Please Do Your Research! There Is So Much Misinformation Out There And A Lot Of Lies.

lmao so im completely shameless and a sucker for physical intimacy so ive been thinkin abt darling just having childe or kaeya sit on the floor while theyre in a chair and them just. slinging their legs over his shoulders as they do other work ?? they meant it as a friendly gesture to make him happy but also he might b drooling when they gently press their thighs against his head -💉

Slight NS_FT

No, because this ask has completely rotted my brain… Kaeya and Childe are such prevs they’d turn the most innocent of actions into fantasy material… little gross men </3

Warnings: Yandere, GN! reader, God! reader, talks of religion, obsessive behavior/mindset, mentions of murder/death (by thighs/legs), perv! Childe, perv! Kaeya, masochistic tendencies? (especially on Childe’s part), implied sub!character x dom!reader dynamics,

The rest of the ask is under the read more!

— Kaeya

You’d only called for Kaeya’s assistance since Lisa wasn’t around to help you like she normally would; you were in the library just looking for some books to pass time – being under constant surveillance by some of the most protective people in Teyvat often led to your activities being restricted for your “safety”.

He’d been more than happy to drop what he was doing (which honestly was him preparing to go bother Diluc for the afternoon) to come to your aid. He’d teased you a bit, joking about how much you needed him - probably to try and distract from the obvious blush in his face the longer he spent time with you - but eventually helped you find some books about Teyvat’s mythology and history, both subjects that has greatly interested you since long before arriving.

He insists you read yourself, saying something amongst the lines of “I’m too tired, but if you want - I’m more than happy to listen to you reading it for me” though you’re inclined to believe he simply wanted the chance to silently stare at you, a guess that came from the fact that current that was exactly what he was doing.

You found it weird that he didn’t seem to sit down, opting to stand tall and proud beside you, you’d insisted he take the seat beside you but he refused - that is, until you gesture to one of the pillows on the ground, one that found itself laying just between your legs and the plush chair your rested upon.

“Why don’t you sit there if you’ve got such a problem with chairs?” It was partially a joke, you didn’t think he’d rather sit on the ground than an actual chair, and a last ditch attempt to have him sit down somewhere (because heaven knows how much it stressed you out to see him just standing there on the side, didn’t his feet hurt? Wasn’t his back tired? He’d been there unmoving for at least half an hour), you didn’t think he’d silently take the seat beneath your own and sweetly smile up at you.

“Probably the best seat in the house,” he muses, looking around between your legs as his eye twinkled with admiration while he stared at your shocked expression, “come on, you invited me over - don’t tell me you didn’t mean it?”

“Haha, very funny, Sir Kaeya.” You roll your eyes, hiding your face into the book - hoping the cover would be enough to hide the embarrassed look in your face - it’s not your fault he makes you flustered.

He simply laughs, finding your newfound embarrassment amusing, and lets his head hit the edge of the cushioned seat almost touching your skin, as if afraid of defiling you with his touch - “I’m not bothering you, am I?” He asks, his eyes closed, realizing he might be taking too much space for your legs to properly rest.

“Hmm, not really,” you think, your legs were a bit cramped up from earlier, you look down upon the man sitting beneath you, “but it’s fixable.”

You test the waters and let your legs rest upon his shoulders before simply letting them drape over his upper body - he doesn’t react much, simply stiffening at the contact before slowly relaxing - “You don’t mind, do you?” You tease, ready to move your legs in case he asks you to.

“N-not at all.” He coughs into his hand and it’s your turn to be amused at his sudden shyness; did you hear it right? Had Kaeya, the Kaeya Alberich, just stuttered? You go to remove your legs, shocked at the realization, but his hands shoot up to grasp at your thighs; “Don’t! I… I mean, you don’t have to, I’m fine… unless you want to, then it’s… fine too.”

You smile slightly, but opt not to tease him too much - not when you feel him hesitantly lay his cheeks against your skin, caressing your legs with such tenderness you struggle to believe this is the same man who’d slaughtered hundreds of his people, your eyes visibly saddened at the idea.

What a troubled soul, you muse while letting your body limp against him, you remember all you’d heard about his past and lore and your heart aches and so you make a promise to yourself to try and spend more time with him.

If only you knew, that while you worried and pondered over his past - the Cavalry Captain was all but drooling over the way your legs squeezed his cheeks. You would be surprised at how hard it was to contain the moan itching to rise from his throat when he felt your legs first find his body, if he could - he’d turn around and kiss your feet, let his hands wander your sacred skin while he proclaimed how grateful he was for you and your love, but he didn’t want to ruin such a peaceful moment. All you had to do was squeeze your legs and decide to restrict his airflow with your thighs and he’d be a goner, dead - no longer alive, but he didn’t mind at all - he’d rather die at your hands (legs) than die any other way, he wants to laugh at the thought.

His heart was beating a thousand miles an hour, he could hardly contain the excitement crawling all over his body the longer his skin touched yours. It felt electrifying, a buzz stronger than even Dawn’s Winery’s finest alcohol couldn’t compare to. If anyone looked at him, they’d think he was edging himself just by the lewd look that took over his handsome features.

For now, he’d keep these thoughts to himself - simply hoping you’d been so kind as to help him later with his little problem, courtesy of your unknown effects on the Khaenri’ahn.

….

— Childe

Your time in Liyue was coming to an end, you’d soon be embarking on the Crux to visit the Raiden Shogun and her region, Inazuma, which meant the last few days had been hectic as Zhongli and other residents of Liyue attempted to make the most of your time there before you left.

