#latinxs are so beautiful

[iconsumethesoulsofthedamned]

POV: Me watching the Scott pilgrim fandom (a series about a guy who sucks and a girl who sucks and a bunch of other ppl who suck) somehow be less racist then the spider verse fandom (movies about inclusivity and how anyone can be a hero regardless of age gender or race) I hate it here. (rant in tags) (also this is in no way bashing spvtw I love it im proud of it so far this is all me being mad at a the atsv fandom)

[nicejewishgirl]

going to local ER instead since I’m losing too much blood, way too fast! last week was bad but this is scary and I need to be monitored ASAP!

[rose-wine-selfships]

Peter B as a romantic f/o gang!!!💖💖💖

YEAHHHHH!!!

👏👏👏

HI FIVE!

[goredamore]

pimples are hot. Someone pls pay for my eyelash extensions.

[cloudslinger]

Azul I know u don't watch the firefighter show but if I could only have 150 minutes of your time so you can watch the tsunami arc and tell me, how it looks to outsiders or if it really is bonkers crazy insane as I believe

mili, hello mili *everyone cheers* 👋🏼💖💖 but okay i have no Fucking clue what the tsunami arc is? i'm guessing a tsunami happens? wow, spoilers much (is joking) ALSO the only reason why i don't watch it is bc i love catching random eps on tv w/ my fam when i come home after a long day and we watch it in spanish and i get to laugh at the audio translations 😭 but if you tell me what season that is i'll watch it 😌

[gatheringbones]

[“The barbers, on the other hand, were kind. They were prisoners, too, though they’d been trained as cosmetologists for their prison work. They could see my pain. They could feel my body tense, sense how anxious the whole thing made me. I’d freak out every time and start telling the barber that I didn’t want to do this, I couldn’t bear it again. They went slow, talking me through it very carefully. “I know,” they’d say gently. There was no judgment.

They’d get me talking about something else, anything else. Sometimes, they’d wash my hair, to make it feel more like a beauty appointment than a ritual shearing. And each of the barbers made sure, very carefully, that he left my hair at two inches every time—the longest length allowed. One barber asked if he could shape my eyebrows; he said he wanted the practice. And so from then on, he’d thread my brows into a feminine shape, a small thing that made me feel more like the person I knew I was. It touched me deeply.

I wasn’t the only trans person in our housing unit. In late 2013, the dining facility was closed for renovation, and we ate in the gym. Everything was temporarily socially scrambled, our usual table arrangements thrown into chaos. There was a break from territoriality, the usual de facto segregation. A person from the Latinx group sat down next to me and began to talk quietly about my transness. “I feel the same way,” they said. “I have these feelings, and I never got a chance to deal with them.” Not long after, they were transferred to a medium-security facility in Texas. (Texas was a jurisdiction where prisoners couldn’t legally change their names, which meant that a trans person couldn’t do what I’d done in Kansas.)

Most of the prisoners now called me by feminine pronouns and used my last name or called me Chelsea. Even the transphobes at least largely respected me. But there was one guy—white, blond hair, glasses, lanky—who’d been convicted for murdering civilians. He came into the dining facility one day not long after he’d arrived and began needling me about my gender. If this guy thought he was doing something original that was going to cause some kind of fresh pain, he was extremely incorrect. Being an out trans person had quickly thickened my skin. I was surrounded by people who say the meanest possible things to you, so you learn to be twice as hard, and twice as ready to rip someone apart. I went straight back at him. Look at you, you skinny-ass glasses-wearing little general. I wonder how many pencils you’ve broken today. He was momentarily stunned. Everyone else reacted. Oh, I hope you got a sterile dressing for that burn. He was mortified. He had been taken down by a trans girl, and nobody let him forget it.

The other inmates were supportive of my pursuit of gender reassignment, not necessarily because they believed deeply in trans rights, but because compelling the government to allow me to take hormones was fighting back against the prison. A victory for me would be a victory for all prisoners.”]

chelsea manning, from readme.txt

[pupkashi]

volvi a nacer

gojo feels life start anew now that you’re by his side

a/n: hi hi friends ! this is heavily inspired by this song !! i think it’s so sweet and yeah <3 (unrelated but my bf sent me it i was geeking out for a week ok) ALSO GIGI (@4sat0ruu) I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS SO MUCH MY FELLOW LATINA 🙏🙏🙏; slightly latinx coded reader bc i can !

wordcount - 2,737

masterlist

translations: mi amor // my love, hermoso(a) // beautiful, mi corazon // my heart, cariño // sweetheart

there was time in gojo satoru’s life that he felt his life had essentially ended. he felt isolated, like no one would ever fill the void he felt in his chest.

he didn’t think he had anyone to lean on when he needed it, opting for a façade of cockiness and jokes when anyone asked if he was alright.

you saw through it all. with a concerned frown on your face as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tightly as you could and squeezing him.

“i don’t need your hugs, y/n,” he scoffed, hoping you didn’t hear the wobble in his voice, “I’m the strongest, i can take on anything by myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to,” you whispered, not letting go for a second. you heard the tremble in his breath, the hitch in his throat when he heard your next words, “I’m right here, you’ll be okay.”

for a split second satoru saw the world for all its warmth and love rather than its faults and challenges. he felt the love and support he’d only ever imagined, the suns warm rays hitting his skin as you held him tightly.

it faded as you pulled away, and he could hear nobara and yuji yelling in the distance, toge and yuta laughing at something.

“I’ll be here if you need me, okay?” you reassure him, your hand lingers on his shoulder for a bit before you walk away.

you’re only two steps away when you feel satoru gently grab your wrist, letting go not even a second after he did. when you turn to face him he looks shocked, as if he didn’t have control of his own body for a second.

“uh- can-” he stumbles over his words, not knowing exactly what to say and not exactly having the courage to say whatever they were.

“yeah, i can,” you smile softly, taking his hand in yours, “how about we get some food, when’s the last time you had actual food and not take out or sweets?” you question.

satoru rolls his eyes, scoffing before counting the days on his fingers, “it hasn’t been that long,” he mumbles, smiling a bit when you shake your head and laugh at him.

it’s been three years since then, somewhere along the way the line of caring friend and something more had been crossed, pinkies interlinking during movie night, a stolen kiss in a maintenance closet when hiding from an upset yaga.

he’s not exactly sure what’s making him reminisce on that day. maybe he’s recalling the way the sunshine felt on his skin, the way it does now as it pours in through the blinds, landing on his bare chest.

“you didn’t snore this time” you mumble, voice a bit hoarse as you wake up.

satoru grins, “I told you I’d stop,” you can’t help but half laugh, cuddling up to him more, “I’d do anything you ask of me sweets.”

“it’s 9 in the morning and you’re already professing your undying love?” you tease, just barely opening your eyes to look at your lover, who’s already staring right back at you, soft smile adorning his beautiful face.

“would do it all hours of the day if you’d let me,” he replies, not missing a beat. you can only chuckle softly, letting your head rest on his chest. your hair tickles him a bit but he ignores it, focusing on the way your index fingers draws random patterns on his abdomen.

satoru lets his mind wander, he thinks how lucky he is.

how lucky he was to be given a second chance at life, to be able to come back from a place so dark, to now be able to quite literally be bathed in sunlight and tender touches.

“where’d you go?” you whisper, adjusting yourself on your side and letting your arm prop you up. satoru is reeled back in, snowy lashes kissing his cheeks gently as he lays on his side to face you.

“thinking ‘bout how lucky i am,” he mumbles, staring at you for a second before a soft smile overtakes his lips, “I love you.” the words never fail to make you smile, you never miss a beat to respond, “i love you more, angel boy.”

“there isn’t anything i wouldn’t do for you, you know that right?” he’s focusing on the fuzz of the blanket rather than your eyes, looking up only when you hum in response.

“what if you have to fight off the most talented swordsman in the world for me?” you tease, he’s smiling at you as he sits up.

“then I’ll get a sword and do what i have to do to not lose you,” he answers like it’s the most simple thing in the world, “I’ve fought off worse haven’t i?” his cockiness makes you roll your eyes and chuckle, sitting up and kissing his cheek before stretching and finally getting out of bed.

“i guess so, you’re too strong for any of my hypotheticals,” you mumble, the taller man following you into the restroom, brushing your teeth together before heading into the living room.

