#SO IF YOU FIND THIS OP THIS IS FOR YOU I DID IT FOR YOU

[geminiwritten]

en español ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: after joaquín returns from a two-week-long mission things feel different, then he convinces you to go undercover with him where tensions rise—only for him to leaving you wanting more... until he stops by your office for a very intimate spanish lesson

notes: danny ramirez, the man that you are, holy fuck... like this dude has me in a chokehold??? what i wouldn't do for him (there's nothing, absolutely nothing)... i really hope y'all enjoy this! it was inspired by few different things and i had a blast writing it, so please let me know what you think! (p.s. i highly recommend watching the papasito music video and anthony vs. danny hot ones before reading)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, sexual tension, probably some very incorrect spanish (i'm apologising in advance), mention of guns / weapons, italics, lots of pet names / nicknames, SMUT (dirty talk, f oral receiving, unprotected p in v, semi-public-ish sex) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 19998

You fall into your desk chair, careful not to spill your fresh mug of coffee as you fumble for your headset. You’re late—just barely—but if you’re lucky, Sam won’t notice. 

You slide the headset on and quickly sort through the programs running on your computer, eyes flicking across several screens. Then you take a deep breath, adjust your mic, and open the comms line. 

“How’s my favourite flyboy today? Still got all your limbs attached and your pretty face unscathed?” 

“Careful, hermosa,” Joaquín says, his voice smooth in your ear. “Sam’s on the channel. He might get jealous.” 

You smile to yourself, tracking their positions on your middle monitor. “Please. Sam knows who my favourite is. He’s come to terms with it.” 

Joaquín chuckles. “You trying to make me blush?” 

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “If I wanted to make you blush, Torres, I’d be using more than just my voice.” 

There’s a beat of silence, the soft crackle of the open frequency filling your ears. 

Then Joaquín clears his throat, loudly. “Mission. Flying. No dying. Need to focus.” 

You laugh quietly, watching his heartrate spike on a screen to the left. “You better be careful, pretty boy. Can’t show you how much I’ve missed you if you don’t make it home.” 

“Show me?” Joaquín echoes, grin audible. “How?” 

“Come home in one piece and you’ll find out,” you say, voice low, teasing. 

His heartrate spikes even higher, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs. “Can you two at least try to be professional?” 

There’s another beat of quiet—only brief—before, at the same time, both you and Joaquín say, “No.” 

You can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. “Why the hell did I let him convince me to hire you?” 

You grin to yourself, eyes still flickering across your screens. “Because unfortunately for you, Cap, you’ve never met a more skilled analyst who’d rather work seven days a week than have a social life.” 

“Joaquín is your social life,” Sam mutters. “I unknowingly hired the two most annoying best friends in the world.” 

“You forgot talented,” Joaquín pipes up. “Two of the most annoying and talented best friends in the world.” 

Sam groans—loud, frustrated—but he doesn’t argue. Because unfortunately, you’re both right. You’re two of the best people he could’ve found for the job, and despite the never-ending banter and insufferable tension, he’d be lost without either of you. 

You met Joaquín in the Air Force. You were first stationed together at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to get close. At the time, you were both lower rank, training in field surveillance, comms, and tactical ops before choosing your respective career paths. But even across continents and during off-grid missions, you stayed close. 

Joaquín contacted you a little while after he first met Sam, asking for help tracking a super-soldier anti-nationalist group in Munich. You didn’t ask questions—you just helped—and after it all came to a head, Joaquín couldn’t wait to introduce you to Sam. 

Long story short, you were quickly recruited, given an office and a ton of cool tech, and now you’re their guy in the chair. Sam probably only regrets it a little, considering you’re actually very good at being in the chair—which makes up for all the unprofessional banter between you and Joaquín. 

“Eyes up, Torres,” you murmur, watching the live feed on your main monitor. “Two heat signatures ahead. Could be guards. Could be raccoons. Either way, I’d keep your pretty face out of sight.” 

Joaquín exhales, amused. “You must really miss me, hermosa—the way you keep callin’ me pretty.” 

Your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your spine, because yeah—you miss him. Like crazy. They’ve been halfway across the world for two weeks now, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working for Sam. 

To say you miss him is a gross understatement. But he can’t know that—not really—because whatever this thing is between you two, it’s fun. Playful. It isn’t serious or deep. It’s not soul-crushing or gut-wrenching like the paralysing crush you’ve been nursing for years. 

And there’s no way Joaquín needs to find out about that. It could ruin everything. 

“Can you blame me?” you ask, keeping your voice light. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. What else is a girl supposed to do besides fantasise?” 

You can almost hear his grin. “You fantasising about me now, baby? Damn. This suit just got a whole lot hotter.” 

Then Sam’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Can we please focus? The place is crawling with armed hostiles and I’m not dying in a building that smells like asbestos and cat piss.” 

“Noted, Cap,” you say, eyes flicking to his heat signature on your screen. “But for the record, Torres—you’re my favourite fantasy.” 

It’s not a lie—and it makes his heartrate jump again. 

“Oh my God,” Sam groans. “Why do I even talk?” 

“You love us,” Joaquín says, voice low and breathless as he inches toward a door, slowly cracking it open. 

“No, I tolerate you. There’s a difference.” 

You watch the hallway clear, two red dots vanishing from the drone feed. “All clear ahead. Turn left at the next hall. Intel says the artifact is in the records room—bottom floor, east wing.” 

“Copy,” Joaquín says, his voice dropping as he reins in his focus. 

You lock in too—eyes fixed on the screen, breath held, fingers hovering over your keyboard. As much as you love your job, it’s stressful. Especially when the people in the field are the ones you care about most. So you’ve made it your personal mission not to let anything go unseen. 

You watch closely as Joaquín moves down the hall, turns left, and starts down the fire stairs. Sam is still working the perimeter, keeping out of sight and watching for any hostiles that might be closing in on Joaquín. 

It’s taken them two full weeks to find this place—after a discouraging series of dud leads. The artefact isn’t even being hunted, just protected. And for what? None of you know. But from everything you’ve gathered, it’s intel that could open the door to disaster. 

So Sam made the call to find it before it became a hot item—before someone could sell it on the dark web and hand a new villain the keys to world domination. 

What he hadn’t expected was for the mission to take two whole weeks. Fortunately, things have been quiet enough lately that they could afford the time—but that doesn’t mean it’s been fun. You’re pretty sure Sam is one more questionable pizza topping away from leaving Joaquín in Jakarta. 

A heat signature two floors above the records room catches your attention. Your eyes track it, nerves creeping up the back of your neck. You’re just about to say something when— 

“Holy shit,” Joaquín says, voice low and a little breathless. “It’s actually here.” 

You lean in, fingers poised over your keyboard. “Confirmed visual?” 

“Uh… yeah. Package secure?” 

Sam’s voice cuts in, flat. “Seriously?” 

“Dead serious, man. It’s just… sitting here. It’s actually here.” 

You let out a slow breath, tension easing from your shoulders as you watch the heat signature double back—moving away. 

“No traps, no alarms…” you say, scanning the feeds. “Someone’s either cocky or stupid.” 

“Or both,” Sam mutters. “Let’s wrap this up. I’m ready to never think about this city again.” 

Joaquín chuckles softly, his smirk practically audible. “Bet you’re smiling right now, hermosa.” 

“Maybe,” you reply, despite the very obvious grin on your face. “But you’re not out of the woods yet, pretty boy. Stay focused.” 

Joaquín laughs again under his breath. “Focused. Right. That’s what I am.” 

Your eyes flick to his vitals. “I can tell. Your heartrate’s through the roof again.” 

“Can you blame me?” he says. “Your voice in my ear, calling me pretty and saying all this smart stuff… this whole situation’s a little distracting.” 

You roll your eyes. “You forgetting the part where Sam’s one bad mood away from killing you?” 

“No. Just ignoring it.” He pauses at a corner, scans, then moves. “How mad do you think he’d be if I said I’m only doing this to impress you?” 

You lean back slightly, grinning to yourself. “He’d pretend to be annoyed. But secretly? I think he’s just relieved you deal with me so he doesn’t have to.” 

“Deal with you?” Joaquín echoes, voice soft and teasing. “Baby, you’re the reason I get out of bed every day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your voice steady. “Keep talking like that and I might start hacking into your home security system.” 

“Do it,” he says. “I’d sleep better with your voice in my ear.” 

Your cheeks flush, breath catching. 

“Still here,” Sam cuts in. “Still sweating. Still regretting every life choice that led me to this team.” 

You glance at his vitals and smirk. “Vitals are solid, Cap. No cardiac distress.” 

“Yeah, well, if Torres drops anything on the way out, I’m blaming both of you.” 

Joaquín chuckles as he heads toward the extraction point. “Relax. We’re good. We’re almost out.” 

“God,” Sam sighs. “I cannot wait to get home.” 

“Hope you’ve got a hero’s welcome planned, cariño,” Joaquín says. 

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You want a medal or a kiss?” 

“Definitely the kiss,” he replies. “Medals are nice, but they wouldn’t taste as good as you.” 

You choke on nothing, face burning, pulse thrumming as you watch him move through the building toward where Sam is waiting. 

