Making Tamales With Miguel O'Hara

Making Tamales with Miguel O'Hara

Miguel O'Hara x FemaleReader

Summary: You make the first batch of tamales for the season with Miguel.

Word Count: 1,909

Warnings: Reader knows or at least understands Spanish; Reader knows how to make tamales; Miguel talks in Spanish a bit but translations will be provided at the end (italicized); teasing and smug Miguel; It's alluded Miguel and reader did it at the end

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As soon as Miguel feels the first chill of the season, he tells you it’s time to make tamales. You agree with him, of course, so the two of you plan an afternoon to make them. Miguel and you prep the kitchen. You have all the ingredients and supplies out from the leaves to the masa, the filling that the two of you prepped, and other items like the big pot where they’ll be cooked.

Miguel takes charge of preparing the masa. It only seems right as his large hands can get it just right and much quicker than you and your smaller hands. Of course, it also helps that this man is like a walking furnace, which means his warmth is perfect to help the melted lard mix in with the masa. His playlist is playing in the background, which is composed of music that he grew up listening to and that will help keep both of your spirits up as you make the tamales because he knows how exhausting it can get after twenty minutes of working. Thankfully, he has upbeat songs like those from Joan Sebastian such as “Tatuajes,” Bronco’s “Que No Quede Huella,” and Los Angeles Azules’s “Como Te Voy a Olvidar.” You notice Miguel bopping his head as he prepares the masa, his lips moving as he sings silently to the songs, which you can’t blame him for because he’s playing iconic bops.

Meanwhile, you prepare the leaves. You soak them in warm water in a large bowl, making sure to sink them with your hands so the top ones get covered, too. You dump the water out a few times, making sure the leaves are clean before you leave them to fully soak. You prep the pot and the containers you’ll be putting the tamales in as you make them before you put them in the pot.

At last, Miguel tells you the masa is ready so the two of you start. You’ve seen other methods on social media, but Miguel and you stick to the traditional method using spoons. The two of you take a seat and start and well, this is where the peace starts fading because the two of you start to get competitive. If you grew up making tamales with all your family pitching in to help “para terminar más pronto,” you know how competitive it can get with who prepares the most leaves. And of course, for you and Miguel, it’s no exception as you both grew up competing with your relatives.

Neither of you say it but you can tell. Miguel casually looks at the stack of leaves with masa you have ready. He grins to himself, knowing that he has at least three more than you when he looks at his taller stack. You notice his grin and force yourself to hide a frown, thinking it’s unfair. With his large hand, Miguel can cover more ground. He doesn’t have to turn the leaf on his hand so many times like you to cover the same amount of space even if the leaf is the same size.

You speed up, casually, of course. You don’t want to tip Miguel off. You want to win this, even though it’s silly, especially when you see his little grin like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“With this speed we’ll be done in no time, preciosa,” he says, trying to sound neutral but oh, you know when Miguel is teasing and he’s definitely teasing you right now.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at him, knowing that will only give him more satisfaction. So instead, you nod and smile.

“I hope so. You know how the first batch of the season always hits different,” you reply as you pick up another leaf and quickly grab a spoonful of the masa. Your movements are fast and experienced as you spread the masa over the leaf evenly, but it still takes you double the time it takes Miguel to get one done.

And you’re not as slick as you think you are. Neither of you are. You both know you’re in an unofficial competition with each other now. The playlist Miguel has playing in the background is kind of forgotten at this point even when a song that you both enjoy is playing. You’re both focused on beating each other, though Miguel isn’t really worried, and you can tell. He feels so comfortable with his progress that he slows down, preparing the leaves in a calmer manner, unlike you.

It just makes him grin as he steals glances at you. And just when it looks like you’re about to tie up with him, Miguel picks up the speed again, whistling as he does so to whatever song is on now. It gets on your nerves, but you keep a neutral face despite knowing he’s doing it to annoy you. You pick up another leaf and grab a spoonful of the masa once again, wincing as the spoon makes contact with the finger you’ve been supporting it with this whole time. You can already feel the skin tender and sore, a sign that tomorrow you’ll have a full-on blister if not by tonight before you go to bed.