“what do you want for breakfast?” satoru asks, his hands are already reaching for the ingredients for an omelette, recalling how you’d been craving one since last night but fell asleep as soon as you’d gotten home.

“what’s on the menu today, chef gojo?” you smile, moving from the couch to the kitchen bar, watching as he took out four eggs and various veggies and meats.

“how ‘bout that omelette you were dreaming of yesterday, sweetheart?” he’s grinning as he cracked an egg open with one hand over the bowl, a trick you’d taught him that took him the course of two cartons of eggs.

“you’re too perfect mi amor,” the words make his ears turn bright red, face flushed as he continues his fluid movements in the kitchen.

three years ago had someone told you the satoru gojo could make omelettes and crack eggs with one hand you would’ve laughed in their face, betting your life savings and then some against the snowy haired sorcerer.

yet here you are; three years, lots of broken eggs, burnt food and nights in the restroom later- you watch the love of your life make you an omelette.

the two of you eat breakfast over small talk, telling him of your plans for the day.

“I’ve gotta run some errands today, i hope traffic isn’t too bad” you trail off, mentally checking all the things you had to do.

“i can drive if you want,” he shrugs, chugging down the last bit of orange juice in his cup before grabbing your plate and placing them in the sink. “i don’t have anything else going on.”

you smile at your lover, “you don’t have to drive me around everywhere, you know that right?” satoru knew your distaste for being behind the wheel, he only saw it as an opportunity to pamper you and treat you like the royalty you were.

“i know, but i love driving you everywhere,” he grins, walking next to where you were seated and bending over to kiss your temple, “I’ll be your loyal chauffeur for as long as you’ll have me, hermosa.” the word is foreign on his tongue, it slips past his lips naturally, just the way you’d been teaching him common phrases.

“hermosa? who’d you learn that one from?” fighting the smile off your face was a predestined loss, barely hiding how over the moon you were at the new pet name. your words are teasing as you stand from the kitchen bar, stopping right in front of your lover, looking up at him.

“duolingo was hitting on me, actually,” satoru replies, a dimpled smile on his face when your arms snake around his neck, pulling him downwards so his lips met yours.

“can duo fight?” you laugh between kisses, pressing a softer kiss to the tip of his nose before detaching yourself from him.

satoru is ready before you, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching- no admiring, your every move as you get ready. his mind is filled with a whirlwind of compliments he can’t seem to get out, overcome with an overwhelming sense of love for you.

you’re an aura of warmth, kindness and love, and angel sent for him. a caring soul, who nurtured him back to health; through late night calls that ended with you in his apartment or vice versa, gentle reminders and tight hugs helping him through his toughest nights. through forced outings to fairs and arcades, despite his protests that he has been doing things other than working with his students and going on missions (he hadn’t).

it had taken time, but satoru had healed.

your love had healed him.

“oh i can’t do movie night Friday” you frowned, watching as the second and first years trained.

“oh? why’s that” satoru was caught off guard, you’d never been one to cancel on him.

“i- uh- I’ve got a date, actually” you chuckle, staring at your finger nails before looking at the man next to you.

“a date?” he repeated, heart sinking and stomach falling as you nodded with a smile.

“nanami set me up with them, didn’t know he actually had friends besides us,” you smiled, trying your best to ease the palpable tension.

you’d gotten up and left shortly after that, some lame excuse he can’t remember now. he did remember angrily walking into nanami’s office, accusing him of hating satoru and wanting to see him suffer.

“have you thought of- i don’t know, maybe telling y/n how you feel?” kento sighs, trying his best to focus on the report he was filling out before satoru had barged in.

satoru hadn’t thought of that, but he took his friends advice and marched up to you three hours later, confessing his feelings upfront.

“don’t go on that date, they don’t deserve you,” he began, immediately taking you back, “and maybe i don’t either but just give me one chance and i swear you won’t regret it.”

“what’s up with you today? maybe you shouldn’t drive” your words pull him out of his memory, blinking once, then twice before fully coming back to his senses.

“do you remember when you told me you had that date?” he asks, watching as you furrows your brows, the corners of your lips turning upwards as you recall the memory.

“oh yeah! then you confessed like an hour later” satoru nods, blushing a bit. “what about it?” you ask, moving to sit next to him, taking his larger hand in yours, tracing soothing circles into his skin with your thumb.

“i didn’t even know i liked you then,” he admits, “i just felt this terrible feeling in my stomach and yelled at nanami for wanting to ruin my life.” the revelation makes you smile a bit, “he told me to tell you that i liked you and only then did it dawn upon me that i had romantic feelings for you.” satoru laughs at himself now, looking at you with sparkling blue eyes.

“well, you were- and still are a bit of a dummy” you mumble, pulling his arm so satoru can lean against you, letting you rest your head atop his. “my silly angel boy.”

angel boy.

the first time he heard you say that he quite literally stopped in his tracks, smiling from ear to ear before picking you up and spinning you around. ‘say it again!’ he kept asking, blushing just as hard every time the pet name left your mouth.

satoru loves grocery shopping with you, checking off things as you put them in the cart. he thinks you look angelic against the backdrop of produce, heart fluttering as you look for the best bunch of cilantro.

he could do this for the rest of his life, he thinks to himself. the realization makes him bump against the display, thankful nothing fell over.

satoru gojo wants to marry you.

he wants nothing more in his life than to be with you for as long as he could. he wants to spend his mornings and nights besides you, he wants to make you breakfast and help you cook dinner, he wants to wash the dishes because you hate washing them, he wants to wake up to Cumbia and bachata on Sunday mornings as you clean, joining you and singing in broken Spanish as you serenade him with a broom.

it’s not as romantic as he’d once imagined, he thought the realization would come to him as the wind blew through your hair, or the golden rays of the sun kissed your cheeks.

instead he’s watching you pick out a two pack of steak, looking at him with a wide smile, “the prices dropped!” you grin, giddy as you happily put the meat into the cart, practically skipping down the line of raw meats.

he can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he wonder what to do next, mindlessly following you around the grocery store with the cart, every aisle affirming the fact that you’re the only one for him, especially as you tell him to get one sweet treat for the week as you go and get the milk.

he’s staring lovingly at you as you wait in line at the register, watching with interest as your eyes light up, “cariño can you get the eggs? i completely forgot,” he nods immediately, placing a chaste kiss to your cheek before turning on his heel and heading towards the eggs.

satoru lets the thought of marriage ruminate in his mind, recalling the times you’d talked about marriage, agreeing that you’d want to marry him. what if you’d changed your mind since then?

later that week as satoru is passing you the salt, he asks you the question that’s been eating at his mind. “do you still wanna get married?”

you chalk it up to his usual insecurities, turning around and kissing the tip of his nose and both his dimples. “‘course i do, angel boy” you reply, not missing a beat, “why? everything okay?”

satoru nods, eyes fluttering shut when your lips are pressing against his. “everything’s perfect,” he mumbles against you, smiling and chasing your lips for one more kiss before he passes you the butter.

one month later satoru is under the shade the cherry blossom trees give him, with you staring down at him, mouth still agape from seeing him get down on one knee.

“mi corazon, I’ve loved you more than i thought possible, you’ve breathed life into me when i thought there was no reason to keep living, you bring out the best in me everyday,” he begins, hands shaking slightly as you stare back at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“i want to be by your side for the rest of my life, i want to find you in every crowd, save you a seat next to mine and end my days with you in my arms,” satoru tried to ignore the thumping of his heart in his ears, “i want to be the only one lucky enough to be loved by you, will you marry me?”

you’re nodding quickly, mouth still covered before you’re throwing your arms around the snowy haired man- your now fiancé. “of course, yes!” you laugh, sniffling and wiping the tears that had fallen as you squeeze him tightly. “i love you cariño, i love you so so much” you grin, pressing your lips harshly against his, not caring when your teeth bump against his as you both smile, the spring wind causing pink petals to fall around the two of you.

there was a time in gojo’s life when he thought his life was over. he looks back and smiles, how was he supposed to know the best part of his life was only starting?

the void he once felt in his chest was now overflowing with the love and patience you poured into him; sickeningly sweet pet names and tender touches to ease his mind.

satoru can’t help but smile when he wakes up next to you everyday, grateful beyond belief he decided to be vulnerable that day in the courtyard.

“already staring at me lovingly?” you teased, making satoru grin, dimples on his cheeks as he hummed.

“something like that.”

