i write filth sometimes | 18+
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Dantesdickferno - Dante - Tumblr Blog
I keep thinking about loki showing up at mobius’s doorstep in nowhere USA in the jet ski salesman universe and how o.b. was like “oh it took me 19 months to build the new tem pad my wife left me” etc…but what if time passed differently than it had in the show and loki actually had 19 months to kill while he waited for o.b. instead of seconds?
please tell me there’s a fic where loki spends 19 months trapped in a jet ski salesman utopia and can’t time slip back…and basically becomes mobius’s live in husband and helps him take care of the kids….like please tell me that’s been written and if so where can I find it
I’m loving Season 2 so far!
what in the rom com did i just watch
insane how clingy and touchy Loki and Mobius are when they’re together
I keep thinking about loki showing up at mobius’s doorstep in nowhere USA in the jet ski salesman universe and how o.b. was like “oh it took me 19 months to build the new tem pad my wife left me” etc…but what if time passed differently than it had in the show and loki actually had 19 months to kill while he waited for o.b. instead of seconds?
please tell me there’s a fic where loki spends 19 months trapped in a jet ski salesman utopia and can’t time slip back…and basically becomes mobius’s live in husband and helps him take care of the kids….like please tell me that’s been written and if so where can I find it
I just finished watching loki season 2 and oh god dear jesus why didn’t anyone warn me I can’t keep getting hyper fixated on emotionally repressed old men
amaretto
Miguel/Reader | Explicit | Chapter 1/?
a/n: I brought this blog back from the dead to post this so I hope y’all enjoy. Gonna be a few chapters but not sure how many yet. Femdom reader, Bartender Miguel basically. Horny and angsty modern NYC AU, no powers. Bit of a slow burn (ish). Enjoy lol
***
The Basilica is, for all intents and purposes, a mediocre bar.
There’s a pothole steps away from the bar’s entrance that customers have to maneuver past in kitten heels and designer sneakers, and the embossed metal sign at the front of the door is almost completely covered in rust. It’s clearly an establishment that’s too pretentious to be a dive bar, but not exactly up to code enough to be an upscale cocktail bar either.
Recent attempts to rebrand the place as a hole-in-the-wall speakeasy have been successful, meaning that it’s now the common haunt for every art history graduate student, Bauhaus enthusiast, and unattainably gorgeous bisexual poet in lower Manhattan who’s willing to spend 17 dollars on a drink.
You stumble across the small chipped navy blue door after a brutal day at work. The patrons at the luxury handbag store you have the distinct displeasure of interacting with were particularly snippy today, and your pair of not-yet-broken-in oxfords feel more like a prison than a fashion statement at the moment. You need a drink to help forget the past ten hours ever happened just so you can do it all over again tomorrow. You’ve never heard of this place, but you don’t feel like getting on the subway just yet and looking for a bar that’s closer to home. This vaguely sketchy place will have to do.
The cozy interior of The Basicilia smells of cigar smoke and melting wax. Lit partially by candlelight, the brick walls and small antique cherrywood tables feel distant, yet homey. There are large gothic-style lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, and servers expertly move through the crowd carrying stainless steel trays full of thick-cut fries and bowls of green olives.
Despite the bar being relatively full, only one other person is sitting at the actual bar when you approach it—everyone else appears to be relegated to the various tables and benches strewn about the space, or hugging the walls holding glasses of craft beer.
With all of the fuss that sitting down on a stool, pulling off your winter coat, and hanging your things on a hook underneath the bar causes, it takes you a moment for you to see him.
But you do.
There’s a blur of movement in the corner of your vision as a tall man in a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves vaults over the bar wall and stalks over to the other end of the restaurant before knocking on a solid black door with the sole of his boot.
“Hey! You awake in there? They need help running food!” The man shouts, not waiting for a response before rushing back across the room and climbing back into the bar.
The sound draws a few eyes, but no one appears to be shocked—it seems to be a common occurrence here, judging by the way the person who appears to be the manager steps out of the previously kicked door looking bleary-eyed and sheepish, a pair of noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a set of keys jangling at his belt.
But your attention has been drawn elsewhere.
The man is tall enough to reach for a bottle of Belvedere vodka on the top shelf to hand to a nearby barback without straining. You notice his hands first—broad, veiny, with nails cut down to the bone. There’s a bandage wrapped around the middle finger on his left hand. A smattering of hair on his triceps, which are all muscle and sinew. And two tattoos—-a fang on his right bicep, and a bundle of marigolds on his left forearm. He leans onto the bar table to address you, his button-down snug around his chest.
