#bcs imagine

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Practicar - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)

when you bought weed from tuco, one of his guys said something rude to you in spanish. one thing he said sticks with you, so you ask lalo about it when you get home. he tells you what it means, and decides to teach you some more of the language while smoking up.

tags/warnings: intoxication (weed and poppers), homophobic/transphobic slurs, degradation/humiliation, hair-pulling, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, squirting, pussy slapping

anatomical terms: chest, cunt, pussy, dick, t-dick, chocho, pija

words: 7,979 (we smoke CRACK!!!!!!!!!!!!)

ao3 link

author's notes: in which i am a dumb stoner with a lalo shaped brain tumor <3 no soy un hablante nativo pero estoy aprendiendo. la escritura es como yo practico. ¡por favor corríjanme si encuentran algunos errores! :3

“This is ridiculous. Are you guys seriously not gonna tell me what it means? It can’t be THAT bad.”

You groaned. You were in the backseat of the car as Marco and Leonel drove you home, dead silent, as usual. All you wanted to do was buy weed, but Lalo won’t let you unless it’s from the family. He doesn’t trust any other source. Okay, that’s fair, plus it’d be kinda rude to buy from his competition, right? So, you had to buy from Tuco. Sure, not a problem. The twins picked you up and gave you a ride over. Great. You were a little annoyed that Lalo didn’t even want you driving there by yourself, but whatever. Everything’s fine. Once you got the weed from Tuco, one of his guys said something stupid about you in Spanish, and Tuco snapped and started beating the shit out of him. You caught most of it, since Lalo had been teaching you the language, but there was one phrase that mystified you. It sounded like a slang term, and Lalo hadn’t taught you many colloquialisms yet. You had asked what he said, but no one would tell you. Tuco was too busy giving him impromptu plastic surgery; none of the other guys in the room would dare speak up; and Marco and Leonel dragged you out of there once the guy’s teeth started flying through the air.

It seemed like everyone in the Salamanca family treated you like a child, like you were a helpless little thing who couldn’t possibly protect himself. Shit, even Lalo was guilty of it, too. He didn’t even trust you to make the drive alone; he asked the twins to pick you up. It was infuriating. You seethed the entire ride back to his place.

When you got there, you stormed inside, pissed off, releasing a cloud of noxious vibes into the house. Lalo was there to greet you, and he sniffed it out immediately. “Dios mío, conejito, ¿qué pasó? (My god, bunny, what happened?) You look like you’re about to rip someone’s head off! Tuco didn’t give you any trouble did h-?”

You shot him straight, interrupting him mid-sentence, not even saying hello, “What’s a chichifo travelo?” you barked at him and crossed your arms over your chest.

Lalo’s concern bled into pure confusion, and then, for some reason, cheerfulness. He burst out laughing. A deep, rich belly laugh that had him doubling over and slapping his thigh. What? What the hell? What was so funny? “Oh! Oh my god, sorry, just. Just give me a second, woo!”

You groaned. “Can you just tell me what it means?”

Lalo’s laughter fizzled out, and he managed to compose himself. He stood upright, looked back down at you. “Well, chichifo is kinda like a… gigolo? Is that how you say it in English? It’s basically a male prostitute, y’know. And then, travelo…” His eyes trailed down to your chest, a few buttons of your shirt undone, and he sighed. He patted you on the shoulder, and gave you a somber expression. “...travelo is basically ‘tranny’.”

The lightbulb turned on. “Ohhh…” you replied, the flames of your burning rage subdued now that you had an answer. You uncrossed your arms and rested your hands on your hips. “Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”

Lalo furrowed his brow and took his hand off your shoulder. “Makes sense? What happened? Nobody called you that, did they?” He gave you a look of empathy and concern that masked the fury brewing inside him.

You shrugged. “One of Tuco’s guys did, I guess. When I got there, Marco and Leonel took me inside and waited with me. While I was talking to Tuco, one of his guys said something like…” You paused to recall what he said as best as you could. “‘¿De… ¿De verdad? ¿Esta es la pareja nueva de Lalo? ¿Este chichifo travelo? (Really? This is Lalo’s new partner? This tranny hooker?)’ I didn’t hear all of it, but I figured it was some bullshit since Tuco started wailing on him and-”

“Stop.” Now, Lalo was the one to cut you off, his cold voice slicing through your dialogue like a steel blade, “Someone called you that? In front of the family?”

“Yeah,” You replied nonchalantly. “Tuco took care of it. He knocked the guy onto the floor and fucked him up pretty badly. The twins grabbed me and led me outside after that. No one would tell me what it means.”

Lalo frowned, “They probably wanted me to be the one to explain it to you, chiquito. No one should have to hear that. Is everyone else still there?”

“The twins aren’t. They took me home.” You pondered for a second. “But I think Tuco is. I doubt the other guy is still breathing though.” You nervously tried to laugh it off.

But Lalo wasn’t laughing. “Alright then,” He patted your shoulders before moving with determination to get something out of a cabinet. ”Ven conmigo. Vamos a ver Tuco y el pendejo que te ha dicho esa mierda a tí. (Come with me. We’re going to see Tuco and the asshole who said that shit to you.)” He turned around, holding a loaded pistol with a silencer on it. Why?! Why?! Why?! Who the fuck just has that locked, loaded, and ready to go, just chilling in the living room cabinet like it’s a cheap airport knickknack?! Apparently, your boyfriend did, and since you lived here too, technically you did by extension.

You jumped when you saw the gun. “¡¿Q-Qué?! (What?!)” You asked, your brain flipping through pages of an English-Spanish dictionary as fast as it could, “No… no tienes que hacer eso. De verdad. Estoy bien. (You… You don’t have to do that. Really. I’m fine.)” You gave him an insecure smile, a sheepish grin that you hoped said: For the love of God, man, let it go. It’s not that deep.

Lalo wasn’t budging. He opened the front door, and turned to you, casually waving you outside with a 9mm handgun like an extension of his hand. “Ven. Conmigo. (Come. With me.)”

Thankfully, the whims of fate saved you from yet another aggravating car ride. Two in the same day was more than enough. Lalo’s phone started ringing, right on cue. He took it out of his pocket and squinted to read the name.

“Is that Tuco?” you asked. He nodded in your direction, and touched the silencer to his own lips. Be quiet. You understood.

Lalo flipped the phone open and laughed, as if this was the most normal conversation you could have with your cousin. “¡Tuco! ¿Qué chingados pasaba hoy? ¿Uno de tus vatos le llamaba mi chico un chichifo travelo? (Tuco! What the fuck happened today? One of your guys called my boy a tranny whore?)” 

He let Tuco speak for a moment before continuing. You couldn’t hear anything coherent from the outside, but it sure was loud. “Primo, primo, cálmate. Cálmate. No puedo entenderte cuando dices tan fuerte. Toma un respiro profundamente y dime que pasaba. (Cousin, cousin, calm down. Calm down. I can’t understand you when you talk so loud. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.)” 

Lalo stopped talking, and the sound on the other line was much quieter. You couldn’t hear anything besides Lalo now. “Sí, sí, yo sé que él dijo eso. ¿Había algo más? (Yeah, yeah, I know he said that. Was there anything else?)” Silence. “¿Me llamó un maricón? ¿De verdad? Ha! Te le ocupaste, ¿cierto? (He called me a faggot? Really? Ha! You took care of him, right?)” Silence again. “¿No está respirando? ¿Estás seguro? Bien, bien hecho, pero déjame terminarlo la próxima vez.  (He’s not breathing? Are you sure? Good, good job, but let me finish him off next time.)” Silence once more. “Sí, por supuesto, yo diré tío. Él va a estar muy orgulloso de tí. ¡Bien! Entonces, nos hablaremos tarde, ¿cierto? Bien. ¡Chao! (Yeah, of course, I’ll tell Uncle. He’s going to be very proud of you. Alright! Well, we’ll talk later, yeah? Okay. Bye!)”

He flipped his phone shut and stood still for a moment. Then another. Then another. Until he shrugged, and went to put the gun away. You sighed in relief, letting the air permeate your lungs and your body relax once again. Once the cabinet was closed, Lalo approached you to cup your face in his hands and kiss your forehead. 

“Perdóname, chiquito. (Forgive me, baby boy.) You were right. I should have listened. I just can’t bear to let anything happen to you. No one can say such horrific things to you and come away with his life. I wanted to make things right. Do you understand? ¿Me comprendes?” Lalo did that a lot. He would say something in English and repeat it in Spanish, a signal to answer him in kind.

“Sí. Te comprendo (I understand you).” You sighed, nudged him off you, and switched back to English. “It’s just… aggravating that you don’t trust me. I can handle myself just fine, y’know.”

Lalo simpered. “I do trust you, nene (baby). I just don’t trust everyone else. I need to keep my baby boy safe, yeah?” He could see you pouting, so he knew he had to change the topic. “So! How’d it go otherwise? ¿Conseguiste que tú necesitabas de Tuco? (Did you get what you needed from Tuco?)”

Having to translate made you forget what you were upset about. Your response took a moment to buffer, and you perked up when it finished loading.. “...¡Sí! Sí, yo hice. Acá. (Yes! Yes, I did. Here.)” You pulled a ziplock bag full of weed out of your pocket, and excitedly showed it to Lalo. “Mirálo. (Look at this.)”

Lalo examined the bag, first by appearance. Large nugs, dark green with flecks of orange and purple, blooming flowers, no big stems. Looked alright. He cracked open the bag and sniffed it. A dank, earthy, almost musty smell wafted through the air. It was fresh. Smelled alright. He took a nug in between his fingers and squeezed it, snapping it apart easily. Felt alright. Yep, Salamanca product. Not that he had any doubts, mind you. He was just doing quality control. A businessman, through and through.

“That’s the good stuff.” Lalo said as he put the torn nug back in the bag and zipped it shut. “Tuco did you right. How much he charge you?”

You took the bag back. “He said I was getting the ‘family discount’, so $100 for the ounce. He weighed it in front of me, don’t worry. Plus, he said he’ll give me some for free next time. I guess that’s the ‘sorry I practically killed a man in front of you’ discount.” 

Lalo smiled. “That's a pretty good deal, even with the family discount. And free drugs? Now that's just a win-win.” He patted your back. “So I take it you'll be buying off him in the future?”

You couldn’t hide your excitement. “Yeah man! Shit, dude, if I wasn't already sleeping with you, I definitely would for a hookup like this!”

He chuckled and laid his hands on your hips, pulling you in closer. “You have no shame, huh?”

There was some truth to that statement. “None. And you love it.” You giggled and booped his nose. 

“Maybe I do, chico,” He booped yours back, “Y’know, I should really teach you more slang. You gotta be able to fire back if someone talks to you like that, right?”

“Do I?” You teased, hugging him closer to you and putting on your best faux-innocent tone. “Can’t I just have you take care of it? You gotta keep your baby boy safe, don’t you?”

Lalo snickered, eager to play along. “Oh? What happened to being able to handle yourself? Do you need your man to take care of you?”

“Hmm…” You pretended to think about it while you rubbed his back. “Maybe I do, chico.” You made sure to punctuate that last word, knowing it’d set him off.

And it did. “Oh, you’re bad. Using my words against me? Debes estar castigado por eso, ¿estás de acuerdo? (You should be punished for that, don’t you think?)”

You giggled and nodded. The word “castigado” was escaping you right now, but you figured you’d press your luck and agree nonetheless.

Lalo clocked you, because of course he did. His bullshit detector was in perfect working order. “You don’t know what I said, do you?” You didn’t need to answer; he could see it in your face. He pried your arms off his back and pinned them to your sides. “That’s why I gotta teach you. C’mon, it’ll be fun I promise.” He let you go and pointed at your bag of weed. “Podemos fumar esa mota mientras hacemos, ¿sí? (We can smoke that weed while we do it, yeah?)”

“Mota?” You tilted your head. “Is that weed?” 

“Good boy! That’s right!” He ruffled your hair and you squeaked. Sometimes, being babied and talked down to felt nice, from him, at least. “Entonces, te necesito sentarte en el sofá. Vayas. (Now, I need you to get on the couch. Go.)" He tapped your head as encouragement.

Once you translated your assignment, you walked over to the couch and plopped down. “Want me to pack us a bowl?”

“I was hoping you would.” Lalo sat down next to you and pulled the coffee table closer. 

On the table, you had a grinder, rolling tray, and bong ready to go. You opened the bag and let the odor dissipate into the air. Then, you picked a couple nugs out of the bag and ground them up before dumping the weed on the tray. Once it was ground up, you went to grab the bong, but stopped. Apparently, it’d been a while since you’d changed the water. It was almost brown and had chunks floating in it. Plus, the actual bong itself was stained. “Oh, shit,” You turned to Lalo, “I should probably clean it, huh?”

Lalo grabbed your hand to stop you. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It'll be just fine until next time. I 

actually like it the way it is. Just the right amount of filth to prove how much it gets used.”

You snorted. He walked right into this one. “Just like me, huh?”

He groaned, but with a smile. “Ugh, I knew you'd make that joke. But honestly, I can't disagree.” He let go of your hand and squeezed your thigh. “Just like you.”

You leaned over to kiss his cheek and went back to packing the bowl, his hand still on your thigh. “Got a lighter?” you asked once you were done. 

Lalo grinned. “¿Sabes cómo preguntarme en español? (Do you know how to ask me in Spanish?)” 

You weren’t sure, but you’d sure as hell try. “Tienes un… (Do you have a…) fuck… ¿Cómo se dice (How do you say) ‘lighter’?”

“Encendedor.” Lalo replied and took a fancy silver zippo out of his pocket, bougie as always. You went to grab it but he yanked it back. “Ah! Not until you ask for it correctly.”

You sighed, clearly fed up with his teasing, or maybe you just really wanted to smoke. Nevertheless, you did what he wanted. He watched the gears in your head turn. “Puedo… ¿Puedo usar tu encendedor? (Can I borrow your lighter?)”

“Bien hecho, chiquito! (Good job, baby boy!)” Lalo pulled you in for a hug and petted your hair again. “¡Tan inteligente! Claro que sí, tú puedes. (So smart! Of course, you can.)” When he was done patronizing you, he handed you the lighter.

You took the lighter in your hand and his lips in yours, but only for a second. There was weed to be smoked. Your lips then went to the mouthpiece of the bong. There was something about it, all the preparation that went into it, it was like a choreographed dance. A flick of the lighter, a singe of the flower, and a deep breath in, a really deep breath. The smoke would build; the water would bubble. You’d pull away and wait, just a moment, before you let it all out, blowing out a cloud of pure smoke, like a dragon doing a half-assed job of burning down the village and terrorizing the townspeople. You didn’t cough. How sexy of you. You glanced over at Lalo and wiggled your eyebrows, a kind of What do you think of that?, before you passed it over to him.

He laughed and said “You are too much, conejito.” before lighting up himself. 

You laid back against the couch and crossed your arms behind your head. “Hm… conejito. What’s that mean?” You hummed.

Lalo blew the smoke out and coughed slightly. You giggled. Pussy. He cleared his throat to answer you. “It means bunny. Why? Do you not like it? I can call you something else.” He passed the bong to you.

“No, I like it. Was just wondering.” You answered before taking another hit, a big one too. This time you coughed when you let it out. Hubris. Maybe Lalo wasn’t a pussy. “What’d you wanna teach me anyway? Some more slurs?” You took another hit and passed it to him, the two of you establishing a good rhythm as you rehearsed your choreography. Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“If you want, I can. You know travelo, yeah? That’s yours.” He pointed at your chest, with the hand that was holding the lighter. “Both of us can say maricón. That’s how you say faggot.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Oh, yeah,” You nodded. “I thought I heard the guy say that about you.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Yeah, apparently he did. No big deal. I’ve heard it so many times now. I’m sorry you had to hear it, though.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“I’m fine, trust me. ‘S not like I haven’t heard it in English before anyway.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Well, either language, some pendejo says that to you, you tell me, alright?” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Pendejo? What’s that, asshole?” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“More or less, yeah. Literal definition is pubic hair.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Ha! That’s funny. You just call people pubes? I like that.” Flick, singe, pull, out… Why was nothing coming out? Did you two burn through a bowl that quickly? You poked the ash into the center of the bowl and tried to light it. No dice. “Aw, boo.” You pouted and set the bong and lighter back on the table. Well, now that you weren’t smoking, you could take a moment to feel yourself getting high. You snuggled up close to Lalo, resting your head on his chest. He always smelled so fucking nice.

Lalo wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in tighter. “Relax, baby. We’ll smoke some more in a bit. Gives us more freedom to talk, eh?”

“Mmm… okay…” You hummed, though honestly, you weren’t sure you had the brain power to talk much right now. You dragged your fingers along his chest before honking one of his pecs. You giggled. “Hehehe… titty… how do you say that in Spanish?”

Lalo snorted. “Oh, wow, you’re cute when you’re high. ‘Titty’ is teta. Is that what you wanna know? You wanna know all the naughty words? Dirty boy.”

Another loopy laugh from you. “Niño sucio (Dirty boy).” You rolled onto your stomach and slid down, resting your head in his lap. You were staring right at his bulge. He was only slightly hard, but mouthwateringly so. Weed told you to touch him, so you palmed his shaft through his jeans, hoping to pump him up in more ways than one. For some godforsaken reason, weed was also showing you Spanish vocabulary flash cards. “¿Y este aquí? (And this here?)”

Lalo snickered and brushed your hair out of your face, making sure he had your undivided attention. “Verga.”