[honestsycrets]

Amor y Respeto I: Mi Alma || [Miguel O’Hara x Latina!Reader]

Chapter II: Corazón

❛ pairing | Miguel O’Hara x FB!Reader, platonic Hobie x Reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | the moment you want a sign of love from Miguel is the moment that your relationship is fucked. 

❛ tags | fuckbuddies, a very latinx piece, jealousy, jealous Miguel O’Hara, a sparse hobie appearance, spidey!reader, latina!reader, no translations of the spanish included, gif credit to the original owner, nsfw, female reader, some mention of blood and wounds, some creative liberties, slight spoilers.

❛ sy’s notes | not my usual fanfare and i’m a little rusty but miguel hit me straight in my heart. i consciously omitted spanish translations in this work. consistent pet names include mi alma (my soul) & muñeca (doll). this is not my usual fandom and i may have missed some fandom nuances, so i apologize in advance for creative liberties. lastly, emotions impact the reader’s healing capabilities, hope that's clear enough. thank you @lisinfleur​ and @ivarsrideordie​ for your help. i’ll be dropping an ivar fic soon, see you then!

In your cultura, disrespect was unacceptable. 

You knew it. Your lover knew you knew it: but for you, there was something greater than respect. Amor. If he knew that you knew about her little escapade, oh, it would be unforgivable. It undercut the very foundation of what he did at HQ. But even between lovers, where the time you spent was fleeting and unstable, there were things you could not share. Besides... how would he know? 

The day had been long. Your body ached with the dizzying speed of patrols past the vine-covered high-rise apartments of your beautiful city. Your room was stuffy with the tropical air struggling against humidity. With dried blood on your skin, the perfect remedy was a shower. Its warmth soothed your aching muscles after a long day. You found your mind wandering to problems that didn’t immediately demand a solution. How you’d avoid cotton mouth the next time you saw him. Sooner than you thought.

The shower door whizzed aside, plumes of steam fading into the cool air. “Shit!” you shouted, reaching to cover your body. Miguel bent his head as he stepped into your cramped shower and cupped the frame. He shut the shower door. Did he already know? You nipped your lower lip raw and the taste of blood turned your tastebuds. Somehow, you knew that he hadn’t slipped off from HQ just to have you. Not tonight. He had that glazed-over look in his sharp eyes, considering you the same way he might consider anyone else. 

 “Miguel?” you fluttered your lashes at him which winked off plump droplets of water. “Mi alma, que paso?” 

“Did you know?” 

You reached out to turn the knob of the water off. It creaked to a stop. Despite tracing the droplets that coasted down your curves, he watched you with otherwise uninterested eyes. When you failed to respond, he stomped closer, kicking up the water that swirled under your bare feet.

“Did you know?” His fist pounded the side of the shower wall. Your heart leapt into your chest where it fluttered painfully, encased in your chest. Miguel bared his angular teeth at you. Teeth that usually marred your neck with possessive bites, loving kisses, and teasing scrapes. He never bared them at you like this. It was always a possibility, never the reality.

You met his eyes. The certainty you had moments earlier that oh, he wouldn’t find out, was gone. Of course, he found out. Your Miguel always found out. With that dead, blank expression, you knew the gravity of your situation. 

“Of course, I knew.” His chest swelled with forceful inhalation of air as you spoke. “But Gwen… I, they’re only kids. Kids who--” 

“Kids? They are not just kids. Coño, I’d expect this of them,” he prompted your name and took a step forward. You took one back. Then another, knocking your back into the shower walls. You were like a small bird in an even smaller cage. Nowhere to run and still, he wasn’t about to give you the luxury of personal space. You were pinned between his firm chest and the two stony walls against your back. His voice lowered dangerously low, barely a murmur against the shell of your ear. “But you? You know what’s at risk.” 

“They love--” 

“Y que?” he snapped your name out again. “Tell me, when those kids destroy thousands of lives, what does that change? Have you ever stopped to think of that? Of the lives this will ruin?” 

“I just... wanted them happy. If even for an instant.” You hung your head. He set his clawed hand to the side of your head, combing through the stringy strands of your hair down with a false care that you wanted to believe in. But it was entangled in the strings of his manipulation. “Of course, you have, muñequita.” 

“Then can’t they--” His hand balled up into a fist and careened with the wall behind you. Your head snapped away as his claws unfurled and released crumbling bits of the wall by your naked toes. You’d have to clean that up-- later. You took a deep breath and exhaled the frustration that packed away in your belly. “Sabes qué? I am sorry that love isn’t enough for you, I am sorry that I have never been enough for you.” 

“No. No puedo con esto,” he looked down at you. As he leaned in, his forearm above your head supported his body weight. “Muñeca, por favor. This isn’t about us.” 

“Why can’t it be?” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I just want to be with you, but you won’t let me in,” you reached out. The soft pads of your fingertips hovered by his sharp jawline eased past his ear and into his ruffled hair. For a second, brief as it were, his eyes softened. He leaned into the touch. You had your window. “Why won’t you let me in?”

Whether or not he was past the anger, the disrespect, his thick arms wound around the small of your waist. In some bid to bring you back to your senses-- to him, he set his forehead against your own, dwelling in the soft scent of your floral soap that filled his nose. You tilted your head, capturing his lips in a kiss. His body became as sturdy: unmoving and guarded. 

“I can’t give you what you need.” He reached back to remove your hands from his hair and with care settled them back on your moist chest. As he made his way out of your bathroom, his warning echoed through your mind. “Stay out of my way.”

Miguel’s love was unstable. Affection, not love. If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that you always knew it was bound to fail. You were lucky for what time you had with him. It made subsequent missions all the harder, wrapped up in this innate desire to be loved by a man who allowed himself to be loved by none. Without his affection, HQ felt barren. Its many corridors held no life, no love, and no prospect of a better future. Yet, for Miguel, there you were. Your ballet flats tapped furiously alongside the ringing stomps of your partner’s steel-toed boots.

“Ay bendito, this isn’t healing,” you dabbed your fingers in the blood at your shoulder, storming past a sea of red and blue that parted for the pair of you. Your neck was oozing-- well, not oozing so much as soaking your outfit. The mission could have gone better. Sometimes your mind wandered at the worst of times. It didn’t matter, not now. It was done, he would be happy, and it would be enough for today. All that you did you did for him-- and he knew it.

“Your man won’t be happy about that,” Hobie cut through the crowd while walking backward. He made it look so easy. Conviction, you guessed, made life much easier. 

“No,” you took the end of your silky rebozo and held it to your shoulder. “He only cares about results. We have good results. What does he have to be angry about? He has everything he wants.” 

“Hm.” Hobie hummed, span around, and leaned over your shoulder. He was on your tail with his aggravatingly long legs no matter how quickly you walked.

“Hobie, por dios.” 

“He broke up with you, didn’e?” 

You didn’t have to answer him. You didn’t even need to talk to him. You could just keep walking and leave it to his imagination. Yet, your face faltered. The perceptive man he was, Hobie twisted in front of your path. He leaned his hips back and sank his face inches apart from yours. Hobie quirked a smile in his lazy eyes and an adorable lip pout. Your eye centered on his piercing to avert your focus from his words. 

“Yeah,” he answered his own question. “Bet he did.” 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you swerved around him.

“Maybe.” Hobie shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and sped after you. “But I’m with you.” 

“How sweet.” 

You knew your Miguel would be there: on that stupid platform, staring at multiple screens, at a lost life, departed from his reality in any other capacity but maintaining the happiness of others. Well, others that weren’t like you. You found him in that very same position when you pressed into his lab. 

“What is it now?” 

“We’ve taken care of it-- Hobie and I.”  

“Good,” came his dry response. “Is that all?”

“Not in the mood to talk to your girl, eh?” Hobie clicked, throwing his arm over your shoulder: not out of care, or friendship, but spite. No matter the institution, Hobie always seemed to harbor harsh feelings for those in charge. If it meant pissing him off a little, rattling up the flow of HQ, Hobie was always an eager volunteer. Hobie turned his lips to your ear and prompted your name, “C’mon, leave him. Let's go get a drinky drink.” 

You bit out a cry at the pressure on your neck, the damn thing wasn’t healing nearly as fast as it needed to be. You blamed the bundles of anxiety that rattled up emotions low in your belly. It was still open, soaking Hobie too. He didn’t mind a little blood on his shorn uniform. Good for the image, and all that.

“That hurt, Hobie!” 