Miguel’s eyebrows furrow as he notices you wince. He puts his leaf and spoon down and walks around the table to you. You continue to spread the masa over the leaf, still trying to beat him when he takes your hand, the one that’s been holding the spoon the entire time. You begin to protest but he hushes you as he leans forward, bringing your hand to his face. You sigh agitated and look at him. Miguel is looking at your finger before he rubs his thumb over the sored area gently. He meets your eyes and gives you a small grin as he does so.

“How about I take care of the rest, preciosa? You can start on the filling with what we have already,” he suggests quietly.

You’re about to decline but he brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the tender and sore skin of your finger, while meeting your eyes. You shut up and sigh. You’re competitive but you know when to admit defeat. You nod.

“Fine. I’ll do the filling,” you mutter and retrieve your hand after he kisses your finger again.

“Muy bien,” Miguel replies, giving you a grin and kissing your cheek before he returns to his spot.

So, you finish making the tamales by putting the filling in them as Miguel finishes using the masa. And yes, you’re a little upset. Just because you know when to admit defeat doesn’t mean you aren’t a little sored about it. You always beat your relatives growing up, so you’re not used to losing this competition.

After putting the tamales in the pot together, Miguel and you clean the kitchen. You head to the living room and lie down on one of the couches once you’re done with your part, knowing it’s going to be about an hour before the tamales are ready. You turn on the tv, still feeling upset as you switch channels. Not long after, Miguel walks out of the kitchen drying his hands with a towel since he volunteered to wash dishes, which just made you feel crappy because he always volunteers to wash dishes to spare your hands from the harsh dish soap but especially today due to your sored finger; his kindness is like salt to the wound, and yeah, maybe you’re being a little dramatic but who cares.

He approaches you, throwing the towel over his shoulder before he stands behind the couch. He peers down at you, noticing the pout as you switch channels, and grins. He knows you’re sored over losing even if it was a friendly competition. He leans down on the couch and caresses your face with the back of his hand.

“Sigues enojada, preciosa?” he asks in a whisper.

Your pout becomes more noticeable as you turn to look up at him, meeting his red eyes. You stare at him, unable to stop yourself from feeling a little breathless at the sight of his face. You cuss internally because it’s so unfair for this man to look this good after making tamales. Some strands of hair hang over his forehead and he has a bit of powder flour on his cheek from when he was first prepping the masa. You lift your hand to his face and wipe it off gently.

“I wasn’t upset,” you reply, clearly lying, as you retrieve your hand from his face but Miguel grabs it before it’s away from his reach. He brings it to his face.

“Ah, okay,” he answers with a grin. “That’s good to hear. I thought you were a little sore back then. And not just from your finger.”

You snatch your hand from his grip and turn away from him, facing the tv and ignoring him. Miguel chuckles lightly at your reaction, clearly amused. He walks around the couch to the front and before you can protest, Miguel is over you. He has no problem moving you to his liking, placing you between his legs before he lies down on you.

“Miguel! Seriously?” you say trying to move but your efforts are useless when it comes to Miguel, who settles on top of you with ease. You sigh annoyed even though you’re in no discomfort because Miguel knows exactly how to position himself to avoid crushing you.

So, you just lay underneath him and turn your face to the tv as an effort to at least ignore him, though that’s a very challenging task because the man is on top of you and now his mouth is on your neck, peppering your skin with kisses.

“Andale, preciosa. Don’t be upset with me. We have a whole hour before the tamales are ready. You can’t avoid me. You can’t even leave the house. You know the rule. We both put the tamales in the pot, and you know what they say,” Miguel says, planting a kiss on your neck at the end of each sentence. “No queremos tamales pintos, verdad?”