Jesus fucking christ. If you had a drink you would certainly spill it.
“What are you getting,” he says—his voice raw from shouting, you assume—and his voice trends downward at the end of the sentence, as if he doesn’t want to ask you, as if it isn’t a question. You can’t even pretend to be offended—working in the service industry is a thankless task, and you know that well enough. But even you can admit that the level of tension in his jaw and the shuttered look in his eyes is disconcerting in a way that has to do with more than the fact that he presumably hates his job.
“A mojito, please,” you say, with less confidence than you’d normally have. You’re used to sitting at bars alone and making conversation with the bartenders, but tonight doesn’t seem to be going in that direction.
“A mojito?” The man repeats, and you know it’s the wrong choice somehow. Other than an almost imperceptible eye roll, he nods, turning his back to you to grab the right ingredients.
Still. It makes you curious.
“What’s wrong with a mojito?” you ask, watching the way his shoulders stiffen. It’s like his entire being is on constant guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop–you can see it in the way he turns back to look at you, his jaw set as he sets down a collins glass and starts picking damp mint sprigs out of a chilled metal container.
“First time here?” he says, and again, it isn’t a question. He places the mint leaves on a paper towel to dry before rubbing them on the rim of the collins glass and putting them in a separate pint glass.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with a mojito?” Normally you’d take your cue from the bartender and quit trying to make conversation, but something about him makes you want to poke and meddle, like touching a live wire with the tip of your finger.
“Nothing.”
“I won’t get offended. Is this one of those ‘what your drink of choice says about you’ things?” you probe, leaning onto the bar top. The other conversations seem to fade to a lull in the background of your mind, your sights set on tormented brown eyes and tense, broad shoulders.
“No.”
“Because that kind of seems like what this is—”
“No.”
“Then what is it? If you don’t mind me asking. I hope I’m not committing a major bar crime, or something.” He clearly minds, and the sigh he lets out is nothing short of torturous sounding, but he seems to indulge you anyway. You briefly register his hands reaching for various cups and bottles at an even tempo, his movements intentional as he makes your cocktail. He crushes mint and lime and sugar together with a blunt tool before opening a carafe of ice. A shiver runs through you, completely against your will, as you watch him work. You’ve always had a soft spot for competence.
“It’s more of a practical thing,” he explains, and you settle onto your stool, sensing a tangent incoming. “Mojitos aren’t complicated to make, but they take time. They have a lot of moving parts. And then once one person orders it, I get ten more people who saw me making it asking for it too, and I have to start the process over again. And then more people order it, and next thing you know I’m making mojitos for the rest of the night.”
“So when I ask for mojitos at other bars and they say they’re out of mint, are they lying?” you tease. He places your drink in front of you then, topping it off with a mint spring and a lime wedge at the rim of the glass.
“...Every bartender hates you,” he says in response, leaning in, and you give him a soft smile, sipping from the glass. It’s one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.
There isn’t an ounce of enjoyment to be seen in his eyes, or in the shadows of his face. But you swear you see a flicker of something there, like something that has long since lain dormant coming back to life—if only for a second–before it dissipates.
“What’s your name?” you ask, pushing your luck. Any spark that had once been lit is extinguished. He backs away, the lanterns from overhead casting shadows across his features that make him look like a stranger again. You silently curse yourself.
“I don’t do that,” he shakes his head, before venturing to the other end of the bar to help a seemingly new bartender whip up a martini. You wait patiently, watching the way his mouth moves and his hands gesture as he corrects the bartender on their…technique, or something. You have no idea. From afar, he looks equally as intimidating, if not more so. The lines of his body don’t indicate any kind of softness, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s ashamed of himself. You wonder if he does bicep curls in a concrete room for hours until he sweats out all of the vulnerability. Or maybe he runs from it, in the early morning, breath labored and lungs aching until his sneakers are worn out.
“You don’t do names?” you ask him as soon as he returns, and his time he doesn’t even pretend to hide his exasperation, rolling his eyes again before resting his elbows on the bar so that his face is inches away from yours. Your heart lurches. A quick glance around rewards you with a few of the patrons regarding you with a vague amount of interest—and concern.
“Listen. I’m not a therapy session bartender,” he says with enough disdain to cause your eyebrows to raise in surprise. “I like the theory of it. The drink making. That’s it. Talk to that guy,” he continues, gesturing to a fellow bartender with a man bun and gauges who’s currently chatting up the only other person sitting on the other end of the bar. “He’s chatty.”
This close-up, you can see the dark circles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips. You get a brief urge to trace the wrinkles across his forehead with the pads of your fingertips, but you hold off, of course. The man seems like he’s too old for anyone. He’s lived a million lifetimes.