“Verga.” You echoed, licking your lips as they curled around the word. They were a bit dry from smoking. Oh well, you’d find a way to wet them. Weed was working wonders for you, a better wingman than most had been. You giggled yet again as you rubbed him. “Entonces… se puede… se puede decir… (So… you could… you could say…)” You darkened the color of your voice to a sultry hue. “‘Dame tu verga.’ ¿sí? Se puede decir ‘Qui-... Quiero tu verga, Lalito,’ ¿verdad? (“Give me your cock,” yeah? You could say “I want… I want your cock, Lalito,” right?)

Lalo chuckled. Even with your stuttering, even with your clouded mind, he loved hearing you so hot and bothered for him. Plus, he loved that you gave him the Spanish diminutive. “¿Lalito, eh? Me gusta eso. Y sí, tienes razón. Muy bien. (Lalito, eh? I like that. And yes, you’re right. Very good.)” He sighed and petted your hair, making you scooch further into his lap. “Me encanta cuando hablas español. Suenas tan lindo. (I love it when you speak Spanish. You sound so cute.)”

He was getting harder; you could feel it. You cupped your hand and stroked him through the denim, looking up at him with the most sickly sweet eyes you could give. Saying nothing, just doing. After a while, you couldn’t help but laugh, a goofy smile to match. “You’re pretty…”

Lalo laughed too, feeling a little buzzed himself. Just a little, nowhere near your level. He had quite the tolerance. “Oh, am I now? You’re quite the looker yourself.” He reached his arm out to grab your ass. “¿Sabes qué es esto? ¿Sabes qué se llama? (You know what this is? You know what it’s called?)”

You put your finger to your lips to think. Your brain was working as fast as a dialup router in Bumfuck, Wyoming during the Clinton administration. Lightspeed. Probably 4 years later when you had your answer, you seeked Lalo’s approval. “¿Culo? (Ass?)”

“Sí, es verdad. Bien hecho. ¿Cómo sabías eso? (Yes, that’s right. Good job. How did you know that?)” Lalo gave you a firm spank, the sharp sting diffused by your pants blocking the shot. “Chico travieso. No te enseñé eso. (Naughty boy. I didn’t teach you that.)”

“Hey! Did you just call me a tranny? I know that one!” You shouted at him in a mirthful tone, showing that your anger was in jest.

Lalo scoffed. “Travieso, not travelo. It means naughty. And it’s true. Eres un chiquito travieso (You are a naughty little boy).” He spanked you again, harder this time, making you yelp. “And so what if I called you a tranny? You like it when I call you names, don’t you?”

You whined and buried your face in his lap, not wanting to bear your shame to him. “Mm… Maybe…”

Lalo wheezed and tousled your hair again. You could feel his dick twitch as he did. “I knew it! I know you so well. I told you you’re a naughty boy! I bet there’s a lot of names you’d like me to call you. I can teach you some fun ones in Spanish, too. Isn’t that right, ¿putito? ¿Sabes qué eso significa? (...little whore? You know what that means?)”

You were lucky that his clothes muffled whatever pathetic noise you just made. You didn’t take your face out of his lap, not wanting to let him see you blush. He could play you like a fiddle, and you weren’t sure whether you hated it or loved it. “...Sí.” you mumbled into his leg.

Lalo patted your head. “Entonces, dímelo. (So tell me.)”

You stood corrected. He wasn’t playing you like a fiddle; that was almost too plebeian. He was playing you like a world-class soloist performing Sibelius’s Violin Concerto in D minor on their 10 million dollar Stradivarius, a master of his craft. You answered barely above a whisper, “Little bitch…”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” He tugged your hair, pulling your face out into the open, into his line of fire. “Look at me, and say it again. What does it mean? What did I call you?” 

Your lip trembled as you replied. “Little bitch…”

“That’s right! Good boy!” He praised you by tugging on your hair again, just how you like it, just how to make you sing for him. “It means more than just bitch, though. Little whore, little slut, it’s very useful. It suits you.” He released you from his grip, letting your head fall back down into his lap.

Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was his words, but something pushed you. You went right back to teasing his cock through his pants, running your tongue across the scratchy fabric, open-mouth kisses on his bulge. You wanted it. You wanted it bad, but you didn’t have the words to ask. Well, in English, that is. Weed gave you the answer in Spanish. You gave him the saddest puppy dog eyes. “¿Lo puedo? (Can I?)” 

Lalo gave you a proud smile, happy to see you embracing the language, but he needed more than that. “¿Puedes hacer qué, muñequito? (Can you do what, doll?)” 

Weed could only do so much. You still had to figure out what the hell you were actually asking for. “Quiero… quiero usar mi boca… en tu… en tu verga. Quiero usar mi boca en tu verga. ¿Lo puedo, Lalito? (I want… I want to use my mouth… on your… on your cock. I want to use my mouth on your cock. Can I, Lalito?)” 

Lalo chuckled warmly. You were adorable. “¿Quieres chupar mi verga? Si quieres, debes decirlo primero. Dime ‘Quiero chupar tu verga, Lalito,’ y dilo fuerte. Quiero oírte decirlo. (You want to suck my cock? If you want it, you have to say it first. Say “I want to suck your cock, Lalito,” and say it loud. I want to hear you say it.)” 

Like he said earlier, you have no shame, so you had no problem doing exactly what he asked you, and then some. “Quiero chupar tu verga, Lalito. Dámelo. Dámelo, por favor. (I want to suck your cock, Lalito. Give it to me. Give it to me, please.)”

“My, my, aren’t you eager!” Lalo stroked your cheek. “But, just so you know, it’s dámela, in this case. Verga is feminine. Ironic isn’t it?”

“Really?” You giggled, easily distracted from what you were begging for just moments ago. “So then is ‘pussy’ masculine? I can roll with that.”

“Sometimes, yeah.” Lalo responded, “In Spain, they call it a coño, and here you can say chocho. There’s also chocha, panocha, we got a lot of words for it.”

“So what do you call mine?” You asked with a cheeky grin.

Lalo returned the teasing energy and played along, but only to let you know who was in control here. His deep voice rumbled in his chest. “Do a good job and I’ll tell you.” He tapped your cheek. “C’mon. You said you wanted it, right?”

You’d momentarily forgotten how horny you were thanks to his distraction. You scrambled to undo his gaudy belt, tugging it through his jeans and tossing it onto the floor. Clumsy fingers patted around to find his fly, and eventually found what they were looking for. You undid the button, the zipper, and ineloquently dug your hand in, snickering as you grabbed his cock and pulled it out. 

“Hehehe…” Amused with the situation you found yourself in, you fluttered your tongue across the tip, back and forth, making sure to keep his eye contact as you gave him nothing more than a facsimile of pleasure. You felt like messing with him, just a little bit. Weed was always a trickster. 

Lalo raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you got? Okay,” He sighed, and leaned over you towards the paraphernalia on the table. He put a few nugs in the grinder and started to twist. “If all you’re gonna do is bore me like that, I might as well have some fun of my own.” He emptied the contents of the grinder onto the tray and started to pack a bowl. You stopped moving your tongue and tilted your head up at him, silently begging like a dog eyeing up his owner’s lunch. “No. Not until I think you’ve earned it. Get to work.” He chided.

You did as you were told and began to service him properly. Your tongue moved with purpose, mapping out his most sensitive spots. His slit, so you could coax more precum out. Underneath his foreskin and around his head, you knew he was sensitive there. Down his length so you could coat him in as much spit as you’d need. You were just warming him up for now, but nevertheless, you gave it your all.

Lalo was unphased, smoking the bong without a care in the world as you debased yourself for him. Business as usual. Your partnered dance was now a solo, and one of the steps had changed: flick, singe, pull, out, repeat. He whistled as he blew the smoke out. “There we go! That’s more like it. Ya realmente pareces como un putito. Te queda bien. ¿Estás de acuerdo?  (You really look like a little slut now. It suits you. Don’t you agree?)” He took another hit and blew the smoke down into your face. “¿Entonces? Respóndeme. Respóndeme en español, te chico sucio. (Well? Answer me. Answer me in Spanish, you dirty boy.)”

You withdrew your tongue to answer him, your voice breathy and weak. “Sí… me gusta… me gusta esto… (Yes… I like… I like this…)”

“¿Qué te gusta? ¿Te gusta chupar verga como el maricón patético que tú eres? (What do you like? You like sucking cock like the pathetic faggot you are?)” 

You moaned a non-verbal answer and took him back into your mouth, relaxing your throat and welcoming him inside. You let him take over all five of your senses. Sight: you’d glance up at him to make sure he was satisfied. Sound: the click of the lighter, the bubbling of the bong, the exhale of the smoke, the soft sighs and grunts of a job well done. Scent: you huffed in his aftershave and musk as your tongue touched his balls. Touch: the weight on your tongue, the calloused fingers brushing your hair out of your face. Taste: that one was obvious. Suddenly, a sour scent sliced through these simultaneous sensations. It smelled like pool chlorine on a hot summer day, but you were inside. Inside and on a couch in the living room. What the hell could that possibly be? Your eyelids snapped open and you stared up at Lalo, who was holding a small bottle up to his face, bong nowhere in sight. 

Lalo poked one of his nostrils shut and snorted whatever was in the bottle. The contents shot up his nose and his face crinkled up instantly. He gasped and screwed the bottle shut before putting it back in his shirt pocket. “Mierda, está bien… (Shit, that’s good…)” He rolled his shoulders back as his head lulled to the side. “Ah… Acá… (Here…)” His fingers knotted in your hair, using it as a makeshift handle for your head, pulling you up and down his cock. “Déjame ayudarte… (Let me help you…)”

In helping you, he was really helping himself. There was nothing helpful about his hold on you. He used your mouth as a hole, a mere toy for him to get himself off.  His hips jerked up into you to bury himself even deeper. He pushed you all the way down, until your nose touched his stomach, and you gagged. You spat up more saliva around his cock, making him groan in pleasure. He took you off so you could breathe, after you were done coughing up spit and precum, that is. You panted heavily while Lalo reached over you again, praising you as he did, “Oh, that’s a good boy…” Out of nowhere, you felt cold glass touch your lips.

Lalo was holding the bong up to you, a reward for your efforts.  “C’mon, take a hit. You’ve earned it.” 

You puckered your lips around the mouthpiece, and nodded, a signal that you were ready. He lit the fuse, and thus, the dance was partnered again. When you were done with your turn, you blew the smoke out and pointed at his shirt pocket. “What's that?” you asked.

“Oh, this?” Lalo set the bong and lighter back on the table and pulled the small bottle out of his pocket. He brought it down so you could see the label. You squinted to read the fine print. What the fuck? Nail polish remover? He’s a cartel boss. He can get all the drugs he could ever want, so why on earth would he be huffing that?, you thought. He must have sensed your confusion, so he explained himself before you could ask. “Amyl nitrite. It’s an aphrodisiac. The label’s just for legal purposes. Can’t say what it’s really for without the feds getting involved, y’know? You sniff it and it gives you a quick rush. Makes things feel pretty intense for the next minute or so. You wanna try it?”

Your eyes went from the label to Lalo, and then back to the label. You weren’t sure about this, but if Lalo did it, it was probably safe. You shrugged and went to grab it, but Lalo pulled it back.

“Hey, hey! Easy there! I’ll tell you when.” He put the bottle back in his pocket and ruffled your hair once more. “It’s a short burst so we gotta make it count, alright? Now,” He yanked your hair again, pulling your head up from his lap and sitting you up. “Let’s make it count.” 

He caught you in a kiss faster than you could process. He was hungry, tongue invading your mouth, biting your lip, teeth clashing. You were too stoned to react in turn. All you could do is let him take what he wanted, and what he wanted was you. All of you. He broke the kiss to pull your shirt off and toss it on the floor. His large hands palmed your chest as he growled in your ear.

“Tan hermoso. No tienes idea de todos las cosas malas que yo quiero hacer a tí. (So gorgeous. You have no idea of all the bad things I want to do to you.)” Lalo pinched your nipples and tugged them out, making you howl in bittersweet pleasure. “Me vuelves pinche loco. (You drive me fucking crazy.)” He let go of your nipples and reached for the bong again, your body swaying left and right without his hands to support you. “Ándale, puto, hazlo otra vez. Dale una otra fumada. Quiero volverte agradable y tonto para mí. (Come on, slut, do it again. Take another hit. I want you to get nice and silly for me.)”

Dazed and confused, you weren’t entirely sure what he just asked you, but context clues were a big help. You barely had the brainpower to keep yourself upright, let alone go against him. Lips on the mouthpiece, flame on the flower, smoke in the lungs, and then smoke in the air. 

“Buen chico. ¿Cómo te sientes? (Good boy. How do you feel?)” He asked. You answered with a ditzy smile and a nod. “Bien, bien. ¿Quieres continuar? (Good, good. You want to keep going?)” Another nod. Lalo chuckled and gave you a gentle kiss. “Yo sé que querrías. Chico sucio. (I knew that you would. Dirty boy.) He pushed you onto your back, and you melted into the couch cushions. You hummed contentedly, mesmerized by the plush fabric. You raised an arm to caress the back of the couch. It was just so soft. Did it always feel this nice? Wait… was the room colder now? Two firm hands grabbed your legs and pulled them apart, which posed another question…

Where were your pants?

Lalo must have slipped them off while you were conducting field research on furniture upholstery. He smirked up at you between your legs, his mouth hovering over your pussy. “Entonces, quisiste saber que yo llame este? (So, you wanted to know what I call this?)”

“Ah… y-yes, Lalo…” You whined, not even bothering to translate anymore. 

That wasn’t gonna fly. Lalo frowned, and gave your cunt a harsh spank. You yelped and your hips thrust upwards. It was a pleasant sting, sure, but why? You couldn’t figure out what you had done wrong. “Wha…?! What’d I do- oh!” Another slap stopped you short. 

The gentle tone you heard was a stark contrast to the searing pain you felt fizzle away. “En español, querido. Tienes que practicar conmigo. Eso es porque estamos haciendo esto. (In Spanish, sweetheart. You have to practice with me. That’s why we’re doing this.)” He gave you a second to process that. With how spaced out you were, he could’ve given you an hour and it may not have been enough. “Ya, me quieres decirte que yo llame este aquí? (Now, you want me to tell you what I call this here?)” He traced a finger up and down your slit. You were already soaked, because of course you were. 

You whimpered and answered with a mediocre translation of your thoughts. “S-Sí… ¿Qué… ¿Qué es? (Y-Yes… What… What is it?)”

Lalo’s eyes held such reverence for you. You were just too cute for your own good. “Hm… Vamos a ver… (Let’s see…)” He pondered,  “Eres un caso especial. Entonces, creo que yo llamaría este… (You’re a special case. So, I think I would call this…)” 

His thumb flicked over your t-dick and your lower half jolted in response. “Una pija. Sí, tiene sentido para tí. Y este… (A dick. Yeah, that makes sense for you. And this…)” 

He slid two fingers inside you and pressed them up into your g-spot, and pressed his thumb on your dick simultaneously. The sound that came out of you was nothing short of desperate. He laughed. “Creo que ‘chocho’ te quede. (I think ‘cunt’ suits you.)” 

He twirled and rubbed his fingers inside and against you as he kept talking about your body. “Si eres algo especial, de verdad. Me encanta tu chocho, ¿sabes eso? Como apretado se siente, como mojado se vuelve cuando lo toco. Me encanta todo. No puedo esperar que llene tí. (You really are something special. I love your cunt, do you know that? How tight it feels, how wet it gets when I touch it. I love it all. I can’t wait to fill you up.)”

Your head was empty. The only thought occupying it was the fact that your hole wasn’t empty. Lalo knew just how to work you; he knew exactly what to do to make you beg, and you did instinctively. “Lalo… Lalo… Lalo, please… please fuck me… Ah!”

He had pulled his hand away from you and brought it down hard against your sensitive skin. “Te dije no inglés. (I told you no English.)” He got up onto his knees and grabbed your hips, lining himself up with your entrance. “¿Sabes que decir ‘fuck’ en español? (Do you know how to say fuck in Spanish?)”

You shook your head.

Lalo leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Follar,” and then pushed inside of you. 

You cried out and wrapped your limbs around him, clinging onto him as if you were scared to let him go. Your hole did the same, pulsating around his fat cock.

Lalo sighed and caressed your cheek. “Oh, te siento tan bien. (You feel so good.) I gotta get you high more often!” He laughed. Wait, what? That was English! He saw the indignation in your face, and quickly counteracted it. “What? I can speak English, if I want. You can’t. Tú tienes que aprender español. Yo no debo. (You have to learn Spanish. I do not.) Now…” He fished that bottle out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and pressed one of his nostrils shut. “Close one nostril like this, put the bottle up to the open one, and sniff as hard as you can. You may feel some of the liquid shoot up, but that’s okay. It’s gonna feel great, I promise. Let me show you.” He snorted the popper himself and groaned before handing it to you, “Okay… okay… now you. Give it back when you’re done.”

Your hands fumbled the bottle momentarily, but you got it into position. One nostril shut, the other open, and sniff. Easy enough. You followed the steps: press, place, huff. A burst of liquid flooded your sinuses. You winced and handed the bottle back to Lalo, who screwed it shut and put it back in his pocket. He groaned and started to pound into you.