You’d managed to sneak off and find yourself some time, your head was pounding and your legs ache after hours of nonstop walking, you had originally meant for it to be just yourself - a well deserved break after the last torturous days - but it doesn’t take long for the Snezhnayan diplomat, Ajax, to find you - much to your… in reality, you were too sleepy and tired to try and feel annoyed or irritated.

“Ended up running away, huh?” He laughs, making his way towards you - your figure was almost completely hidden by an oversized blanket in the cushioned chair you laid upon, “You should be more careful, you almost had Lady Ningguang send out a search party for you.”

“Mmhm?” You groan, you vaguely acknowledge his words - your body was exhausted and your mind felt like soft putty; you just wanted to sleep and not wake up for the following week or two.

“They really ran you out…” He muses, a pitiful look takes over his face as he assesses your fatigued state, “Care to make some room?”

He originally meant for you to scoot over so he could cuddle you, it was basically a death wish - if Xiao or Scaramouche found him snuggled up to your sleeping he would probably end up dead and floating in the shore of Liyue Harbor by dawn, but it seems like your position is too comfortable or you’re just too sleepy to properly consider better options and instead, you part your legs and nudge him over to sit on the floor between them.

“‘ere.” You lazily motion, before flopping your head against the plush chair once more.

He can’t even tease you, his face is red at the implications - did you have no idea how… how perverted you were making him feel? He knew you probably had no secondary or lewd intentions but you couldn’t just do that and expect him to be okay! Still - he isn’t complaining, he’d dreamed of being in between your legs (in all ways imaginable) for embarrassingly long (to the point he’s sure if Zhongli knew he’d be banned from Liyue), and he only stumbles slightly on his feet as he makes his way to lean between your legs.

“Better than any pillow Mora could buy,” he groans, letting his cheeks meet your thighs, he looks up at your face - you looked so cute, sleepy and yawning, “so nice and kind, letting me rest like this… you’ll make them jealous, you know?”

His fingers trail your skin, taking note of how delicate it felt against his worn out gloves.

You don’t acknowledge his words, your journey into unconsciousness must have been swift, only tightening your grip on his cheeks in your slumber.

“… !” He feels more blood rush to his cheeks, his eyes involuntarily roll back at the feeling of your skin on his as your legs apply a pleasurable amount of pressure against his face - fuck, he wished Zhongli would walk in, so he could rub it in his face.

His hands go to rest on your legs, almost as if begging you to stay there or squeeze him tighter - kill him, he truly wouldn’t mind going like this, but it seems he was too careless and you’re startled awake by his sudden and rough touch.

“A-Ajax? …! Are you okay I didn’t -!”

“Of course not,” he breathes, trying to hide how much he enjoyed the location and situation he found himself in, “you should rest, I’ll keep watch so they don’t bother you.”

“But don’t you want a pillow or to move somewhere more comfortable?” You ask, afraid you’d hurt him and slightly embarrassed at the predicament.

“No, it’s okay,” he laughs, never once parting his cheeks from your thighs “if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” you reassure, thinking for a second before smiling down at him, “t-thank you for keeping an eye out.”

“Now, don’t worry and rest,” he smiles, patting your legs and you take it as a sign to head back to sleep - you’d need to make the most of any shut eye you could get in the next couple of hours, “to help you like this… is my pleasure.”

And it really is.

has someone done this yet

dedication | young!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | young geneticist!miguel o'hara x scientist!reader

❛ type | oneshot, explicit.

❛ summary | alchemax is a dangerous place to work. miguel's new assistant may be over her head. maybe he can help her, though.

❛ tags | virgin reader, f!reader, shitty science, plot heavy, loose canon references, literary liberties, loss of virginity, overprotective Miguel o'hara, jealous miguel o'hara, some objectification, workplace politics, aftercare (as requested), corruption (is it tho?), bc what bc, Spanish is not translated, young!miguel, heel-foot fetish, somewhat romantic.

❛ fulfilled request | can we please have a miguel x virgin reader and he didn’t even know until he was already putting it in?? And then voila his corruption kink unexpectedly growS? @a--dedicated--fangirl

❛ sy’s notes | miguel sort of works on that whole corruption aspect throughout this fic, but i wanted to meld these two ideas together to create a reader who is entirely dedicated to Miguel. This piece was a bit long for me.

“Miguel, your new assistant is here.” 

On paper, you’re an excellent candidate for the genetics program. 

An excellent GPA, renowned company internships, decent publications, and a diverse upbringing. It was all good. Great, even. But as the head of the genetics program at Alchemax, he has a little thing called priorities. Interviewing everyone himself was low on the rung of shit he felt like he should be doing. There was, however, one little, itty bitty, tiny problem with bringing you on board.

“Dr. O’Hara? ¿Estas bien?”

That shirt-- is not meant to hold those-- His brain was left field, glimpsing at them. A slightly sheer button-up revealed the outline of your bustier and its inability to conceal your body. They should have been illegal. He was pretty sure they were illicit in the handbook on his table. He should really read that again. Maybe then he wouldn’t be salivating over something as simple as a co-worker-- He needed to get out of the lab. The bleached walls tightened around him, the space smaller than he remembered. He was going to get caught.

Realistically, the lab was full of witty people. Many of them were witty men with subpar looks and stupider dicks. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. Not only because your lips were plump, painted petal-pink, and kissable or because the depth of your sultry eyes went straight in the dick. No, but because that would be improper of a man of his stature to tell one of the only women in his care that she was too gorgeous for the job you were clearly qualified for. 