There’s a beat of silence—a loud, charged pause as you scramble for a comeback. 

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “Think you broke her, Torres.” 

“Nah,” Joaquín says, smug as ever. “She’s just thinking about all the ways she’s gonna show me she missed me.” 

You draw a sharp breath, one hand gripping the edge of your desk, the other white-knuckling your coffee mug. 

“Alright, flyboy,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “That’s enough. Just get home safe.” 

“See you soon, princesa,” he says, voice low and warm in your ear. 

- 

The next twenty-four hours are the longest of your life—you’re sure of it. 

You try to distract yourself with work while Joaquín sends updates on their journey home, but you just can’t sit still. You’re too excited. You feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, except the presents aren’t going to be there when you wake up. No—you have to wait until six p.m. for Joaquín to be back. 

Once you finish work, you head home to your studio apartment—the one you spend less time in than your office—and put on a movie. Then another. And another. Because you’re too anxious to feel tired. Eventually, you drag yourself to bed and lie awake for a few hours before giving up at four a.m. and jumping in the shower. 

You take your time getting ready for work—doing your hair, a little makeup, picking your clothes, having a long breakfast. Then at six a.m., you’re out the door and on your way back to the office. 

Only twelve more hours to go. 

You settle in at your desk and try to review data from Sam and Joaquín’s mission, double-checking every log, every report—anything to keep your mind occupied. It feels like hours pass, but when you glance at the clock, it’s barely been one. 

So at seven a.m., you get up for a coffee, moving through the motions slowly and deliberately. 

By now, the office is starting to fill up. It’s never packed—Sam keeps the staff lean—but a few government liaisons, data crunchers, IT specialists, and engineers have started drifting in for the day. You know them all, and usually you’d be happy to have a little chat in the kitchenette while your coffee brews. But not today. 

Today, you’re stuck in your head—counting down the minutes until Joaquín walks through the door with that stupidly handsome grin on his face. 

God. You feel ridiculous. Missing him this much when he’s just a friend. 

Except, he’s not. Not to you—hasn’t been since the day you thought you lost him on a mission in Seoul. That was the moment it hit you. The moment you realised how much he meant to you—how in love with him you really were. 

He turned up hours later, a little battered and bruised but very much alive. And you wanted to tell him how you felt. Wanted to just blurt it out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because it wasn’t worth risking what you already had. So you kept quiet, buried the feelings, and went on being his best friend. 

That was years ago. And now you’re so deep in the friendzone—so used to the playful flirting and easy banter—you couldn’t climb out if you tried. You’ve come to terms with it, of course. Accepted it. And decided that having even a small piece of him is better than not having him at all. 

You spend the next few hours sorting through analytics and going over maintenance logs from the mission—nothing major. Just a few software bugs and one broken ‘feather’ because Joaquín clipped a wing trying some fancy manoeuvre Sam explicitly refuses to teach him. 

By lunchtime, you’ve fielded a few queries from the engineers and booked in a meeting with one of the legal advisors about Sam’s passport renewal. It never fails to amuse you how superheroes still have to deal with the same boring admin as everyone else. 

The afternoon slips by faster than the morning, hours ticking past as you lose track of time in a haze of meetings and emails. You’re finally heading back to your office when your stomach grumbles—loudly—reminding you that it’s probably well past your five p.m. snack break. 

You swing the door open, mentally halfway to your snack drawer, when— 

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Joaquín says, sitting in your desk chair with that stupidly handsome grin. “And here I thought you actually missed me. Was it all a lie?” 

Your heart lurches. Your lungs seize. And instead of flashing him a smile or a snappy comeback, you just freeze. Everything in your arms hits the floor—your tablet, your phone, a folder you don’t even remember picking up—all crashing down with a clatter that makes you flinch. 

Because it’s not just that he’s handsome. No—he’s unfairly handsome. Criminal, even. Dangerous to your health, your peace of mind, and your goddamn ovaries. Joaquín Torres, sitting in your desk chair like he owns the place—with a freshly grown moustache and goatee—is nothing short of lethal. 

“You okay, hermosa?” he asks, grin fading as he leans forward a little. 

“I told him to shave it off,” Sam says dryly, stepping in behind you. “He looks like an Antonio Banderas knockoff.” 

Joaquín scoffs. “Please. I’ve got way more charm than that guy.” 

“Than Antonio Banderas?” Sam says, incredulous. “You’re delusional, you know that?” 

“I prefer endearing,” Joaquín grins. 

You still haven’t stopped staring at him—at the facial hair that’s apparently capable of triggering a full-blown hormonal crisis. 

“Delusional and endearing are not synonyms,” Sam adds, seemingly oblivious to said crisis. 

Joaquín’s eyes flick back to you, brows drawing slightly together. “You breathing, baby?” 

Your heart kicks again at the nickname you should be used to by now—and somehow, that’s what snaps you out of it. 

“Yeah—uh,” you clear your throat, “I’m breathing. I’m good. I—welcome back! But isn’t it early?” You glance at your wrist, searching for a watch that isn’t there. “Shit. Where’s my phone? Oh.” You crouch down and grab it from the floor. “Oh. It’s past six. Huh. That meeting must’ve run long. I didn’t even realise. I—” 

“Breathe,” Sam says, laughing softly as he drops a hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.” 

You inhale deeply, cheeks burning, and glance back at Joaquín’s stupidly gorgeous face again. 

“So,” he says, mouth curling into a smirk that should be illegal, “you like it?” 

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s… okay. Looks good, I guess.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, she likes it, alright.” 

You turn around and smack him in the chest, shooting him a look that could kill—but he doesn’t flinch. 

“Alright, then,” he chuckles, stepping back. “I’ll let you two get caught up.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head as you start gathering everything you dropped. You keep your gaze down, even when you hear footsteps and see Joaquín’s hands join yours, collecting papers that spilled from the folder. 

When you’ve finally got it all, you stand and hug the pile to your chest, letting your eyes meet his again. 

“So,” he says, still grinning as he holds out what he gathered, “about that kiss.” 

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Forget it. You’re dreaming.” 

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. But hey, I’m coming over tonight anyway.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?” 

He leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Because my place has no food… and yours has food. And you.” 

Your cheeks heat, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

“Maybe,” he says again, that grin going a little soft. “But you love it.” 

You struggle to focus on wrapping up your work with Joaquín hovering around your office—ranting about the mission, touching your stuff, looking at you with that goddamn moustache on his face. What would normally take five minutes takes almost twenty, but by seven o’clock, you’re both in a cab on the way back to your apartment. 

When you open the door and step inside, Joaquín walks in like he lives there too. He drops his duffel by the lounge and heads straight for the fridge, pulling it open to inspect the contents. You know him well enough by now to know exactly what’s coming next—he’s going to complain about your lack of ingredients, then insist on cooking anyway. And somehow, it’ll still be delicious. 

“You know, cariño,” he calls, leaning deeper into the fridge, “most people throw milk out when it starts to smell bad. Let alone when it’s chunky.” 

“I haven’t been home much lately,” you say, a little defensive. “My best friend was on a mission and I was busy making sure he didn’t die.” 

“So you could kill me yourself with expired dairy products?” he asks, still wearing that ridiculous grin. 

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile, choosing to ignore him while you kick off your boots. He keeps rummaging through the fridge while you make your way through the small apartment, closing blinds, turning on lamps, and queuing up the show you haven’t touched in the two weeks he’s been away. 

“I’m going to shower,” you say, pausing at the edge of the kitchen. 

He glances over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, brows raised. “That an offer?” 

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “God. What was in the water over there? You’ve come back even worse than when you left.” 

“Maybe I just missed you,” he says, stepping toward you. 

The kitchen isn’t big—much like the rest of the apartment—but with Joaquín standing barely a foot away, it feels downright claustrophobic in a very specific, very dangerous way. 

“You still haven’t given me my hero’s welcome,” he adds, eyes sparkling. 

You tip your head, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Didn’t have time to get the medal minted.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Guess you owe me a kiss, then.” 

You don’t answer. You just step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it doesn’t matter at all—even though your pulse is in your throat. His brows twitch, surprise flickering across his face, but he doesn’t move. He holds his ground. 

You tilt your chin up, rising onto your toes until your lips are just a breath from his. 

His breath stutters, and you catch the sharp rise of his chest—like he forgot how to breathe. That cocky smirk slips away as your eyes linger on his mouth, then drop to that stupid goatee. Because of course he found a way to be even more ridiculously attractive. 

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close that tiny gap and change everything. 

But instead, your voice drops low—steady despite the way your nerves are buzzing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Torres?” 

His pupils blow wide, cheeks flushing. You see it. You feel it—the flicker of nerves under all that swagger. 

You drag your fingers lightly down the front of his shirt, watching him go still, revelling in the thrill that rattles up your spine. 

His throat bobs with a swallow, and you know you’ve got him. For once, he has no comeback. 

You smirk, dropping back onto your heels. “Didn’t think so.” 

Then you turn and walk into your room, heart pounding, head spinning, but your steps still steady. You shut the door and fall back against it, covering your face with your hands to keep from screaming out loud because God, that was hot. And holy shit did it take every ounce of self-control not to just kiss him. 