Miguel threw a glance over his shoulder. Just a moment, but enough to spot something else that agitated him. Your normally white outfit, fluttery and light, splattered with the blood that painted your red rebozo a little redder. Or maybe it was Hobie’s lips on your ear, making remarks about beer-- or whiskey-- or-- Molotov--

“Get off,” Miguel pounced down from his kingly stoop and flicked Hobie’s wrist. He snaked his wrist away, shoving his palms back into his pants. You threw him a look knowing that it was not because Miguel told him to but because he felt like it. The devil’s advocate that he was. Miguel unraveled the rebozo from your neck. His hand grasped your chin and angled it one way, then the other, rumbling in clear agitation “You’re wounded.” 

“Déjame quieta. Don’t touch me.” 

“And you?” Miguel rocked back on his heels, setting his well-corded arms on his hips. Then, he angled his body toward Hobie. “Where were you?” 

Hobie lifted his pierced eyebrow. “He serious?” 

“I can handle myself.” 

“Can you? And you-- why are you still here?” Though Miguel asked the question, it was a statement. Hobie held his palms up, fluttering his fingers in mockery. You watched Miguel run his fingers down the bloody rebozo, counting its bloodied inches.  

“Vente conmigo.” He leaned into your ear. The trill of his voice danced down your spine, low and husky. Your mind wandered to the many nights he whispered just the same in your ear. You suppressed the shiver, your heartbeat trembling so violently you were sure you could hear its pathetic thumping, nearly a cry. It hadn’t been long but... you missed this.

“You told me to stay out of your way. I am staying out of your way. Give me--”

“I won’t ask again. Either you come or I’ll make you.” That was it then. A flash of disbelief snapped across your face. The gall of this man. Even though he told you to stay out of the way, he demanded that you leave the lab with him? You caught Hobie perking up to look your way with shiny curious eyes. He pointed to his chest and then yours, suggesting… something you’d ignore. Hobie slipped out a smug hum.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Hobie.”

There were no good alternatives. You knew he would make good on his threat. Not that you particularly would want to fight him anyway. Whether it was respect or obligation, you ran after your Miguel, who already walked away. You snatched the rebozo from his waiting hand, suspended in the air.

Yes, your life was a delicate balance between love and respect. You weren’t sure which of those guided you back to Miguel’s dimly lit room. Only that as you sat on his bed, your once-was lover was behind you. His fingers worked swiftly on your neck, furiously tugging at your sore neck with what felt like a needle. No point complaining. It would eventually end. You could go find the boys. They could rail you about your dating choices as they always did. 

“Lyla will find you another backup partner,” he broke the silence. You rathered he didn’t operate in this limbo of false intimacy. Your lips parted into a sigh rife with agitation. The drawback of fucking your boss was this, you supposed. He controlled your life.

“No, she won’t. I like working with Hobie. I want him.” 

Miguel paused short of dipping the needle back into your skin. “What do you mean-- you want him?” 

“What does it sound like? I like working with Hobie. I trust Hobie. So I want Hobie by my side.” You slapped your lacey thighs and turned to gaze into those familiar eyes. “Así que, no, I do not need another backup. I don’t need you controlling every inch of my work life. I need you to hurry up.” 

“Muñeca. If you’re emotional, you’ll heal slower.” 

“Do not call me that,” you jumped from his lush bed. Your neck squealed for you to stop and let him fix what was clearly broken with the slack thread that connected your body to his. Oh, and what a metaphor it felt like. Your life was sewn together by a man who held all the strings in his hands. “You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore. You made it clear how little you feel about me-- and my feelings.” 

He lifted his eyes to yours. A long, slow look. The sort of look that made you question it all. As if the things you said weren’t really from your lips, no matter how sure you were of them.  You broke the exchange first and grasped the long strand embedded deep in your neck. 

“Your feelings,” he held out his hand and tugged the line, “tend to get in the way of what needs to be done.” 

Startled, you looked down at his open palm. You slipped your smaller fingers into the middle of his palm and sat back on the bed. He slid behind you, pressing his core against your backside-- because that was completely necessary. With soft care, he shifted your hair over the opposing shoulder and continued his work. 

“Apart from that, you shouldn’t have gone on that mission. You were distracted. If you weren’t so emotional,” Miguel murmured. “We wouldn’t be here.”

If you weren’t emotional? You screwed your eyebrows together in a pathetic attempt to ignore what he just said. To ignore the way that he demeaned the fuel of your abilities, what guided you through this traumatic thing called life. Meanwhile, Miguel functioned on minimal emotion-- the suppression of what he’d lost by protecting what he was. 

“It’s your fault I was distracted in the first place.” 

“You should be able to control your own feelings.”

“Fine. Apúrate. I’ll get out of your way.” 

Miguel snapped the healing aid thread and ran his clawed fingertips across the long streaks on your neck and shoulder. It was mere moments that he lingered there circling your neck. As your breathing evened out, you felt your body pull together fibrous strands of tissue and heal. Yet, you couldn’t care. 

“Done.” Miguel refused to address your gaze but opted to draw your top back into place to over your breasts. You stood and secured the buttons of your halter top behind your neck. That was it. You’d return to your duties, healed half by your emotions and half by Miguel. You would need to learn to ignore the love you had for him. One day, all this would be well. Miguel rolled up the excess thread around his reel.

Fine. If he was going to ignore you--

“Do you think,” you paused long enough to debate your words. Enough for Miguel to glance up with his stoic red eyes and lift an eyebrow at you. It irritated you how unemotional and consistently unbothered he could be when you stood there just the opposite. Always desperate for a sign of his feelings. “Hobie wants to fuck?” 

There were some lines you should never cross. While you would never actually fuck your partner, the mere mention of the thought ever crossing your mind was one step too far. It was terribly disrespectful. Miguel’s reel plopped onto the floor and rolled short of your feet.

You slid your palms over your hips before hooking at the bend in your waist. His gaze focused on the glide of your hands trailing slowly down your sides. Sides that he often snatched in the dead of night after a warm shower. Or that he’d cling to during lovemaking. Your following words caused him to lurch off the bed. “Qué piensas? He might still be in HQ, no?” 

“What,” His hand fit along your neck like a tight collar. The next moment, pain radiated from your skull and blurred your vision. The pain licked flames of excitement to life in your belly. A gasp slipped from your lips. Instead of shock, your cry was tinged with delight. With his wild brown hair slumping forward over his scarlet eyes, he was more beautiful than ever. His claws squeezed your neck, jerking and slamming your head once more. His breath tickled your cheek. “What did you say?” 

Of course, he couldn’t help himself: the control freak. He was a genius. You knew he knew it was bait. He had to. But your looming threat was enough for him to take the risk. Your lips curled, laughing your words rather flippantly. “I said-- do you think Hobie wants to fuck?”

You eviscerated his already thin patience. The searing pain of his fangs piercing your battered neck seared all thoughts of Hobie from your mind. Your hands choked out a pitiful cry. “Miguel, Miguel, Miguel-- calma.”

The familiar burn of his frantic biting, his violent ownership of your body, made your body slick. He lifted your hips onto his, legs dangling over his slim thighs. Crunched up against his massive body, you felt small but as if you were the focus of his world. Just how you loved to feel when you were encased in his arms.

“You think he could fuck you like I can?” His gravelly voice rumbled. His face pinched tight, daring your response. “That you can replace me— so easily?”

No, the answer was a resounding no. But he didn’t need to know that. If Miguel thought he could play games with you, you’d play games with him. The last forty-eight hours had been a blur of his rejection. It was only fair that Miguel felt the same.

Blood seeped down from your neck, a feeling you were accustomed to today. On the other hand, you weren’t accustomed to how he tore into your uniform as if it were as offensive as your harsh words. You calmly noted that you were glad to have multiple: a consequence of doing this work too long. 

That was it. You slid your hands up his forearms, around his firm biceps, to his broad shoulders. There you rested your arms, knocking your foreheads gently together. Past the rage, you recognized the slightest hint of fear in his eyes. The promise that you were lying. For security under another name. You refused to give it to him: he never gave it to you.

“He is Spiderman, isn’t he?” 

He shifted the pad of his finger between your lips. Your tongue slid over his thumb, crooked in your mouth to suppress any more words that he may regret hearing or that you may regret saying. 

