in surprise. When your mouth finally remembers how to move you smile at the little girl waving her box of noodles and powdered cheese in the air. “Hello, Isobel. That sounds like a lovely dinner.”

His brows knit together, one of them quirked at a curious angle. “And how d’ the two of ye know each other?”

Isobel’s foot connects with his thigh and his head jerks back around. “She’s our neighbor. She gave me the tablet,” she whispers a little too loud, cupping a small hand in front of her mouth. He turns back to you with the same jaunty brows and a quirk to his lips.

“So ye’re the one responsible for the wee heathens late night sugar-induced marathon.”

“M-marathon?”

“Aye, she was bouncin’ round the house all night, the little devil.” He ruffles her hair and she swats at his hand.

“I- I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” You don’t really know what you’d been thinking when you’d given her the Tupperware full of sugary confections to take home after she’d spent the morning helping you root around in the flowerbeds in front of your home. She’d been watching out the window for hours until she was suddenly right next to you, asking what you were digging for.

“‘s alright. Ye’ll just have to make up f’r it.”

It’s your turn to pinch your brows and tilt your head in confusion. “Make up for it?”

His lips part in a full, genuine smile, like the ones he gives Isobel, and your leaden stomach suddenly feels like it’s lodged in your chest, full of butterflies and other fluttering things you don’t dare to name.

“Oh aye. Reckon ye owe us a dinner since ye’ve skipped right to dessert.”

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[fic-over-cannon]

Jason Todd will cockblock himself if he thinks you can’t give 100% informed consent.

A few too many drinks at a gala and you’re drunkenly trying to make out with your gorgeous boyfriend. He’ll stop kissing you once he can taste the champagne on your lips, notices the glassy sheen to your eyes. Jason folds your roaming hands back into your lap and makes you promise to be good. He’ll take you home early and get some water into you before tucking you into bed. He’ll go so far as to sleep on the couch, door open to the bedroom so he can hear if you need him.

Jason remembers what Catherine looked like, coming off of a high and not remembering what day it was. The fear in her eyes and the shake in her voice when she asked if anyone else had been in the apartment.

Jason remembers the early days after the pit. When he’d wake up after blacking out in rage and not remember what his body had done. Seeing the blood on his skin and not knowing where it came from.

Jason never wants you to wake up with that same fearful not knowing. So he’ll sleep on the couch and make sure you’re safe. In the morning he’ll cook you breakfast and kiss you silly. But you’re going to have a talk, the two of you, once you’re sober enough to have a real conversation. Establish boundaries and plan consent for if you do want to fool around if one of you is impaired, or how you want to handle it if you don’t. But it’s not tomorrow yet, and Jason’s tired. He can sleep soundly though, knowing that nothing’s going to happen to you.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Hello! Could you please write a stubborn, jealous hc for Miguel o'hara? Thank you!!

I had the brainworms, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thanks for the ask <3

Jealous!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: jealous!Miguel O'Hara x reader

summary: stubborn HCs for jealous!Miguel O'Hara. 

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble and i basically wrote a full fic. i have zero self control lmfao

warnings: smut (fingering, f receiving oral, slight brat taming, etc) right at the very end, 18+ from then onwards, the rest is more pg-13

wc: 3.5k ish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long story short: he's a stubborn little shit.

Pig-headed as fuck and it shows up in little things. 

Let's say you first met as coworkers, and you were a lab technician at Alchemax. 

Think: unstoppable force meets immovable object. He likes his labs just so, with very specific equipment in a very specific configuration. 

It drives you crazy, regularly having tiffs outside the labs; much to the chagrin of your coworkers. 

"Jesus." Your coworker mutters, wincing at the seemingly heated argument by the water cooler. 

"Ignore it, Maeve." Another coworker rolls their eyes, nudging Mave with a snort. "They're at it again . S'pose they'll tire each other out by the end of the day."

Not that they were wrong. But this time, it wasn't your fault: dealing with O'Hara's bullshit had really taken it's toll. He was insufferable, prone to nitpicking and just plain mean. You could hardly be blamed if you gave him some of your own choice words. 