“Sí, coño,” He fixed his glasses, crooked on his broad nose. He stood up from his desk and grabbed his lab coat, swirling it around his broad shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, you tracked the movement with your eyes. “Do you want a cafecito? Miss…”

You told him your name. He mulled it over on his tongue, lathing it in a gentle acknowledgment. Cemented it in a place he wouldn't forget. You tinked your head to the side, your lashes fluttering when he cleared his throat. Great, just shocking-- 

“After you,” he headed for the door. He held it open for you, plastering his back to the wood. It didn't matter. You slid by closer than he’d prefer, your hand catching on his belt buckle with muttered apologies. This wasn’t going to end well. 

Cafecito is an excellent excuse to pull his dumbass together. 

It also calms his nerves, centers his mind, and allows him to compartmentalize. Whether or not you could hold your own wasn’t his issue, his issue was the necessity of someone he could trust. Ugly, beautiful-- so long as they were efficient, Miguel would make due. The cafeteria was a large and clean space. The many tables were crowded with wrap-around stations for poorly crafted, misery-inducing meals. Miguel paid and took a seat at a creaky table. One where he could see the door open, shut, and keep an eye on the comings and goings of meager scientists and annoying managers. 

“You’ll be working with me.” 

You pursed your lips around the warm cup of coffee, taking a ginger sip. He noted your lipstick stain that remained as you pushed the cup toward the middle of the table you shared with him. This damn suit vest was stifling. He gave you a long, slow look, tilting his head to the fact that you’d not drunk anything. It’d be rude to acknowledge.

“Delgado told me,” you smiled warmly. “He said you’re a genius. I don’t know that I believe in geniuses.” 

Hmph. Delgado, things fell into place. That sycophant knew what he liked. He also knew that Miguel was better than him, always was, and always would be. Miguel offered you a slick smile, convinced he could assure you otherwise if he needed to. “Delgado says a lot of things. I’m surprised he gave you to me.”

“Why is that, O’Hara?” the way his name slipped off your tongue was a hot sin. If only he believed in a god. His eyelids shifted over his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark.

“You’re beautiful. He likes to collect beautiful things,” Miguel tried, curious.  Your nails clicked in succession over the table. A repetitive click, click, click. He would be annoyed too if he were no more than a ploy. A distraction. Miguel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t working. His eyes flickered down, catching one of your palms curling into a tight fist, tension rolling through your fingers and up your arms. “He knows I do too.” 

You leaned in, close enough that he could spot the unique freckles spread out in a crescent moon beneath a layer of makeup on your face. Beautiful. “I’m not here to belong to you, O’Hara. I hope you know that.” 

He was off to a great, fantastic start.

 “Understood.” Miguel leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping up his lips. Or, believe that you believed that. You spared him any more mincing comments. Appeased by his suggestion, you brought your drink back to your lips.

“Good. What are we sequencing?” 

“Me.” 

You swallowed. “You? You can’t be--” 

Mhm, he stared, lips pressed tightly together. “You’ll code my DNA. Then we’ll splice it.” 

"With what?"

"You'll see."

“Is this your little,” you swirled your finger in a circle. “Pet project?” 

Unfortunately not, he would have liked to say. That information was confidential, and though you worked on the project, there were levels to his willingness to involve you in the delicate flow of workplace politics. Still, you might make a healthy distraction from his work. Miguel took a swig of his cafecito, boring into the black substance.

“Something like that.” 

Having a pretty assistant means things don’t always get done according to schedule. Not quickly enough, not by far. There is a time limit to everything at Alchemax. The quicker, the better. Thus this project demanded more hours of his time. The project was spliced between the work required of him by superiors and you, your quirks, and your preferences. 

Miguel has learned a great many things about you in a short amount of time. You don’t appreciate misplaced pet names. You actually can’t handle coffee because of the caffeine or the sugar. He also learns things about himself. How little he likes when Delgado comes to check on progress because he isn’t actually checking on shit. He's checking you out. 

He likes to weasel his nasty fingers around the door, peering in to try and find out what specimen he’s actually working on. Miguel was much too smart for that. His beady eyes caught Miguel over your shoulder, mumbling up to him about a new finding in tests you ran earlier that day. Your face mask twirled around your index finger, finally free and at a documentation workspace.   Funny, because he clearly redacts information from your well-recorded notes on the daily. You refuse to include less.

“Hey Mike,” he said. “How are things… Oh hey, you. You settling in, honey? Mike treating you ok? I can discipline him for you.”

“As if you could,” Miguel huffed. 

But Delgado spying on you, the way you record progress by pouting out your lips, shifting between paper and your lab reports, was intolerable. Because... well, he has sensitive information on there. Your nose scrunches in distaste, but you bow your head just slightly as a hello. He might be his supervisor, but Miguel doesn’t need one to know why this asshole is in his lab turning his smarmy brown eyes over the way you sit: one leg over the other. You seem to realize it too, trailing your eyes over his gaudy suit to Miguel’s sinewy hand on your shoulder. 

“Stop being a creep,” Miguel complained, “She has actual work to do.”

“Actual work? As opposed to--“

“Yes, what you do.” Miguel spat out. You eschewed a giggle, turning your face over a pristine white lab jacket that thankfully, you had no qualms in wearing. Otherwise, he might not finish any work in the lab at all. 

“I supervise--

“You’re still talking but we’re not listening,” Miguel waved him off, plucking up papers by your side. Your eyes snap up to Miguel’s deep chocolate eyes hidden behind the thin frame of his metal glasses, waiting for a proper response. “Goodbye, Aaron.”