Eventually, you push off the door, strip out of your clothes, and step into the ensuite bathroom. You turn the shower on hot and wait while the water heats, wondering if Joaquín would notice if you took a little longer than usual. 

Which... you do. Because that ache behind your hipbones is insistent, and if Joaquín is going to be here all night, you can’t just be sitting beside him horny as hell or you might end up doing something stupid. 

So after a long, hot shower—and some quality time with the detachable head—you change into your pyjamas and emerge from your bedroom. The rest of the apartment smells like butter and garlic, and Joaquín is standing in front of the stove with a little crease between his brows as he flips what you assume is a grilled cheese sandwich. 

“Grilled cheese?” you ask, leaning a hip against the counter. 

He shoots you a sideways glare. “It’s the only thing I could think of with your serious lack of food. But it’s not just grilled cheese—it’s gourmet. With mozzarella—that I’m pretty sure isn’t off—garlic, caramelised onion, and basil.” 

You lift a brow, nodding slowly. “I’m impressed. And hungry.” 

He smirks. “And the tomatoes you had were too soft to put in the sandwiches, so I made a sauce.” 

“Wow,” you say, turning toward the cupboard. “Sounds like I had plenty of ingredients for you.” 

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as you get out a couple of plates and wine glasses, knowing full well that you might not have much food in the house, but you definitely have wine. 

He finishes grilling the sandwiches and flips them onto the plates, garnishing them with something green that you hope is a herb and not something wildly out of date he found in the fridge. Then you pour each of you a glass of wine before taking your plate into the lounge room. 

“Hopefully you won’t be able to tell how stale the bread is,” Joaquín says as he sits beside you, his knee knocking yours as he shoots you another pointed look. 

You roll your eyes. “Please, sourdough doesn’t go off. Just gets chewier.” 

He frowns at you, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s literally the definition of stale bread.” 

You just shrug, taking a generous sip of wine before biting into your sandwich. And God, it’s almost inhuman how this man can make some of the best food out of the crappy ingredients you have. 

“That good?” he asks, watching you with a smirk. 

“It’s alright,” you mutter, mouth still full. 

He chuckles. “That moan you just made says otherwise.” 

Your eyes widen. “I moaned?” 

He laughs a little harder, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches your cheeks turn pink. “Don’t be embarrassed, hermosa. I love the little noises you make.” 

Your heart lurches and your eyes snap down to your plate. 

“Wonder what other noises I could get out of you,” he mutters, low but just loud enough to catch your attention. 

You swallow hard on the half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches on the way down your throat. You cough and reach for your wine, taking a long, burning gulp that only fans the heat spreading through your chest. 

You cough again into your hand, struggling to catch your breath. 

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín asks, light laughter in his voice. 

“Fine,” you choke out. “I’m good.” 

He laughs softly, clearly amused but too hungry to press you any further. You watch his profile as he takes a bite of grilled cheese, chews, and swallows—and damn if that doesn’t just deepen the wildfire of nerves and heat roiling through you. 

Two weeks away from Joaquín, and every ounce of resistance you’ve spent years building up is gone. Shattered. Nowhere to be found. You feel like some virginal schoolgirl, wide-eyed and helpless, just watching his throat move as he swallows another bite. 

His eyes flick toward you, brows drawn, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. You stuff the sandwich into your mouth and take a big bite to stop yourself from blurting out something dumb—like how insanely hot he looks when he eats, or how badly you want to know what that facial hair would feel like between your legs. 

“Hear anything from the lab?” he asks, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

You shake your head. “Not yet.” 

He nods slowly. “Sam’s probably bugging.” 

“Why?” 

“Reckons it’s something big,” he says. “Something dangerous.” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe something alien.” 

“Nah.” You take another sip of wine. “It’s probably old data from some collapsed organisation. Looked more like a hard drive than an explosive.” 

As if on cue, your phone lights up, buzzing on the coffee table beside your wine glass. You drop your sandwich and reach for it, tapping the answer button and pressing it to your ear. 

“Doctor Chen,” you greet. “How’s it going?” 

“The captain was right,” Maya—one of Sam’s lab techs—says. “This is dangerous.” 

Your brows pull together as you lift the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker so Joaquín can hear too. 

“What is it?” 

“Old Stark tech. Data, to be precise,” Maya replies. 

“Have you told Sam yet?” 

“Not yet. You were my first call. I figured Joaquín was with you.” 

Your cheeks flush. “Oh. Uh, yeah. He’s here.” 

Joaquín meets your eyes and gives you a cheeky little wink, lips curving into a smirk. 

“I’ll see you both first thing in the morning,” Maya says. “I’ll call Sam now.” 

“Okay,” you reply, shoving Joaquín’s thigh with your knee. “Thanks, Doctor Chen.” 

The line goes dead, the soft disconnect tone buzzing through the quiet room—Joaquín having paused the TV without you noticing. 

“What kind of data do you think it is?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

You shrug. “Who knows. Maybe something that’ll finally tell us how to shut you up.” 

He scoffs, leaning in just a little. “Or maybe something that tells me exactly how to get you to kiss me.” 

Your heart stutters, breath catching just loud enough for him to hear. 

“Or,” he adds, eyes dancing, “I just keep saying shit like that until your brain short-circuits and you snap.” 

You suck in a slow breath, trying not to smile. Trying not to give him the satisfaction. 

“God,” you mutter, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re so fucking annoying tonight.” 

He just grins wider and takes another bite of grilled cheese—completely unbothered, maddeningly smug. And of course, your traitorous eyes fall to the line of his jaw as he chews, which does nothing to help your situation. 

- 

“It’s not just old Stark data,” Sam says, standing at the head of the small conference table. “This hard drive contains preliminary code for the foundational architecture of Stark’s first AI.” 

“As in J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Joaquín asks. “The computer that ran his house?” 

“J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t just run his house,” you cut in. “He was integrated into the Iron Man suits, and he was part of Ultron and Vision. In the wrong hands, this data could be... catastrophic.” 

“Right,” Joaquín nods. “So... we destroy it?” 

“We can’t destroy it,” Milton—one of Sam’s more insufferable government liaisons—says. “Per federal protocol, all recovered Stark-origin assets are to be logged, quarantined, and transferred to a Level Four secure facility for presidential review and Congressional oversight.” 

Sam sighs, visibly holding back an eye-roll. 

“Quarantined for review?” you echo, incredulous. “Graves, this kind of data in the wrong hands could—” 

“And what authority do you have to decide that?” Milton cuts in with his usual sneer. “Who’s to say you won’t use it to recreate this... jervis?” 

Milton is easily your least favourite person in the office. He’s a stickler for rules, an arrogant idiot, and completely insufferable—but he does make a good target for your and Joaquín’s boredom-induced pranks. Like the time you rearranged his keyboard to spell something wildly inappropriate and watched him struggle to fix it for thirty minutes. Or when you convinced him that ‘Camo Friday’ was an official dress code. 

Needless to say, he’s not your biggest fan. Or Joaquín’s. But unfortunately for him, you’re both basically Sam’s second-in-command. 

“It’s Jarvis,” Joaquín says flatly. “J-A-R-V-I-S. Want help with the alphabet, or are you still stuck on the letter J?” 

Milton’s lips curl, eyes narrowing—ready to fire back—when Sam steps in. 

“We haven’t made a final decision about the drive,” he says firmly, glancing between Joaquín and Milton. “I’ll speak with the Department of Damage Control myself. Until then, it stays here, under full-time protection.” 

Joaquín sighs. “Don’t tell me—” 

“You’re not on protection,” Sam cuts him off. “I’ve got others for that. I need you somewhere else.” 

Joaquín sits up straighter, head tilted. “Where?” 

Sam glances at you and nods. You quickly plug your tablet into the display, and a second later, the intel you and the logistics team pulled together flickers up on the screen.  

“Matías Navarro,” you say, zooming in on the mugshot of a stern-faced, middle-aged man. “Clean on paper, but deeply embedded in tech smuggling rings. Works through proxies, keeps his hands clean. No one knows where he gets the tech, and none of his buyers care. He’s been arrested a dozen times, but he always walks.” 

You switch to a series of ledgers. “His name is tied to the building we found the hard drive in—not currently, but previously. He either sold it or abandoned it. Either way, he’s the last known owner.” 

“So,” Joaquín says, “we find Navarro and… question him?” 

You nod. “Exactly. He’s mostly dealt in weapons and arms. He might not have known what was on the drive—but if he did, or if he made a copy, we could be in serious shit.” 

“Right.” Joaquín nods. “Where do we find him?” 

“Club Calavera,” you reply, tapping your tablet until a picture of a dark brick building fills the screen. “It used to be a Latin dance club. Now it’s more like a networking spot for arms dealers and petty crime lords who like to salsa.” 

“Navarro’s a regular,” Sam adds. “Every Saturday. Like clockwork.” 

“Club Skull,” Joaquín snorts. “Subtle.” 

“You should fit right in, then,” you say with a smirk. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a brick through a window.” 

His eyes go wide. “Fit in? I’m going in? Like… undercover?” 