You’d never imagined that huffing “nail polish remover” would be so pleasurable, so psychedelic. It felt like your head was a balloon, gradually inflating but never popping. You heard your heartbeat in your ears. You could feel the couch breathing underneath you. Your cunt was on fire, and Lalo was pumping gasoline inside it, making you burn that much hotter. 

Most of the sounds you made were incoherent gibberish, but there was one word in particular that you both heard loud and clear, its syllables syncing to its namesake’s hips. “La-lo! La-lo! La-lo!” Some more words crossed your mind and infiltrated the atmosphere. You tried like hell to make sure none of them were English. “Lalo! Lalo! ¡Más! ¡Da… ¡Dame más! F-Fo-oh! ¡F-Fóllame, Lalito! ¡Fóllame! (More! Give… Gimme more! F-Fuck me, Lalito! Fuck me!)” So far, so good. 

Lalo groaned as he fucked you into the couch. “Ah, así es mi putito lindo. ¿Te gusta? No te preocupes, no debes decirme. Yo sé que te gusta. Justo relájate y disfrútalo. (Ah, there’s my cute little slut. You like that? Don’t worry, you don’t have to tell me. I know you like it. Just relax and enjoy it.)” He pinched your dick and stroked it in time with his thrusts. “Sabes, me alegra que seas un travelo. Me encanta que naciste con un chocho. Sientes mucho mejor que otros hombres. Es como que tú has hecho para estar follado. (You know, I’m so happy that you’re a tranny. I love that you were born with a cunt. You feel so much better than other men. It’s like you were made to get fucked.)”

You had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, but it definitely sounded nice. Then again, anything would sound nice in that rich, sexy tone of his. For all you knew, he could be reciting his grocery list. This bitch could make the produce aisle sound like a hedonistic paradise. Whatever. Logistics didn’t matter. What did matter was how close your orgasm was. You’d say you were losing control, but that implied you had some control of the situation to begin with.

All you could do was moan and drag your nails down his back. Rather than worry about what words you didn’t know, you focused on the ones you did, of which there were very few. “Lalo! Lalo! Lalo! Oh! Oh my… Ah! I mean…! ¡D-Dios mío! ¡Dios mío!” Nice recovery. That got a hearty laugh from him. 

Okay, good. You could do this. You could figure this out. What was “to come” again? Right, venir, okay. Now what? You couldn’t just say venir. You gotta preface that with something. You were drawing a blank, and it made you panic. You were running out of time, and you knew better than to finish without permission. Weed was not helping anymore, and the poppers were long gone from your system, not that they would’ve contributed much either. Fuck it. You tried. “¡Venir! ¡Venir! (Come! Come!)”

Lalo thought that was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. It was adorable watching you so dumb and cockdrunk that you could barely speak. He didn’t let up, but he lent you a helping hand, or  rather, he flicked on the lightbulb in your brain. “¿Te vas a venir? ¿Estás cerca? (You’re gonna cum? Are you close?)”

And it all became so clear. “¡Sí! ¡Sí, eso! ¡Voy a venir, Lalito! ¡Lalito! ¿Lo… ¿Lo puedo? (Yes! Yes, that! I’m gonna cum, Lalito! Lalito! Can… Can I?)”

Lalo smiled, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and jerked you even harder than you thought possible. “Hazlo. Hazlo y dime gracias después. (Do it. Do it and say thank you after.)”

Whatever the hell después meant was not a concern right now. You understood the rest of the sentence. “¡Gracias! ¡Gracia-ah! ¡Gracias, Lalito! Lalitooo~!” You pulled him against you and into a kiss. You moaned into his mouth as you came, flooding the space between you two and staining the couch at least a little bit.

Lalo broke the kiss and took his hand off your dick so he could stroke your hair. He wasn’t far behind. “Bien… Bien hecho. Buen chico. Oh, hiciste tan bueno. Estoy muy orgulloso de tí…” He grabbed hold of your waist, pulling you back into him and digging as deep as he could go. He growled hungrily. “Voy a venir también. ¿A dónde lo quieres? (I’m gonna cum too. Where do you want it?)”

Your orgasm had delivered yet another high that fried your brain and left you dumb. Translating was a fucking ordeal, even moreso than before. You were staring up at him with your eyes red and glazed over, and your tongue hanging out of your mouth and drooling. Where… it… you want? Where do you want it? In… Inside, right? Shit, how do you say inside again? At least this time you could think of some other words instead. “En… ¡En mi chocho! ¡En mi chocho! (In… In my cunt! In my cunt!)”

“¿Lo quieres dentro? (You want it inside?)”

“¡Sí! ¡Dentro! ¡Hazlo dentro! (Yes! Inside! Do it inside!)”

Lalo laughed, warm and sweet, and smooched you on the lips. “Don’t gotta tell me twice!” Before you could gripe about him teasing you with English again, he slammed his hips into you hard, grunting and hissing as he filled you up. And you felt full. You could feel it seeping out of you before he even pulled out. If you had more than four brain cells left, you’d worry about how you were going to clean the cushions later. But you didn’t, so you didn’t.

You both panted like you’d just run a marathon, and you were sweating like sinners in church. Although you were alike in condition, your post-nut reactions were much different. You were staring up at the ceiling, brainless and boneless, blending into the bodily fluids left onto the couch. Lalo grabbed the bong and lit the bowl again, tapping you on the cheek when he blew the smoke out. “You want some? We probably got one good hit left in there. You can speak English again, by the way.”

Of course, he was giving you permission, not stating a fact. You were too fucked up (quite literally) to speak at all right now, but not too fucked to forget the dance. Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Alright, nice! And good job!” Lalo took the bong from you and placed it back on the table. “You’re getting better with Spanish. I think we gotta practice more often though, right?”

You nodded. It was all you could do. 

Lalo grinned. He was so, so proud. “Yeah, alright. We’ll do this again sometime. But, I got one more thing left to teach you.” He pressed his forehead to yours, and stared right into your eyes. 

“Te amo. (I love you.)”

There was no need to translate. You knew it; you said it back; and you meant it.

#bcs #better call saul #bcs x reader #better call saul x reader #better call saul smut #better call saul imagine #bcs smut #bcs imagine #lalo salamanca #lalo salamanca smut #lalo salamanca imagine #lalo salamanca x reader #intox tw #intox kink #lalo salamanca x ftm reader #ftm intox #intox ftm #ftm reader

[bowieandqueen11]

You Make Me Happy / Jimmy McGill Imagine

Request: May I request a fluffy/cuddly Saul Goodman x reader. Maybe they’re sitting on the couch eating ice cream out of the tub watching tv or something. I crave domestic fluff with this man.

Honestly this is such a mood I too crave the domestic fluff with Jimmy!! <3 Also this is the perfect time to write this because I am freezing and just gripping my hot water bottle lmao

Also sorry if I read this wrong but I’m basing it on BCS Jimmy/Saul rather than BB! Also sorry I love doing weird character studies of Jimmy so this turned out a little more wistful than I meant it to be I can’t help it bruh this show has me in a tragic chokehold

If you enjoy, please let me know by commenting/ reblogging! Thank you, it really makes the world of difference! <3

(I do not own Better Call Saul or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @lousolversons.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

‘Jeez, your feet are freezing.’

Considering how compact Jimmy’s little room behind the nail salon appeared to be, you expected his home to be slightly warmer during the winter season. Yet the cold seems to be sneering at the two of you; a sharp frost seems to be coating your bodies, glazing your skin until you nearly bump heads shivering down to huddle under the shared blanket. The boxy room seems far too enclosing, even in spite of the lack of space: the desk shoved up against the far wall, leaning until Jimmy’s coffee-mug turned pencil pot has nearly tipped onto the floor, seems more like a tomb of splintered second-hand wood than a table. Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind though, as he absently minded puts his take out box down onto the chair that has half its legs up on his side of the bed. You had tried to argue that there was space over in your half of the room if you pushed it against the door, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. He would forgo any comfort, if he did it for your sake.

He blinked slowly, as if his mind was still unwinding from ‘high pressured failing lawyer mode’ and back down into the regular ‘ol Jimmy Mcgill that had been held in crumbling abeyance. He was still disgruntled from his earlier visit with Chuck, which he had animatedly thrown his tie on the floor and yacked at you about as soon as he had come back in the salon doors. He was tired of this: the constant fighting, the constant spiral back down into the pit, the claw back up into the empyreal light that only ‘Saint Chuck’ could bathe under. Tired, yes. He was tired, and he was distraught, and he was cold, and he was foiled. A failure, a scapegoat, ashamed, a kicking post for life to laugh at, thwarted. As Chuck had reminded him, yet again, as he sat in his armchair in his fancy house with its hollow empty walls and its silence and its lordly righteousness, he would never earn everything he had fought so hard for. Doomed to always and yet never be Jimmy McGill, he seemed so lost in himself.

‘Forget freezing’, you start, nestling down further into his side and rubbing your legs against his until you can feel his hairs rise, ‘I think if I kick them hard enough they might shatter off in shards of ice.’ You smile over at him, distressfully, and wait to see if he can draw himself back out.

He finally seems to realise you’re actually still there - still actually sitting there next to him, looking over at him as if he were a man of any actual importance. As if he weren’t a loser, living on seven hundred bucks a week in the squalid back of a nail salon, with nothing but the empty tones of his dinged desk phone to keep him company most of the night. It was almost enough to make him break down right there and then. Instead he turned to look towards you, his eyes lighting up almost immediately at the sight: the shadows drawing away from eyes and filling them with colour and life and love again. 

He guffaws at your statement, but doesn’t protest when you clamber your feet on top of his to try and make them soak up some of your warmth. The crimson red of his toe nails nearly makes you laugh out loud; the thought that tomorrow no one in the court room will be able to tell just how vivacious they are under his grimly shined shoes and bright purple socks. The red was a bold choice, but Jimmy didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps, he cared too much. You had tried to warn him against it, knowing if his brother found out it would hand him another chisel to scratch away at Jimmy’s professionality: but it had been yours, and so, in his mind, it was the best of choices. 

He wraps an arm around your waist, winding it uncomfortably back past the slightly askew spring on the side of the sofa bed and rests it gingerly against your waist. He’s still so unsure of himself, no matter how many times you say that it’s true: you really do love him, and want to spend time with him. He still sees himself as a pity case for you, and so he drums his fingers against your pyjama bottoms in the rhythm of some old country song he remembers his dad playing at the shop. It was one he would complain about listening to, sitting huddled up by the crisp shelves and using whatever magazine he had stolen off the magazine rack to shove against his ears, yet he still seemed glazed over, content as he tapped against you.

‘It’s the Irish in me. My dad was the same. You know, he could wear ten jumpers and still pretend as if the temperature was perfectly fine when he was freezing his yams off. Us potato eaters are just used to colder climates-’.

‘Jimmy you can’t play the Irish card every time. You’ve never even set foot in Ireland.’

Before giving him a chance to retort, you take the spoon of ice cream you’ve been nibbling on out from the side of your mouth, dunk it into the open carton resting on your knees, and shove it back against his lips. He snorts, but eagerly licks the mint chocolate chip ice cream off the spoon before letting you pull it away again. As he swallows, he watches the black and white movie that fizzles out from his banjaxed tv set eagerly: wide eyed, lips drawn tight in an almost childlike concentration. He looks almost as if he’s jumped out of it himself; he’s a man so buried in shades of sharp black and mute greys, piling over the vibrancy and glee that radiates out from his almost ingenuous smile. He catches you staring at him from the corner of his eyes, and tries to hide the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. It turns into a real frown, though, when he sees how intently, how sadly you’re surveying his face: roaming over the dark lines that tire his eyes and the forehead crinkles that seem to have been brought on by a burdensome weight. He seems so old despite his youth, so weary and beaten. Yet so soft, so gentle at the same time, as his eyes doe in a concerned confusion and he reaches over to squeeze your shoulder.

‘Doesn’t mean I’m not Irish’, he says quietly, as if afraid to break the silence. ‘Like Old McDonald, you know... ee i ee i oh and all that jazzy crap.’

You laugh, and the sound is like the bells of heaven to his ears. Flinging the spoon back into the tub and throwing the whole thing to the side, he both quickly and blithely reaches up to steady your arms as you turn to stare at him. You let your jaw fall in mock abhorrence, and yet the grin only grows wider and wider over his face as his fingers spread upwards to massage your wrists. 

‘That’s MacDonald, dumbass. And I don’t remember him singing about how he was so Irish after every animal like you do.’

He looks almost shocked at your words. He bites on his bottom lip and looks up at the ceiling, clearly distraught at the idea that the nirvana of his childhood memories could somehow, in some way be impaired.

‘Wait... really? Are you sure it’s MacDonald. Because I definitely remember Chuck singing it like Old Mc-’.

‘That’s because you were five, Jimmy. It probably took all your effort to coordinate your limbs enough to clap along, let alone sing it too. Just take the hit on this one, okay?’

The phone rings, and Jimmy nearly jumps out of his skin, and out of his reverie as he lets it ring out harshly through the room, ignoring it for the first time in months. Instead, he coughs hoarsely and swallows the lump in the back of his throat, staring straight ahead at the wall. Finally, he manages to swallow his pride and waggle his eyebrows at you in defeat, sliding further down onto the bed and leaning up on his elbow to lean over you. He purses his lips as you wiggle down to join him, but he has the softest look in his eyes when your thigh comes up to rest between his own. ‘Do you think, one day maybe... we’ll have a conversation that actually makes sense.’

You snort. ‘Not with you about I won’t.’

He collapses down onto his back, clutching his shirt up into a balled fist in one hand, and pressing the back of the other flat against his forehead with an ostentatious ‘awoOH.’ He pretends to whine like a kicked dog, yappering and howling and mewling as he rolls about the bed. You, on the other hand, only try to suppress your giggles at the set of his antics as you rest your arm on the soft squidge of his tummy.

‘Oh, ouch’, he keeps going on, closing his eyes as if he’s in intense pain. ‘That one hurt. Look at that, look at my chest, I’m bleeding!’ He takes your hand and presses the tip of your pointer finger against the thrum of his heart, his hand cradling yours all the while he jammers animatedly at you. ‘You know’, he sighs and lets his head deflate back down onto the cushion, ‘you really kicked my ass with that one.’

You poke him in the bellybutton and enjoy the way his arms seem to spring up in reaction, curling tightly around your waist and tugging your squealing body down on top of him. Although he exhales, you know he doesn’t mind the new weight on top of him: his back still aches from time to time, and his hip joint still creaks in the winter, but he tugs you tight against him as if still pretending to be a spry chicken. His expensive watch: the only object worth any amount of money in this place, and one of the most gaudy of his possessions presses against the curve of your back, but his thumb rubs against your skin as if in apology as you settle yourself on his chest.

‘Your ass is on your chest?’

‘Hey, way to kick a man when he’s down. You know what you should do - oh ho, yeah, you should shut it.’

‘Make me.’

It takes him less than a second to arch his tired back up to kiss you, his lips needy and pliant and familiar against yours the second they touch. Once he’s done pressing his lingering, smushing lips over yours a thousand times (and once more for good luck), he pulls back to cradle your face in glowing content.

‘I promise, I wouldn’t want it any other way. You make me happy.’ You run your fingers down his chin, the dim glare from the rolling credits nearly shrouding the two of you in pervasive darkness. You choose to tip his head up so you can look at him properly, squinting in the lack of light; although you couldn’t tell before, tears have obviously been welling up in his bloodshot eyes, as they’re now splattering a damp grey down onto the dirty sheet.

‘Yeah’, he chokes. He brushes the back of his knuckles over the side of your cheek, shaking against your arms as he smiles. ‘You make me happy too.’

#better call saul #better call saul imagine #jimmy mcgill #jimmy mcgill imagine #saul goodman #saul goodman imagine #breaking bad #bob odenkirk #jimmy mcgill x reader #jimmy mcgill fluff #jimmy mcgill angst #saul goodman x reader #saul goodman fluff #better call saul x reader #breaking bad imagine #breaking bad x reader #bcs #bcs imagine #bb #bb imagine

[fox-mulder-gets-pegged]

I just wanna say bc I KNOW you're somewhere on tumblr, to the teenage girl who attended Take Your Kid To Work Day at an office building in Ontario, Canada circa 2013 and had a conversation with a middle aged woman in which you showed her your Black Veil Brides fanart and fanfics and ship content and told her about different fanfic tropes including a/b/o verse bc she happened to know who Panic! at The Disco and Fallout Boy were and thus you felt the need to show her your bandblr ship art, that was my fucking mother and I had to clarify all that to her including looking my mother in the eye and trying to explain a/b/o verse without sounding like a lunatic.

It's been 10 years and I still regularly sent evil energies in your direction. Since you'd be probably two years younger than me and thus legally an adult now, please know if this post reaches you it's on sight.

#she cornered me in the car and asked what shipping was and i almost had a fucking heart attack #imagine being like 16 years old and habing to explain knotting to your mother #random emo music girl I'm glad you had fun talking about your Band Guys to my mother #bc i also attended take your kid to work day at that office and i know how boring it was #but christ alive why did you have to fuck me like that? #anyways i hope this post reaches you so at the very least you know i think about you at least once a week #this has been weighing on me for ten years #im almost tempted to blaze this post

[cosmosnout]

The most doomed siblings ever

#I don’t usually share that many sketches but I think abt them a lot #like ok obv Luffy means the world to both of them but before asl is was just Ace and Sabo being bffs #imagine just forgetting someone who literally used to be your best friend #imagine you remember someone you haven’t seen in years and not having the chance to reconnect with that person bc they’re gone #but you still see that person constantly in everything around you and in all the people he has met #anyway I’m so miserable abt them #art #digital art #my art #fanart #drawing #digital illustration #one piece #portgas d ace #ace #sabo

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

#writeblr #warm up #this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru #but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist #ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school. #like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it. #was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes. #but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create'' #when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work #part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just #like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent. #speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r #ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week #this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice. #''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism #imagine if we said that about literally any other profession. #''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt? #u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky'' #we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY #''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''

[emmyrosee]

tw // arachnaphobia!!!