“He may be,” Miguel rasped. His lips quirked into a wicked grin. With Miguel’s sudden sharpness, you weren’t expecting to see his smile. You welcomed it, a rare delight that you found yourself loathing the more he spoke. “But you’re mine.” 

His. The inklings of fear you previously spotted in the depth of Miguel’s eyes seemed to weaken, sliding his thumb from your lips, rolling past your nipple, and the muscles of your stomach. He slid past your vulva, trailing with expert care along your slit. It was barely a touch if even a graze. Words failed to form. They were a thick bolus in your throat, congealed and thick.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I thought so.” 

Your eyes trailed Miguel’s strong jawline and ambled up toward his lips. Your gaze lingered there as his fingers slipped between your lips, finding your cunt soft and wet. His eyes flickered toward your shy gaze and danced his lips against yours by virtue of his words. “It doesn’t seem like you’re that interested in finding him.”

“How would you know?” you cried out when one of his clawed fingers dipped inside your body. Your hips jerked onto his hand to seek out more of him. Your traitorous, awful body. It wasn’t comfortable when he scratched you while stroking your velvety inner walls. But you always needed more of his touch.

“Oh,” Miguel hummed. He bent close-- your eyes now focused on his high cheekbones. You couldn’t look him in the eyes and know that he knew how weak you were for him. “I know. It’s the way you look at me.” 

“As if--” You dropped your eyes, reveling in the pressure of his prodding fingers, the delight in having him here, with you, once again. It shouldn’t have felt as intimate, as comforting as it did, but it did. His fingers withdrew, pleased with his work. “You know I can give you what you need.” 

“You said you couldn’t,” Miguel slipped his fingers into your mouth: sweet and sour with your own excitement and the scratches of blood. His hands worked at the waist as you secured yourself on the wall with your hands, knowing what was next-- and expecting it. 

“I lied.” he drawled out, a long hum. He spat on his hand and rubbed himself as you watched, anticipating the soft prod of his cock’s head at your entrance. It hadn’t been long. Yet, as he buried himself in the warmth of your body, you inhaled a wealth of air into your chest, exhaling it in soft shudders. Perhaps it was the fear of never having this again. 

His large hands shifted underneath your ass and pinned you square against the wall. His claws drew blood to the surface of superficial cuts. Your hands snapped to his shoulders and clung onto him for some security. You found no rest between the wall chafing your back and Miguel’s long, pointed strokes into your body. Your body burned with the pull of his dick dragging in and out of your cunt, fighting to keep him inside with every squeeze and pull. He wasn’t lying, you knew. But it didn’t matter. Not when you were his complete and utter focus. 

Miguel let a word of praise slip free as he ground into you. With a wall of muscle before you and the sturdy wall behind, breathing was slight and hard to come by. It had to be what he wanted-- to make you focus on him and him alone. It’s what you deserved after antagonizing the man. Your hands found his hair, knotting your fingers in it, and accepting the ferocity of his deep, then shallow strokes into your core. Your eyes flitted shut as he bottomed out, grinding his hips in tight circles. As you came, your body furiously clenched onto his cock, slowing his sweeping thrusts. 

You craved it: the moment of Miguel’s weakness. Your body urged out his orgasm with a noise tempered by pleasure and annoyance. Your cunt milking earned you a particularly firm slam of his hips. Miguel would drag you down to take it all. He spilled into you with a deliciously unique warmth, grinding his hips until spent. His forehead rested on the crook of your neck. In place of another hard bite, he gently kissed your collarbone and throat. After he finished, he settled you down onto the floor. But your legs were sloppy, weak shaky things. Miguel snatched your hand as you swayed to keep yourself upright. 

“I have to go,” you held his hand begrudgingly for support. Then bent down to pick up strips of your clothes. Yet another victim of your relationship with him. You would have to... mend this. Somehow. Probably not. “They’re expecting me--” 

“Muñeca,”

“Cálmate, Miguel. You know I’m not going to fuck him,” you swiped the coursing fluids down your thigh. You dragged your hand down Miguel’s firm chest and danced your finger up his chest to flip up his chin. He glanced down, puffing air from his nostrils in protest. His eyes rolled, oh so slightly. “He’s not my type. I like them big, mm?”

“You would if he was?” he bristled.

“I never said that.” You said. Despite this fact, certain needs needed to be met. Ones that if he didn’t fill, someone else would. You both knew this. Your work was long and stressful and done in the name of the man who was before you. If for nothing but that love, you knew you would keep going. You believed in Miguel: his choices and his heart. 

“You didn’t need to.” 

“Mi alma--” you stopped, waving your hand at his pet name. “All this is fleeting. I need someone that will meet my needs. To tell me they love me. Can you?” 

He pressed his lips together and stewed on your request. You knew without a question in your mind what that answer was. In the aftermath of sex with Miguel, he was closer to you than ever. And yet, it was impossible to convince him of an actual connection. For him, it was easier to leave you than love you. 

He didn’t need to say it.  

“I know you, Miguel. You didn’t lie. It was the truth,” you slipped your hand from his. Instead, you opted to set a fleeting kiss on the side of his lip. For better or worse, he didn’t reciprocate. Your steps carried you backward. Then, you afforded him a small deprecating smile. “Other than sex, you can’t give me what I need.”

[insuke69]

Imagining Hobie being so fucking clingy when you’re gone on a vacation or something:(((

★ Headcannons with Hobie x Latinx reader <;33

☆ Warnings: fluff, ‘implied’ smut (yes, they fuck in a memory), explicit words.

__________________

——————

You’re off visiting family, away from Hobie just for a short visit since it’s a younger cousins fifteenth birthday.

You aren’t close with her but she adores you like an older sibling so why not? Two weeks isn’t that long anyway since you also would like to catch up with the very little non-toxic Hispanic family you have.

The flight is smooth besides the fact that it was over two hours of no service, songs on repeat in your headphones, and the book you’re so happy you remembered to pack.

______

You forget the time difference between Hobie in Camden and you over here, for you it’s midday and for him it’s the middle of the night and he seems so.. desperate.

His texts are slow and it’s obviously being done by his singular non dominant hand.

“Hi can you pls send a pic”

“2 me”

“Please??”

On your end, it’s almost so clear that he wants to see you like the good adorable partner he is, already missing you. You send him an innocent picture where you’re holding your phone at an angle above you and smile up at it through your lashes.

Meanwhile Hobie..

Hobie always would have an arm around you, or holding your hand, or his lips on any part of skin he could access on you.

He was alone on his houseboat, laying on only his side of the bed even if the usually warm and used spot beside him was empty and void of his lover.

He didn’t like the idea of porn, even if he was ‘living the dream’ of most men where his partner wasn’t around to stop him, he still hated it. It was fake and unrealistic with plastic or disgustingly young looking actors, so he settled for closing his eyes and thinking of the one who’s truely his.

Remembering how pretty the little whines were as they escaped your lips when he slowly eased himself into your tight warm hole..

And before he knew it; he was palming his erecting and fumbling his phone to text you.

His breath shudders slightly at the sight of you and he began imagining how your adoring hand would look around his length, his own fist trying to imitate his imagination tightly.

How your lips would wrap around the head of his weeping cock, how your cheeks would hollow out and make it all disappear, those cute gag sounds and tears that threaten your eyes when your nose reaches the small trimmed bush at the base of his member.

You fully expect a normal response from Hobie in a way. Anything ranging from “You look nice td” to something dirty, hence why you’re positioned in a way where nobody around you could see your phone screen.

Instead, a voice message pops up and a part of you wants to hesitate in checking what it is because you know that Hobie doesn’t really send voice messages unless his hands are really busy.

You play it against your ear quietly and your heart bangs against your chest at how needy his voice is, his gulps and whimpers and you can only imagine how beautiful he looks right now.

“Oh my fuckin’.. you’re so good lookin’ for me, I need ya so bad righ’ now.” You can hear his heavy breaths in the message and slight rhythmic sound, fap fap fap fap.

It immediately makes your heat grow warm between your legs and you adjust yourself in your seat with your thighs together tightly as an attempt to ease this, knowing that you’re at a nice fancy restaurant for your cousins ‘birthweek’.

You decide to excuse yourself to the bathroom and be a little more generous with Hobie, locking yourself into a stall and sending him a better picture where you’re topless and your chest and abdomen in perfect sight, pointer finger and middle finger holding a nipple between them.

“Here’s your damn meal <3” you captioned it before sending, putting your shirt back on as you awaited his response.