“I don’t want to talk to that guy,” you say, feeling emboldened. I want to talk to you. “No offense.”
Something in his expression flickers back to life once more, like a butterfly trying to fly without one of its wings.
“Miguel,” he says after a while, sounding pained. You tell him your name, and he gives no indication that he’s registered it.
“Do you wanna open a tab, or close it?” Miguel asks then, and his voice sounds weightier.
“...Keep it open.”
***
The bar is sweltering, but the cold, sour tang of the mojito keeps you cool as you watch Miguel make his way across the bar to help mix drinks for other patrons. You feel pinned to your stool somehow, like a bug under a microscope, even though Miguel doesn’t spare another glance in your direction. The music in here is alright, but not noteworthy. You wish you had someone to dance with.
The bartender with the man bun makes you another mojito before you can say otherwise, but it tastes different somehow. Too much mint maybe. Not enough bitterness. Miguel’s theory seems to be wrong; you scan the bar for other tall glasses with sprigs of bright green mint and find none. After brief consideration, you decide not to bother him any further by informing him of this fact.
The bar gets increasingly more crowded as the night goes on, and it becomes abundantly clear that Miguel isn’t going to check on you again. You want to believe it’s because he’s too busy, but you wonder if you made the wrong impression somehow. You wonder why you care. You hate that you do.
You settle your tab and gather your things before buttoning your coat and setting off into the night. Your two drinks have muddled your senses just so, but not enough to be completely disorienting. On the precipice of happy, maybe.
As you zip your coat up to your chin and walk down the sidewalk, you think about going home to your studio apartment and cuddling with your cat Cinnamon. You think about hopefully getting a few hours of sleep before the workday comes back around in the morning to swallow you whole once again. You think about the harsh line of Miguel’s jaw, about the fact that he’ll likely forget about you come morning.
“Every bartender hates me,” you repeat to yourself—a truly harrowing fact—before shaking your head and walking down the steps into the subway.
a/n: lmk if you enjoyed/if you wanna see more—mwah x
spreading my “miguel o hara is a subby mess” agenda because have you seen that sexually repressed, emotionally stunted man? he clearly just wants to get a handy while sucking on some titties/pecs
miguel o’hara nsfw alphabet
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) not much of a cuddler, especially at first. more logical in the way he handles aftercare. “You want water?” “I got you a towel.” “Here’s a blanket so you don’t have to sleep on those sheets.” “Don’t stay up too late.” that kind go thing. once you’re asleep tho, he’ll definitely just stand there in the doorway watching you like a creep before leaving/sleeping somewhere else. once you’re closer, he’ll climb into bed with you only after cleaning you off and leaving a glass of water and aspirin by your bedside. If you put your head on his chest he might stiffen for a few minutes, but he certainly won’t pull away.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) miguel is going through alot so he hates most of his body tbh. he still thinks he isn’t strong enough to protect everyone, even after buffing up. if he had to choose, he’d probably say his shoulders and back—he feels like they’re strong, and he relies on those muscles a lot for climbing, etc. as for his s/o? he’s DEFINITELY a thigh guy. nuff said about that.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) so much cum…it’s just so backed up that it’s alot and it gets everywhere. not super sticky, more wet? and it kind of comes out continuously for a little bit/over and over until he’s done if that makes sense.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) he wants his ass played with, and definitely puts a few fingers in there sometimes whenever he gets the time to jerk off. he’s mean when he’s finger fucking himself, fast and rough, almost like he’s punishing himself. he likes the pain.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) not very experienced at all. this man has ptsd and is still grief stricken—any experience he may have had in the past he’s completely forgotten. he knows the mechanics of how everything is supposed to work, but his movements are instinctual, if that makes sense? he watches your movements closely, analyzes to see what feels good, and then just goes from there.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) i can’t stress this enough—he needs to see your face. he wants to make sure what y’all are doing is okay. loves a good missionary moment. pretty much any variation of missionary is his favorite. mating press if he’s feeling fancy.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) definitely more serious, especially the first time y’all have sex. he’s worried about fucking up, about hurting you. as time goes on and the two of you get more comfortable, he’s okay with a little teasing, but there’s still this undercurrent of seriousness underneath it all.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) he’s completely smooth lmao. like waxed to the gods. he’s gotta be for the holographic nanobot suit, otherwise it would be weird. he’s very well groomed, but again, for practical/work purposes, not because he cares about what he looks like.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) again, he’s romantic in a practical way. he’ll make sure there’s a pillow under your knees, he’ll switch positions to make sure you’re not getting tired, he’ll massage your jaw if its cramping up, etc. he doesn’t want you to be in any pain while being with him—he feels like he’s caused enough.