Miguel walks to the door, locks it with a click, and returns to your side. You glance at his white lab coat, fluttering around his tapered waist. He loves the way your eyes look at him with a soft, inviting expression, beseeching him to come to sit by your side as he always did. “Not a fan of Delgado, I take it.” 

“Are you?” Miguel sits with his legs spread, his fingers threading through his thick brown hair. You set your papers down, swiveled toward him. The wheels of your rolling chair squeak on either side of his thick, black boots. His eye catches your thick thighs, squashed between your midi skirt, its atrocious slip causing him discomfort. His hand leaves his thick hair, dropping in unison side by side. 

“I can’t stand being called honey, Mike.” 

“Shut up.”

The days proceed similarly. Days filled with brushing past him as he slides in samples and reagents. He might lose a sample, clattering on the floor, and you always rush to help him clean up. Lunch together, because no matter how late he eats, you’re there beside him. Then as night falls, you stay until he has finished whatever he needs to do.

“Time to eat something,” you slipped into his office. The clock ticked past midnight. Miguel flicked through handwritten pages of information that did not need to be recorded in computer files. You watched his eyes scan over the ink on the page, acknowledging you with a grumpy grunt. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing the last section of the project.

“Empanada,” you turned his palm over, placing the flaky pastry in his hand. Caramelized apple. He loved a good apple empanada. He watched as you walked over to the coffee maker, drawing him a warm cafecito just how he liked it. Miguel dropped his pen, stretching out his aching spine. 

“Gracias. From where?” 

“I made them,” you set down the cup a little harder than intended. The surface rippled, throwing hot coffee drips onto his pages. His eyes flickered up from the pages to your eyes. Without thinking, he blathers:

“That so?” A pause. “Don’t you have a man?” 

“Miguel. With this sequencing project, you’re the only man in my life. Shut up and eat the empanada.” 

“Huh. Good. I like that.” He swallowed the empanada with a bob of his head, his tongue lathing over his teeth for any more of the sweet sugar. He stood up, finding your expression soft, drawn out by a sense of longing that he couldn’t imagine he saw.  

“You like my sad love life?” 

Yes.

“No, we have a company event. A ball,” Miguel chided, his tone gentling as he slipped away from his desk, abandoning his steamy coffee on his desk. He backed out of the doorway, “It’s all Stone’s politics. You know how these things are. I have to go. Come with me.” 

“Is that a request or an order?” 

“A date.” 

I’d love to. Your words were the only thing that made tonight bearable. Slinking his tanned skin into a dark blue suit that cinched everything too tight was… unbearable. It clung to his skin like a second skin and choked off his air. But it might be worth it to see your face-- just maybe. He tracked the fluttering tails of fish behind bulletproof glass, following them as they fluttered away into their rock. He wished he could too. 

“Miguel?” 

“You’re here,” he turned around, dropping the champagne he idly held in his hand. It went forgotten by his boot as you called his name again. His gaze fixed on yours, the slinky navy blue dress caused his heart to thrum through his chest, chasing the sight of your body at his feet, picking shards of glass up with the aid of a worker, apologizing profusely for the mess. A soft puff of breath slipped from his lips as you stood back up, gripping your purse a little harder in your hands. He ran his hand over his jaw, drawing himself back to his senses.

“Miggy,” he husked out. “Call me Miggy.” 

“You look handsome, Miggy,” his name felt unreal on your lips until he felt the pressure on his elbow. Your soft hands slunk around his, cradling him for some security in the face of the large doors. He shook himself back to his senses. Right, there was a reason he was here. “But shouldn’t we go?” 

He should have-- but did he want to? No, not really. He didn’t want to see Stone’s greasy face, let Aaron take a peek at how you looked dolled up, or any of the rest of these fuckers. What he wanted was something else entirely. 

“Listen.” Miguel stopped, his other hand coming to the jeweled bracelet on your wrist. The doors to the ballroom lapsed, groups of older men filtering in and out with their pieces of the night: doting wives, longing husbands, and partners that their wives or husbands probably didn’t know about. “Don’t wander off from me. They’re all snakes. All of them.” 

“Even you?” 

“Hermosa,” you didn’t leer at him. “I’m the least of your worries.” 

He wasn’t wrong. The ballroom was dolled up in lush fabrics, fine china, and a copious amount of food as it was every year. Miguel found the attempt to distract from what really went on behind closed doors at Alchemax a bit cloying. This year the music was at least tolerable. It filtered out into the ballroom in a syrupy melodies driven on by the soft, promises of rich men for the exchange of sex. For much of the night, he could stomach the various men poking and prodding at him about his impending research. So long as you were here.

“Miggy,” you breathed, a hot puff of air against his ear. He leaned down, his hand atop of yours. “Will you dance with me?” 

Dance? Miguel had two left feet-- it’s why he was a geneticist. For all the work you did on his behalf in the lab, including this very night, he owed you the benefit of whatever you wanted. He searched out a quiet area, one where the only disruption could be the stream of moonlight in through a window. You preferred it over the wall of vivacious men and over-powdered women. He preferred it over the atrocity of his footwork.

“It’s not much of a date,” Miguel’s hand slid around yours. He encompassed your small palm with his large hand, the other gliding across the soft, exposed skin of your back. You swayed with him, side to side. He was an awful dancer, but there was something endearing about that. He saw it in your eyes, the glimmer of curiosity, gliding your dark heels against the inside of his foot. Damn, he still sucked.

“No,” you agreed, shifting to take the lead. He followed your steps. Right, back, left, up. Maybe he stepped on your long dress once or twice, too. Shock, he cursed again, stepping over your foot.

“You’re remarkably bad at this.” You settled your head on his chest, letting your box steps fade into little more than the shifting of your hips. 