You nod. “That’s right, pretty boy. You’re our distraction.” 

“Distraction?” he echoes, brows shooting up. 

“I need to talk to Navarro,” Sam says, “but I can’t just walk in—not with all the high-profile thugs that frequent the place. I’d be too easily noticed.” 

“Hence,” you say, grinning at Joaquín, “our distraction.” 

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between you and Sam. “Alright. What kind of distraction?” 

Sam folds his arms, smirking. “It’s a Latin dance club, Torres. What do you think?” 

“You want me to dance?” Joaquín asks, voice cracking. 

“Oh, no, flyboy.” You lean forward, grin turning wicked. “We don’t just want you to dance, we need you to cause a whole damn scene.” 

He swallows hard. “How?” 

Sam chuckles. “Ever seen The Mask?” 

“That movie with Jim Carrey?” 

Sam nods. 

“You want me to cause a scene in the middle of a club full of criminals big enough to distract every single one of them?” Joaquín asks, brows drawing tight. “I—I can’t. No one could. It’s impossible.” 

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “You’re Joaquín fucking Torres. If anyone can cause a scene that big, it’s you. Plus, you won’t be alone.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You need a dance partner,” you reply simply, tapping your tablet. 

The screen flickers before bringing up three headshots of three different women, each with a brief bio beside the names—abilities and all. 

“Kate Bishop,” you say, enlarging the first photo. “Hawkeye-in-training. She worked with Clint for a while. Definitely has the social skills to work the room, plus charm and skill.” 

Joaquín shakes his head. “No, she won’t blend in. Not in a Latin crowd, at least.” 

“Okay,” you nod, moving to the next photo. “Ava Ayala, a.k.a. White Tiger. Fluent in Spanish and has the physicality to back us up if things go south.” 

Joaquín considers it, tipping his head before shaking it again. “No, it won’t work. I’ve heard she prefers solo missions—might not adapt well to a cover role that requires dancing and mingling.” 

You take a deep breath and move to the last photo. “Alright. Elena ‘Yo-Yo’ Rodriguez. She’s great at going undercover and knows how to stay cool under pressure. Plus, she can get you out fast if needed.” 

Joaquín’s eyes flick from the screen to you, then to Sam, back to you, and then the screen again. 

“I don’t doubt her skills,” he says. “But have you seen her operate in this kind of scene? Nightclubs and criminal networks require a certain… finesse.” 

Sam sighs and pulls out a chair, dropping into it. “Well, you can’t dance alone.” 

“I know,” Joaquín says firmly. “But I can’t walk into a club full of criminals and half-ass it with someone I don’t know or trust.” 

“That’s the whole point,” you say, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “You’re supposed to go in, pick someone from the crowd, and make it look spontaneous. A big, passionate moment. If it’s too polished, too rehearsed, they’ll sniff it out.” 

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I get that. But it still has to be someone I’ve got chemistry with. Someone I’m actually attracted to.” 

You frown, glancing at the screen full of attractive women, then back at him—feeling your stomach twist, even if you don’t want to admit why. 

“They’re all attractive. I don’t see the—” 

“Sure,” he interrupts. “But what if there's no chemistry? This is a club full of Latinos. They’ll smell fake passion from across the dance floor, cariño.” 

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair. “So what are you saying? You won’t do it?” 

“Of course I'll do it,” he says, smirking now. “But I’ve got one condition.” 

You look at Sam, deadpan. “He’s got conditions now.” 

Sam chuckles. “This guy.” 

You turn back to Joaquín. “Alright, pretty boy. What’s your condition?” 

“You dance with me.” 

The room falls silent. 

You freeze, breath catching. “M–Me?” 

He grins. “You, hermosa. It makes sense. We’ve got chemistry, and all you have to do is follow my lead.” 

You glance at Sam, half-panicked. “I’m not a field agent. I’m not—” 

“Actually,” Sam says, thoughtful, “it does makes sense. The two of you could sell it. No extra variables, no risk of another agent blowing the op.” 

Your eyes widen. “You’re not serious. I—I can’t even dance.” 

“You don’t need to,” Joaquín says. “You just have to let me lead.” 

Your heart is pounding now, nerves sparking like live wires, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. You’re not built for this. You’re the guy in the chair. The one locked behind bulletproof glass and a million firewalls. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“It’s the only way this works,” he says, his smile infuriatingly smug. 

“Kid’s got a point,” Sam adds. 

Your eyes bounce between them, wide and overwhelmed. “I’m barely trained for combat. If something goes wrong, I—” 

“That’s why I’m there, cariño,” Joaquín cuts in, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty—which you already do—and follow my lead.” 

You’re running out of excuses. And Joaquín is looking at you with those big, stupidly pretty brown eyes that always get him his way. You don’t want to say yes. But you really don’t want to say no. Not to that face. Not to Sam’s, either—especially when he’s looking this hopeful and just a little smug. 

“Fine,” you mutter, glaring at Joaquín. “But if either of us die, I’m going to kill you.” 

He just grins—impossibly smug, unfairly hot. A walking wet dream with tight sleeves and a killer smile, practically glowing with anticipation. 

The next few days are a whirlwind of intel, training, and—to your immense displeasure—costume fittings. Because you can’t just wear jeans and a top. No. You have to look like a part-time salsa dancer and full-time prison groupie, which apparently means a sparkly dress with a hemline that barely covers your ass. 

But that’s not even the worst part. 

The worst part is that Joaquín refuses to practice with you. He won’t even show you a few steps. Because, like you said, it has to look spontaneous. It can’t be rehearsed or choreographed, or someone might clock it for the distraction that it is. 

So he won’t dance with you at all—which is not exactly something you ever thought you’d be begging him for. Not unless you’re talking about the horizontal tango—because in that case, yeah, you could definitely see yourself begging. 

“Ouch,” Sam mutters, freezing mid-step. “That was my foot.” 

You scowl up at him, arms stiff where they rest on his shoulder and in his hand. “I told you, I don’t fucking know how to dance.” 

“Relax,” he chuckles. “You’re not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. You just need to get through one song without crushing Joaquín’s toes.” 

“If he doesn’t want his feet stomped on,” you snap, glaring across the room, “then he should be the one teaching me.” 

Joaquín rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, tapping something on his phone to lower the music blaring through the overhead speakers. You’ve taken up residence in Isaiah Bradley’s gym for the past few days, using the open space—and the crash mats—as Sam attempts to teach you the basics of salsa dancing. 

It’s not going great. 

“You need to move your hips more,” Joaquín says. “Feel the music. Don’t fight it.” 

“‘M gonna fight you in a minute,” you mutter. 

Sam laughs again, clearly amused, as Joaquín steps in behind you—close—his hands landing firmly on your hips. 

Your eyes go wide. Your spine snaps straight. Your fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder. 

“Ouch,” he murmurs, wincing. 

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

He bites back a laugh. 

“Okay,” Joaquín says. “Let’s move through the steps slowly.” 

Sam nods and starts moving. You follow, trying to count through the steps you’ve half-memorised. Then— 

Joaquín steps in even closer, chest almost brushing your back, and without a word, he guides your hips into the right position. Your feet falter. Your heart stutters. His hands are big, steady—thumbs pressing lightly into the small of your back as he shifts your weight, encouraging a more natural sway from your hips. 

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’ve gotta loosen up, cariño.” 

Then his hands trail—slow and deliberate—up the curve of your waist, just high enough for his thumbs to graze the underside of your ribs. It’s a fleeting touch, but it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And then, like it was nothing, he steps back—cool, casual, unaffected. 

Your breath catches. Heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks, your brain short-circuiting as your body fights to stay upright and not melt into a puddle of incoherent desire. Sam watches the whole thing unfold with an amused grin, clearly not missing the way your knees nearly buckle. 

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re lookin’ a little pink there.” 

“I’m fine,” you snap. 

Behind you, Joaquín turns the music back up and says, far too casually, “She’s just tense.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem.” 

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath through your nose, summoning every ounce of self-control you have to not to completely lose it. 

“Okay,” you mutter, “let’s go again.” 

You take it from the top twice more before Sam’s phone rings and he’s called away for a meeting with logistics. By that point, you’re tired, sweaty, and still wishing you’d said no, but according to Joaquín, your hips are moving much more naturally. 

You try not to think too hard about him watching your hips while you dance. 

While you stretch and cool off—which mostly just means lying on the floor scrolling through your phone—Joaquín starts boxing with Isaiah. And holy hell if that isn’t making you thirstier than two straight hours of salsa dancing did. 

You try to focus on the video of a puppy eating raspberries currently playing on your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the gym. To him. 

Joaquín’s in the ring—gloves on, shirt off, moving like a goddamn dream. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles flexing with every jab and pivot, the line of his back carved like something out of a museum. Even his hair is damp, dark curls falling over his forehead—and God, you want to run your fingers through it, tug it just a little to see what kind of noises he’d make. 

You swallow hard, watching the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, light and fast. Isaiah swings, Joaquín dodges, and you’re embarrassingly close to moaning when he ducks and throws a clean uppercut that lands with a satisfying smack. 