It was a video this time, angled so you could see his pretty dick being desperately fucked in his ringed left hand.

his eyebrows are knitted together and his mouth is dropping the cutest curses and whimpers before he cums, his seed spurting out onto his abdomen and hand before his lips move to utter a whisper.

"I need ya so bad, can't wait 'till you're back, love."

[mueritos]

started a new job recently as a research assistant for a gay Latinx professor in my grad program, and while I definitely don't have the time to be doing my own research, working with this professor on his book projects has been so affirming and healing. i'm working on a book he hopes to publish soon that is full of interviews of gay and trans Latine men...and it is so fucking awesome. I feel so seen by the words I am reading, and I feel tears spring to my eyes looking at the photographs of these men. They look like family members, distant cousins, and family friends. They look so happy and full of confidence. I see myself in their eyes, recognizing the "fish" shape in our eyes that is so distinctly tied to Latines. One of the men in the book is a pup! And it is so beautiful seeing his smile as he holds his pup mask.

I have met very few queer latines. I don't know what it's like to have the tio or tia that has some secret aura to them, that "no se habla" vibes where everyone knows they're queer but just won't acknowledge it. Hell, this professor I'm working with is the first gay Latine man I've ever spoken to. I wish I had a community of gay Latines. I hope I am able to access that one day :)

[inkskinned]

it's the levels of scrutiny too.

a movie that has a largely-female cast has to be well-written, well-shot, well-acted, well-advertised. people will spend 2 hours on youtube talking about a single plot hole; about a moment of bad pacing, about a singular background character's poor scripting. if there isn't something obvious, they will say - well there's nothing specifically bad, but it wasn't specifically good either.

they will turn out another all-male movie, and it's just a movie.

a book that has queer representation in it has to defy every convention of writing while also being true to traditional plot, structure, format, and pacing. it must have no boring chapters, no missteps, no awkward dialogue. it must be able to "prove" that any queer relationship "makes sense", their sparks must fly off the page and their love must be eternal. the writing must be clear and beautiful, the storyline original and fresh, the values traditional but with an undercurrent that is modern and saucy.

they will turn out another book without queer rep, where a man and woman just-fall-in-love, and it's just a book.

i am latinx. i am queer. i am nb & neurodivergent. my father said to me once: you will need to be exceptional to be just-as-good, and you will need to be beyond exceptional before they see you as just-a-person, and not your labels.

i am not beyond exceptional. i am a human person. i am skilled because i worked my ass off to be skilled.

i am currently reading a book that's so-bad-it's-good about a girl that falls in love with a vampire. i was 64% of the way through the book before she figures out tall-dark-fanged is not natural. i like books like these, i like letting myself relax while i just enjoy the read. but i do spend a lot of time wondering - would this have been published if it was about queer people? would this have gotten past the editors if the characters weren't white and sexy?

i want to write a movie about being a woman in a male space, and i want to start that movie with a 10 minute scene where the woman is lectured with the exact same whining that occurs in the youtube comments of even the trailers for those movies: "haven't we had enough diversity?" "we've had enough girl power movies" "sorry, this is just pandering. it's boring."

here's what's fucked up: it shouldn't matter, you're right. my identity shouldn't fold after my name like a battalion of stars: a cry of what i've gone through. what we all know i had to move past and through. i should just be a writer, plain and simple, without my work being shifted through with tweezers - i know everything i make, always, i am incredibly responsible for. beholden to. i don't like knowing that if i fuck up, i am also fucking up for every person like me. every person in a community i belong to.

once, back in undergrad, i wrote a short story about a girl who had been kicked by a horse. it was my first time writing about my experience with my ocd; i felt proud of it. the story was mostly about grief and slow recovery. the queerness of the main character was not important to the plot, my main character was just-queer. there wasn't even a romantic interest in it.

i remember one of my classmates being disappointed. "i just feel like you always write about girls who like girls, and i'm bored of it," he said. "you're a beautiful writer, but i'm like - oh, at some point, it's gonna be gay again." during the workshop, he folded his hands over my story and said, "and okay, i'm just going to say it. she's ocd, she's gay, she's depressed - it's a little much for me to believe is all happening to one person."

it is a little much to be that person (and more besides). i have therapy weekly, after all.

over and over, belonging to exception.

[harveyguillensource]

Harvey’s interview with OUT FRONT Magazine is here! Featuring photos by Irvin Rivera. He talks about Guillermo’s coming out scene and his own experience being queer and Latinx...

“I want this to be a reminder that there is a place for every queer kid in this world. I know that may not always seem like the case, and it blows my mind to think that there are kids out there who live in fear and can’t be their authentic selves. So, I want the character to remind them that you are powerful. Do not give that power away, and do not let someone else define who you are. If you’re queer, come out when you feel the time is right, and know that you’re meant to be loved, succeed, and thrive. You are a part of our world, and there’s a place for you.

...That is what I want the character to portray to other people. Whether you’re Latinx, non-Latinx, POC, a person of size, queer-- You are all welcome and loved. Who gives a f*ck what people say? You’re a beautiful butterfly, and you were meant to fly.” [Source]

[slaygentford]

every matthew mcconaughey romcom, rated

ive never really had a pet white man. ive had many pet white men characters, yes, but never a little pet white man actor who I wish to give treats and pats to like a purse dog. I never before really understood the phenomenon until my 5th or so rewatch of true detective in the year 2024, at which point something demonic was unlocked in my brain. why? how? a mystery for my therapist, when I had a therapist, but I don't anymore, so now it's a mystery for you. overcome with the insatiable urge to tape his picture to the front of my binder and write "hott" underneath it in sharpie I mentally detransitioned and, embracing my latent teenage girl (the girl I was, perhaps, in another world, one parallel to ours; a darker world, but of equal worth to our own sphere, damned as it may be) --began to watch every Matthew mcconaughey romcom ever made.

listed in my watch order, which was random.

how to lose a guy in 10 days: this is a near perfect 00s romcom, too much secondhand embarrassment to be a real mainstay for me, but it nonetheless hits every beat with aplomb. particularly tickled to see them playing bullshit the card game which was a family and friend group fave for me growing up. he and Kate Hudson have probably fucked, which added a lot to the chemistry. in one scene Kate Hudson described how cute he was rubbing his face into her tits and her friend says, do you want to date him or adopt him? at which point I saw into the void, which then saw back into me. instantly it became apparent to me that he will act circles around whoever he's paired with to the point that it actually becomes kind of comical how good of a performance he's giving in a movie that includes not one but two scenes of a dog pissing on a pool table. that being said bebe neuwirth CARRIED this film on her BEAUTIFUL lithe back. 1 instance of no shirt, unfortunately brief. 7/10. vape I hit at midpoint also a 7/10, coincidentally

NB: after watching this movie I had a dream that I was at the beach with him and Kate hudson and I hated her because she had stolen may man.

the wedding planner: when I watched this I got extremely caught up in two things 1 the fact that he went on a date with another woman while engaged and almost kissed her and 2 jlo playing an italian girl. this led me to think about what race is/was in 90s-00s, colorism, borders of the latinx body and codemeshing. something interesting about the wedding planner is that the leads are in every way the opposite of the character they are playing, with little effort to no effort to make up for that diff (Matthew not at all acting like a wholesome pediatrician and rarely seen with children/jlo not at all acting (like) or being an italian). as a result the fourth wall in this movie is made out of wobbling cellophane, an upsetting and uncanny experience. Matthew doing a tango meant a lot to me as a fan of rust's deranged impromptu norteñas tutorial in true detective. as he is a texan, I think he is essentially one of my people. 0 instances of no shirt. 2/10

failure to launch: at the first incident of animal slapstick (chipmunk related) I had the thought while the scene wore on and on, I feel like I'm on drugs. that's because I was on drugs, which I then remembered, but a joint doesnt deny the truth, only reveal it. there are many sports, and Matthew doing sports. I wouldn't be surprised if the original conception of this movie was more like lars and the real girl or silver linings playbook which then had to get repackaged as a rom com bc some parts of this kind of push at the seams of the haha funny tone which makes for a shockingly bad film but a very interesting way to think about process and what this writer's passion project would be. by the final animal slapstick incident (dolphin, second appearance) I really said what the fuck out loud, like actually out loud in my home. we started off strong with some shirtlessness and a calf shot during the sex scene, but the chipmunk to dolphin to bird to iguana to dolphin pipeline really took the wind out of my sails. 1/10

ghosts of girlfriends past: This is doubtless Matthew's worst performance--and yet what a triumph it is, purely because for any other actor, it would be the peak of a career. Matthew has an incredible naturalism. About 15 minutes into this movie, Matthew gets belligerently drunk at his brother's rehearsal dinner. Through half-lidded, glassy eyes, he delivers with thoughtless verve the exact sort of diatribe a man not only uncaring but also unaware of his cruelty can; and yet, in that passivity, he unearths pathos. I consider it an underpainting--a little window which peeks out of a bad script to a fully conceived person. Throughout its runtime, the film degenerates into a pantomime, even parody, of itself: but with just a series of slow blinks, Matthew conveys a complete psyche, an entire lifetime. I truly believe that he comes to roles even those he dislikes with an inescapable talent and sensitivity. If I could bring half of his effort and spark and originality to my own creative pursuits, that would make for a very good career indeed. His integrity as an artist really is why watching his worst films is so fun: in a game of limbo, Matthew can do the lowest backbend of all. Strong calves indeed. anyway, this movie is REALLY bad. 0/10

fool's gold:

10/10

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

Congratulations!