“I know. Let’s just-- sway?” 

“Swaying is good.”  

“O’Hara,” boomed Stone. But of course— peace couldn’t last forever. Like a bullet through the chest, a voice caused him to turn in startle. His tan cheeks flushed with warmth, feeling cut off from the cover of others. He was dressed in the most gaudy of clothes that almost seemed to match the crooked expression on his pale face. No matter how many times he tried to fix it, it always looked… wrong. 

Stone’s hands came together, clapping multiple times to force the crowd of politicians, scientists, and bought-in participants to fade away. His voice caused Miguel to growl, a low rumbly noise that you soothed with your breasts pushing gingerly against his arm. He could do it. He could handle this pompous little shit-- “And who is this beauty? A new girlfriend, perhaps? Fiance? O’Hara could do with a wife. Settle him down, y’know.”

Miguel huffed out of his nostrils. “This is my lab partner,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward. “For… the project.”

“Her? A lab partner? Ha!” 

Shock. He didn’t have to look at you to know you were insulted. Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing out the tension as you smiled through the interaction, taking over for Miguel. “We have measurable results.” 

“That’s what I like to hear, sweet thing. Now, Miguel, Aaron has found a test subject…”

“I’ll interview them.” 

“No need! I--” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Stone. I’ll let you two talk,” you slipped away, your heels clicking off into the busy crowd. Stone was talking. Miguel knew he should listen closely. His half-formed plan to see what the future held for his research was wafting into the air, wisps of it in his ear. Tomorrow-- test-- can you? Panic blinded his senses. He could find you nowhere in the room, and even if he did, would he be too late? 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, it’s… excuse me.” 

The issue with falling for someone was the scythe of his fear. His position was inherently risky. No matter how many groups of people he cut through trying to find you, you weren’t there. No tiny little appetizers of shrimp on half a skewer. No booze, because your head would swim. Not near the bathrooms, either. He rushed down the steps when he found you, just before the large iron gates, staring up at the stars peppering the sky. 

At your feet, Aaron. His drunken fingers trying and failing to guide the strap off of your ankle. You, of course, sat there staring dumbly down at his failed attempts to do something as simple as fix your damn heel.

“I’ll take it from here.” Miguel booted Aaron out of the way. Who, with his sloppy sloshed curses, tried to win a fight with him. He eventually won out. Aaron slunk away, somewhere up the steps. Miguel wasn’t counting. “You didn’t listen.” 

“Hm?” 

Miguel loosened both straps, sliding his open palm under your foot for one then the other. You gazed at him, sliding the black heels off your feet, tutting his tongue at the blistered back of your feet. 

“I told you not to wander off.” 

“I just wanted to see the stars. Besides, it was just Aaron.” 

“It’s never just Aaron. It’s Aaron and Stone.” Miguel’s eyebrows pushed against one another, recording your failure to listen. You crossed one leg over the other, sliding your toes over his silk tie, kept beneath a vest. He knelt before you, searching your eyes for the right answer. “You don’t know… what you’re getting into. I’m trying to keep you safe.” 

 “I don’t need you to. I can take care of myself, Miguel. Please don’t--” you sighed. “Don’t be like them.” 

He knew what you meant. Like Aaron, peeling off your shoes at the sign of discomfort because you were a pretty woman. Or Stone, who couldn’t comprehend your value as a scientist. Those who doubted you because of your color, gender, or a mixture of the two. His mouth twisted in frustration. He was in deep. Whatever you desired, he wanted to give. It came at a price.

“Are you mine,” the words came out stiff, “or theirs?” 

“Miggy,” you turned the word over on your tongue, willing him to stand down. His dark eyes settled on yours, unmoving. “Why do I have to pick?” 

“You can’t have both. You’ll have to choose. One day.” 

Your mind worked. He knew from the way you pursed your lip out, then in, puncturing its pillowy surface with your teeth. You shifted your gaze to the water, the stream coursing down the unfeeling stone. Miguel's fingers ran across your inner thigh, causing you to gaze down at him. The steps of others on the other side of the fountain, fading into the depths of the night caused you to break his gaze. Miguel offered you his hand, fitting the shoes under his other arm as he walked toward the valet. You took his hand and interlaced your fingers.

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” you said, though the words felt thready and thin, nary a whisper. Something in the undercurrent of your voice concerned him. A thread that needed to be snipped, convinced of the vileness of the city-- of who you worked for. 

He doesn’t make mistakes. 

But he left the project code on his desk. It should have been there, yet, the corpse of a decrepit, awful creature withered on the lab floor proved otherwise. Someone had taken it because he was distracted. As a result, someone lost their life... even if it was Stone's doing.

Now, scouring through his papers, his hands tremored like a common drug addict. He supposed he was one, a druggie, tremoring like a shot hungry, Rapture crazed-- 

“Miggy?” 

He snapped around. His gaze melded your figure into one beautiful blurb, even with the glasses on his broad nose. It was your voice, coded in something close to concern. Miguel ran his hands through his hair, long strands falling messily over his eyes and cheekbones. He flattened his hands out atop his head.

“What are you looking for?” 

“The notes,” he weathered a breath. He doddered about the room, throwing a stack of paper onto the floor. They crumpled over the floor, mixed projects, notes on the specimen, but none were his. “Where are my notes?” 

“You’re sick,” your voice broke gently, as if speaking them alone helped. A horrid crack of laughter slipped from his throat, drawing into a long lament as he repeated the words after you. Sick, you said, he was sick. If being sick was the least of his issues, he would have been a happy man. Your steps rang into his ear, heavier than before, painful and loud. He crumpled onto the couch in his office, his hands cupping them. Your soft hands coursed over his chest, unbuttoning his starched button-up and sliding it down his muscular upper arms. “This might hurt.” 