"My notes were basically paint-by-fucking-numbers!  How could you mess up a simple distillation? When I specify precision glassware , you don't think that's fucking important?" 

"Your notes ," You draw air quotes pointedly at him. "-are illegible, you fucking cretin! Maybe if you didn't write like a goddamn pre-schooler-"

"- preschooler? Oh , fuck you!" 

"Get your nose out of that highschool Chem textbook, O'Hara, this is a fucking job."

"Yeah? Stop using it to wipe your ass and you might learn a thing or two."

"Oh , so that's what we're doing?" You laugh in his face, so angry your hand curls into tight fists. You get close, staring him down as you look upwards through your lashes. His own face is contorted into a grimace; bushy eyebrows furrowed into deep shadows around his eyes. You can feel his steady breathing before he speaks, low and rumbling. 

"I could do this all day, princesa. " 

You scoff, ignoring the way his words weaken your knees. The one time you asked for a break during a long lab and he won't stop calling you a spoilt princess. His laughter then stings in your ears now, the ghost of a smirk on his face as you storm off. Miguel O'Hara: smug bastard. He would be the death of you, you're sure. 

~~~

You spend many a late night with him, unwittingly, and find out he's more than a stubborn little shit. 

You find out he's funny, and shares the same anti-Alchemax tendencies you do: both preyed upon by the company immediately after graduation, young and naive. 

He's kind, even though he'd never admit it, often finishing up the lab notes and doing more than his fair share of work so you can go home at a reasonable time. 

You both still butt heads, but it turns into a tentative friendship - coffees in the morning hidden as blaise convenience, covering for each other at work, and defending the other when office gossip goes too far. 

That's why when he comes back to work after a week-long stint away - something about a blow up with the boss, an issue described as 'miscommunication, promptly smoothed over' by anyone official - you notice… something's different about him. 

You first noticed something was off when he walked in without a snide remark. You left a mug overnight at the counter, something that would usually draw a sarcastic comment at the least , but he gives you… nothing. Blank, glassy eyes as he opens up his workstation - clicking away at the keys without so much as a glance.

"O'Hara?" You call, but he doesn't even look up. You walk to his workstation and knock at the desk. He jumps. God, he looks worse for the wear. Heavy bags under his eyes and a bruise blossoming under his collar. 

"You okay?" 

He rubs his temples, eyes flitting up at you.  "Yeah, just…. just a long week, s'all." 

You put a hand on his shoulder, and you swear he leans into your touch. "We can reschedule, tonight. The calculations can wait, Miguel."

He gives you a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "S'okay. Need to make sure you don't fuck it up."

"Don't push your luck, O'Hara."

~~~

As you get closer, you notice just how stubborn he is to admit the growing tension between you two. 

Late nights at the lab turn into takeout at your place, morning coffee turns into a pleasant 20 minutes on the rooftop away from the hustle and bustle - just you and Miguel, talking and joking with a cup of shitty coffee in hand. 

Wholly, he seems more assertive at work, not as quick to roll over. 

It's hot, you have to admit; watching him fight with someone else other than you. 

You're at work drinks with the other technicians and engineers, nursing a watery beer when another colleague makes small talk with you at the bar.

You’ve never been that close to him, and the conversation is amicable enough, but you’re almost bowled over when you see Miguel, in the corner, staring straight at you with a stormy look.

You suppose it's a little pathetic, getting all dressed up for a casual drink. Lips shiny with gloss and gently powdered with makeup, you feel a little out of place. For all your talk at work, actually being here was another thing. Suddenly, your blouse is too tight and your skirt too short. With a manicured finger, you trace the lip of your glass filled with watery beer. You sigh. You don't want to admit it, but you were only here because of Miguel. He said he would come, and now you're sitting on a barstool counting the chips in your glass. 

It was probably for the best. You sink into the absentminded chatter of your colleagues around you, until there's a tap at your shoulder. 

"Is someone-" He clears his throat; a tall man dressed in a sharp suit nodding gracefully towards the empty chair. "-is this seat taken?" 

You shake your head, grateful for the company. He's handsome, sharp features curving into a wry grin as he calls for a drink. 