-

You’re surprised your shriek of terror doesn’t shatter the windows in your apartment.

The pitch of fear in your voice at the sight of the eight legged monster that sits stagnant on the wall across from you hurts your own ears, and you’re sure your neighbors will hear it, but you don’t care.

Your scream was to rouse Sukuna from his games to deal with the terror. And judging by the pounding of feet down the hall, you’re confident it worked.

“-at whAT WHAT?!” He yells, his head whipping around the room to scan for danger, and when his eyes fall into you, his chest heaves and eyes are blazed with fight or flight. He’s in an oversized shirt and basketball shorts, his headset off one ear and controller dangling in one fist. Not exactly ready to fight, but you find it heroic all the same. “What! Why’d you scream!”

Your eyes curve in fear as you point to the other wall, the spider continuing to sit unbothered as your horrified screams disturb everyone else. His head darts to the other side of the room, and his raised brow come down as ‘fight’ turns into ‘annoyance.’ “Fucking seriously?”

“There’s a spider,” you whimper.

“Yeah, fucking see that,” he snarls. “My question is, did ya have to shatter my eardrums and cost me my game to look at it?”

You pout at him as you curl closer to yourself, and just as he turns to leave, you’re quick to call out for him. “Please kill it!”

“You do it.”

“You know I can’t! Please I’ll let you play in peace, I’ll cuddle you and shut up I swear-“

“Alright, alright,” he groans, walking up to the wall confidently. He makes direct eye contact with you, and if you thought you were going to pass out before, nothing could’ve prepared you for the massive disbelief that grips your heart when Sukuna Ryomen, the man you love, the man you give your soul to-

Uses his bare fucking hand to kill the spider under his palm.

The loud THWAK! silences the apartment air, making it still as your jaw slacks and your breath gets caught in your throat.

“You’re welcome,” he says, looking at the squashed spider in his hand. “Come cuddle once you’re stable again.”

“YOURE LITERALLY NEVER TOUCHING ME AGAIN!” You wail, backing yourself into a corner as he rolls his eyes and makes his way to the adjacent bathroom.

“Fuckin’ thinking that’s a good thing.”

#headcanon that he did this as a kid to ruin yuujis day too bc he’s a dick #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryomen fluff #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader fluff #sukuna ryomen x gn!reader #sukuna ryomen imagine #sukuna ryomen jjk #sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader fluff #sukuna x gn!reader #sukuna imagine #sukuna jjk #jjk #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x gn!reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x yn #arachnophobia tw #tw spiders #tw spider #spider tw #spiders tw #tw arachnophobia

[charlietheepicwriter7]

Hey, does anyone remember that one episode of the OG teen titans where it was that contest of champions or whatever? Becuase...

"Welcome, champions all! I am the Master of Games, and you are hereby invited to compete in the Tournament of the Strongest! Each of you have been specially chosen as the smartest and strongest each species has to offer."

"Hey, isn't that a fourteen-year-old?"

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #c: danny fenton #teen titans #i'm just imagining this as the best of the best #batman's there aquaman's there wonder woman's there #along with a ton of villains too #and then there's danny who looks like a wet sock of a human boy #is danny there representing ghosts or halfas #bc if he represents halfas then who is representing ghosts #the strongest of ghosts... pariah dark??? #but if he's representing ghosts then vlad must be representing halfas #“The Champion of Ghosts Pariah Dark... was not invited because screw that guy!”

[sheepmc]

Zhongli who just can't have enough of you

Zhongli who eats you out while you sleep or fucking your thighs because how can he not

Zhongli who fucks you on every surface in the house claiming he wants you to make a mess on everything

Zhongli who uses his tail to hold you down and ruts into you harder

Zhongli who orders you to get off on his tail while he work

Zhongli who orders his slutty bratty cockwhore to play with yourself with the geo construct

Zhongli who manhandles you into a mean mating press while also giving your pussy a couple slaps for being so horny and wet for him

Zhongli who fucks his cum and eggs into you until you're mindless from pleasure

Zhongli who when riled up will fuck you until you're begging for forgiveness for riling him up

Zhongli who is only encouraged by your begging fucks you even harder, faster until you pass out only to be awaken by him still fucking your oversensitive body

Zhongli who cares for you after such an intense session together whispering sweet praises and words of love in your ear

Zhongli who prepares a bath and food for you to eat and recover even massaging your sore oversensitive body just don't mind him giving your pussy a few playful licks

Zhongli who makes sure you're well taken care of before drifting into the land of dreams with you embracing your body close to his

Zhongli who may or may not slip his cocks in your pussy in the middle of the night just to be even closer to you, to feel you and if you're up for it in the morning slow lazy cuddle fucking

@crystalflygeo @meimeimeirin @silentmoths @ainescribe @zhxngii @moraxsthrone

#zhongli x reader #zhongli smut #zhongli x reader smut #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #just had to post my brainrot from the sisterwives server bc it's too good #more sisterwives seever brainrot coming #i want him so bad #i want his cock #this i want this #🐏sheepy writes🐏

[kamaluhkhan]

THE GRUDGE (or: the 7 things luke castellan hated about you)

read part two GET HIM BACK! (or: the 7 reasons you want revenge on luke castellan)

pairing: luke castellan x child of nemesis!reader (gender not specified)

word count: 8.5k

summary: luke hated your guts. he really did. he just hoped that no one could tell how, even after all this, you're still everything to him.

warnings/disclaimer: luke's POV. spoilers for the lightning thief and season 1 of pjo. some heated make-out sessions but no actual smut - MDNI / 18+. mentions of blood + death + alcohol. luke is 19 during tlt but i wrote this with him + reader being 21 by the end of this (this is important for the next part lol). anyways, luke + reader share clothes and lots of intense emotions they maybe possibly don't process in the best way. lots of ANGST - it's a greek tragedy fr!

author's note: welcome to my new hyperfixation! this fic is LONG but i hope she's worth it ♡

♪: the grudge by olivia rodrigo

(i. you have a sharp tongue)

fourteen year old luke was overwhelmed when he first stepped into the hermes cabin. it was loud and overcrowded and no one really seemed to care that they had a new cabinmate. the head counselor showed luke to an empty bed at the back, told him to get settled in, and left without another word. luke dropped his backpack before collapsing on the mattress. it was so thin that he could feel the springs dig into his back.

"you'll get used to it."

luke sat up to see you climbing through the window. 

you had a band-aid stuck on your chin, chipped nail polish the color of blackberries, and leather combat boots that looked way too heavy to be wearing in the heat of summer. 

“the shitty mattress?”

“i meant the whole chaos of cabin 11, and the way things work around here in general. if you can get used to the shitty mattress, all power to you.” 

your tone was friendly enough, playful even. you smiled at him so comfortably it made luke nauseous. 

“good to know.” he tried to smile back at you, but his heart wasn’t in it. “i’m luke, by the way.”

“yeah, i know. i’m —”

“y/n!”

you seemed entirely unfazed as the blond who called your name stormed over to you. you rolled your eyes, something only luke could notice, before turning to her.

“someone stole my candy.”

“i’m very sorry to hear that, maddy. gotta be careful around here.” your voice dripped like poisoned honey, deceptively innocent and sweet.

maddy was not having it. she huffed at you. “it was you, wasn’t it?”

“that depends. did you cheat at poker last night? again?” 

some of the chatter throughout the cabin paused, heads turning to listen in. 

“what? n-no!” 

“then you have your answer, maddy.” you exaggerated a sigh, as though you had already won the fight and were annoyed that she came back for more. “now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a new camper to show around.”

chiron had already given them a tour, but luke didn’t protest when you grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the window with you. your hand was warm in his as you dragged him along to the corner of the cabin where a poorly made ladder waited for you. 

“come on.” you started climbing, and only stopped to look down when you realized luke wasn’t following you. “best view of camp. trust me.”

a shiver passed through luke. trust didn’t come easy to him. he also didn’t particularly want to return to a stuffy cabin where all he would do was count reasons he did not want to be there.

 so, luke followed you. he sat down next to you on the roof and looked out at the sun shining on his new home, but he couldn't help but be slightly bitter. the gods had gotten all of you into this life of endless danger and battles and monsters, and this was all they had to offer in return: a summer camp. 

it just didn't seem fair. 

there was something else he noticed then. what was it that chiron had said? camp half-blood was supposed to be a safe haven for all demigods. 

“i don’t get it. there are only twelve cabins, but aren’t there, like, a million other gods?”

you straightened your posture then, and turned to luke with a newfound interest. 

“camp half-blood only has cabins representing the twelve olympians. apparently, they’re the only ones important enough to have children worth recognizing, and they can’t even do that half the time,” you explained, impertinence laced throughout your words. it seemed like something you could never quite get off your chest. 

every  demigod knew that the gods didn’t appreciate sarcasm. they  didn’t particularly like being called out on their bullshit, either.

you didn’t seem to care; you even rolled your eyes up at the sky, as if challenging zeus himself. 

“anyways, that’s why the hermes cabin is so crowded. it takes in campers who are unclaimed or whose parent doesn’t have a cabin at camp. like me.”

“so, who’s your godly parent?”

you fiddled with the leather cord on your neck. it held a few clay beads like the other campers, but there was one silver charm he noticed only you wore — scales, by the looks of it. you clutched onto it.

luke realized that, despite your own advice, maybe you resented having to get used to the way things worked around here, and having to hide your resentment. maybe that was worse than having to sleep on an uncomfortable bed for the rest of your life.

"nemesis. goddess of revenge."

"that's....hardcore."

you scoffed and moved on to twisting the silver ring on your index finger. "a lot of people take it that way, and i think it scares them a bit.”

“so that’s why you’re extra nice to new campers, huh?” 

“no, i was just in a good mood today.” you smirked.

“guess i was just lucky, then.”

luke couldn’t help but smile at your laugh — sharp, biting. you nudged your boot against his sneaker, which shifted you closer to him, shoulders practically touching. 

“what people don’t understand is that it's more about balance, you know? you do good things, and good things happen to you. at least, they should. you do bad things and….” you pulled out an outrageously big bag of candy, dropped it between you and luke, and winked at him. “you face the consequences.” 

“that makes sense.” luke leaned over to grab a handful of gummy bears. “like karma.”

“yeah. exactly.” 

you bit the head off a red bear, both of you chewing in silence before you added:

“by the way, i’m sorry about your friend.” you swallowed and caught luke’s gaze. 

chiron warned him that word would travel fast around camp about what happened to thalia, and luke had prepared himself for anything — anything but your reaction. there was no pity in your eyes; instead, there was a hint of rage, as though thalia had been your friend, too. 

“she deserved more.” 

luke’s eyes caught the glint of a knife strapped to your belt. he took another handful of the candy you stole, and he thought about the fire and fearlessness behind your words, and, despite everything, it felt right to be with you then and there. 

“yeah,” he finally whispered back. “she did.”

we all do. 

neither of you said those words, but the suggestion was there, and it felt like a promise. 

(ii. you hold on to every stupid, little detail)

“slow down, tiger.” 

your voice echoed throughout the arena, and if luke had been fighting a real opponent, it might have gotten him killed. instead, he just stopped mid-swing, sparing another straw dummy from losing its arm. 

“left hand,” you noted as you walked past him towards a bench. “you, my friend, are in need of a break.”

luke loosened the grip on his sword. the only time luke fought with his non-dominant hand was when he had overworked the other. he must have switched an hour ago, but judging by how heavy his arm felt, it could have very well been two.  

his curls were stuck to his forehead with sweat, his shirt soaked through. he could feel a dull pain behind his eyes, and luke was worried that if he stopped to catch his breath, he would pass out. or, even worse, have to face the reality of the shitty news he’d gotten early that day. 

“come sit with me,” you urged. “you’re exhausted, tiger.” 

luke bristled at your nickname for him. 

sure, luke loved that there was something only you called him, a secret kept between you in plain sight, but it was also a reminder that it was harder to hide behind the hero act when you were around.

everyone else at camp figured the nickname was a playful attempt at calling him strong and charismatic. the truth was that luke once told you that his favorite cereal as a kid was frosted flakes and that he would dream of playing sports as well as tony the tiger. for better or for worse, like most things, you wouldn’t let it go. 

case in point: if it was anybody other than you trying to get him to take a break, luke could have just brushed them off with a charming smile and continued swordfighting until his arms fell off, but in the two years since meeting you, luke had never met anyone as stubborn and convincing. like him, it seemed you were willing to fight and shed blood to get your way. luke was never really in the mood to make you bleed, even when feeling like he could burn the entire world down, so he usually gave in to your demands.  

as soon as he sat down next to you, you handed him an orange flavored energy drink — his favorite. anything other than water was hard to come by at camp without the enchanted goblets in the dining pavilion, or the right connection in the hermes cabin. he ran out of his stash the other day, but you must have noticed and gotten one of the stoll brothers to smuggle more in. 

“thanks,” luke said, ignoring the jolt of electricity that passed through him when your fingers brushed together briefly. 

 the two of you looked out at the sword arena, and all the straw dummies that luke had destroyed. you wait for him to take three big gulps of his drink before speaking again. 

“i guess chiron and your dad decided you weren’t ready for a quest.”

luke exhaled sharply. “how did you —”

“the only time you’d skip out on capture the flag is if something really shitty happened.” you looked down at luke’s clenched fists, and that seemed to be all the confirmation you needed. “you promised annabeth you'd be there, and it's not like you to let her down."

fuck. he had completely forgotten that tonight was annabeth's first time as team captain. this entire week, she had been prepping a winning strategy. it wasn’t like annabeth needed him to win, but luke was her big brother, and he should have been there. you were right — he had let her down. 

the realization made luke’s day go from bad to worse. 

"i told her you were helping a new camper with an emergency. she didn't believe it, but she adjusted her strategy and we still won.”

“well, thank the gods everything worked in the end,” luke grumbled. 

“don’t thank the gods,” you quipped. “thank annabeth chase for her brilliant mind, and me for covering for your sorry ass.”

when luke didn’t indulge in your usual playful banter, you moved closer to him and brushed some curls away from his eyes. your skin warmed his forehead, and the small gesture made him feel better than he had all day.

“look, i’m not going to give you some bullshit inspirational speech about how the gods don’t get to define what a hero is, or how you don’t need a quest to prove that you’re worthy of being one. we’ve each been through that before, and i have a feeling this won’t be our last time, either.”

“then why are you here?” the question came out harsher than luke had intended it to.

“because she’s trying her best to hide it, but annabeth is really hurt that you didn’t show up for the game. i figured the least you could do is suck it up, come to the campfire, and make her those signature luke castellan s’mores. you could probably use one, too, since you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.” 

you were right, again. luke was exhausted, he was furious, but most of all, he was starving.  

later that night, luke sat next to annabeth and vowed to make her as many s’mores as she wanted. you’d gone to sit with the hephaestus kids, trying to convince beckendorf and nyssa to join your cabin’s post-campfire party at the beach, even though they had to work in the forges early the next morning. 

when chiron made his weekly speech, congratulating the winners of capture the flag and thanking the gods for keeping everyone safe, you and luke caught each other’s gaze from across the fire. you rolled your eyes and luke bit back a smile as you turned back to beckendorf. he noticed your knees were practically touching. did you sit that close to everyone? 

luke was looking at you for so long that the marshmallow he was roasting fell into the fire, despite annabeth’s warnings. she handed him another one. 

"you should tell her how you feel," annabeth said. "stop being a coward." 

whether it was the smell of burnt sugar, the heat of the fire, or annabeth’s comment, luke started to feel dizzy. he did his best to shake it off, asking annabeth for a play-by-play of her strategy earlier that night, but he couldn’t quite get rid of the thought of you. 

(iii. you don't care if your clothes are stained with blood)

“i just….i can’t fucking believe you, luke.”

“i don’t get why you’re so upset — you’ve never cared about quests before.”

luke was hoping to break the news to you after capture the flag. unfortunately for him, word travels fast around camp. 

annabeth had the two of you scouting the east side for the flag, while she and some other athena kids took the west. you hadn’t found anything so far, which meant that you’d spent the better part of an hour bickering over luke’s choice of companions for his quest. a choice that included charles beckendorf and chris rodriguez, and purposefully did not include you, much to your fury.  

before you could continue arguing, luke heard the sound of footsteps approaching. he looked over to you, and you already had your shield and sword at the ready. 

a few red defenders emerged from the trees. one charged at luke, but you stepped in so he could deal with the other two. one of his opponents went down fairly easily, but the other put up much more of a fight. metal clashed behind him as you kept fighting as well. you might not have been as skilled a swordfighter as luke, but he knew that you could hold your own, at least until he was finished with the person in front of him. 

luke parried his opponent’s strike, causing them to take a step closer. he was preparing to disarm them, just as he heard you yelp and stumble to the ground. it only took a millisecond of his attention, but it gave his opponent the opportunity to elbow him in the face. luke felt a crack upon impact, and pain radiated from his nose; he powered through. 

he had to finish this fight, and he had to do it fast. you needed him. 

his ears were ringing as he finally knocked over his opponent, kicking away their sword and keeping his foot on their chest. luke turned around to see you having turned the tides, the blade of your sword dangerously close to your opponent’s neck.

you locked eyes with luke, and you both understood — it was time to go. the two of you ran through the forest, as far away as you could before having to stop and catch your breath.

luke removed his helmet to get some air, and dropped his weapons. you did the same. you looked at him, brows furrowed.