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) the most depraved shit you’ve ever seen, because it happens so rarely. miguel only allows himself to jerk off when he’s at his absolute limit, and when he does it’s just a super fast, spit as lube, grunting into his pillow, face down ass up situation. after he cums into his hand (or on the sheets) he goes through his usual night routine feeling super ashamed.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) most of them have to do with surrendering control—being tied up, being blindfolded, pegging, and on the more extreme side—CBT. otherwise he likes biting/leaving marks on both parties, nipple play, “this cock/pussy is mine” type dirty talk, etc.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do) he is into the opposite of public sex lmao. he wants to be locked away in a bedroom somewhere late at night, farrr away from prying eyes. he likes the bed the best, but he’ll fuck on the floor or against a wall or on a dining room table if you want him to.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) intellectual banter. match him line for line, and throw his shit back at him. but not in a comic relief way—genuinely listen to what he’s saying and offer a counter argument. provide your own input and call him out on his shit. also—anticipating his needs. if he seems drained from work and you suggest pushing back your night on the town till next week, he’ll be sure to thank you in bed later.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) more advanced pain play. also you can try to call him daddy but he’ll probably just make fun of you.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) he doesn’t like receiving that much. the thought of you gagging and choking on his dick is is kind of unpleasant? like he doesn’t want you being “hurt” lmao. if you’re really enthusiastic about it and reassure him the whole way through then he’ll entertain you, but it’ll have to be foreplay/he likely won’t finish like that. however, he fucking loves giving, and mostly loves when you lead it. his skills are best showcased when you ride his face like a fucking rodeo with no regard for him and he just has to lie back and take it. like you could break his nose and he would just think about how sexy it was for weeks, that’s how hard he wants it
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) depends on his mood honestly. heavily dependent on how foreplay went—if things were hot and heavy/rough in the make out side then sex will likely be the same
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) not a fan. he’d rather build anticipation over hours, days even, and then spend a whole night unraveling each other. plus he needs time to get in the mood, and a quickie feels like too much pressure.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) he’s willing to be more dominant if you want, but he would need reassurance you enjoyed it after. he likes for you two to experiment on his body first/for you to be dominant first before trying stuff on you.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) as many as you want. once the dam is broken there’s no stopping it. several rounds for sure. he lasts almost too long, it’s like you have to remind him to cum.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or thems) he doesn’t use them on himself but he completely gets why you use them while masturbating. he’s interested in ropes, blindfolds, and strap ons, but that’s about it. he’s not silly enough to be “jealous” of a toy, he just doesn’t get why you need it when he can fuck you himself for as long as you want. if you want to use a vibrator or dildo he’ll just lie there eye level with it and watch you fuck it in and out of yourself lmao—panting hard, no blinking.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) fucking LOVES teasing—giving and receiving. the more he’s into you/gets to know you, the less he’ll be able to tease because he just wants to give you what you want. you can tease him relentlessly—both physically and verbally. he loves that shit, even if he pretends to hate it. he loves when you use him like a fuck toy and he has to ask you whether or not he can cum yet.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) not loud at first…in fact, he’s gritting his teeth so hard his jaw might lock from how hard he’s trying to keep the sounds in. if you tell him he has to moan for you tho…the man LOSES it. lots of GROANING and panting, especially groaning through his teeth. if he whimpers for you, he’s truly been fucked dumb
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) he’s kind of obsessed with the idea of you grinding yourself on any part of his body/using him to cum. chest grinding and then squirting/cumming all over his chest for the win.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) oh good god it’s ginormous. long, thick, tapered at the end, and cut. a heavy looking cock. drips with so much pre. a few small veins around the base, and a pretty pink head. definitely rests up against his navel when he’s hard. leans ever so slightly to the left.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) not very high, to be honest. he’s so busy that he doesn’t think of sex much. he gets the urge maybe once at the end of every work week? so y’all could fuck 4 times a month, but it’s more like a freakend where you go multiple rounds over 24 hours until you’re both fucking exhausted—and then no more sex for a week.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) have you seen his eye bags? he takes forever to fall asleep afterwards. he’s overthinking everything—if he fucked you too roughly (or not rough enough), the fact that you were limping a little on the way out of the bathroom/back to the bed—combined with all the responsibilities he forgot about crashing back into his mind after sex is done. he makes sure you’re asleep first before ruminating for a few hours until his stress finally knocks him out.