"...and something other than shitty beer for the pretty girl, too." It makes you laugh, light and lilting in the bustle of the bar. 

He stretches out his hand, and you take it. 

"Eddie Crouch. I work in marketing."

Eddie…. as in… head of the most profitable division of Alchemax? Your eyes widen involuntarily and you try to clamp down your immediate shock, somewhat unsuccessfully. He narrows his eyes as you tumble over your words. 

"Y-Yeah, same! I mean, not same , I just work in the l-labs and I thought it was just for us guys, working behind the curtain, y'know? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here, because we a-are." You spill out, wincing. "....Is this about the performance reviews? Because I know output was down this quarter but our projections are-"

"I'm not here to talk about work." He chuckles. You squint, not convinced. As if to alleviate your concerns, he loosens his tie and undoes his top buttons with a flourish. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in, and the air becomes thick with expensive perfume. He twirls the signet ring on his finger, a ring probably worth more than your monthly paycheck. 

"Your boss invited me," Discreetly, he stretches a finger at your boss; a man ruddy cheeked and red-faced with alcohol. "Guess he thought it would boost morale. He's a fucking idiot if he thinks having me, the one guy that could fire your entire department without recourse, exchange empty platitudes would boost morale. But, I digress. So here I am, dragging my feet to this bar, thinking I'm gonna get in, read the lines and get out. But then, " He pauses with dramatic effect. "I see the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, just sitting by the bar. Like everyone isn't already falling over themselves to talk to you."

The irony is palpable. It's sickly sweet, and a line that wouldn't usually work on you. But usually, you weren't pining over a man so prickly and stubborn, you shouldn't have feelings for. Here you were, bright cocktail in front of you and a moderately attractive man by your side. He wasn't quite Miguel, but in the words of one of the greatest thinkers of the past age: country girls make do. 

And so you make lazy conversation with the man. So lost in a tipsy haze, you barely notice Miguel walk in; dark jacket on his shoulders and deliciously loose slacks. You're drawn to him, his eyes seemingly searching the room, and you sigh into your drink. Technically, he looks like shit: eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, a cut at his brow. You think he is gorgeous, eyes tracing the slope of his nose and plush lips. Like he can sense it, he glances over in your direction and you look away hastily. He's watching , you can feel its burn as you turn, pretending to listen to the man besides you. A little cruelly, you lean into him, not breaking eye contact and curling a hand around his arm to laugh at a stupid joke. Eddie laughs with you, oblivious, as you glance behind him. 

Miguel stands with a drink thrust into his hands, looking straight through him, eyes low and gazing at you. 

~~~

He insists on walking you home, a steady hand on the small of your back as you stumble through the streets of Nueva York.

You make light conversation, tipsy and giggly from the alcohol. Miguel seems a little more put together, but his chest still creaks with rumbling laughter.

He definitely walks on the side of the pavement nearest the street, because he thinks it keeps you safer. 

He walks you up the stairs and by the door of your apartment, like a gentleman. You watch him get nervous suddenly, and he hesitates, stubbornly digging in his heels and pausing you from opening the door and coming in. 

You don't want it to end, opting to take the walk up the stairs as opposed to the lift. It's one of your more questionable decisions as you stumble up the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet. Miguel is quick to catch you even though he was just as drunk. Arm around your waist, he leaves searing touches to your hip. You giggle despite yourself, and he can't help but smile at your clumsiness. 

"If you break your legs I won't carry you, princesa ." A lie and you both know it. He would carry you to the ends of the earth like a blushing bride, if you asked him. 

You both stagger to up the stairs and through the corridor until you reach your front door. You rummage around your bag for your keycard, it's contents click-clacking in the quiet of the hallway. Miguel watches, quieter than he was in the journey. If you looked up now, you would see something else behind his eyes - a storm of apprehension and tension. 

You find your keycard, and look up to find Miguel placing a careful palm on the door. He's surprisingly still, eyes on your lips as he steps closer. You look everywhere but to meet his eyes, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his exposed forearm, and the tempting juncture of his strong jaw. You watch it tense, as he brings a gentle hand to your chin. His thumb swipes over the fat of your lip. 

"Got somethin' right… there." He mumbles, before tucking his hand away. You can barely breathe. Without thinking you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together like a gentle hug. You bring his hand to your waist, and he squeezes, ever so gently. Your hand drops and he moves his slowly, knuckles dragging along the smooth silk of your blouse, and then sending shivers when he reaches your bare neck. 

He has to bite down the plethora of things running through his head - his drunken brain threatening to spill all his thoughts. You are so beautiful and soft it makes him short-circuit, desperate to pull you close. Instead, you do: hand inching up his chest and laying to rest on his shoulders. 

He kisses you, finally ; a little messy and impossibly soft. Like his lips on yours would shatter you both. You deepen the kiss and wrap his arm tighter around you, angling your chin to drink up even more of you. You both come up for air, panting in the heat of one another. Miguel's eyes are full of lust and blown out. 

"Do…do you want to come in?" You whisper. 

Something catches in his throat and his expression changes, like he just woke up from a dream. Do you just want to sleep with him? He's not built for one night stands, can't do just sex, especially if it's you. No matter how much he wants to, he can't, he won't, "....I shouldn't."

The disappointment on your face is palpable. You want to ask why - after he kissed you like that - why doesn't he want you? Instead you nod dejectedly. He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, lingering, and a shaky smile. 

You open your door with a buzz, and slam it in his face. 