“your nose.”

luke licked his lips, tasting blood. the triumph of winning that last fight overshadowed the ache of his potentially broken nose. in fact, he liked the image of a ruthless warrior emerging from the glory and gore of battle, that even though he did not bleed ichor like a god, he still had power. 

you, on the other hand, didn’t look impressed. instead, you stepped forward and offered the sleeve of your shirt to wipe away the blood. 

“you don’t have to —”

“i know you think you’re a badass walking around all broken and bloody, but you shouldn’t deny your admirers your pretty face,” you teased. 

it was no secret that luke had numerous admirers around camp, a fact you loved to tease him about. he was sure that you relished in how flustered that made him. all you had to call him was pretty boy, and luke could be reduced to a blushing mess. 

it was pathetic how much power you had over him.

“besides, i wouldn’t have gotten out of that last fight if you hadn’t taught me that disarming technique earlier. i owe you. it’s what we do. we take care of each other, right?”

he couldn’t argue with that.

a few moments of silence passed as you cleaned his face. something shifted as you worked, the flirtatious grin fading away. when you pulled away, your sleeve was stained a dark crimson. 

“just tell me honestly,” you finally murmured. “why don't you want me to join your quest?” 

luke was genuinely taken aback by the softness of your voice, now devoid of its usual fire. you wouldn’t meet luke’s eyes, but being that close to you, he noticed they were slightly glazed over.

he had expected you to be angry at his decision. he expected you to yell and argue and try to change his mind. luke hadn’t expected you to be so hurt. so broken. 

he hadn’t planned on it, but luke decided to tell you the truth then.

“look, karma, if you come with me, my heart wouldn’t fully be in the quest. i’d be so caught up in….well, you.”

a pause.

“is that a bad thing?”

“not usually, no.” 

you smirked a little at that, and luke’s heart skipped a beat. it also made his decision even clearer. 

“but i need to be focused for this. i need….” he let out a deep sigh. “i need to prove myself. this is my first real chance, and i can’t fuck it up.”

you met his gaze and smiled brightly at him, your signature spark of confidence returning.  

“you won’t.”

you reached a hand up to play with his necklace. luke hadn’t noticed how close you’d gotten until your fingers started tracing over those four clay beads. it made his entire body burst into flames.

“i’ve been wanting to do something for a while. and, aphrodite save me, it might be really stupid, but —”

luke took a lucky guess as to where you were going, and crashed his lips against yours. aphrodite knows that he'd been wanting to do that for a while, too. 

he often got drunk on the adrenaline of battle, the glory of winning, but nothing was quite like the rush of kissing you for the first time. 

it was messy and urgent, both of you aware that, at any moment, you could be interrupted. your noses were bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. the metallic tang of blood lingered on luke’s tongue, but neither of you seemed to care. you even bit his lip slightly, as if you wanted more. armor sat heavy and cold between your chests, preventing you from getting closer. luke had never loathed the protective gear more. 

he made up for it by lodging one hand underneath your jaw, and snaking the other beneath the celestial bronze, beneath the cotton of your shirt, admiring how your pulse quickened under his thumb when he grazed the soft skin of your stomach. you tangled your hands into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. he groaned and felt you smirk against his lips. 

luke had kissed a few people before, sure, but never like this: like a knife to the gut, and if you pulled away, luke would surely bleed out and die. 

it wouldn’t be a hero’s death, in the traditional sense, but at least he’d die happy. 

how many heroes could claim that?

when luke ran out of air, feeling like his lungs were burning, he had to pull away. 

you glanced down at luke’s kiss-bitten lips, then back to his eyes. luke flushed under the intensity of your gaze. 

“just promise me something, tiger,” you whispered, voice hoarse. 

“anything.”

“come back alive.”

luke leaned forward and placed another kiss on your lips, this one much gentler than before.

“i promise.”

(iv. you love like a scar that won't fade)

the nightmares were getting worse. 

luke woke up in a cold sweat, taking gulps of air in an attempt to steady his breathing.

“luke.” 

your whisper did little to quell the pit of dread growing in his stomach, but it did enough to bring him back down to reality. 

he was at camp half-blood (fuck the gods of olympus), in the hermes cabin (fuck you, dad), in a bed next to yours (fuck, if he could tell you what — who — was going through his head, he would).

“i’m…i’m fine,” he murmured back, voice catching slightly on the lie. 

like clockwork, you shifted from your bed to his, slipping under the covers. it didn’t matter that it was a hot summer night, and the minute your legs touched his, he could feel himself starting to overheat. 

your thumb brushed over the thick edge of his scar, up his cheekbone to the corner of his eye. it had been a year, living with this reminder. a reminder that he had failed, just as much as his father and the olympians had failed him. 

luke tried to pretend that he didn’t come back from his quest as a shell of who he once was. after all, it was meant to be his shining moment as a demigod, meant to gain him all the glory and father’s praise he once wished for. 

what a fucking joke.

every morning, luke would crawl into a different skin. he welcomed new campers and taught sword-fighting. he laughed with chris and his other siblings and strategized with annabeth for capture the flag. he would be the easy-going, charming, skillful senior counselor who respected the gods and honored them in everything he did. 

again: a fucking joke.

nights were different, though, with you so close to him, you who could always see right through him.

every night, luke was a fourteen-year old boy again, with so much rage and resentment he didn't know what to do with it. 

of course, you were always you - a bleeding heart underneath layers of armor. you didn't care about fate, or the gods, or the titans. you cared about justice, you cared about what was right and fair. 

most of all, you cared about luke.

“you were screaming,” you told him, voice barely cutting through the soft snores and sleeptalkings of your other cabinmates. 

“sorry,” he managed. looking at you in the dull moonlight, luke noticed the deep shadows under your eyes. 

“it’s fine. you just….you scared me, tiger.” 

your hand still rested on his cheek, and for a second, luke hoped you would kiss him, but you didn’t. instead, you told him to try and get some sleep, and sank further into his bed before closing your eyes. 

for the hundredth night in a row, luke hoped you couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest as you fell asleep next to him.

since coming back from his quest, luke didn’t have it in him to suggest being anything other than friends, and you didn’t push it. there had been a few....moments between you, sure, but nothing more.

luke thought you might have changed your mind, because who would want to be with a bitter, worthless, wannabe hero? then again, that voice haunting his dreams…. luke could change that. 

but, at what cost?

(v. you protect people as ruthlessly as a starving dog)

luke could hear you talking to percy jackson outside. though he couldn’t quite determine what was being said, as much as he tried.

you entered the bathroom and instantly caught luke’s eyes in the mirror. you were wearing your faded pyjama shorts with cartoon crows, and a flannel shirt that luke had a sneaking suspicion might have been his. you smiled at him before setting up at the counter, one sink between you. 

“what was that about?” luke asked after spitting out a mouthful of minty toothpaste.

“oh, nothing.” you were searching through your toiletry bag for something, and seemed to come up short. “hey, do you have any extra dental floss?”

luke threw some over to you. as you effortlessly caught it, he noticed your knuckles, bruised and bloodied.

“what happened?” 

you finished flossing and briefly examined your hands before pulling out your toothbrush. 

“it’s not a big deal,” you assured. “some ares kids were picking on percy, and then they started pushing him around, like, really pushing him around, so….” 

“....you decided to send them to the infirmary.”

you squeezed some toothpaste on your brush before continuing. “i don’t need you to lecture me about how i shouldn’t be fighting with other campers because i’ve been here longer and i should be a good role model. you know what a good role model does? not let kids beat up other kids and think the worst punishment they’ll get is no dessert for a week.”

luke watched carefully as you jammed the toothbrush in your mouth and brushed with such force, he was worried your teeth might dislodge. he knew that you would shed blood for someone you loved, and that you didn’t particularly care if you had to break rules in doing so, because you believed that what was written was not necessarily what was right. 

in fact, luke loved that about you.

no, it wasn’t the fighting that luke cared about — it was who you were fighting for. 

percy was a good kid, he really was. luke just didn’t want you getting attached. 

“i wasn’t going to lecture you. i’m guessing chiron already did?” 

you nodded and spat out what looked like a combination of toothpaste and blood. you rinsed your mouth until the water lost its pinkish hue. once you were done, luke continued his train of thought.

“i just didn’t realize you cared so much about him.”

“about percy?” 

luke could tell that he didn’t have your full attention. you were packing your stuff back up, accidentally tossing luke’s dental floss into your bag, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

“yeah. the kid’s only been at camp for three days, and you’re already acting like his guard dog.”

you finally turned to luke and glared at him. 

“maybe. but percy’s sweet and he doesn’t seem like the type to put up with bullshit. he’s been through a lot, and annabeth seems to like him, too. as far as i’m concerned, percy’s one of us, and i’m not going to let anyone push him around.”

luke raised an eyebrow at you. “he’s sweet?”

“yeah. like, just now, he gave me some blue raspberry jelly beans as a thank you. said his mom used to work at a candy store. he also wanted me to apologize to you for him. he feels bad about beating you in sword-fighting earlier.” 

you scoffed, like you resented luke for having to apologize to him on percy’s behalf. you definitely did not appreciate that guard dog comment. luke clenched his jaw, seething over what you had just said. 

satisfied with his reaction, you gave luke that nauseating smile of yours, tilted your head towards the exit. a truce, because you never liked to fight with luke for too long, and a order, because you knew luke would always follow. 

the two of you began walking back to your cabin in the warm mid-june air. 

“i wouldn’t say he beat me,” luke huffed. “it was beginner’s luck.”

“sure, tiger. it was beginner’s luck that disarmed the best swordsman we’ve had in the last 300 years.”

you nudged luke’s shoulder with yours, but he recoiled from your touch. 

“are you trying to make me feel worse?” luke tried his best to avoid snapping at you, keeping his tone measured.

“i’m just saying that maybe the kid has natural talent and that doesn’t make you any less talented. there’s no need to get jealous.”

luke resisted the urge to growl at your suggestion. 

to be clear, he was not jealous. it’s just that luke had spent years of blood, sweat, and tears getting to where he was then, and percy jackson had just gotten to camp. 

and, to be even more clear, luke was not jealous of how you were already defending percy with your whole body and your whole heart, the way you did for him. 

by then, you reached the front of the hermes cabin. luke could already hear the commotion of what he would need to deal with as soon as he walked in. the burden of being head counselor, one he approached with an elastic smile that could snap at any moment. 

you tugged on luke’s sleeve before he could open the door. 

“hey. are we okay?”

luke looked down at your fingers grasping the fabric of a sweatshirt he was just realizing was yours. your nails were painted a dark red, now chipped after a week of wear. you had begged luke to paint his nails then, and once again, he gave in. he even started to like the purple you had chosen just for him, so deep it was almost black. the same color you were wearing the first time you and luke met.

he smiled at the memory — a real smile, no plastic — and then smiled back up at you.

“we’re fine, karma.” and he moved to enter the cabin. luke could hear the threat of an argument bubbling up, what sounded like a petty one over a prank gone wrong.

“wait.” you tugged at his (your) sweatshirt once more. “there’s something i wanted to talk to you about, about tomorrow night—”

“annabeth called a meeting during free time.”

“yeah, i know, it’s just —”

“she’ll run through strategy for capture the flag then.”

“one of the aphrodite senior campers asked me to the campfire,” you blurted it out, and luke decided to ignore the sound of a fight breaking out from behind the wooden door.

what in the name of hades were you talking about?

“they asked you out? like…like a….” luke didn’t even want to speak the word, scared it would make it real.

“a date,” you said casually, as if that one word didn’t rip luke’s heart in a million pieces. “i said yes.” an admission that took all those pieces and set them on fire. 

sure, in the seven years since you and luke met, you’d each talked about boys, about girls, about dating and kissing them and going further. but there was something about this one that felt different. something about the way you told him.

“but, listen, i wanted to let you know it’s not —”

“good for you,” was all luke said through gritted teeth before someone started calling his name again, louder and more urgently, and he had to duck inside.  

(vi. you taste like burning cherries and righteous anger)

your team had won capture the flag, of course. the biggest news of the evening, though: percy jackson was the son of the sea god. 

he was a forbidden child, the hero of the great prophecy. 

everything was falling into place. 

all luke should be thinking about is kronos’ plan, and his role in it, and how a world without the gods of olympus was that much more in reach.  

unfortunately, for the time being, he was so consumed by you. 

you, from across the campfire, sporting cutoff denim shorts and fresh wounds from the game earlier. you, who had wrapped your knuckles in gauze, concealing their bruising, fixed the chips in your nail polish and stacked rings on your fingers. (for the record: luke had gifted you the one on your left thumb.) you, with dark lips that whispered too closely and laughed too loudly with a child of aphrodite— jordan li.

you hadn’t so much as looked at luke since congratulating each other on another win. when chiron announced his weekly gratitude to the gods at the start of that night’s campfire, you didn’t punctuate your resentment with your usual eye-roll or biting remark. you were too busy giggling at something jordan said.

luke wanted to be the one to whisper jokes in your ear. he wanted to be the one you left lipstick stains on later, along his jaw and down his neck. he wanted to be the one who kissed the blade mark on your shoulder and the bruises on your knuckles. 

and yet, hours passed and it seemed that the thought of luke had never so much as crossed your mind. he found himself at an after hours party with a few senior campers on the beach. a lethal recipe: a poorly crafted bonfire, some contraband drinks and you in jordan li’s lap, playing with their hair and pretending luke castellan did not exist. 

meanwhile, luke had katie gardner’s full attention. she was talking to him about the strawberry season, potentially leaning a bit too close into luke’s personal space, definitely flirting with him. 

luke could have done a lot worse than the head counselor of the demeter cabin, who always smelled like fresh lavender, whose eyes were the bright green of spring grass and whose lips tasted like golden honey. 

the problem was that luke only wanted you, and his eyes kept sliding over to where you were kissing jordan’s cheek, and he accidentally called the girl he was kissing by your name, which did not make her happy. 

katie threw her drink in his face, told him to wake the fuck up, and walked away.

a chorus of gasps and chuckles erupted as luke stood there, diet coke and vodka seeping into his shirt. the commotion seemed to capture your attention, because you suddenly appeared next to luke, an empty bottle of cherry soda in your hand.

“rough night, tiger?” your voice, that nickname, made luke sick, his face twisting into a frown. you don’t seem to notice or care. instead, you switched your bottle with luke’s and took a sip.

“looks like you were having a pretty good time,” luke practically sneered. “where’s your date?” 

 “they went to bed.” you swallowed a mouthful of beer, grimacing at its bitterness. “gods, this is terrible. you and i should go on the drink run next time — we have better taste.”

“so, are you and jordan like a thing now?”

you gave luke a smile he didn’t quite understand, but made his stomach churn in ways only you could. “would that be a problem?”

“of course not.” he answered way too quickly for that to be true. 

“let’s get out of here,” you suggested. “i think katie is about this close to strangling you with a tree branch.”

luke glanced over your shoulder to where green eyes glared back at him. 

nowhere could luke find it in him to care. he wasn’t even sorry. he just shrugged, took the bottle back from you, took his first sip all night. luke almost gagged (because of course you were right, and the stoll brothers had better fake ids than they had taste) but he suppressed it. 

“no. i’m good.”

biggest lie he ever said. like there wasn’t anger caught in his throat and jealousy swelling between his ribs.

“go find jordan,” he taunted. “kiss them, show them a good time! isn’t that the reason why you got all pretty?”

you narrowed your eyes at him carefully. your nostrils were slightly flared, and luke took a bit of pride in being able to rile you up.

“look, we haven’t really talked lately, and i think we should.”

“go find jordan,” he mocked once more. “almost all the aphrodite kids are here, and i’m sure you can be quiet enough to sneak into their cabin and if you want a quick fu—”

“luke.” you clipped his name, obviously getting to the limit of your patience with him. “if you want to stay here all night and be an asshole, you’re welcome to. you should know, though, that your happy-go-lucky hero mask is starting to crack and i don’t know if you could deal with the fallout from it shattering completely.”

you leaned in close and whispered that last part, very aware of the chattering that stopped and the eyes that watched the pair of you anxiously. luke was usually good at hiding that part of himself who wanted to burn the world down. 

in ways you didn’t realize, you were right: he couldn’t risk revealing it, not now.

not yet. 

“do whatever you want, castellan,” you spat out his last name, the combination of letters foreign in your mouth.“i’m leaving.”

luke should be proud of himself. he waited a whole two seconds before following you like a stray dog. 

luke didn’t know if he’d ever felt you that enraged by him, and it horrified him. it also made him hungry for more. 

“i’m not sure that jordan would want the two of us alone together at night,” he shouted after you, words echoing into the starless sky.

“gods, enough about jordan!” luke practically ran into you with how fast you turned around to confront him. “i was helping them with that stupid aphrodite tradition!”

“you….” luke faltered, all the snark leaving his body. “what?”

luke remembered silena beauregard once explaining the rite of passage to him: to prove themselves, a child of aphrodite had to make someone fall in love with them, and then break their heart.