You try very hard to ignore him but his warm breath, his lips on your neck, the weight of his body over yours keeping you in place always does something to you. And Miguel knows it. So, he uses it to his advantage. He continues to kiss your neck, eventually escalating to biting your neck gently, which instantly has you closing your eyes and whimpering underneath him.

Needless to say, the tamales weren’t the only thing that got a filling, and thankfully the two of you remembered to check on them once the hour passed by. You concluded the evening by eating some delicious tamales, definitely needing the energy after so much work.

As the two of you eat tamales, Miguel leans closer to your face and pecks your cheek.

“The first batch of the season definitely hits different,” he whispers with a grin, causing you to roll your eyes at him but now that you have food in your system and took out your annoyance on him, you grin back.

“I don’t know how but I’m beating you next time. So be ready,” you answer.

“Preciosa, I’ll help you win as long as I get to have you and tamales at the end.”

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Translation for italicized words: Masa - dough para terminar más pronto - to finish sooner preciosa - beautiful muy bien - very good sigues enojada, preciosa? - still mad, beautiful? Andale, preciosa - come on, beautiful No queremos tamales pintos, verdad? - we don't want painted tamales, right?; "pintos" is used here in place of "raw" (there are several myths (my family and I have never tested any) about tamales getting "painted," which means that some parts are cooked and others uncooked for different reasons, one of them being that the person who prepare the dough or the people who put them in the pot can't leave the house). _____

My family and I made our first batch of tamales this week and I just got inspired by it. Imagining Miguel mixing the masa got me in my feelings. 🥺 This is just based on my experience but other people who make tamales may have a different method(s)!

FAV FAV FAV ☝🏻

Alright but hear me out (hello btw how are you ?) kayn heartsteel have canonically been kicked out of his previous band ; imagine fem!reader (successful idol herself or civilian) comforting him and trying to help him push through it and get back on his feet to continue his music !

[[You were a performer too and met him at a gig before either of you got famous! You two live together in this one, you’re a solo idol that practices at home so you can spend your days with him. These are headcanons! Whee!]]

✖ Pre Heartsteel!Kayn Being Kicked Out ✖

-  It wrecked him. You two got together while he was in his old band, so it was an important memory to you both. As a solo artist, you understood the intricacies of being in the public eye but still, being kicked out? That was rough…something you personally could never experience. You did your best to comfort him.

- The first few days was the worst. Kayn was the perfect definition of bi-polar. Either his Rhaast ego was full blown, wild, and uninhibited. Man straight up was about to do crimes and was only stopped by you begging him not to make things worse for himself. (You caught him with a bag full of spray paint about to go wreck his old studio.) Or he was the trained Idol, Kayn. Rhaast entirely held back, the perfect definition of an average idol, obedient and reserved. Joining you in your dance and vocal practices in your home studio.

- Don’t even talk about the things he tweeted during that era, you had to run into his room and tell him to delete them minutes after posting. It was a bad time. If you were to ask Kayn now about those old tweets? He was on the very fence of, cocky pride on how he was a “badass” that “didn’t follow rules back then” or just overwhelming embarrassment for being young and dumb.

- There was a lot of work to be done over those first few days, you got the help of your own PR guys to try and get Kayn’s media presence looking better. You yourself doing your best to give him advice on performing, it wasn’t even that he was a bad artist, it was just…he had some strong ideals and just didn’t work well with his old band. It took months honestly but as always, drama died down and Kayn slowly got to live his life again.

- The saddest part of all this drama was that because you were an idol too it was hard to bring him out to comfort him. Paparazzi were hounding you both, media wanting to know what went down with Kayn and if you were seen beside him…gods who knew what the media would say about your career. You two barely left your house because you just couldn’t.