Your imagination fills in the blanks way too fast. What those hands would feel like dragging down your body. What that mouth could do if it wasn’t behind a mouthguard. You’re picturing him pinning you up against the ropes for a very different kind of workout when— 

“Enjoying the show?” 

You startle, eyes flying up to find Joaquín leaning on the ropes, gloves resting on the top strand, smirk wide and knowing. His chest is rising and falling, skin glistening, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s seen every second of you ogling him. 

You blink. “Nope.” 

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Come here.” 

“What? Why?” 

He grins, pushing open the ropes. “Get in the ring.” 

You frown. “Absolutely not.” 

“Come on,” he says, stepping aside so you can climb through. “You’re going undercover. You should know how to throw a punch in case something goes south.” 

“I did a combat course,” you say, slowly climbing up and stopping in the middle of the ring. “A few years ago." 

“And I haven’t eaten a donut since Tuesday. Doesn’t mean I’m in peak condition.” 

Isaiah laughs from the corner, tossing Joaquín a towel. “Have fun, lovebirds,” he calls, hopping down from the ring. “Try not to injure each other.” 

“I make no promises,” Joaquín says with a wink, then turns back to you, holding out a pair of gloves. “Hands up, cariño.” 

You roll your eyes, sighing, but slide your hands into the gloves anyway. “If I get hurt, I’m suing.” 

He steps closer to tighten the straps on your gloves, and you try—really try—not to stare. But his chest is right there, slick with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. Your eyes flick to the constellation of tiny moles scattered across his collarbone and up the side of his neck, and your brain starts wandering where it definitely shouldn’t. 

Like how warm his skin would feel under your mouth. 

How he'd taste. 

Whether that facial hair would scrape or tickle. 

“You spacing out on me already?” he asks, smug. 

You blink hard and force your eyes back to his. “No. Just visualising how hard I’m going to hit you.” 

His smile grows. “Hot.” 

You scowl, cheeks burning. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t,” he says easily, stepping back and raising his hands. “Alright, let’s start with a jab. Front foot forward, hands up, aim for my shoulder.” 

You shuffle your feet and throw the first punch. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely not impressive. 

And he dodges it with infuriating ease. “Again.” 

You go again—harder this time—and his face lights up. 

“There we go,” he says, circling you. “Now try a cross. Pivot your back foot a little. Twist at the hips.” 

He moves around you slowly, correcting your stance, touching your elbow here, your shoulder there. Every brush of his fingers lights you up like a fuse. You try to focus on your footwork, your form, anything other than the way he’s watching you—like he’s memorising every move. 

And when you land a solid hit against his open palm, his smile turns molten. “Damn. Maybe I should be worried.” 

“You should always be worried,” you mutter, blowing a lock of hair out of your eyes. 

He steps in close, lowering his voice. “You’re better than you think.” 

You swallow. Hard. Because now he’s too close, and you can smell him—sweat mixed with something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cedar, and something darker, something dangerous. His eyes flick down from your face to your body, not even trying to pretend he isn’t checking you out. 

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless. 

He smirks. “So are you.” 

The space between you shrinks, and suddenly the air feels thick—too warm, too charged. 

“You’re dangerously close,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart beats like a war drum. 

He leans in just a little more, hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “Close enough to hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s fast.” 

Your breath hitches, and you force yourself to look anywhere but at his lips. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “I might start thinking you want to spar for real.” 

He grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve got moves that don’t involve gloves.” 

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “That a challenge?” 

“More like a promise,” he says, eyes darkening with mischief. 

He steps even closer, just enough for your bodies to almost touch, the heat radiating off him setting your skin alight. Your hands twitch, itching to reach out, to feel the solid strength beneath those muscles. But instead, you bite back the impulse, take a breath, and jab forward, aiming a quick punch at his bicep. 

He’s faster—too fast—and his hand catches your wrist, grip firm. “Not bad,” he says, voice rougher now. “But you’re getting distracted.” 

You glance down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—strong and warm—then back up at him. “Maybe I like being distracted.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.” 

Your cheeks flush, and suddenly the gym feels smaller, the world reduced to just the two of you—the thud of your hearts, the quick intake of breath, the heat humming beneath your skin. 

He leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. “One more round? Winner gets to decide what happens next.” 

You bite your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back to his gaze. “You’re on.” 

You throw yourself into the next round, fists flying, breath ragged—but he’s relentless, every move calculated to push you harder, closer. He’s not holding back anymore; his feet are quick, his hands even quicker. You feel like you’re flailing, only landing punches when he lets you. 

Then, without warning, he ducks a blow and catches you from behind, one arm wrapping tight around your neck. Not enough to choke—just to claim. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in, pressing bruises into your flesh. Your pulse spikes as your body freezes, caught between wanting to fight and drowning in the heat of him pressed against you. 

Your breath hitches as you recognise the undeniable length of him digging into your ass—heavy and hard. His mouth hovers just at your neck, warm breath teasing, lips barely brushing. “Careful, nena,” he whispers, voice thick with something dark and urgent. “You’re playing with fire.” 

Your hands tremble, heart pounding in your throat. Every second, every shallow breath drips with desperate hunger. His fingertips dig into your skin, pulling you impossibly close—his hips grinding slow and deliberate against your ass. 

You want to say something, anything, but the only sounds are your uneven inhales and the thump of your racing heart. Then—just as your resolve begins to crack— 

The gym door swings open, and Sam bursts in. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Lunch or more sparring?” he calls out, completely oblivious to the heat hanging thick between you two. 

Joaquín straightens, sliding his arms away with a slow, wicked grin, eyes sparkling with amusement and something more primal. He moves off to the side of the ring, turning away from Sam—no doubt hiding the bulge in his gym shorts. 

You’re burning up, cheeks flushed crimson, every nerve screaming as you struggle to breathe normally. 

Sam quirks his head, brows furrowed. “You alright? Is he pushing you too hard?” 

God. Something is too hard. 

You shake your head. “N-No. Just... sparring.” 

“Right,” Sam says, not sounding fully convinced. “Well, go clean up. I’m starving.” 

- 

After a shower—a very cold shower—a quick lunch, and several meetings, you’re back in your office combing through security tapes from Club Calavera, scanning for any familiar faces that might compromise tomorrow night’s mission. 

You’re midway through last Saturday’s tape when Joaquín pops his head in the door, grinning like he hadn’t pressed his hard dick against you just a few hours ago. 

“Sam’s hungry,” he says. “Again.” 

You clear your throat. “Already? It’s—” You glance at the clock, brows lifting. “Oh. It’s nearly seven.” 

“Yeah,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “He wants wings.” 

There’s nothing overtly threatening about the way he stands in front of your only exit—but it still feels dangerous. Being alone with him in this tight little four-by-four office, with nothing between you but a desk and a couple monitors, feels very dangerous. 

You’re not sure what changed while he was away on that last mission—all you know is that something did. And now, the tension between you is almost impossible to ignore. 

“Wings,” you echo, dragging your eyes back to your screens. “Got it. The usual?” 

“Yep,” he nods. “Extra ranch.” 

You smirk as you open a new tab—typing in only a few letters before the URL auto-fills. 

Joaquín frowns. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head. 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. He just stands there, back against the door, watching you order the food with his bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth. 

“There,” you say, clicking submit order. “Death wings for Captain America, and a baby batch for The Falcon.” 

His eyes widen as he tries—and fails—to fight another grin. “I knew you were laughing at me. It’s not my fault I was born with a spice intolerance.” 

You lean back in your chair, rolling your lips to suppress a giggle. “I wasn’t. I swear.” 

“I’m brave in other ways,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I know.” 

You stare at each other for a beat too long. The air thickens, tension crawling over your skin, heavy and charged. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sharp slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow beneath that maddeningly hot little moustache. 

Your fingers twitch over your keyboard, itching to touch him. To grip his shoulders. Tug his hair. Wrap around his hot, hard— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

Joaquín startles as Sam shoves at your office door from the other side. 

“Move your ass, Torres,” he calls, voice muffled. 

Joaquín exhales a shaky breath and steps aside—and you swear you see him subtly adjust himself in his jeans. 

“Wings ordered?” Sam asks, pushing the door open. 

You nod. “Death by buffalo coming right up.” 

He grins. “Good. Now get your asses to the conference room. Tactical support wants to run one last debrief.” 

“Ooh,” you say, jumping to your feet. “Do I get any weapons?” 

Both men whip toward you—eyes wide, brows drawn—and in perfect unison say, “No.” 

You sit in the meeting, pretending to listen, while mostly ogling the way Joaquín is testing out his gear. Without the wings, he’s going to be packing an assortment of easily concealed weapons, and something about the way he handles everything with practiced ease has you squeezing your thighs beneath the table. 

His hands are sure and precise—strong fingers wrapping around grips, forearms flexing subtly with each flick and pop. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he inspects every piece, the kind of focused intensity that makes your pulse quicken. 

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, brows drawing together just enough to highlight the sharp line of his cheekbones. It’s like watching a master at work—every subtle motion deliberate, effortless. The way his muscles tense and relax, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in his stance… it all speaks of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and how much power he wields beneath that calm exterior. 