No kidding, needles always hurt. But the instantaneous relief that flooded his system overrode the momentary pain. As your fuzzy figure came into focus, he recognized the drug that you set aside. 

“You didn’t--” 

“You were right, Miggy, about the-- Mr. Sims.”  Miguel gazed at you, leafing through novels of notes with trembling hands. He cursed himself for subjecting you to seeing that. Not quite human, not quite... The twisted look on the poor man’s face. What months of research with one another had offered. He would fix it. He knew the research was on point. It was the application that was lacking.

“I have a copy of your notes,” you murmured as if someone could hear. They likely could. “¿Ay, puñeta, dónde está? Ah! Here, here it is. Your… profile.” 

“You kept it,” he glanced down at the hastily scribbled note attached to the clip. ‘Miguel’s profile’ alongside a soft pink heart. He stopped your hands from thumbing through another leaflet. His eyes traced the dry ink of the heart. His thumb moved to stroke it, catching the sight of bubbling tears welling over in your eyes out of the corner of his eye. The tears slid down your full cheeks, triggering his discomfort to well up in his stomach. Miguel shifted closer, flicking fat droplets off your slight jaw.

“Hermosa,” Miguel shifted his head, cocking his eyebrow. “¿Que te pasa?”

“I should have listened to you Miggy,” you began, inhaling air forcefully through your nostrils. Breathe, you murmured. Miguel's soft hand cupped the back of your neck like a collar. You were happy to be collared by his hand, it felt safe. 

His eyes narrowed, thumb caressing the loose strands of hair at your nape. “You should have. You know I'll take care of you."

You nodded.

"You have to be fully dedicated to me.” 

“I am.” 

“Show me.” You fluttered your eyes, the gears of your mind working to understand what he meant. His hand fell away to trace the bow of your black blouse. He tugged on the knot, slipping the bow loose and running his fingers over your exposed cleavage below. “Take off the blouse.” 

Was it necessary? Some might have said no-- but sex, in its connective nature-- was the ultimate dedication. At the end of it all, that's what he craved: your eyes, your actions, all born with him in mind. With trembling fingers, you untucked your shirt from your black slacks. Miguel sat back, tracking the soft lace of your balconette bra teasing his eye. You loitered for a minute too long, enough for him to lift his thick eyebrow.

“Don’t stop now,” he said. Your knees knocked together, slipping the shirt over and off your torso before draping it on the arm of his couch. Your bra followed quickly after, slipping out of the twisted straps. You skimmed your hands over your breasts, holding them for comfort.

"No." Miguel flicked his fingers, motioning for your hands to move from your thick nipples.  You pushed your breasts together, allowing him to marvel at them a second longer. “Que maravilla... You have no idea how long I’ve waited. Go on, take off the rest now.” 

You suckled in breath, sliding the button of your pants loose. Then the zipper, its cloth scratching your thighs on its way to pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, joining them too with your shirt. Miguel sat up, running his calloused fingers over the side of your hip and waist. His thumbs hooked in your panties, drawing them down over your pussy, a moist spot on your panties connecting a small string of wetness to your pussy. His palm slid between your thighs, pinned by your thighs pressed together, whether out of an innate need for more pressure or shyness to show him how wet you were. Hm. Miguel melded your ass, striking your skin with his large palm, it jiggled.

“Miggy,” you breathed, shy and intimidated. “I have to tell you something…” 

“Lay down,” he told you. 

“But Miggy, what if someone…” Your eyes darted away from his, chewing on his cheek as you slid back down beside him. You settled on the couch, your legs thrown over his thighs. The couch was stiff, hard against your neck. You stole a haughty glimpse at his face, focused entirely on coursing his palms over your calves and thighs, then back down to your slight toes. He ground your feet over his stiff cock, obscured by the fabric of his slacks. He felt big-- bigger than you could have imagined from the look on your face. 

“¡Basta!” Miguel growled, “No one is going to come in. Let me see you.” 

You flushed. 

“You want me to…” you glanced down, your curls were soft to the touch. 

“Touch yourself for me.” 

With your heart strumming in your chest, you shifted your hand down, spreading your lips, soft and wet. You were so wonderfully shy to follow his orders, the pads of your fingers rubbing along your outer lips, massaging them warm and swollen. You buried your eyes into your other arm, dragging up and down, over and over. A delightful sigh greeted his ear, ensuring that though you were too embarrassed to look at him, you loved it. He allowed it for now-- because he was a gracious, forgiving man. 

“Shock,” Miguel shuffled at the button and zipper of his pants, freeing himself from his slacks. He spat into his palm, stroking over his fleshy length, squishing his cock against your foot. Your toes curled over his cockhead, engrossed in Miguel’s rumbling pants, the soft pleasure that bloomed from his chest. Your eyes trained on his lips, the slight breath suckled between his teeth. Your fingers glazed over your stiff clit, pausing as though you needed his permission, just how he wanted it. Your sweet submission. 

His eyebrow perked. “You can touch it.” 

“Oh,” you glanced down, tracing the way Miguel fisted himself, swirling up to his cockhead, along fat veins and the bubble of salty fluid on his tip. His permission seemed to spur something else in you, flicking your swollen clit to the sound of his pleasured growling, your own pleasure growing in tandem with his. 

“¡Ya!” he annunciated, watching as you failed to stop. All at once he stopped his ministrations. A sigh escaped his chest as he pushed himself up, smacking your hand away from your puffy cunt. His cock bobbed between your bodies. You wanted to touch it, but couldn’t.