- So, all you could do was your best. Dragging him to game with you on the PC, buying new consoles to try new games with him (murdering things in game really helped him unsurprisingly), watching movies together at home (feel good films that actually make him cry), getting him to do weird shit like painting your shared room (you have a messy signature of his by the door), crocheting weird little animals (he made Rhaast!), hells you managed to get him to read a book (banned in various nations). It was…different. But it helped keep his mind off doing anything that would ruin his career more while satisfying his need to just be a creative.

- On one of those uneventful days, Kayn ordered a nice little delivery package and excitedly ran into your room. Holding the plastic bag up proud. “ Y/N. I’m going to change my image. Entirely. Can you help me. Like…Right. Fucking. Now.” You stare at him in confusion until he walked up to your table, and pulled 7 boxes of bleach and dye, dumping them on your table. “ I’m going to go hot pink.” You laugh, but oblige anyway. If it would cheer him up then you would spend the day helping him out.

- There was a lot of angry snuggling on boring evenings. Kayn would lie in bed in your arms ranting about his ideals, how he was meant for bigger, greater things, things no one else in the industry or his old band could comprehend. And you would hug him tight, supporting him as he complained, listening, agreeing where you can, giving him bigger and better ideals of grandeur. The both of you knew it wasn’t anything serious, but it really did help lighten his mood. “ I’ll really set the stage on fire next time just watch me.” “ I’ll bring the gasoline then.” “ For real! I will fucking bring fireworks and shit too. It’ll be sick as hell! Never seen before! I’ll wreck the stage!!!! Livestream that shit!!!” Such evenings would end with the both of you laughing. It was nice to see him happier again in those small moments. Sometimes you could even see a sneak of a soft smile creeping onto his face, his appreciation for you playing along and not stopping him.

- It took about a week before you felt it was right to get him to pick his guitar back up. Convincing him that the best way to get over the bad memories was to form new ones, the two of you sitting down to write a song. He really went HARD with the lyrics, it was a damn god rap at that but it was honestly a diss track at his old band and shall stay hidden in the files of your computer forever. You do secretly listen to it sometimes, it was raw as fuck, personally it helped YOU when you were angry and frustrated. Not that you would admit to him. It would only stroke his ego more.

- He only admitted it once. Once when you two were soaking in a hot bath together. Only Once did he tell you how much your support meant to him. Nice smells and colors from a bath bomb floating around you two. It was a slow morning, a few weeks after getting kicked out, right before he joined Heartsteel. You sat there, back against his chest as he rests his head on your shoulder. Relaxing in the tub. It was peaceful silence before he spoke up. “ Y/N…I’m going to join a new band.” You actually had to pause and turn to stare at him. Shocked. Asking him if he was sure, if he was ready, if he was comfortable to be performing with people again. You held his face, asking once more if this is what he wanted to do in his career, if he was going to give up on going solo like you. His hand rose to hold yours against his face as he spoke. “ Yeah, I talked to them a lot the past week and…they genuinely accept me and all my crazy ideas. They love Rhaast for who he is and I think I can work with this. I’m sure about this.” He laughs, putting your arm down as his hands wrap around you in a tight hug. Kayn moving his face down to your neck as he gives you a soft kiss, gentle, barely there as he whispers, not looking at you. “ I have to thank you for this by the way. For letting me Be Rhaast. For telling me time and time again to just be the Rockstar that I was meant to be. That my unique brand of rock was fine. I’ll remember this forever. Every time you see Rhaast on stage it’ll be thanks to you. Remember that.” And that was it. He never really showed his vulnerability about his old band ever again. The next day he joined Heartsteel, and it was great for him. Your own heart feeling warm and fuzzy seeing him laugh and have fun with new bandmates. And when you stand in the audience, seeing Rhaast rap some sick bars, you can’t help but smile. He was Your Rockstar.

hi guys! this is such an odd post i never thought i'd have to make, but yk... might as well put it out there.

i'm sure by now it's common sense that the writers you see on tumblr are real people with real, busy lives. we are people with jobs or in school or both, and we are people who write because we like to, not because we have to. we are doing this as a hobby- unpaid, giving hours-- days, weeks, months, years-- of our time to present art that we are passionate about. for free.

so to come into a writer's inbox or comments being demanding and frankly, entitled, for them to write simply because you want them to is disrespectful and dehumanizing.