You can’t help but admire the rhythm, the flow, the way he seems to command the weapons almost as if they’re extensions of his own body. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the sinew in his forearms, the curve of his wrists, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by those hands—steady, confident, and undeniably capable. 

“You need a napkin, or are you just gonna keep drooling on the table?” Sam asks, startling you out of your daydream. 

You whip toward him, brow furrowed, one hand swiping instinctively at the corner of your mouth while the other smacks his bicep. 

He chuckles. “Wow. I could call HR, you know.” 

You roll your eyes. “Do it.” 

“Actually,” he says, tilting his head, “I think Joaquín should call HR, with the way you were eye-fucking him across the table. But the boy’s too stupid to notice.” 

Your eyes snap to the front of the room, expecting Joaquín to still be there—but he’s not. In fact, it’s just you and Sam left in the conference room. Even the weapons have been packed up and hauled off. 

“Oh,” you blink. “Is it over?” 

“Been over for a while,” he says with another soft chuckle. “My wings here yet?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Shit. The wings.” 

You jump up and dart out of the room, jogging down the hall to the front reception where you told the delivery driver to leave the food. Thankfully, it’s still there—and when you pick up the bag, it’s warm enough that Sam won’t kill you. 

With a relieved sigh, you carry the wings back through the building, past the now-empty conference room, and straight to Sam and Joaquín’s office at the very back—the one with the giant, obnoxious Captain America symbol frosted onto the window glass. 

“Special delivery,” you say, walking straight toward the table surrounded by low blue lounges. 

You pull out the Styrofoam containers and start sniffing each one to determine which is which. Sam appears beside you with three cans of beer, and Joaquín flops onto one of the lounges, grabbing the bag to pull out a wad of napkins—because you always ask for extra. 

“Shit. They forgot the wet ones,” he says, glancing up at you. 

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, “we’ve got enough wet wipes to stock a preschool.” 

Joaquín chuckles as you cross the room toward Sam’s desk, opening the middle drawer of the cabinet and pulling a fistful of wipes. 

“God, I’m starving,” Joaquín groans. 

You turn back just in time to see him sliding one of the containers toward himself. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing, and just before realisation hits—before you can say anything—he opens it and lifts a wing to his lips.  

“Joaquín—!” you yelp, eyes wide. 

His gaze flicks to you, confusion creasing his brow—then it hits. 

His cheeks flush immediately, sweat prickling at his hairline and sliding down the side of his face. His eyes go wide, his body locking up—the wing still caught between his teeth.  

“That’s Sam’s!” you exclaim, rushing over. “Spit it out, you idiot. You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest.” 

“Wait,” Sam leans forward, eyes bright. “Did he just—?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“One of mine?” 

“Yep.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Joaquín,” you say firmly. “Spit the goddamn wing out.” 

He does, letting it drop back into the container with a wet plop. 

“Gross,” Sam groans, sliding the container away from Joaquín. 

“You okay?” you ask, biting back a grin. 

He looks like he’s been pepper-sprayed. Face red, eyes watery, lips puffy, breath coming and going in shallow gasps. 

“Uh uh,” he groans, shaking his head slowly. “Burns.” 

“I know, baby,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. “I’ll go get some milk.” 

He nods slowly, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. 

You let out another laugh—louder this time—as you run out of the room and jog down the hall, pivoting into the kitchen. You yank the fridge open, pull out the bottle of milk, and retrace your steps. 

By the time you return, Sam is grinning like a demon, face smeared with sauce, and Joaquín is full-on wheezing, fanning his mouth with his hand. 

“What happened?” 

“He drank the beer,” Sam says, clearly very entertained. “Made it worse.” 

“My god, Joaquín,” you sigh, dropping the milk in front of him. “Didn’t you smell the hot sauce?” 

He shakes his head, already chugging from the bottle. Milk dribbles from his lips and down his jaw, sliding down the column of his neck—and suddenly, you’re having thoughts. Filthy ones. 

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot. 

Jesus Christ. Even watching him drink milk is hot now? 

“I just don’t understand how your tolerance for spice is so bad,” you mutter. “You’re half-Mexican for crying out loud.” 

He stops long enough to gasp for air—then burps like a frat boy. “That’s racist.” 

“It’s not racist,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve been to your house. Your mama’s tamales are hot. And delicious.” 

“Ooh,” Sam smirks. “Tell me more about his mom’s tamales.” 

Joaquín shoots him a slow, deadly look over the milk carton as he continues drinking. 

“His mom makes the best food,” you say, finally opening your own container of wings. “The rest of his family can handle heat just fine—but this pretty boy always gets a custom serving. Mild.” 

“Wow,” Sam snorts. “Way to let the ancestors down, Torres.” 

Joaquín finishes the entire bottle of milk—though it was only half full—before he’s finally able to breathe normally again. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp, but at least he no longer looks like he’s about to explode. 

“Better?” you ask, smirking behind a half-eaten wing. 

“You know,” he says, leaning forward, that stupid, smug grin back in place, “might help if you kiss it better.” 

You raise your brows. “Your mouth?” 

He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Probably a couple of places you could kiss that’d help.” 

Your eyes go wide, pulse spiking. Across from you, Sam chokes on a mouthful of chicken. 

“No,” he says between coughs. “Stop it. Both of you. I am not sitting here while you do your weird flirting shit. Leave me out of it.” 

Joaquín just grins, completely unaffected, and opens his container of mild buffalo wings. It shouldn’t be sexy, the way he sinks his teeth in and tears the meat off the bone. Or how his tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Or the low, satisfied groan he lets out, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week. 

But God, when it comes to Joaquín Torres, you are well and truly screwed—just not in the way you want to be. 

- 

Your heart is in your throat. Your hands are trembling. Your back is sweating. 

Every step you take deeper into Club Calavera brings you one step closer to puking. 

The inside of the club is soaked in red light and velvet, thick with smoke and perfume. Velvet booths line the walls, half-hidden in shadow, crowded with people who look like they have knives in their boots and secrets in their smiles. The bar glows low and warm on one side of the room, casting amber light across bottles arranged like trophies. 

The music is bass-heavy, slow and deliberate, and the dance floor pulses with bodies moving close—too close. Everything sparkles—sequins, sweat, the occasional flash of a watch or the glint of a gun tucked just out of sight. 

It’s the kind of place where everyone’s watching, everyone’s working an angle, and no one’s here by accident. 

You feel completely exposed without so much as a headset or earpiece, but Sam insisted—strictly no comms. It’s too risky in a place like this. 

Teddy from logistics is ‘in the chair’ tonight, doing what you’d usually be doing—watching live feeds, monitoring heat signatures, keeping an eye out for trouble. You all know the signals. The procedures. Where to meet if it all goes sideways. But none of that is making you feel even remotely safe in this den of criminals. 

You take a slow, deep breath and continue weaving your way through the crowd, keeping your chin up—confident, not cocky. Your movements are measured. Deliberate. 

You know where you’re going. You’re not nervous. You fit in. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone murmurs beside you. 

You offer a small, coy smile, then duck away, putting several bodies between you and whoever that was—for good measure. 

The club is crowded enough to disappear in. You just have to make sure you don’t move too fast. Don’t draw too much attention. 

Not that this goddamn dress is making it easy not to draw attention. 

It’s gold and slinky, catching the light with every step, made from a breathable stretch-knit lamé mesh—fine metallic threads woven into silky, weightless fabric. The outer layer is a sheer gold sparkle mesh, densely packed with glittering micro-sequins that flash like fire under the club lights. 

It’s cut obscenely short—the hem grazing your upper thighs—with a scooped neckline just low enough to tease, and long flared sleeves that shimmer from shoulder to wrist. It doesn’t cling—but it follows your shape with a sleek, deliberate grace that leaves no doubt it was tailor-made for you. 

Beneath all that glitter, the bodice is reinforced with a discreet layer of ballistic fabric—a Kevlar-knit that’s thin and flexible enough to contour to your body, but strong enough to slow a small-calibre round or deflect a blade. So, as long as any would-be attackers aim for the dress and not your legs, you might just have a shot at making it out alive if things go sideways. 

“Excuse me,” you murmur, voice low as you squeeze between two people who were definitely not excusing you. 

You pop out of the crowd at the edge of the dancefloor just as the music shifts. It pulses low and slow at first, a sensual rhythm driven by a deep reggaeton beat. Then a plucked guitar winds through the bassline—sharp, teasing, almost flirtatious—while maracas and other percussion add a soft shimmer beneath it all, like heat rising off pavement. 

There’s a slinky sway to it, like hips rolling in time with every beat. The tempo is deliberate, confident, impossible to ignore—each note coaxing movement, inviting bodies closer. It’s the kind of music that wraps around you like smoke, warm and heady, and refuses to let go. 

You don’t see him at first—just feel it. That ripple in the air. A subtle shift in energy that tells you someone is watching. 

And then you spot him. 

Joaquín steps through the crowd like it’s parting just for him. He’s traded his usual tactical black for loose tan trousers that hang low on his hips, a gold chain draped from the belt loops. A crisp white shirt is thrown over a fitted tank, sleeves rolled up like he’s halfway between saint and sin. His hair’s slicked just enough to look intentional, a single curl falling over his brow, and there’s a glint of gold at his throat that catches the light every time he moves. 