~~~

It takes Miguel some time to properly put a name to what you two have: not knowing if the kiss was a drunken mistake, animal attraction or something more. 

He's not a grand gestures kind of person, he believes in action rather than words. 

Which is why it takes so long for him to admit just how in love with you he is. 

He steals glances at you all the time at the office, and tries to anticipate  all your needs. 

When you stretch and yawn in the morning, he happens to pass by your favourite coffee place and happens to buy one too many cups of your go-to order. 

So imagine his shock when he arrives from his lunch break, churros and coffee in hand, and there's one of the top brass from the night at the bar perched on your desk - 2 polystyrene cupfuls of something half drunk on the desk. 

He's never been insecure, but he can't help but feel possessive, something tense and tight growing at the base of his stomach. 

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" You step into the equipment cupboard, Miguel close behind you. You rub your temples, anticipating an argument. "O'Hara, if this is about my calibration tests this morning, I swear to God -" 

"No, no , nothing like that." He's quick to say. "They were… okay." He strains. 

You raise an eyebrow. Okay? Since when did Miguel pass up an opportunity for a mindless fight? Your mind races with his actions of the past few days. He has been different since the night at the bar, a little nicer, sure, but nothing this out of the ordinary. 

"That guy you were talking to. I saw him at the bar, and now here. Who is he?" 

Your eyebrows shoot up. "You do not have the right to ask me th-" 

"Are you fucking him?" A pause, and you study his expression, deducing that he is completely fucking serious . 

"Are you insane? You definitely don't have the right to ask me that." You make for the door, and he steps in front of it, blocking it with his body. 

"I need to know. Tell me and then I'll leave you alone, I promise." His voice is low and thick with something. 

You step closer and he wraps his hands around your waist absentmindedly. The pressure feels good, and makes your brain fog up. 

He repeats himself, softer. "Are you fucking him?" 

You look at him for a moment, before shaking your head. His facial expression  is steady, just as unreadable. 

"Do you want to?" 

You hesitate, wanting to be cruel and say yes, just to see his reaction. Perceptive, he sees your hesitance and says something that almost knocks you over. 

"I could fuck you better than he ever could," He kneads your thigh now, lips close to the shell of your ear in the tight space of the cupboard. " Princesa , look at me." 

You look at him, almost whimpering and putty in his hands. He's like a siren and you are lost in the pull of his gaze. It may be the proximity, but you swear you see a tinge of red in his eyes, like deep pools of lust. 

"Will you let me fuck you?" He pulls you closer so the meat of his thigh presses against your clothed cunt. Your stretchy pencil skirt rides up suggestively, and you rock your clit against him, searching for sweet pressure. You nod. 