I took a break because i was tired and no longer found myself having fun writing. I really don't want to sound pretentious, but i've devoted a lot of time to this account, and posted really frequently; all because i wanted to, of course. it took me so long to come into terms with the fact that i needed a break-- because honestly, if i kept trying to push myself further and forced myself to write until i couldn't anymore, i would have reached a breaking point and would have probably ended up leaving instead. and while i have reached an overwhelming amount of support for my decision, there are others who simply seem to lack this common sense.

now in reality, i could care less about these people; i saw a rude comment this morning-- on a post related to my difficulties writing, no less-- shrugged it off, and moved on about my day. i only just now remembered it after checking my notifications. however, this is an unacceptable way to treat content creators on this app, and not everyone can simply brush things off. i don't care what intentions you have when sending such things; it doesn't matter if it was a joke or lighthearted or whatever, because the meaning is still the same. we are not robots, we aren't people who will satisfy your every whim, and we most definitely won't write because you try to command us to. entitled, selfish people who treat content creators as nothing but machines and refuse to show their support properly are the very reason why writers leave this website left and right.

now, if i ever see anyone leave such comments and inboxes on my or another creator's account, it will guarantee a hard block from me. it literally isn't that hard to be a kind person to people who are catering to your interests for free.

this is the last time i'll talk about this; don't even try to send anything rude in my inbox, because it won't get you the attention you so desperately crave.

thank you to my followers who have shown unwavering support to me and have left me reassuring words. you are the people i look forward to sharing my writing with.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: heartsteel kayn x gn reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: (omg I didn't change the summary) You admire Kayn and he's grumpy

ʀᴇ𝐐: no ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 524

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, feminization (Kayn is called "princess"), calling your significant other "bitch" adoringly

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: it's been 3 months, heartsteel brought me back

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Kayn was pretty to you, though to anyone else he was hot.

Hot was when you stole glances; hot was an appearance that you must tear your eyes away from, that burned a scalding hot wave down your body, that left you guilty for staring and fearful of getting caught, and even if they hadn't noticed you, someone else was bound to see you oggling. Hot was out of your league, you could never have him.

Pretty, though, was when you felt allowed to see, to admire; when you stare and can't let go, because you're mesmerized. Pretty didn't fill you with guilt, it filled you with admiration, it makes you feel like your surroundings melt away, and it's just him.

"What are you staring at?"

"You, bitch."

Sass. Whatever else could you be staring at? Kayn rolls his eyes, turning back to whatever he was doing. He continues to ignore you, even as you overcome your trance and walk over to him, even as you wrap your arms around his pretty little exposed abdomen from the side. Only when you start peppering kisses over his face does he falter.

He grumbles, trying to reject your love, like he always does—or like he usually does.

Kayn was a duality, he was hot and he was pretty, he rejected your love and then showered you with his own.

"Go away..." He mutters, but his words are the only thing pushing you away. Instead, he's got a hand over yours around his waist, and the other on your cheek. He simply holds it, doesn't push you away, doesn't pull you any closer. He's got an inner turmoil: he wants more, but he also wants to keep his mean facade.

"No." And he doesn't protest, not whilst you continue pressing kisses into the soft skin of his face. He wears a frown. You want to kiss it away. You place a kiss on the corner of his lips, and it raises, and then the other, and it raises too. He's smiling.

"You're insufferable." Kayn whispers, turning to you fully. He holds your face in both hands now, and actually keeps you in place so you can't kiss him anymore, but still he does not push.

You offer him a smile, "I know you think otherwise."

"No, I mean," His eyebrows furrow, his nose scrunches up, he's annoyed, but it's funny, "you haven't kissed me."

"Yes I have."