He doesn’t just look good—he looks dangerous. Not in the gunmetal, locked-and-loaded way you’re used to. This is softer. Smouldering. The kind of danger that tempts instead of threatens. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your knees weaken. 

And he’s looking at you. 

Head tilted, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been thinking about this all night. All week. About you in that barely-there dress. About what’s underneath it. About how many people are in this room—and how little he cares. 

Your stomach flips. 

Your whole body hums with anticipation. And you haven’t even touched him yet. 

You're still catching your breath when he reaches you. 

No words. No warning. 

His hand slides around your waist, the other catching your wrist, fingers brushing the underside of your arm like a question. Your body answers before your mouth can—yes. Whatever this is, yes. 

The music throbs through the soles of your feet as you move deeper onto the dancefloor. His hand drops lower, finding the curve of your hip. He steps in—chest to chest—warm breath grazing your cheek. 

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re working. This is work. Just a distraction so that Sam can get to Navarro. 

But right now, with Joaquín’s fingers splayed across your lower back, guiding you into the sway of the beat, your focus is wrecked. 

And this doesn’t feel like work. 

His body moves against yours with practiced ease—hips rolling slow and sweet. The rhythm is deep, deliberate, and he follows it like it’s stitched into his bones. His thigh slides between yours as he guides you, hand firm at your waist as you pivot together—tight, fluid, seamless. 

You loop your arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, and his mouth is suddenly very close to your ear. 

“Hola, mi vida,” he murmurs, “estás espectacular.” 

You might not know much Spanish, but you’ve spent enough time around Joaquín to know exactly what he just said. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “So do you.” 

He laughs under his breath—low, dangerous—and dips you. Hard. Your spine arches, body bending back over his arm, one hand clutching his shirt for balance. His mouth drops to your chest. Breath ghosting over your skin—warm, damp, too much. 

He lingers there. Like he's waiting for permission. 

Then— 

His tongue darts out. Wet heat against your chest. 

You yelp—then freeze. 

The crowd around you stills. Heads turn. All eyes on you. 

“Showtime, cariño,” he mutters, low and smooth, just for you. 

He pulls you up again—slowly. His hand drags from your spine to your waist, fingertips digging in like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And if it weren’t for his grip, you’re not sure your knees would hold. 

He doesn’t even glance at the crowd. He just smirks. 

Because this was his plan all along. This is why he hasn’t practiced with you all week. Why he refused to rehearse. 

Because Joaquín Torres knew exactly how he was going to play you—just like he’s about to play this entire room full of criminals. 

The music builds again, deeper, filthier. That slinky reggaeton rhythm thickens with every beat, and Joaquín takes the cue. His hands slide down your waist, anchoring you as he rolls his hips into yours, slow and smooth—grinding to the beat like he’s got all the time in the world. Like no one else is here. Like the two of you don’t have an entire operation riding on this moment. 

Your hands grip his shoulders, then slide up to the back of his neck. The world narrows to the heat between your bodies, to the heavy pulse of the music, to the way he leans in close and breathes against your skin. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just like we practiced.” 

You snort—soft, breathless. “We didn’t practice.” 

“Exactly,” he smirks. 

He spins you suddenly, one arm looping around your middle to keep you close as your back hits his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you flush against him, and he starts to move again—grinding up behind you in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Filthy. Hypnotic. Perfect. 

Someone in the crowd whistles. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet Joaquín’s eyes over your shoulder. He’s looking down at you with heat, with purpose. Selling it for the crowd—but that look doesn’t feel like an act. 

Your gaze flickers past him, scanning the shadows—and there. You spot Sam slipping through the crowd, unnoticed, just as planned. 

Good. 

You drag your eyes back to Joaquín and grind back into him, slow and intentional. He groans—quiet, but real—and dips his head to the crook of your neck. His lips skim your skin, his breath hot and shallow. 

“Still working?” he murmurs. 

You bite your lip. 

“Because if this is just a mission…” He trails off, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw. “You’re the best actress I’ve ever met.” 

You laugh—shaky, hushed, raw. “Shut up and dance.” 

So he does. 

He drags one hand down your thigh, slipping briefly beneath the hem of your dress, just high enough to make your breath catch. Then he spins you again, facing him, and pulls you back into his chest with a practiced flourish—showy enough to earn a cheer from the sidelines. The lights flicker like heat lightning across his face, casting gold in his eyes, sweat glinting at his hairline. 

The air between you crackles. 

Then—he leans in, voice low, mouth ghosting yours. “Tell me when this stops being a game.” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

Because you’re not sure it ever was. 

“Confía en mí, mi amor,” he murmurs—trust me, my love—and you barely have time to register the words before he spins you out with a flick of the wrist, one hand still gripping yours. 

Your body twirls away from him, dress shimmering beneath the lights, the crowd around you gasping at the drama of it—and then you’re pulled back in just as fast. 

He catches you tight. 

One hand at your back, the other sliding low as he grabs your thigh and lifts—hitching it high against his hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. Holding you there. Staking a claim. 

Your breath punches out of you, caught between the sudden closeness and the weight of his grip. His eyes are dark, gleaming with heat and purpose, and you’re not sure which part of this is still the performance. 

His lips are inches from yours, breath warm, tension thick between you as the music pulses around your locked bodies—sweat, sequins, heat, and hands, everything glittering under low crimson light. And still, the crowd watches. Spellbound. 

So you decide to give them something to watch. 

You swallow hard, gather what’s left of your composure, and let your hand slide slowly down his chest—fingertips tracing the line of his sternum, dragging over warm fabric, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You sway your hips with the music, then pivot—smooth and deliberate—until your back is flush to his chest again. 

His breath catches. You feel it. 

You roll your hips back into him, slow and sinful, and his grip tightens on your hips. 

Your hand snakes up behind you, into his hair, curling tight just enough to make him tilt his head. Then, with a smirk tugging at your lips, you twist to whisper against his jaw—soft, breathy, just for him. 

“Papacito… ay, qué rico tú.” 

You feel the way his whole body reacts—his inhale sharp, his fingers flexing against your skin, his composure cracking for just a second. Just long enough for you to feel victorious. 

But then—he snaps. 

He grabs your hand and spins you back around to face him, hard and fast. His grip is sure, his eyes burning. He’s flushed now, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like he’s trying to get a grip—but losing it. On you. 

And then he drops. 

Not suddenly—deliberately. 

His hands trail down your sides as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours. Not until his breath hits your chest, lips ghosting over your damp skin. 

His mouth moves lower—hot, open, dragging over the glittering fabric until it settles just below your navel. The pressure is maddening. More suggestion than kiss, but it sets your nerves on fire. 

He rests on one knee. His breath is hot through your dress. His grip, searing. 

You feel his nose graze along the line of your panties, the heat of him soaking through the fabric. He lingers—mouth parted, exhale shaky—and you know that if he moves even half an inch lower, you’re going to moan out loud. 

Your knees almost buckle. 

So you do the only thing you can—you throw your arms up, eyes fluttering closed, and let the music carry you. You sway to the rhythm, pulse thudding in your ears, hips shifting just enough to brush against his mouth again. 

And when you dare to look down… 

He’s still there. On one knee. A hand branding the back of each thigh. 

Looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth getting on the floor for. 

And God help you—you want him to stay there forever. 

But after a few beats, Joaquín lifts his head slowly, mouth brushing over your dress on the way up, trailing heat with every inch. His hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, gripping tight as he rises. 

You meet him halfway. 

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your body moulds to his. Breath mingling. Lips so close—so heartbreakingly close—you could count the seconds before they meet. You can feel the heat of him, taste the want on his breath. 

His mouth hovers over yours, a whisper away. The music fades. The crowd vanishes. It’s just him. Just you. Just this. 

Then—he pauses. 

His eyes flicker. Something cracks beneath the surface—heat, hesitation, hunger. 

And he pulls back. 

Not far. Not fast. Just enough to tear the moment in half. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and steady, full of something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or a warning. You’re not sure which—only that it leaves you aching. 

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You blink up at him, dizzy, throat thick, trying to smile like it hasn’t cost you something. 

He leans in again, lips grazing your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “Sam’s clear.” 

You nod—barely, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the music. 

Then he steps back, slow and sure, every muscle coiled like he’s holding something back. 

You follow his lead, putting just enough distance between you to play the part. You sway with the rhythm—two agents, two dancers, nothing more. 

But your body still burns. 

And the ghost of his mouth still lingers, like a secret you’ll never know. 

Eventually, Joaquín leads you off the dancefloor and toward the bar, his hand warm and steady at your lower back. 

Eyes follow you—hungry, speculative. You feel them trailing over your thighs, your back, the glitter of your dress. Men watch like they’re waiting for their turn, like they saw the performance and think it was an invitation. But you don’t care. You’re too distracted by the phantom of Joaquín’s mouth, the ache of something unfinished still pulsing behind your ribs. 