Can you do “Why do you need my approval?” W/Santiago Garcia?

Thanks!

100 Follower Celebration: Don’t Be Stupid

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x F!Reader

Warnings: Aggressive and Possessive Santi, language, allusions to creepy older men, bad Spanish because I’m a no sabo

A/N: Hello angels!!! I know that this isn’t my typical bread and butter but… this is my guilty pleasure and I had soooooo much fun writing this. A couple of housekeeping measures… I am a no sabo kid. To my non Latinx friends that means that while I am Latinx, and did speak Spanish as a primary language for the first 5 years, I was moved to another part of the country and lost my ability to speak Spanish. So I’m trying to learn it again. It’s hard. For my Spanish speaking sisters and brothers, give me so grace, because I am trying. Secondly, I think I have two more 100 follower Drabbles, and then we can finish Interviews for New Beginnings and the other requests I got! Love you all so much my darlings!! Have a wonderful dayyyyy - Mo 💕

Summer nights in Florida were always far too hot. It was the price of living in paradise. The heat of the afternoon's sun baked into the pavement and stucco walls now radiated back onto your thinly covered body. The surrounding water made the air far too wet, and immediately upon going into the outside air did you feel the thin film of sweat and honeyed air cling to your face, arms and legs. Summer nights were brutal in heaven.

But you would never leave it. Not for a million dollars. And neither would your Delta Force boys.

It was on these brutal nights where you tried to beat the heat and the stickiness by going out to the dive bars in Ybor City, the smaller and rowdier younger sister of Tampa. The crowds were easy to get lost in, and the music was thumping no matter where you stood; which was just the medicine you and your friends needed on a night like this.

In the back corner of such a bar, you were squished between Frankie and Santi, trying to fit in the massive and unruly Ben and Will to this too small table. "Whats good boys!? And baby girl, looking beautiful as always." Ben laughed out with a toothy grin. He was always all too happy to be with you all. And if a night out also involved a couple drinks, he was more in paradise than usual.

You laughed mirthlessly at his flirtatious jokes. He always threw one your way whenever he got the chance. You only wished that Pope would do the same.

Though you met the rest of the boys when you joined the Delta Force, you had actually known Santi since middle school. Your mom moved you both to the apartment next to his back in the 6th grade. When the creepy older men were harassing you on the way down to the school bus, Santi stepped in. And from that day on you never walked to the bus, or rode the bus alone. He kept the creeps and bullies away. You helped him with his math homework. Perfect partners. Best friends. A perfect pair. And God how you were in love with him.

You both had had your flings and boyfriends and girlfriends. But they all came and went. You were there and he was there when it eventually went to out the window. Some times you wondered if maybe he felt the same ache in his chest as you. But you pushed it to the side. He never saw you that way. He never would. You were best friends. A sister to him. It would never be more. And it never bothered you until recently. Maybe it was because you were getting older. Maybe it was because your girlfriends were having babies and in serious and solid relationships. Yet you were still here. Drinking barely cool enough beer with the Delta Force ding bats. You loved them. You loved them more than life and would and have put your life on the line for them. But you were getting older. You wanted to be seen as a woman. Not just another teammate.

Santi smirked and ruffled your head like a child, messing up the hair you had corralled into a pony tail, "Chiqitita muñeca is pissy tonight. Heat is getting too much for her."

You rolled your eyes and pushed him away. Frankie looked up from his ever present hat, "Pissed because she is stuck next to you and you won't let her up. Querida vamos. Let's get you another drink. This white boy at the bar has been giving you eyes all night and I wanna put him out of his misery."

Benny and Will whooped and laughed and your eyes widened, "Fish stop no he's not."

Frankie stood up, stretching out his long limbs and shaking his head, "He is. C'mon you haven't been putting yourself out there and it's dumb."

Frankie was right. You hadn't. In the past 3 years you hadn't even gone on a date because you were hoping, HOPING, that Santi would maybe make a move. That he would do something. But he hadn't. And you were tired of waiting. Frankie pulled you by the hand out of the booth and out of Santi's orbit. You smoothed out your cotton sundress, turning to the rest of the boys in the booth you hold yourself out to be appraised, "Yay or nay? Do I look gross?"

Will gave a thumbs up while Beni gave theatrical worshipping bows, "Hot sexy hot sexy hot sexy. Go get em tiger."

You noticed that Pope hadn't said anything, you turned to him waiting, "Pope??"

Eyes stern and cold he didn't even look up from his beer, "Why do you need my approval?"

You stomach dropped, and your face crumpled. Frankie rolled his eyes, "Coño la madre, don't listen to Pope you know how he gets when he's PMSing. You look nice. C'mon white boy is waiting. "

White boy was indeed waiting for you. His name was Connor. Clean cut. Not a Florida native which you clocked before you even made it up there. Worked in financing in downtown. Loved the Florida lifestyle but was still getting used to it. Super polite. Cute. And wanted to get to know you and buy you drinks and call you pretty. Soon any insecurity you had about Pope was miles away.

Frankie was pleased with himself, and brought back a round of beers to the table. Will and Benny were snickering in their seats, and Santi... well... Santi was fuming.

"What the fuck was that Fish?"

Smirking, he took a sip of his drink, "Que paso? No te queires chiqitita si?"

"Cabron, tu sabes quiero ella."

Benny cut in, "Hey hey hey. Don't let the gringos out man! Pope why are you getting pissed off? Nothing happened?"

Will spoke up, "He's pissed because Frankie basically delivered Chiqi to khakis boy over there."

Benny shrugged, "And??"

Will turned to him, looking as if Benny had grown another head, "And... Pope has been in love with Chiqi this entire time?? And Frankie knows that?? Benny did you get too many punches to the head or something?"

Benny’s eyes widen. The pieces fitting together. Will rolled his eyes, but Santi couldn’t care less. He was enraged with Fish. And Fish didn’t even care!! Fish knew that Santi had been in love with you for years. That he wanted you more than anything or anyone. That he had purposefully cut in on past relationships to keep you to himself. That he had building the courage to finally ask you to be his and only his. And yes here comes Fish. Delivering you to some… to some guy at a bar?

Frankie finished his beer and looked into his best friend’s eyes, “Hermano… I love you man. But you’re being a little bitch. No in fact you’ve been a bitch. Chiqi has been free and available for three years and you’ve done nothing about it. She’s clearly head over heels for you and you have been tiptoeing around it for no reason. You’re stupid. Chiqi deserves more. And if you’re angry about it you can go fix it.”

Frankie held his arm opened, lighting the way to you. He saw you laughing, your smile bright, things that he wanted to reserve for him and him alone. The things he had said were for him. The moment he saw Khaki’s hand brush up on your thigh, he saw red. He downed the rest of the beer that Frankie had gotten for him, and pushed his way out of the booth. The whoops and laughs from his brothers faded into the buzz behind him as he made his way to you.

“So… if it’s alright with you, I’d really like to take you out to dinner. Maybe next week?”

Connor was cute you thought. Not the same breathtaking handsomeness that Santi had, but Connor looked sweet. He looked honest. He would do for a boyfriend. You smiled, about to accept and give him your number, when Santi shoves himself in between you and Connor. “Oye Chiqi. Come dance.”

Connor gets up to look at you, “Hey man she’s with me relax.”