He rolls his eyes, "On the lips."

"Oh, I'm sorry, princess," Kayn huffs at the nickname, as though he didn't like it, "I didn't know you wanted me to kiss you."

"Well, I do." He pouts. Pouts! Kayn pouts, and it's so cute.

"Say pretty–"

"I am not saying "pretty please"."

Ignoring the fact he just did, you lean in to kiss him, just as he wants, and he doesn't push, he pulls. He wants this...obviously.

He sighs into the kiss, a "finally", dreamily, with satisfaction, happily.

He hates this. How much he wants you, how much he loves you, how he's desperate for you. But, Kayn thinks, if it means he gets to have you, maybe it's okay.

GRAHJTJJDJ😮😮😭 HE SO BABYGIRL LOOK AT HIM🥹

You can trust him, he's a good guy...

soft!hyunjin

you never liked arguments

-very fluffy, pure fluffiness

water ran down your body. you didn't like this feeling that you felt. nothing made sense anymore. your mind was a mess.

arguments.

you despised it so much because of how your parents were.

unecessary. things could be cleared quietly without shouting and getting angry with eachother. it reminded you of your father. his harsh words. the shouting. the swearing. the silent treatment.

although what hyunjin did was minor. he would never curse at you or call you names regardless of whether he was annoyed.

what happened today was a mistake. it had escalated to the point that hyunjin was ignoring you. at this point you couldn't even blame him. maybe you were being emotional. but it did bring back bad memories of arguments.

you hadn't even realised your breath had got stuck in your throat. tears blurred your vision. your head felt light as the water became hotter. steam filling up the bathroom.

"baby!" hyunjin yelled, kicking the door open. you hadn't even heard him. his hand tugged you out, before you could even comprehend anything.

"thank god you left the door unlocked. i was searching for you"

he pulled you flush against him. you couldn't hold your tears in anymore.

"I don't like this, i hate it" you sobbed out, shaking against hyunjin's body that was embracing you.

"i'm sorry, my angel...i'm so sorry my sweetheart" you could feel the pain in his voice. you couldn't help it. everything was triggering and you were unable to control your emotions.

"i don't want to fight. i can't...it hurts"

without caring, he pulled you out not bothering if you were naked. he sat you down on the counter near the sink. your legs dangled down, and he wasted no time to hug you. not bothering that his clothes were getting wet.

"its okay you're okay we're okay" hyunjin reassured, his arms wrapped around you. his fingers stroking your back.

"breathe baby..i'm here" he whispered, pulling his head back to wipe your tears.

"we're never arguing again" you shivered, suddenly hit with a cold draft. you wrapped your legs around his hips.

"im cold hyunnie" you muttered, voice cracking while pushing yourself against his body. he was warm and his soft shirt felt nice against your bare skin.

"lets shower together, hm" he suggested, hands steadily holding you. he rubbed your bare back soothingly. you couldn't bring myself to nod, instead opting to try and look at him.

his eyes were teary and his eyebrows furrowed with worry.

"my pretty baby, don't cry please. i'm sorry" he kissed your forehead.

"i'm so stupid. please forgive me." hyunjin softly pecked your nose.

a small gesture that made your heart hurt with how genuinely heart felt he was being. carefully he carried you, making you stand under the shower. it was perfect. you watched as he took his soaking wet shirt off and tugged his pants and everything else off. hurriedly stepping into the shower. to be as close to you as possible. his body pressed against yours in the misr intimate lovely way possible.

"my gorgeous darling" you cried harder when he cupped your face to place a chaste kiss on your lips.

"i'm sorry...i'm sorry for not talking to you. it was childish and dramatic of me to do that"

"i'm s-sorry too" you mumbled. maybe you were being a teeny weeny bit emotional.

"i'm the one whose sorry baby...you did nothing wrong"

another kiss to your face. the water was hot against your skin but his body provided you with a warmth that reached your heart.

"I love you so much, my love...please never forget that"