“why…why would you agree to do that?”

you had reached the dining area by then, and you sat on one of the steps leading to the pavilion. luke stayed a few feet away, looking at you cautiously. 

“jordan and i are already friends, and they figured a fake relationship would be the way to avoid anyone from actually getting hurt in the process.”

“you seemed so…so into it, though,” luke stammered, the memory of you in jordan’s lap, laughter bubbling from your lips, still fresh.

“it’s called acting, dumbass.” the camp didn’t rely on electricity, but there were enough torches around that luke could see you roll your eyes. “anyways, i was trying to give you a heads-up last night, but you wouldn’t listen.” you took a deep breath. “and, honestly, i didn’t push it because….i figured i should test a hypothesis.”

a hypothesis? you’d known annabeth for too long.

“what hypothesis?”

you hesitated. 

“it doesn’t matter. fuck, this was stupid,” you muttered, and without another word, stormed through the dining pavilion, a short cut to the hermes cabin. your footsteps fell heavy against the marble, and luke’s not far behind. 

“what hypothesis?” he asked again.

nothing but rushed footsteps.

“what hypothesis?” luke finally yelled.

third time was the charm, because you stopped in your tracks and faced luke once again. a fire burned in the bronze brazier, where campers were forced to offer up portions of your food to the gods at every meal. its roaring seemed to captivate you, and the flames danced across your face, illuminating all your curves and edges.

“i’m angry at the gods,” you stated. 

this caught luke off guard. from the day the two of you met, luke knew you shared that feeling. you’d gotten quieter with your rage as you’d gotten older. luke supposed he got better at hiding it himself, as well. 

“i’m angry at the gods for letting bad shit happen even if they can stop it, and for building this world in the fucked up way they did. i’m angry at your dad for the way he’s treated you, but — you, luke castellan.” you finally met luke’s eyes with a gaze so sharp, luke almost felt himself bleed. “i’m also angry at you, and not just for your bullshit tonight.” 

your admission felt like a punch to the stomach, and luke was left with no air to breathe.

did you know?

“you haven’t been the same since your quest,” you continued, words slow and deliberate, the way you spoke when you were worried your voice would shake. “and i’ve come to terms with that in the past few years, but you….you’ve never tried to ice me out before. you’ve been acting distant since december, and it’s been driving me insane. do you realize how much i miss my best …..” you swallowed the word friend. “how much i miss you?”

luke hesitated, because what could he say? i know i’ve been distant, but i’ve been busy trying to start a war between the gods. sorry babe! 

would you hate him, if you knew? 

you had to have known that, despite the distance, luke missed you. for tartarus sake, in the last two days, he’d driven himself mad at you calling a fourteen year old boy sweet, and he was about to combust at the image of you dating someone else, with little care as to the collateral damage. 

"you can't just avoid me, makeout with katie fucking gardner, and then….” you trailed off, hiding your face in your hands. whether it was to hide embarrassment or tears, luke wasn’t sure.

a smirk spread across luke’s face at the revelation that he hadn’t been the only one jealous at the bonfire that night. it lit luke up with the confidence he needed to not completely fall to his knees in front of you, beg for your forgiveness for everything he’s done.

“why do you care if i make out with katie fucking gardner?” 

as he waited for a response, luke walked towards you until your back hit one of the marble columns. 

“why do you care if i’m with jordan fucking li?” you clenched your jaw and looked right through luke. a clear indication that you wanted him to break down first; it wouldn’t be you who yielded this fight.

“because i want to be the one you’re with.” at that point, luke was so close to you that he swore he could hear your heartbeat. he reached out and played with the hem of your shorts. “why do you care if i make out with katie gardner?”

“because.” you drew in a sharp breath when luke’s fingers brushed underneath the denim, across the warm skin of your thigh. you closed your eyes. “don’t make me say it, tiger.” 

the desperation in your voice made luke want to do unholy things with you, to you. luke knew you didn’t think of him as a saint, and you never expected him to be one. the reality was that you weren’t much better, either. what was essentially an altar to the gods burned bright next to you, but it seemed neither of you had ever cared less about it than in that moment. 

luke would watch olympus fall. he would dethrone the gods and watch their glass castle shatter and find glory in a new world. in the grand scheme of things, he was willing to lose this battle.

in fact, he would have rather betrayed the titan lord himself than waste another second not kissing your lips. 

so, he kissed you, and you kissed him back with such force, such hunger, it was ungodly.

no, you certainly weren’t a saint — but you were divine, in the most brutal, intoxicating way. in the way you shuddered when luke lodged a leg between your thighs; in the way you threaded your fingers through the belt loops of his jeans to bring him closer; in the way the metal of your rings burned through the skin of his hip, right to the bone, which made him shudder, and you smile triumphantly against his jaw.

the more he tasted your smirk flavored by cherry soda and the ashes of nearby flames, the more he felt your feral teeth against his neck and your wicked nails digging into his shoulders, the more you tugged on his curls, the more luke thought: maybe. 

maybe you would give into your seething resentment, live up to those eye-rolls and snarky comments that got you in trouble with chiron, on the edge of hot water with the gods. maybe you would join the titan army. maybe, just maybe, this time, you would follow luke.

and yet — maybe wasn’t enough if it meant he could lose this. luke wouldn’t risk it, not until he kissed every battle scar and bruise on your body, and you did the same to his. 

“wait.”

it was the last thing luke wanted to do, but he complied. he took the opportunity to appreciate the chaos he created: your shirt in disarray, your lipstick a mess, your chest heaving and desperate to catch a breath. 

“i promised jordan that we’d keep up our charade for a week, two at the most. do you think we could keep this…” you tightened your fist around the fabric of his shirt. “a secret until then?”

luke responded by pressing his lips to yours once more, because there were definitely worse secrets to keep.

(vii. you wouldn’t hesitate to make him bleed)

luke had just left percy jackson to die.

he should be leaving camp, now, but he needed to see you one last time. 

the universe works in mysterious ways, because you were out on a run through the forest, and you crossed paths before he even had time to wonder where you were.

“hey, tiger.” you smiled as if this was a regular afternoon. the two of you would teach your afternoon activities, sneak away during dinner so luke could kiss you in that spot that made you gasp. “wanna join me? i was just wrapping up, but i could be convinced to go longer.”

for a second, he was tempted to. very tempted. 

“i don’t have much time.”

you seemed to notice luke’s sullen mood and you dropped your playful demeanor. 

luke explained: the messages from kronos in his dreams, him stealing the lightning bolt and helm of darkness to start a war between the gods and framing percy. the plan to destroy olympus that luke had pledged his life to.

percy was surprised at what luke had done, and luke could imagine that the rest of camp would be, too. luke was the golden boy of camp half-blood, everyone’s big brother. 

you, on the other hand, didn’t express any sense of shock. 

“luke.” you said his name like you weren’t quite sure it was poison. “i’m going to give you five seconds to tell me that you’re joking.”

five seconds of silence passed. you took a few steps back from luke.

“i….i should have told you sooner.”

“yeah,” you scoffed. “you should have. but, you didn’t. did it feel good, having the titan king whispering sweet nothings in your ear? all the lies about how this war is the only way to get the glory you so desperately want? it’s fucking delusional.” 

“it’s not delusional—”

“yes, it is!” you glared at him. “you’re on the wrong side of a war you made the mistake of starting.”

luke straightened his posture, thinking about how hypocritical you were being. 

“isn’t this what you’re all about? revenge, karma. your mom will probably join us, too. don’t you want to see the gods finally get what they deserve?”

“not like this. i can’t believe how desperate you are, to believe that kronos is going to make everything right. it’s pathetic,” you spat. “i’m not saying the gods don’t deserve to be taken down a notch. their fucking obsession with power and glory….it’s sick and twisted, but i don’t think your titan king is any better. i don’t think you are any better.” 

“it’s time that the gods fall. this is the only way, even if it isn’t perfect,” luke countered. his voice was firmer now as he absorbed your anger. your mother was the goddess of revenge, but you clearly didn't understand the sacrifices, pain, and blood that was required to make the world a better place.  

luke just needed to convince you.

“we’ve talked about this for years,” he continued. “nothing is balanced! there’s no justice here, for anyone.  we can build a better world where we don’t have to burn our scraps and throw ourselves at monsters to get attention. we can fight together like we always have. y/n, i love—”

“don’t,” you snapped. “don’t you fucking dare. you should have died on your quest.” your voice laced with venom. one hand gripping the knife you always kept on your belt. “that dragon should have fucking sliced through you and saved us all the trouble.”

something pricked in the back of his throat, down to his stomach.

“you don’t mean that.”

“i do,” you promised. “at least you would have died with all of us thinking you’re a hero instead of the traitor you really are.”

you grabbed your knife, took a fighting stance. 

“i’m not going to fight you,” was all luke could say. he noticed your hand tremble, and you tightened the grip on your knife to prevent emotion from slipping through your invisible armor. 

in that moment, you have could slice through luke, and it would hurt less than everything you just said, less than the murderous look you were giving him, like he was just another monster you wouldn’t think twice about sending to tartarus.

luke didn’t even have a chance to unsheathe his sword before you charged at him, but he quickly had you pinned to the ground, the tip of your own knife pointed at you. he hesitated. the blade pressed harder against your cheek than he intended, enough to break the skin and let a few droplets of dark crimson escape. 

“please come with me,” he pleaded. you didn’t answer, but you did seem surprised by the softness of his voice. 

a few moments passed, the celestial bronze still between you. luke waited for you to see his way, to yield to his proposal.

you didn’t. instead, you took advantage of the situation. you wrapped your leg around his and flipped your position. in the process, you regained possession of your knife. without the hesitation that held luke back, you sliced through his cheek, deep. luke bit his lip to suppress a groan, tasting blood. your gaze set his whole body on fire as he waited for your next move. that was when you glanced down at his camp necklace, and the new clay bead added to commemorate this summer.

a turquoise trident.

“percy told me he was on his way to see you,” you realized. “what did you do?”

luke didn’t answer. he knew then that a choice ran through your head. 

and it stung, just a little, watching you sprint away through the trees in a last ditch effort to save percy’s life. 

there was a small, pathetic part of luke that wanted you to choose him, even if it meant you would have plunged the knife into his chest.

#this is my baby fr #really feeling the tragic hero vibe down to my core #will prob do a part 2 from reader's POV! #ofc inspired by get him back! bc nemesis!reader.... #percy jackson #pjo fanfic #pjo series #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #pjo x reader #luke castellan angst #luke castellan imagine #percy jackson and the olympians #luke castellan smut #saf writes #Spotify

[attyattlaw]

survivor's guilt

#one piece #trafalgar law #one piece fanart #op1081 spoilers #heart pirates #the small skull is meant to be lami but how tf am i suppose to draw that #i didnt wanna do hair bc thats a cop out + then i had to draw everyones hair for consistency #i painted her hairclip on and then removed it bc it looks stupid sitting there clipped to nothing #anyway idt the hearts are dead but man can u imagine having 3 traumatic instances of survivors guilt now

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Castigo - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

This wasn’t happening. This didn’t feel real. You made one mistake. Granted, it was a big one, but you never would have thought the consequences would be this. You thought he loved you, that you were more than just an employee to him, but you weren’t. You weren’t even that. You were a plaything, a doll, a toy that he could throw away when it no longer did what he wanted. You didn’t do what he wanted, and that meant you were broken. You were broken, and you needed to be fixed. 

tags/warnings: cnc/noncon/dubcon, forced oral, forced penetration, forced orgasm, squirting, knifeplay, cutting, bloodplay, face slapping, degradation/humiliation, punishment, dacryphilia, physical/emotional/sexual abuse, gaslighting, homophobic slurs, dead dove: do not eat

anatomical terms: cunt/pussy, dick

words: 5,585

ao3 link

author's notes: fics to make my therapist read ♥ as always please correct me if you notice any mistakes in the spanish dialogue

Life as a street distributor was often as boring as it was illegal.

Sometimes, you’d be posted up against the wall of a building, your designated spot for the day, and told to just wait. That’s it. Just wait until someone asks you what you got. It wasn’t that bad, in all honesty. You’d definitely had worse jobs. The few weeks you’d spent as a front-line soldier of the cartel had already taught you quite a bit about patience and discipline. Plus, your supervisor Lalo seemed to like you, if the nights you spent in his bed were any indication. Nevertheless, you didn’t get any special treatment when it came to work. He knew better than to spoil you; he didn’t want you going soft on him. 

You were absentmindedly checking your phone when a regular customer approached you. You relaxed your posture and sighed in relief. Regulars were easy. As long as they had the money, and they weren’t wearing a wire, you were clear to sell. His name was Emilio and he was actually a cousin of one of your coworkers, Domingo. Everyone in the cartel trusted him, but you still had to go through the formalities. 

You gave him a fist bump and spoke with a firm but friendly voice. “Alright man, you know the drill. Shirt up.” 

Emilio groaned. “Man, I wasn’t wearing no wire when I bought from you last week!”

You weren’t budging. “‘S not my rule. C’mon. Lemme see.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” He begrudgingly lifted up his tank top and turned around, giving you a clear view of both sides. No cables. All good. He dropped his shirt and spun back around before handing you a fistful of cash. “Just need an eight ball.”

“Got it,” you replied, counting the cash. It was all there. “Okay, you’re good.” You knelt down on the pavement and reached for your backpack. 

“Damn right, I’m good. How’s Domingo been?”

You didn’t look up to answer him. “He’s been doing really well, actually,” you said as you unzipped the bag. You put away the cash and dug around for an eighth. “Rumor is he’s up for a promotion soon.” You grabbed a small bag of coke and got up from the ground, ready to hand it off when one word stopped you dead in your tracks.

“Freeze!”

Your neck snapped in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. A cop was pointing a gun at you. 

 Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Lalo had told you what to do when this happened, but all the instructions he’d given went out the window the second you were actually staring down the barrel of a firearm. You figured going full deer in the headlights was the wrong move. With not many appealing options in front of you, your instincts were telling you to run. You dropped the coke and took off like a bat out of hell, bracing yourself for the sound of gunshots behind you. You didn’t look back. You didn’t check on Emilio. You just fucking booked it, heading wherever adrenaline would take you. 

Thankfully, you were only a few blocks from El Michoacáno. You ducked into a nearby alley and tried to listen for footsteps, but you couldn’t hear much over your own hyperventilating. You determined the coast was clear, and headed into the restaurant, swinging the door open and storming inside in a frenzy. 

Inside, Domingo and Lalo were set up at a table, and they both jumped when you flashbanged them with the door. Lalo got up from his seat and approached you, noticing the panic on your face.

“Woah! Hey, calm down, chico. Calm down. It’s over now.” He pulled you into a warm embrace and petted your hair, shushing you and rubbing your back. Lalo was always so soothing, so nurturing, you’d soon forgotten what trouble you’d just barely escaped from. You two weren’t exactly a secret, so he didn’t mind showing you tiny bits of affection in front of others, just as long as it didn’t reflect badly on him. He leaned down to kiss your forehead and spoke with a gentle voice, “Now,” he tilted your chin up so you could see him, “can you tell me what happened? Were you robbed?”

You shook your head. “N-no, I was… I was selling over by…” You swallowed some air you desperately needed, “...over by Los Pollos, where you wanted me, a-and I…” you raised a shaky hand and pointed at Domingo. “Your cousin came up and wanted to buy… so I gave him an eighth and a… cop… a cop saw us.”

“Emilio?” Domingo got up from his chair and walked over to you two. “Is he okay?” Lalo let you out of his arms so you could answer him. 

“I… I didn’t see… When the cop came up to us, he had his…” you gulped, “he had his gun out… and I didn’t know what to do so I just ran. I didn’t see what happened to him…”

Sure enough, Domingo’s phone started ringing. “That’s probably him. I’ll be right back.” He stepped outside to answer his phone, leaving you and Lalo alone together.

Lalo gripped your shoulders before he asked his next question. “So, you just ran away?”

You nodded.

Lalo sighed disappointedly, but he didn’t seem mad. He spoke like an exasperated teacher reprimanding a student. “I thought I told you, nene (baby). If that happens, you have to let them pick you up. It’s gonna make things worse if you run. I know it’s scary, but I promise we’ll come get you af-” He noticed something that stopped him mid-sentence. His brow furrowed, he let go of your shoulders, and his voice was more sinister. “Where’s your bag?”

What? What did he just ask you? You patted your shoulders, and your heart sank. You spun around to look for a backpack that wasn’t there. “Oh no… oh no no no no no… I must’ve left it there. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lalo.”

“You left it there?” Lalo asked, contempt and disbelief dripping from his words. Thankfully, Domingo came back inside before he could question you further.

“That was Emilio,” Domingo said as he flipped his phone shut, “He’s down at the station. Cop was going after him ‘cause he had a warrant. He wasn’t concerned about you,” he gestured in your direction, “He didn’t even chase after you, but he took your bag as evidence. Must’ve thought it was Emilio’s. Apparently, whatever you had in there was enough to charge him with intent to distribute, too.”

Lalo stared daggers into you. If looks could kill, you’d be lying on a medical examiner’s table before you knew it. “So you weren’t even in any trouble…” He clenched his fist and swore under his breath. “Carajo (Damn it)… What's his bail?”

“He didn’t say,” Domingo shrugged, “But a repeat offense? Gonna be around $20k, at least, if they even give it to him.”