"Wait," you cried out. His cock twitched as he lowered his hips down, drawing sweet lubricant on his cock, stroking your pussy. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a warm kiss. He dipped his hand down, his cockhead prodding and poking, dipping lower with the aid of his hand. 

“MiggyI’mavirgin,” you said all at once, his cockhead nudged against your entrance. Miguel’s head about snapped as he looked up, eyes popped wide open in disbelief. Before he could quite form a coherent thought, your hands shot out to grip his suit vest, stopping him where he was.

“¿Qué dejiste? Say that again?” 

“I haven’t… I haven't had sex,” you murmured. He hadn’t put it together. Your shyness, the awkward way you shuffled around, loosening your bra and hiding your perfect breasts from his eyes. The words were finally out in the open but didn't register.

"A..." Miguel fisted his cock, once, then twice, shifting back to kneel before you. Your eyes fell on his muscular thighs, the way his hand fisted his dick. “You’re a virgin?”

“I’m too old for this,” you mumbled, hiding your eyes with your palms. Miguel shifted to cast aside your hands from your eyes, his muscular body caging you underneath, looking for an explanation. “I just. Between school, work, I never had time.” 

Not that he was complaining.

"No boyfriend?"

You shook your head. He couldn't believe his luck. Not only were you gorgeous, but you were untouched. His, completely and fully. He liked it better that way-- to be the first memory smeared in your head. So that when you looked back on this moment, right now, it would forever be marked by his face.

"It's mine," he blurted out all at once. "I want your first to be mine."

His hand dropped down to your cunt. The pad of his middle finger worked at your entrance as though he were exploring the truth of your statement, stretching you with the aid of his fingers. You were tight, it had to be true.

You nodded, face buried deep in your arm. It didn’t take but moments for him to draw his hand back, suckling the lubricant from his fingertips. You distantly registered his words, “Damn it, you... you don't know what you do to me.” 

Before you could say a word more, Miguel positioned the head of his dick against your slippery virgin hole. You clenched, glancing down between your bodies again, as you had a dozen times, anxiously waiting. Miguel hushed you, the repetitive shushing of his lips soothing you into complacency, forcing your muscles to relax. “It might hurt. But the pain won’t last,” he assured you.

He rolled his hips forward. His sharp exhale shook with every centimeter that gave way. Your walls were forced apart, suffocating you on the shock of adjusting to having someone, no not someone, Miguel-- your Miguel, sinking into your tense body. He throbbed, twitching in your body. His hands fisted in the aged couch, catching the breath in his chest. 

“Ay, Miggy,” your nails dug into his shirt, loose around his firm muscles. “Miggy, no puedo,” 

“You can, you’re so good, eres tan buena,” Miguel swept your lips between his, taking the moment of your surprise to bury himself further, swallowed by your cunt that resisted his intrusion. Your lips fluttered in the kiss, keened out a cry. The pain of his dick, forcing its way through your passage is quelled by the knowledge that he’s here, with you, his girth forcing you apart, stretching you apart, seating himself flush against your womb. His voice was caramelized, sugared over, and so good. “Look at how well you’re taking me already.” 

“Coño, that’s a tight pussy,” He slid his hips back, the warm sensation of his withdrawal pulling free before shoving back in, a cry shoving forth from your lips, filling his office and the connected lab with your cries. He might have heard someone draw the door open, his hips driving back in, centered on the magnificent groans that stuttered free from your chest with Miguel’s careful thrusts. You keened his name, a repetitious Miggy, Miggy, Miggy-- it was Aaron, probably. He recognized the way his feet drug on the floor. 

He hoped he didn’t just hear it. He hoped he saw it too, the way his balls slapped against your ass, the mess of blood soaking the already unhygienic couch, the way his cock pulsed. You were blissed out, so full and well of him like no one else ever had-- because you were his, and his alone. It wasn’t just sex. It was more than that. From Aaron, whose shuffled steps fell out of his office, to any other little bitch in the office who had their own gain. 

“Damn,” Miguel shifted back, hooking his hand around your thigh to drag you back onto his dick. He swirled his thumb against your stiff clit, whirling it around in one circle, then another, and by the third your knees knocked together, bearing down on his cock to hold him still. “I can’t--” you stuttered out, I can’t--” 

“You’re going to,” he hissed. “You’re going to cum right here, right now, split open on my dick.” 

With another circle, you croaked an ugly cry, a terrible, ugly cry that Miguel couldn’t find any more beautiful as your body buzzed around him, tightening and squeezing your already tight cunt around him. Blissful pleasure radiated there, riding his dick for the friction against your virgin walls, your thoughts fading into a realm of insistent pleasure, where thoughts were space mush.

Miguel withstood the pressure on his cock,  clamping his hand down on your hip. His thrusts stuttered, filling your belly with whip after whip with his full hot cum. Your body twitched in the throes of his orgasm. He tracked his eyes down to your body, withdrawing with a bubbly pop of his dick from your abused hole, the intermingling of cum and virginal blood dribbling down your cheeks. 

Your gaze tracked Miguel, pressing his lips toward yours one more time. You shifted on the couch, legs pathetically tremoring. Miguel chuckled and walked toward his electric kettle, papers crunching underneath his feet, “Don’t bother moving. Not that you could, anyway.”

He warmed a warm cloth with hot water, testing its temperature on his palm before sitting beside your crumpled legs, spreading your legs to clean his mess and sooth the abrasive way he took you. He spread your lips, ensuring you were clean before he would flip the cloth, dropping it on top of your vulva. 