Santi turned around, “She’s not actually she came with me.”

You pushed Santi’a shoulder, “What the hell bro? Connor I’m sorry. This is Santi, we grew up together and he’s stupid protective and drunk. Santi can you please go back with Frankie I’m talking to someone.”

Without looking away from Connor Santi answers, “mm not drunk. I’m just making clear what’s mine.”

Connor looks at you and then Santi. Before he sheepishly smiles, “It was nice meeting you. I hope you guys figure things out.”

Connor walks away and you feel the rage building inside you, as Santi triumphantly turns back to you. You shove Santi’s shoulder, barely moving him, “You’re such a fucking asshole Pope. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Dance with me.”

“I’m not fucking dancing with you.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls you to the dance floor despite your protests, your skin burning in shock and anger where his hand clutches your wrist. You make it to the center, him hungrily grasping at your waist. You’re pissed off but also so confused at this change in temperature. Santi won’t stop looking at you. Those dark lashes attempting to hypnotize you back into his orbit. He brings his mouth to your ear, “When’s the last time you danced with me Chiqi?”

You scoffed, but brought your arms to wrap around his neck as he tugged you closer, chest to chest, “Senior prom. After Michael Vazquez left me for Torrence Sheltzer. And I stepped on your toes all night.”

He laughed, “Michael was such an idiot.”

You stay like that. The bass coursing through your body, right in time with the pounding of your heart against Santi’s chest. He was always a good dancer. Too good of a dancer, it was almost obscene the way he had you moving against him. You don’t know how long you had been spinning, and you had to rest your head on his shoulder because of how light headed you became.

“You shouldn’t have done that Pope. He was nice.”

“He was a wimp. Wouldn’t be able to take care of you.”

“What you’re going to chase away any man who comes up to me? I’m tired of being alone.”

“You’re not alone. You have me.”

“You know what I mean.”

He pulled your face off his shoulder to make you look in his eyes, “I do know. And i know what I said. You have me. You’re mine. I’m yours.”

You feel tears in your eyes. Either from the smoke, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, “Santi stop being stupid. You’re being mean. You know I love you and you’re making fun of me.”

He presses his dry lips to the tear that escapes your eye, then puts his forehead to yours, “I’m not Chiqi. I’m not. Chiqi I’ve loved you since the 8th grade. I’ve hated every one of your little boyfriends and I’ve coveted you for years. I’m not joking.”

“Then why haven’t you said anything? Why didn’t you come get me when I was right here?”

The tears fall more now. And he keep kissing your cheeks to remove them, “Because I’m an asshole. I’m a fucking asshole who was too afraid of you saying no. Too afraid of when you left. I didn’t want to lose you. But I can’t take it anymore Chiqi. I can’t take another boyfriend. I’m selfish. I’m a selfish asshole. I want you for myself. I want you to yell at me and call me stupid as long as it means you never leave my place and you never leave my side. Cmon Chiqi…. Let me call you mine.”

You stared at him. He was telling the truth. He was being raw and real and you knew that this wasn’t some act. This was Santi in his rawest form. He wanted you. You brought your hand around to squeeze his cheeks together, “I want you to take me on a date. A real one. Not the bar or the bowling alley with the boys. I want dinner that you pay for. And flowers. And for you to wear a real shirt.”

He shakes your hand off and smiles, “Tomorrow night. I take you to The Colombia. I pick you up. With roses.”

“Do I get to order flan?”

He smiles even wider, “Only if you let me feed it to you like those stupid romance books you read.”

You shove him and he laughs and pulls you closer, “Kiss me and seal the deal Chiqitita. C’mon don’t be mad. Kiss me and tell me you’re mine.”

You couldn’t keep yourself from laughing, making him work for your kiss. You finally relent, pulling him in for the best kiss ever. The best kiss of your life. Until tomorrow’s

[laguezze]

PAC: Characteristics of your FS

This is for or all the people with intention to marry or have a long term relationship. Next up will be a soulmate characteristic PAC. I decided to split it in two to get more details!

Now onto the PAC!

Here are the piles!

Pile 1

Pile 2

Pile 3

Pile 4

Ready? Let's go!

Pile 1

This person is a rebel. Might be a bit hypocritical about it. Like they might come from money but decide to live out their best broke musician dreams while still living in their rich dad's apartment that he bought for them. That's just one case example, take it as it resonates.

This person loves to keep appearances, they love to be in control of how people perceive them. I'm seeing they want to be taken seriously.

Long, messy, brown, curly hair. Middle part is possible.

North America, Australia, Oceania, Hawaii, UK.

Dainty eyes?, Blue eyes, light eyes.

Not too defined features but also not ugly. Might be what people call "medium ugly" for some of you. Nothing too shocking about their features.

Musician, plays guitar, indie music taste, 420 friendly? Nirvana (the band), big social life, plaid shirts, leather jackets, bad boy persona, baddie aesthetic, motorbike, cigarette, old school lover, 70s aesthetic and fashion.

Pile 2

This person is very much hypocritical, they don't know what they want in life. Very much lost with their career and family life. You might help guide them.

They definitely have unconventional dreams like opening up a tea shop, or flower shop. Which is fine, but I'm seeing they want to do that for the wrong reasons. Very easily manipulated person, it'll be frustrating for you to see. But they'll get better with your help probably.

Probably from any capitalist country. Take that as you will.

Light eyes or medium eyes but not dark. Downturned eyes.

Short hair, pixie cut, wolf cut.

Wears bandanas, baggy clothes, long skirts, hippie style, boho aesthetic, activist. Necklaces and bracelets, lots of jewelery in general.

(sorry it's a bit short, your person wasn't too specific with the looks but rather with the personality)

Pile 3

You guys got yourselves a romantic, old school, kinda person. They probably listen to music from the 50s and 60s and jazz, lots of jazz. Might love to take things slow and smooth. Doesn't like running late to things and is always calm and early. Very collected person, never a hair out of place. Always is composed. They might have been different before they met you. They probably were chaotic and funny before they met you but something happened that made them this sophisticated, chic person. You might need to bring the fun in them back, I'm hearing. Might be a judgy individual.

Latinx, Hispanic, Southern Europe, North America (East Coast)

Brown eyes, very deep set eyes, intense gaze

Short hair, very short for men, curly hair, either Brown or dirty blonde.

Long eyelashes, very pretty features. Either small nose or large nose, no in between; defined face, high cheekbones.

Medium height, slightly muscular.

60s, 50s music and fashion, coffee and tea lover, might be a cook or love to do it, kitchen lover, architecture fanatic, probably loves house decor and renovation, secretive, mysterious, romantic, candle collector.

Pile 4

(idk i swear this is not Hozier themed, there's just something about him present here)

"imagine being loved by me"

This persoooon omg. So pure hearted. Truly has the best intentions at heart. They literally are sunshine personified. They radiate light, like their smile lights up a room and they always look clean and cheerful. The type of person everyone likes. No one ever dares say anything negative about them and if they do, it's because of jealousy.

They might have a lot of pretty privilege that makes this effect happen. Like if this person was a 6/10 (conventional attractiveness scale) their personality wouldn't be as appreciated. But because they're so beautiful inside and out, it shines through. I'm getting they realize this privilege and it rubs them the wrong way sometimes but they won't fight against it because it's helping them with their goals.

North America, Sweden, Finland, etc, Northern Europe and UK.

Blonde hair, short hair, curly hair, honey hair.

blue eyes, light eyes, almond shaped eyes

Bunny pretty (that one TikTok trend ifykyk), slim, short, cherubin look (if you don't know what that is, think cupid angel type of beauty), white clothes, flowy dresses, short eyelashes, defined jawline, big smile, straight teeth, bunny teeth, cardigans.

Hope it resonates for all of you!!! 💕

[aghostnamedcalamity]

Maríanne Villanueva

Painting of Maríanne I wanted to surprise the wonderful @ahhhh-118 with! Except not really because they already knew since I asked xD But I mean, how could I not!? A Latinx traveler that dabbles in boxing in her free time?! Ummm yeah…that’s queen material right there.

Drawing a new character really helped me step outside of my comfort zone, it was so lovely! I might have to start harrassing more of my mutuals and followers to let me draw their OCs to help me learn. Maybe I’ll start an OC of the Week! Haha that’d be great.

The beautiful Maríanne belongs to @ahhhh-118 ! I really hope you like it !! 🥹❤️