“Pinches cerdos (Fucking pigs)…” Lalo growled as he reached in his pocket. “No se pueden tomarlo de la mochila que robaban de nosotros? Maldita cosa probablemente tiene lo suficiente dentro. (They can’t take it from the bag they stole from us? Damn thing probably has enough in it.)” He grabbed two wads of cash and tossed them at Domingo. “Acá. Usa eso para negociar con los cerdos, y cuando vuelvas, dime que te digan. (Here. Use that to negotiate with the pigs, and when you come back, let me know what they tell you.)”

Domingo caught the cash and nodded. “Sí, Don Eduardo.” The title felt a little much, but he knew better than to risk disrespecting him right now. He went back outside and headed for the station.

“¿Y tú? (And you?)” Lalo turned his attention back to you, “You are going to come with me.” He grabbed you by your wrist and led you to the back of the restaurant. He let go of you to unlock the door to a room you’d never seen before. It appeared to be a makeshift office, and it was surprisingly roomy. There was a desk covered with papers, a chair, a couch, and not much else. “Get inside,” he demanded.

You could feel your heart thumping in your chest as you crossed the threshold. This was pure terror in every sense of the word. If you had known that this was the alternative, you would have turned yourself in to that cop the moment you saw him. You could hear Lalo lock the door behind you, and you turned around to face him, only to be met with a sharp backhand.

“¡Idiota! (Idiot!)” He slapped you again. “¡Hijo de puta! (Son of a bitch!) Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You lost us thousands, all because what, some donut-eating gringo pointed a gun at you? You got scared, so you drop everything and run away like a pathetic little bunny rabbit?” He spat bile at you, breathing heavily, veins bulging in his forehead. You had never seen him so angry, and you prayed to God you’d never see it again.

You could feel the tears bubbling in your eyes as you begged for mercy, your voice threatening to crack at any second. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Lalo… It’ll never happen again, I promise…”

“Oh, it won’t, I’m going to make sure of that.” He slapped you across the face once more, and pulled you up by your hair to look at him. “You need to realize something, cabrón (asshole). Working closely with me is a privilege. Everything you do under me reflects on me. If you look weak, it makes me look weak, and I am not weak. And I am not going to give the bosses a reason to think I’m weak. I have to show them that I do not tolerate cowards. Do you understand?”

You answered instinctively, but stopped yourself from making yet another mistake, “Yes, La-, I mean… yes, sir…” You dropped your gaze to the floor, too ashamed to face him. 

“You understand that you need to be punished?”

“Yes, Don Eduardo…” You could only imagine what that meant, and you couldn’t picture anything good. You closed your eyes as your tear ducts began to overflow, your body trembling in fear. 

“Bien.” Lalo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black object. “Take your clothes off.”

“Wh… what?”

“I said…” His thumb flicked a switch on the object’s side, and out popped a sharp blade. “Take your clothes off. You gonna disobey this order, too?”

“N-no, sir…” You wept softly as you unbuttoned your shirt with shaking fingers. He’d seen you like this before, but this time, you felt an unfamiliar shame wash over you. Your face was on fire, and the tears did nothing to quench the flames. 

Lalo was unphased. When you’d undressed in front of him previously, he was excited, almost giddy even. Now, he just looked hungry. “From now on, you’re going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. You do not say no, you do not argue with me, and you do not run. I don’t care where you are, who you’re with, or what you’re doing. If I tell you to strip, you strip. You got that?”

You sobbed as you kicked your shoes off and slid your pants down. “Yes… sniff… Yes, Don Eduardo…” Your fingers stopped at the waistband of your underwear, and you looked up at him. You weren’t sure whether to ask for approval or mercy, but your pleading eyes conveyed the message regardless. 

Lalo pointed the knife at you. “Go on. Those too.” 

You dropped your underwear around your ankles, stepping out of your clothes and kicking them to the side. The room felt much colder now that there was nothing to shield you from the draft blowing through. In the same vein, Lalo’s gaze was much more chilling now that there was nothing to protect your body from him. You closed your eyes and braced yourself for his next move.

Lalo approached you with malicious intent. He took a fistful of your hair and shoved you to the floor. “Kneel,” he said, as if you had any choice in the matter. 

Your eyes jolted open when you hit the floor. Your vision was blurry from your crying, but you saw something. There was a faint glint in the dim room, a lighthouse that guided you towards it. You blinked the teardrops away and realized what you saw; your own reflection in the steel blade. You wanted to scream; you wanted to run, but you knew that would only make things worse. With fight and flight both off the table, you froze. 

Lalo caught you staring at the knife. He could tell what you were thinking. “Oh, this? This is just…” he pressed the flat side against your cheek, the cool, lifeless metal practically sizzling your burning skin, “to keep you in line, y’know? Seems like you need a reminder. Hopefully, I won’t have to use it. Now," His fingers detangled themselves from your hair, “you,” and shifted to undo his belt, “have a debt to pay. Isn’t that right? Because of your ‘quick thinking’, you owe me a lot of money. But, I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you pay it off another way.” He had an uncanny smile on his face, as if he had somehow forgotten how angry he was just moments ago. His belt dropped to the floor, the buckle clattering as it hit the ground.

You winced at the sound of the belt clanging against the tile. Reality became too much to bear, so you just sobbed into your palms. This wasn’t happening. This didn’t feel real. You made one mistake. Granted, it was a big one, but you never would have thought the consequences would be this. You thought he loved you, that you were more than just an employee to him, but you weren’t. You weren’t even that. You were a plaything, a doll, a toy that he could throw away when it no longer did what he wanted. You didn’t do what he wanted, and that meant you were broken. You were broken, and you needed to be fixed. 

Lalo crouched down, set the knife on the floor, and pulled your hands away from your face. “Shh… shh… don’t worry. It’ll be okay. You just need to do what I ask, sí? This is what happens when you don’t listen to me. Come on, tell me you’ll listen to me. I need to know that I won’t have to do this again.”

Talking felt impossible. Your throat was raspy and chafed, tears and snot coated your face. Your whole body jerked as you cried. You were suffocating on your own misery. 

Lalo cooed to you and stroked your cheek. He was staring right into you. It was horrifying, more so than when he was yelling at you. At least then, you knew he was upset. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a gentle hug from a serial killer, a kiss from poisoned lipstick. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t want to do this either,” Lie, “but I have to,” truth, “You need to know who’s in charge," two truths and a lie, “Just tell me you’ll listen to me.”

You choked the words out, or more accurately, you choked out a series of pained noises that sounded like the words he wanted you to say. “I’ll… sniff… l-listen… sniff… to… sniff… you…”

“There we go, good boy!” He ruffled your hair, an action you loved in the past, a nurturing gesture that showed he cared for you. Now, it just felt like an extra layer of mockery. He stood up straight again, though not before picking the knife up off the ground. “I’ll go easy on you, okay?” 

What sounded like a lie to you was the truth for him. This was going easy on you, as far as he was concerned. You didn’t want to think about what a second offense would entail, but no matter. After today, you would be the most docile, obedient henchman the cartel had on their payroll. 

“Alright, so, first thing I need you to do,” Lalo unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock, already hard, leaking precum from his slit. You were on your knees staring down on it, so it didn’t take you long to put two and two together. The knife pressed against your cheek once more, and you flinched. The blade was a harsher command than his voice, although the latter was still pretty harsh: “Suck it.”

You didn’t hesitate to take him into your mouth, though understandably, not as enthusiastic as you’d done prior. Your motions were slow, tepid, cautious of the deadly weapon up against your face, but Lalo didn’t care. This wasn’t about sexual gratification; this was about subjugation. 

Lalo sighed, tilting his head back and relaxing himself to truly savor your mouth. “That’s a good boy,” Ironically, this was one of the best blowjobs he’d ever gotten. The blend of tears and spit made for the perfect lubricant. If only you cried every time you gave him head. I could arrange that, he thought. “Cry all you want, muñequito (little doll), you brought this upon yourself.”

The truth of his statement hit hard. As much as you didn’t want to think of it, he was right. This never would have happened if you just did what you were supposed to. You stopped sucking and merely blubbered around him, and as your body convulsed, your teeth just barely grazed his skin. 

“¡Mierda (Shit!)!” Lalo shouted and flicked his wrist, slicing your cheek with the knife. You shrieked in pain and pulled off him, your hand pressing against the wound to stop the blood. The rage was back in full swing. “¡Pinche puto inútil! ¡No puedes hacer nada correcto! (Fucking useless bitch! You can’t do anything right!) I told you to suck, not bite!”

Your heart was pounding, your chest heaving, your naked body shivering on your knees, your mind racing. You were having a panic attack, an apt name for the symptoms. The only thing you could feel was panic. Sheer. Fucking. Panic. You couldn’t even make sense of what he was saying. Bite? Did he say bite? But you didn’t bite him! If anything, you barely nicked him! You didn’t mean to anyway! Didn’t he understand?! Why was he doing this to you?! You couldn’t even think of an apology, let alone a defense. You were running on instinct and adrenaline. You were the scared, helpless little bunny he saw you as. All you could do was sit there, hang your head in shame, and let your tears, drool, and blood drip onto the floor.

“Ay, ay, mírame. Mírame, te cabrón. (Look at me. Look at me, you bitch.)” Lalo yanked your hair to pull your face up from the floor. “Explain yourself. You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”

You couldn’t catch up to your breath. The shallow hits of oxygen you could take were not nearly enough. You were gasping for air as you tried to speak. “It… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

Lalo cackled, “Oh, I know, conejito (little bunny). Trust me, I know. You think I’ve forgotten what a whore you are? I know you can suck cock better than that! Here, lemme see.” He pulled your hand away from your cheek so he could examine the wound. Your palm was coated in blood, but it was just a laceration. You were fine, well, fine in this regard at least. Everything else about you was pretty fucking far from fine. “Looks pretty messy, but you’ll be okay. The bleeding’s already slowing down.” He said matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t just slash your face open over a bodily function. He laughed again, warmer this time, though he still had a sinister grin on his face. “Well, I guess your mouth is out of commission, eh? Too much going on?” He looked at you like he was waiting for a response.

The way he could switch personalities in an instant gave you whiplash. He just cut you with a fucking switchblade, and now he was laughing like you just told a casual joke at a dinner party, like there was nothing out of the ordinary. This was the worst day of your life, and for him, it was just another Tuesday. Same shit as always. You just stared at him petrified. There were no words. 

Lalo didn’t mind. “Hey, hey, I get it. It’s okay. I won’t make you do that anymore. I told you I’d go easy on you,” You sighed in relief, relief that was unwarranted, you’d come to find, “We’ll just have to do something else.” You barely got a millisecond to parse the meaning of that before he slapped his hand over your mouth and pushed you onto your back.

You tried to scream, but it was no use. His hand formed a tight seal over your lips. Any noise you tried to make would just vibrate against his palm. He shushed you, climbed on top of you, and pointed the knife at your face.

“Cálmate, chiquito, cálmate. (Calm down, baby boy, calm down.) It’s gonna be better this way, I promise,” He took his hand off your mouth and brought it down to your cunt, making your whole body clench up. “You don’t have teeth down here, do you?” He chuckled, clearly very satisfied with himself, “I’d better check.” He nestled his fingers in between your lips, elated to find that you were already wet.  It was from crying, sure, but that didn’t matter to him. “Oh, wow! Look at that! You like this? I knew it!” He cackled again, “I knew you were a dirty little slut! ¡Qué lindo! (So cute!)”

You didn’t answer. You just hid your face in your hands and bawled, smearing blood and tears all over your face. You didn’t like it. He knew you didn’t like it. He just didn’t care. He was going to say anything he could to make you feel like trash. 

“Hey, c’mon, look at me,” Lalo set the knife down so he could pin your wrists above your head, exposing yourself to him. His other hand slipped two fingers inside you, dragging them along your walls. You grimaced, but he was right there to talk you through it. “No, no. Don’t make that face. It feels good, right? Dios mío (My god), you’re acting like I want to hurt you, or something.”

You couldn’t even process the irony of what he was saying. Like “You’re acting like I want to hurt you” was a perfectly reasonable thing to say to someone whose face you just cut a fucking hole in. He continued to pump and twist his fingers inside you, stretching you out for what was sure to come. His eyes were locked with yours the whole time, reminding you that there was nothing you could do. There was nowhere for you to run. This was your punishment, your penance, your redemption. Though there were no words said, his uncaring facial expression conveyed the message: This is your fault. You heard it loud and clear, and all you could do was weep. He pressed into your g-spot, causing you to arch your back and cry out.

“That’s it! Good boy!” Lalo taunted, pressing into that spot over and over again. You writhed and wailed in agony. This was humiliating. Pure, unadulterated misery. You tightened around him every time you sobbed, and it did not go unnoticed. Lalo raised an eyebrow. “Oh? ¿Qué es esto? ¿Te gusta? Te lo debe gustar. ¡Me estás apretando tan fuerte! Yo sabía que lo querías. Es porque eres un guarro sucio, cierto? (What’s this? You like it? You must like it. You’re squeezing me so hard! I knew you wanted it. It’s because you’re a dirty whore, yeah?) Right? Come on, say it. Say that you’re a whore.”

You cried even harder, which made you grip him even tighter. Saying the words felt like acid bubbling in your throat. “I’m… a… whore! I’m a whore! I’m a whore!”

Lalo smiled and praised you like a dog, “Good boy! Yes you are! Oh, you’re so smart, so obedient. Go ahead, you can cum for me. Let me feel it.”  

He ripped your orgasm from you soon after, and you squirted against his hand, much to your despair. You felt like a sloppy mess. You were covered in blood, sweat, tears, spit, snot and now, as if that wasn’t enough your own cum. You didn’t even get a second to cry before Lalo shoved his fingers into your open mouth.

“Lick it up, whore. You need to clean up your mess,” He held his fingers in your mouth and let you suck them clean. He pulled out when he was satisfied. “Now, say thank you.”

“Thank you…” You really didn’t want to, but you didn’t have a choice.

Lalo smiled. “Did that feel good?”

Physically? Maybe. Emotionally? Not even close. But you weren’t going to say that. “Y-Yes…” You lied. 

“Aw, good boy. You’re welcome.” He grabbed your legs and wrapped them around his waist before pressing his forehead against yours. “This is gonna feel even better.” He whispered, caught your lips in a kiss, and pushed inside of you.

You screamed into his mouth and wrapped your arms around him. You weren’t sure why. Maybe you were seeking comfort. Maybe you did it so you could pretend that this was normal, that this wasn’t what you thought it was. Lalo wouldn’t do this, right? Lalo would never rape you. He would never hit you. He would never put a knife up to your face. He would never cut you. He loved you. He always told you that. You were his conejito (little bunny), his cariño (sweetheart), his cielo (sky), all those cute Spanish terms of endearment that gave you butterflies in your stomach; he meant every single one, every single time he said it. This was a bad dream. It must have been. You would wake up in his bed any moment now, and he’d be there to kiss you awake and ask you how you slept. You would say bad, you had a nightmare. You dreamt that he hurt you. He would be there to comfort you, to pull you into his arms, to tell you he wouldn’t dare to do something like that. This wasn’t real. The longer you kept your eyes shut, the less real it felt… 

…but the slap across your face felt all too real.

You were thrust back into your waking nightmare. Lalo was staring you down. You tried to blink the tears away, but you must have kept your eyelids down for a second too long. He slapped you again.

“Don’t. Close. Your eyes.” He growled and picked up the switchblade. “I need you to watch. I need you to see what happens when you cross me.” He pressed the knife against your throat. 

Your crying stopped dead in its tracks. One wrong move, and you would bleed out on the floor. You stared him down, quite literally watching your life flash before your eyes.

Once he was sure he had your attention, he started to move his hips, coring you out on the cold tile in the back of the restaurant. You sobbed in time with his thrusts, squeezing around him as you did so.

Lalo loved it. He threw his head back and moaned, louder than you had ever heard him before. “¡Ay, Dios mío!” He shouted, “Te sientes tan putamente bueno. No tienes ni idea que desesperadamente yo necesitaba esto, (You feel so fucking good. You have no idea how badly  I needed this.)” he sneered, “Quédate llorando, maricón. Tu panocha se aprieta cuando lloras. (Keep crying, faggot. Your pussy tightens when you cry.)”

You did as he asked you; you kept crying. Even though your throat was burning, your voice was hoarse, and you couldn’t see or breathe through the tears and snot, you kept crying. And he kept thrusting. And moaning. And enjoying every second of this torture. 

“Bien hecho, niño (Good job, boy)” He smacked you again, just for fun this time. He noticed the blood on his hand, and you could see the evil plan hatching in his mind. He dipped his fingers in your blood, and used it as ink to write something across your chest. You couldn’t see it, but from the way he was laughing at it, maybe you didn’t want to see it. “Oh, that’s good. That’s really good. You know what? I don’t think I need this anymore.” He took the knife away from your neck and tossed it to the side. “I think you get the picture.” 

You did. You got the picture. It was a picture of brutality. It was an impressionist landscape of the ninth circle of hell. Art conveys a message, and this painting’s message was “Do as I say, or I’ll fucking cut you.” You understood.

Lalo knew you did, but he still wanted you to prove yourself. “You do understand, right? Tell me you understand.”

You nodded, gasping for air in between broken speech. “Y-Yes…”

“No,” He replied, “Say, ‘Yes, Don Eduardo, I understand.’”