“You know you’re mine,” he asked, though it came out as a statement. With another cloth, Miguel cleaned his soft cock of the mess, exhaustion of the sex and what was to come returning to his gentle, deep voice. 

“Sí,” you answered. 

“And you’d do anything for me. Only me.” 

The words were laced with something more than a suggestion, but an affirmation of your loyalty. Your love. You pushed yourself up, hanging off his arm after he tucked himself into his pants. “Para siempre.” 

He leaned down, plucking the bundle with his sequenced DNA information. Your eyes coursed the information on the page, darting up to his tired eyes. You wanted to ask why or what he knew. Miguel knew it didn't matter. You were his now, from the top of your head to the bottom of your gorgeous toes. You trusted him fully. As you should. With the empty vial of Rapture sitting beside him, forgotten, he spared you a mincing smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Good. Let's fix our project.” 

BARBENHEIMER - July 21, 2023

The most ambitious crossover event in history (artists cited under the cut!)

I hyperlinked the original posts to the artist handle wherever possible so go show the artists some love!! ROW 1: @JohnBeLucky on Reddit @anglespizza on Twitter (they made this for a class-iconic) @whovianrad on Twitter @shadowknightdk on Twitter @BossLogic on Twitter ROW 2: @rahalarts on Instagram @justralphy on Instagram @GrungiestBunny on Instagram, available as a poster here @envelopandkissme on Tumblr (I think? idk this one was hard to find) @shirtsthtgohard on Twitter, available for purchase here ROW 3: @omarg294 on Twitter (possibly not the original source) @raichu.copper on Instagram/@raichucopper on Twitter @galactic_psychedelia Instagram, available on Redbubble here @thesenatortheatre on Instagram (possibly not the original source) @nannymcghee on Tik Tok

ROW 4: Retro Travel Design on Redbubble @rahalarts on Instagram @stevereevesart on Instagram @jonattfieldart on Instagram @gringgieespons on Tik Tok

ROW 5: @BossLogic on Instagram/@BossLogic on Twitter @rahalarts on Instagram @nolanlounds Tik Tok @seanlongmore Instagram @Cornettogod on Twitter

ROW 6: @readfulthings on Instagram (aka Adam Perocchi) I cannot find this artist but you can buy the shirt here and here @moviemantis on Instagram (possibly not the original source, idk) Jason P on LinkedIn (ok career barbie!!) and finally, you can buy the shirt here

huge love to all the incredibly talented artists that put their work on the internet for free for all of us to look at, we love you!! (please sign/watermark your works though, the amount of art theft I found while looking these up made me sad for you)

anti-shoutouts: to google for nerfing their reverse image search with google lens (seriously-CHANGE IT BACK), to twitter for making it almost impossible to use the website after I deleted my account, and to basically no one on tik tok (or any other social media site for that matter) for crediting artists because that made tracking down the original posts so much harder than it needs to be :')

So the barbie movie happened 😭😭😭😭

wanted to draw the girls from hunchback of notre dame 1 and 2 dancing cause they both have a red dress and i thought it would be cute

+ it always seemed likely to me that one of the triplets in beauty and the beast was only pretending to go along with her sisters… and due to that she’s good at playing a role but not so much at being herself so when she gets an interest in belle she suddenly turns real shy

do not erase the caption, use or rePOST my art (reblog ok)

My comfort character with an autistic S/O

A/n: This is coming from issues I have as an autistic person. Not everyone with autism will experience everything bellow. This is mostly just me coping with a very negative mind space right now.

Genre: Sfw headcanon?

Pairing: multifandom! Toga (BNHA), Sesshomaru (Inuyasha), Hinata (Haikyuu!!), Saiki (the disastrous life of saiki k), Bakugou (BNHA), Leviathan (Obey me)

Tw: Stimming (Positive), sensory overload, over all a pretty soft fluffy piece.

Toga watching you stim from excitement over something you love, not understanding why but is happy that you're having fun. Joins in because Toga's drunk on your happy energy and now stims subconsciously without realising whenever she thinks of you.

Sesshomaru, who lets you run your fingers through the fabric of his kimono, the soft fur of his mokomoko-sama, the spikes adorning his Pauldron, and on the rare occasion he lets you softly seep your hand into his silver hair. He wears a variety of pleasant textures that, when gently touched, can release stress in large mounds.

Hinata becoming confused when you won't look him in the eye and then shows up the next day with his hands over his eyes when he talks to you because he thinks that will make you more comfortable. He becomes upset because he can't look at you anymore and asks if it's ok to remove his hands after a week.

When the world becomes too loud for you, and there's so much going on all at once, and you just want it all to go away, Saiki grabs your shoulder lightly and teleports you to the most isolated, peaceful spot he can find and allows you a moment of reprieve from the world. A wordless way of saying he cares.

Bakugou listens to you rant for hours and hours on end about the one thing that you're brain obsesses with every day. He has such a blank face while listening that you think he's bored of you, but the next day or even just a few hours later, Bakugou's asking you to pick up where you left off because he's angry that he's been thinking about it all day.

Leviathan has adapted his room to be less overwhelming because he wants you to play games more often. He's changed the lights to be dimmer, he got the walls painted, furniture has been bought specifically to your sensory tastes, and now Leviathan waits for you to come over and give him approval because he just wants you to tell him he is doing a good job.

A 10-millionth visitor to the  Rijksmuseum of Netherlands was allowed to spend the night at Rembrandt's painting "Night Watch" with a bottle of wine and dinner.

ppl who recognize ANY of these images PLEASE interact