Miguel titters softly, a hand on your chin pulling your lips to his. You moan into his kiss, body aching. It's hot and heavy like the kiss outside your door, but he swirls his tongue around yours and expertly nips at your lower lip. He guides your hips to rock against his thigh, tensing to make sure it's corded muscle hits the right places. He wants to break you apart, leave you so cock-drunk, you wouldn't think of even glancing at another man. 

You separate and he dips a hand under your skirt. He pulls it up and places a big palm at your pussy, with a well timed slap. You bite into his neck with the pressure. You definitely don't expect it when he rips open your stockings like they were paper. 

"Fuck, Miguel." 

"It's okay, baby, I'll get you new ones." Your eyes roll back as he slips aside the gusset to run a finger through your lower lips. Shamelessly, he slips a finger in, then two, basking in the wet squelch of your heat. You claw at his forearm, as he curls them into that sweet spot. 

You press your forehead to his shoulder, chasing his fingers with your hips. His sharp eyes watch every movement, every stutter and start that his fingers pull from you. He's practical, a man of action, and he is desperate to show you how much he cares. 

"I've thought about you… about this." He hisses as you cover your mouth to dampen your moans. 

"Wanted you for so long, princesa. Want to know how you taste, what this beautiful pussy feels like. What you look like when you cum."

His wrist aches with the back and forth motion but his pace barely faulters. 

" M-Miguel …"

He applies pressure to your clit, and watches in awe as you spasm, nails digging into his forearm. 

" Oh, there it is. Right there, hmm? Does that feel good?" 

You nod frantically with a stifled sob. 

"Not quite, baby. Need to hear you say it. Or I won't let you cum."

"...fuuck you."

" Oh, you'd like that. Still not what I want to hear. Tell me how much you like it when I fuck you with my fingers."

"F-Feels good." You stutter. He stops, wrenching his hand out of your pussy to leave you clenching around nothing.You almost scream.

"You're being a brat, not my princesa , hmm? Only good girls get to cum."

" Miguel , please. I'll do anything." He guides you along his thigh, still lodged between your legs, and licks up your wetness on his other hand. "You m-make me feel so good. So good. And I want you so much it hurts, sometimes. I just want to cum, don't even need your cock. Fuck me with something , please." 

"Miguel? Not asshole? Or fucking idiot, this time?" 

"Please, Miguel ." Your pleas go straight to his cock. He throbs with need, cock rock hard under his slacks. 

He relents, not able to bear your dopey puppy-dog eyes for much longer. He slips three fingers in, without bothering to prep you. He hisses at the tightness of your heat, pounding into you and knuckle deep with his fingers. Shamelessly, you fuck yourself back on them, hips rolling over his thigh. He can't tear himself away from the sight, palming himself through tented trousers. 

You kiss and nip at his neck, as he whispers obscenities at you under his breath. 

"Can you cum for me, princesa? Cum f'me, and I'll take care of you, I promise."

You clamp down on his fingers and moan into a kiss as you ride out your orgasm. It's intense: leg-shaking and leaves you shuddering in the aftermath. You were rusty, sure, hadn't had sex with someone in a while. But Miguel made you cum so hard you saw stars, with only his fingers. Your chest heaves with the thought. 

You thought he would leave you, torn stockings and all, in the little cupboard. But he stays, to sink down to his knees and lap at your folds. You rest a hand on a shelf for purchase, head back in bliss. You cunt is still sensitive, throbbing at the orgasm he's just given you, as you licks you clean. He's taking care of you. You card your hands into his hair, tugging gently as he moans into your pussy. 

He gives your clit a gentle kiss, and swipes up a trailing tear that rolls down your inner thigh. You watch as he pops his fingers into your mouth, cleaning off the cum. Your cum. 

Miguel gives you a lazy grin in the bare bulb of the equipment closet. He seems completely unfazed by the fact his fingers were in you not a moment ago. 

"Are you free after work?" He asks, and it takes a moment for you to process. 

"Uhhh… s-sure. Probably?" 

"Let me take you for dinner, somewhere nice."

All you can do is nod, dumbly, ripped stockings still around your ankles. 

"And then I can fuck you properly, princesa." 

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