“Y-Yesss… Don… Don Eduardo… I under… I understand…”

“Good boy. Now,” He started to stroke your achingly hard dick, as if you needed any more stimulation right now, “Say you’re sorry. Tell me you’re sorry for being a stupid bitch.”

You wailed, bucking your hips up into his hand. “I’m s-s-sorry… I’m sorry for being a stupid b-bitch…”

“Say it again. Apologize and say, ‘Thank you for treating me like a slut. I deserve this.’”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… Tha-ah! Thank you for… for treating me like a slu-... like a slut… I… I deserve this…”

“That’s right. You do deserve this. You know why?” He leaned in to whisper right in your ear as he violated you. “Because you’re nothing without me. You’re nothing but a tight, wet hole for me. You’re garbage. You’re a dirty whore. Say it.”

You didn’t want to say it, but you wanted this to be over, so you did, as painful as it was. You recited your lines. “I’m no-oh!... n-nothing without you… I’m nothing but a… h-hole, for you… I’m g-ah!... garbage… I’m a dirty whore…”

Lalo did not relent. He could feel you throbbing and leaking out against him. It wouldn’t be long now. He jerked you even faster. “Say it again, come on. You’re almost there. Say, ‘I’m a dirty whore, Don Eduardo. I’m sorry I disobeyed you.” 

You spat the words out through a slurry of wet cries and moans. “I’m… a-ah! A dirty… wh-whore! D-Don Edua-ah! Don Eduardo! I’m… s-sorry I- Oh, god! I’m sorry! I’m sorry I disobeyed you!”

“Are you gonna cum for me?” 

“Y-Yes! Yes! Ah! Oh, god! Fuck!”

He slapped you one last time. “Then do it, bitch.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt and you pulled him tight against you as you came. Fluid rushed out of you and bathed his cock in your suffering. He pulled himself out, hissing as the cool air hit him, and stroked himself to completion. He came with a loud groan and splattered all over your chest. Great. Now you had another bodily fluid added to the mess. You had never felt so fucking disgusting.

Lalo took in the putrid sight before him, and he started to laugh. Because of course he did. He was proud of himself. This was a game to him. The game was “So you think you can decimate a human soul?” and he had the high score.

He stopped laughing for a moment to compose himself. “Oh my god! This is perfect! Man, I did a good job with you! Hang on, you gotta see this.�� 

You just stared up at the ceiling while he dug around for something. At least it was over now, right? You could go about the rest of your life. The days would stack against each other, and eventually, the memory would fade into nothing. At least, that’s what you thought before you heard a camera click.

“Here,” Lalo handed you your phone, “Look at this the next time you think about running.”

You looked at the picture. It was a time capsule of your shame. Your beaten, abused, ruined body, captured on film. Memorialized in eternity. You got to see what he drew on your chest. It was the word “WHORE”, in all capital letters, written in your own blood. No sound came out of you as you wept. He had silenced you.

Lalo’s sadism was gone. His face and his voice had softened. “Oh, pobrecito, ven aquí, (Oh, you poor thing, come here.)” He pulled you into his arms and let you cry into his chest. Your lover was back, and it was like he never left. He shushed you and rubbed your back, mirroring the compassion he had shown you earlier today. “Let it out, chiquito. Está bien. It’s okay. It’s over now. You did it. I’m so proud of you, but just remember…” He pulled your face out of his chest and tilted you up to see him.

“I won’t be as nice next time.”

#better call saul #bcs #better call saul x reader #bcs x reader #better call saul smut #lalo salamanca #lalo salamanca smut #lalo salamanca x reader #cnc tw #cnc ftm #lalo salamanca x ftm reader #bcs smut #bcs imagine #better call saul imagine #lalo salamanca imagine #dacryphilia #knifeplay #bloodplay #dead dove do not eat

[bowieandqueen11]

Nacho Varga Confessing His Feelings To You (With A First Kiss) Would Include...

Request: Omg I hope you feel better soon, this sucks so bad :(( oh ALSO question👀 on the nacho post you wrote you were gonna split the hcs into two sets so does that mean we're gonna have more of him at some point??? Because Let. Me Tell. You. Your Nacho hcs were like a literally masterpiece, I genuinely was not expecting to click the read more and be blown away like this WOW. Anyway, just I'd love to read more Nacho from you in the future if you feel like it, your writing is so lovely!

That’s so so kind and sweet and lovely of you :’) Thank you!!! I’m so so glad you enjoyed them, literally Nacho is my sweet boi so it’s so much fun to do!! <3

(I do not own Better Call Saul or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @lousolversons.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Nacho, baby, my poor boy, my rotten soldier, my sweet cheese, I love you so much you deserve the world and everything good in it and so does your Pappi ily king :(

I mean, Nacho (king) is under constant surveillance at all times, 24/7, so getting even within a breath of you without either Fring or one of the Salamancas catching wind of it is pretty much near impossible. Bless his heart, is he going to try though.

He’s tried to leave little notes to you, although its a dangerous game to play and even more perilous line to balance upon: throwing them around the trashcans in the hopes that you’ll see them after picking up your morning coffee at ‘Los Pollos Hermanos’, and before Gus has left his office for the first round inspection of the day. He hands out extra wads of frumpled, obviously well pored over and assiduously crumpled envelopes for Mike to deliver at your doorstep, or leave crammed through your letter box, hidden in plain sight among the rest of the bills and mailers. He leaves notes on the back of Saul’s folded and fray-edged business cards when he slides over to his back office at the nail salon, roping the ‘lawyer’ into playing ‘piggy in the middle’ for your flirtatious little secret back and forth. It earns him a few disgruntled murmurs and the pointed finger wagging in his face telling him off for playing the ‘pathetic school crush card’ when he’s already been roped into the dangerous chess game of cartel business, but Saul does it anyway because ‘he’s a romantic at heart’. Plus, deep down inside (even if his sad doe side eye at a very despondent looking Nacho gives it away), he does want to see the kid happy.

But none of this is enough; Nacho can’t play this game of whispers in the dark anymore. Keeping all this love locked up within him is poisoning his soul. He can’t linger at home anymore, pacing around the shadowed outskirts of his house and wringing his hands with grief, a pale comparison of himself: a ghost haunting himself with his own failures. He feels like his head is about to shatter into a million pieces if he hears the women in the next room over change the television channel one more time. He’s one step away from ruination, as he slides his back down the wall and crumples onto the floor overlooking the thick tangles of brambles past the casement windows of his dining room. Because as much as their company keeps the void from swallowing him whole, they’re not you. They’re not you. They’re not his heart. He feels like he’s bleeding out from every pore, feels it choking out from his eyes as he wipes the wetness away from the edges of his devastated eyes and clasps his hands behind his head. He takes a deep sniffle, and looks up to the heavens, racking his head to find any conceivable way to get through this alive. 

He has to take the chance, he finally decides after months and months of restless nights spent lying bright eyed and awake in bed, just staring up and burning holes through the ceiling. He wants his chance to live, he wants to live, not just to survive anymore. The next morning, he takes one last look at his fake ID as he tucks it back into his safe for later, before walking out the door. His hands shake with every step; he checks behind his back every five steps or so in a final scan to make sure he’s not being followed, before he swallows his fear and gets ready to take a step towards the life he’s dying for, no matter if fate may spit in his face and toss him aside with a discarding hand. He slides into his car, pulling out his mobile and calling Mike to clue him into the fact that over the last day or two he’s noticed Lalo Salamanca has made contact with you, and so an extra pair of eyes watching your movements couldn’t hurt security. 

To his surprise, the heavy weight of guilt that plagues Mike’s conscience wins out, and he agrees to one night of ‘surveillance’, ‘and I mean one night only, kid. Just to make sure Salamanca hasn’t drawn Y/n into their little plot against Fring.’ He chooses the time and place, of course, but the dingy little abandoned plot the once vibrant and full of life playground rests on isn’t the worst spot in the outskirts of Albuquerque to end up at.

And that is how Nacho Varga finds himself leaning uncomfortably timid against the hood of his car, foot anxiously spurring up the dust. His arms clench as his muscles spasm across his chest, fingers near tearing the skin away as he breathes out heavily in anticipation. He’s not used to being so out in the open, as he glances around the burning desert skies; he’s not used to being so vulnerable, but god would he do it for you over and over and over again. He nearly falls to his knees in relief when your car rolls up to stop just before a flood filled ditch in the ground and you clamber out of the driver’s side with a confused smile lighting your face at the sight of his drenched face.

‘I thought you weren’t going to show up’, he starts as he scratches behind his neck. He looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights, about to run away with his tail tucked between his legs at the first sign of hesitancy or disagreement from you.

‘And miss an opportunity to be babysat for the night by the Ignacio Varga?’ You laugh at how bashful he looks before continuing, ‘Mike said you were so anxious to meet me that you were near blubbering on the phone.’

‘Yeah, he would say that.’ He’s looking westward out towards the far stretch of the golden hazed horizon as he replies sardonically, but he’s still smiling through the words as the two of you, as if drawn by some invisible red band of fate, head over to sit on the quite crooked rusted swing set. You sigh as you take your seat. ‘I hear you’re supposed to watch me for the night. Is that seriously all we can get?’

He blinks slowly, exhaustion set in his bloodshot eyes, before he closes them wearily for a moment. ‘For now, I promise’, he whispers out through tightly pursed lips after a few moments thought. ‘I promise.... But it’s enough - it’s more than enough. It’s everything, okay? This is everything to me.’ He looks so serious as he turns to stare at you tensely through the chained ropes that run past his neck that you can’t help but reach through the barred gap and squeeze his hand. He refuses to let go, never once breaking his gaze from you as he places your intertwined fingers down onto his kneecap as delicate as one might hold the fresh bloom of a spring petal.

The two of you end up kicking your feet across the sand and talking far through the night, not stopping even as the sky begins to burn a mulberry purple and the stars begin to break through the streaks of haloed light that shroud his eyes that glow with ecstasy. He realises, for the first time since his mother had died, he’s spent the whole time smiling. 

You catch him glancing down to your lips every few sentences or so, but they always flick right back up to your widening eyes with the sweetest joy in them. It was if his soul was finally being allowed to unlock itself; all the beauty furled up inside of him blooming out through every crevice until it trails around him and roots itself around his body like a desert rose finally beginning to thrive through the drought. Until there’s nothing left of him but the thought, the prayer, the touch of you.

He comes to a breaking point; to the pass of no return, and he can’t hold himself back anymore. So he just leans out over his seat while you’re talking and kisses you between the ropes. For him, for a moment, the world and all it’s vexations seem to stop, and the softness of true life seems to seep in. He focuses in on the small details, trying to etch every single thing he can feel into the recesses of his brain so he can play it on repeat till his dying day: the way his nose is pressed up, squashed against your flushing cheek. How soft, how pliant your lips are despite your surprise, and how tenderly he brushes his bottom lip against your own and feels it set its corners in fire. How cold the tears running down the side of his nose are, despite how alight he is inside. How his breath can’t seem to escape past the gasps of his throat: too busy half-moaning and half-whimpering against your open mouth until you swallow them with your needy lips.

He gasps as you pull away from him to look up tentatively at his closed eyes, and for a moment you think he’s about to pass out with how intensely his face is screwed shut. He just swallows thickly, before surprising you and stomping up and leaving the swing seat thundering in his wake. He’s so flustered, and furious with himself for giving in so easily to something that he knows will only end in heartbreak and exploitation for you: how could he? How could he do anything but get up and leave, to get as far away from you as possible?

Yet you surprise him by skidding to a halt in front of him and cupping his cheeks, bringing him back down to earth by titling his chin down to look at you. You reach up to meet his lips again, and bless his heart, he just lets go in one big sigh and nods with that serious frown in his face when you teasingly whisper against his lips if he was seriously that flustered just by kissing you.

And his hands are shaking from where they cup round to rest against your sides, because he knows this is it. A rose can’t grow without a thorn within its stem, and his will be the death of him. But he doesn’t care. He just couldn’t care less, because while it’s a risky love, Nacho Varga would choose again and again to give all of himself away for you.

#better call saul #nacho varga #nacho varga imagine #better call saul imagine #michael mando #nacho varga x reader #ignacio varga #nacho varga headcanons #better call saul headcanons #ignacio varga imagine #ignacio varga x reader #ignacio varga headcanons #nacho better call saul #nacho better call saul imagine #nacho bcs #nacho varga fluff #nacho varga angst #bcs #bcs imagine #bcs headcanons #lalo salamanca #jimmy mcgill #saul goodman #gus fring #mike ehrmantraut

[vanderlesbian]

dating simon riley means constant clinginess. large arms wrapped around your waist at any given moment, simon is most comfortable when he's holding you. after being away from a long mission, he'll find you wherever you are in your shared apartment and silently crawl into your arms like a puppy. he'll bury his face into the crook of your neck, slowly inhaling to bask in your scent that he missed more than anything. with an amused chuckle, you'll wrap your arms around his warm torso, gently rubbing his back. "no hello?" you'll tease, to which you always earn a content hum in response, along with simon's hold tightening ever so slightly.

dating simon riley means lots of playful teasing. if you make a typo in a text message, he'll begin spelling the word as your typo for the rest of the day. if you believed in a silly fact, he'd bring it up for the rest of your life. "this is like when you thought our blood was actually blue" he'd snicker, which would cause you to whine for him to stop and swat his arm.

dating simon riley means constantly being cared for. simon is a man who can do everything, or at least tries to. he somehow manages to get to all the chores before you do, which has ended in you reassuring him that you can handle it many, many times. when doing something potentially dangerous like standing on a ladder, handling a knife or using tools, simon will constantly glance in your direction to make sure something won't slip and injure you. like a spidey sense, he's quick to pull you away or come to your rescue if you're in a situation where you're about to hurt yourself. "you alright?" he'll mumble softly, dark eyes laced with worry that is a rare sight to be seen by anyone else.

dating simon riley means you have a second wardrobe. his large clothes are just too comfortable to resist, and he's often left searching the apartment for a shirt that you had placed amongst your own clothes. though, he makes no effort to steal them back from you, as seeing you in his tshirt, his boxers and his hoodie fills him with a loving possessiveness. he'll walk into the kitchen to see you turned away as you wash dishes, wearing one of his shirts as a short dress. managing to silently sneak behind you even with his bulky frame, he'll wrap his arms around you from behind and place a kiss against the nape of your neck. "you look so pretty in my shirt, love." he'll then purr into your ear.

dating simon riley means seeing a side of him that many never do. whether it be physically or personality wise, you see so much of simon that you can't remember the last time you referred to him as ghost. his large pointy nose, his dirty blonde hair that he always forgets to fix in the mornings, and his lopsided smile that appears when you tell the corniest of jokes are all things that many have never seen and never will. he speaks so softly to you; a low tone that you can feel reverberating in his chest when you lay against him. simon is kind, patient and vulnerable with you, and will mutter the words "i love you" against your lips, just loud enough for only you to hear.

dating simon riley means being friends with the rest of the 141. you were the one who wished to host hangouts at your apartment, wanting those closest to simon to like you. despite their intimidating demeanors, you quickly realized just how kind they were. they know just how important you are to simon, which is a rare feat in itself, so they would never treat you in an ill manner. soap will always refer to you as "the missus" when speaking to simon, which never fails to make you giggle when you overhear their conversations.

masterlist

#just a small blurb bc i wanted to write smth #im working on fics i promise!! #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #call of duty #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #mw2 #mw3 #modern warfare #fluff #headcanons #x reader #imagine

[zipsunz]

little miss fool 🎀🌙

#persona #persona 3 #persona 3 portable #persona 3 reload #p3 #p3p #p3re #kotone shiomi #my art #this is my reload kotone... i designed a sees uniform for her and then redesigned her in general a little bit #dark red shoes and i liked how she looked with the lanyard in pq2 #silver earphones bc then it felt like too much red on top with the new armband 🥹 yeah #i just realized i forgot her gloves. they'd be fingerless since she uses a naginata. just imagine it ok

[bluebird-ascended]

#the one sleeping in the 4th pic is an oc of mine btw bc i didnt know who else to put. you can just imagine its haibara or something though #ive made these slowly over like months theyre just so fun to make #my art #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #geto suguru #shoko ieri #utahime iori #shokohme #jjk memes #meme redraw #idk what to tag this honestly #fushiguro megumi #maki zenin #toji fushiguro #fanart #artists on tumblr

[stuckinapril]

I love Tumblr because nothing matters here truly. There are no influencers. Having followers doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a site where people post their sporadic thoughts and rb pretty pictures. Anyone who thinks any of this matters is woefully missing the point

#I joined tumblr for the aesthetics and now I’m here bc it’s the most low pressure social media to be on #Instagram is ppl’s highlight reel but Tumblr is where u see their pure thoughts unobstructed and I adore that #It’s very nice to have people to relate to and is def the main appeal to me but I don’t think there’s much more to it than that genuinely #Monetization on tumblr isn’t a thing and probably won’t be so it feels stupid to put more stake than necessary in it. Like you’re in the #Trenches over tumblr of all things. Embarrassing #I know chronically online people exist bc I have seen them in my or somebody else’s inbox but imagine waking up at 70 one day and the #Realization hitting u like a freight time that u wasted all ur time thinking tumblr. TUMBLR. This dying website. Has enough weight for u to #be sending anon hate or reviewing ppl’s blogs like they’re some kind of product. Brother this is licherally tumblr #I choose to laugh at this behavior than take it seriously bc absolutely no one is driving me crazy on my OWN blog. On tumblr dot com. #I refuse #I will do whatever I want forever etc