At the bar, he flags the bartender down with a subtle nod and orders for both of you—something cold and sharp that might steady your nerves. You rest your hands on the counter, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel too much. 

“Pretty bold dance out there,” a voice says beside you, too close. 

You turn your head to find a stranger leaning in, all confidence and cologne, eyes skimming your neckline like he owns it. 

“How about a private encore?” 

Before you can respond, Joaquín shifts. Not aggressively. Not even visibly angry. But his body angles between you and the guy with a quiet finality, one arm draping casually across the bar behind you. 

“She’s not available,” he says, voice low but pointed. 

The stranger laughs like he’s not threatened—like he hasn’t realised the mistake he's made. “Didn’t look like that a minute ago. Looked like she was auditioning.” 

You barely see Joaquín move. Just the way his jaw tenses, the slight twitch of his fingers curling at the bar, the heat rolling off him in waves. But it’s enough. 

You touch his arm gently. “We should go.” 

He doesn’t look at you right away, not until the guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath as he fades back into the crowd. Then Joaquín turns, his gaze softer now—but his hand is still tight on your waist. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let’s go.” 

Getting out of the club, into the night, and down the street is all a blur. Your feet move, but your mind is still back on that dancefloor—on Joaquín’s wandering hands, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes burning. 

Your chest aches at the memory of his mouth hovering over yours. Close enough to taste. Close enough to make you believe. He could’ve kissed you. He should have. He was going to. But he didn’t. 

And you can’t stop asking yourself why. 

By the time you reach the van parked a few blocks away in a shadowy side street, you’re grateful one of you is paying attention, because you don’t even remember the walk. 

Joaquín opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re breakable—like you’re something valuable that needs securing. He reaches across and buckles you in, knuckles brushing your thigh in the process, lingering just a second too long. 

Then he’s gone again—door shut, around the van, into the driver's seat. He jams the key in, turns the engine, and starts reversing slowly out of the alley. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just nearly shatter years of friendship in a single, heated moment. 

You stare out the window while he drives, lost in your thoughts and the lingering warmth of him on your skin—sweat, spice, and something that feels specifically made for you. Something that makes your heart race and your knees weak. 

“Where did you learn that?” he asks suddenly, voice low and rough. 

You frown, turning to face him. And God, is it a sight. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp skin, eyes glittering even in the dark. 

You clear your throat. “Learn what?” 

“What you said to me,” he says, glancing at you before turning back to the road. “When we were dancing.” 

“Oh.” You shift in your seat, dragging your gaze away from him. “Just one of those songs you always play.” 

“Right,” he mutters. “Do… do you know what it means?” 

There’s a beat. Only the soft hum of tires on asphalt fills the silence. 

Then you murmur, “Daddy, oh, how delicious you are.” 

His breath hitches. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. 

You wait another beat before adding, “That’s right, yeah?” 

He nods. “Right.” 

He shifts in his seat—subtle, but telling—and you don’t dare let your eyes drop to his lap. 

He clears his throat. “The—uh—the pronunciation was good. Accent could use some work.” 

You snort—sharp and dry. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to pencil in some extra Spanish practice.” 

“Let me know if you need a tutor,” he says, smirking now. 

Your heart thuds—heavy, too hard. You want to tease back. You want to slip into the familiar rhythm, the easy banter. But you can’t. Because now you’re confused, and a little wrecked, and everything feels off. 

“Oh, you don’t have time for that these days, Falcon,” you say, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “I’m sure Gabe or Ceilia would be happy to give me lessons.” 

Two of the engineers you’ve often heard Joaquín arguing with in lightning-fast Spanish. 

“Gabe or Ceilia?” he repeats, tone unreadable, eyes fixed on the road. 

You don’t answer. You’re not sure what you could say. 

So you just turn your head back to the window, watching the quiet city blur by, willing yourself not to cry. Not yet. 

Not until you’re alone. 

- 

You wake up to a bright streak of sun slashing across your face. 

Your eyes are sticky—thanks to all the tears—and your body aches. You stretch your legs out and roll onto your back, careful not to slip off the couch cushions you curled up on last night. 

After regrouping at the office, both Sam and Joaquín offered to drive you home. You declined them separately—telling each you’d already agreed to leave with the other. It took some careful phrasing and a few weirdly timed trips out the front door, but it worked. And eventually, you were left alone. 

You stripped out of your dress and showered—because of course Sam has a shower at the office—before changing into a spare set of clothes you keep in case of emergency. Which, as it turned out, meant an old pair of loose gym shorts and one of Joaquín’s worn Air Force shirts. 

Then you settled in front of your computer and worked until it felt like your eyes were bleeding. You filed mission reports, checked maintenance logs, combed through security footage, and even tried digging deeper into Matías Navarro. But by four a.m., you were in Sam and Joaquín’s office, curled up on the low blue lounges and crying yourself to sleep. 

Partly from exhaustion. 

Partly from heartbreak. 

Mostly because you have no idea what to do about Joaquín Torres now. 

The sound of your phone vibrating against the table forces you to sit up. You rub at your eyes, yawn widely, and reach for it, flipping it over to see Joaquín’s goofy caller ID photo lighting up the screen. 

You stare at it, gnawing on lower lip until the call ends. Then a notification pops up—missed call from Joaquín—followed by a flurry of texts asking how you are, where you are, and if you want to hang out today. 

It’s Sunday. Which means usually, you’d be dragging him to a market or a movie—something sickeningly wholesome, the kind of thing real couples do on their days off. But you’re not a real couple. You never were. And you really need to remember that. 

So you slip the phone into your pocket without replying, deciding to do it later—when you’re less raw. 

With a heavy sigh, you push off the couch and head for your own office, pausing only to start up the coffee machine on the way. You wake your computer, rubbing at your temples as the screen flickers to life. While you slept, it’s been classifying intel, parsing Navarro’s comms for patterns, links, anything actionable. And surprisingly, it’s found some. 

Good. Now you have something to show Sam so he doesn’t kill you for working all weekend. 

You skim the new data for a few minutes before deciding that no amount of international weapons trafficking can be dealt with without caffeine. You’re halfway out your office door when— 

The alarm blares. 

You flinch. “Fuck!” 

Then you jog down the hall, push through the doors into reception, and swing around the desk. You punch your code into the alarm panel and silence the sirens—leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. 

The system has been glitching for weeks—tripping randomly, resetting itself, spamming your phones with false alerts. But still, you drop into the chair and run a security check just in case, scanning for any open doors or tripped sensors. 

Once you get the all clear, you sigh and head back to the kitchen—now in desperate need of that goddamn coffee. 

You spend the next half hour glued to your screens, sipping coffee like it’s oxygen and stretching your sore back every five minutes. You’re so deep in the data that you don’t even hear your office door open. 

Not until— 

“Did you sleep here, cariño?” 

You jump, knocking your chair back a couple inches and sending your coffee mug clattering across your desk. 

“Shit, Joaquín,” you mutter, reaching for the tissues. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, stepping in and snatching the box before you can. 

Luckily, the mug was nearly empty. There’s only a small puddle to mop up—which he does for you, dabbing at the spill with a clump of tissues, careful not to let anything touch your electronics. 

“There,” he says, tossing the wad into the bin. “Now, are you gonna answer me?” 

You frown. “Answer what?” 

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of your desk, invading your space and flooding your senses with the sharp, fresh scent of his cologne. He’s clearly just showered, and God, it’s almost rude how good he smells. 

“Did you sleep here?” 

Your cheeks burn. “Maybe.” 

His smile fades, eyes narrowing. “You told me Sam was taking you home.” 

“And I told Sam you were taking me home.” 

“So you lied.” 

You shrug. “Embellished.” 

He groans, tipping his head back. “Por Dios, me vas a matar algún día.” 

You squint up at him, lips pursed. “Something about God and dying?” 

He looks back at you, amused now. “You really need those Spanish lessons, mi amor.” 

“Well,” you sigh, dragging your eyes back to your screen, “I’ll try to squeeze it in, but I’m a field agent now. My time is valuable.” 

He chuckles again, low and warm, and shifts on the desk—just enough for his body to inch closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough to make your skin heat and your heart race. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” you ask, forcing yourself not to look at him. 

“The alarm went off,” he says, holding up his phone. “Then I checked whose code turned it off and saw that you’re working. On a Sunday. You know Sam’s going to kill you, right?” 

You frown at your screen. “So if you figured I was working… why are you here? To watch me type?” 

He pauses, eyes fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, even as you refuse to meet his gaze. He knows something is off. He’s not stupid. He probably knows you better than you know yourself—and this? This isn’t normal. Not your usual rhythm. Not your usual banter. 

“Actually,” he says, sliding off the desk. “I’m here for your Spanish lesson.” 

That gets your attention. 

You glance up, brows pinched. “What are you talking about?” 

He moves toward the small whiteboard on the wall beside your desk and plucks the marker from the tray. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, spinning in your chair to face him. “I don’t want a Spanish—” 

“Ah,” he cuts in, brow raised. “En español.” 

You give him a deadpan look. “I don’t know it en español.” 

He smirks. “Then it sounds like you really do need a lesson.” 

You exhale hard and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms and then your legs. “Go on, then. Maestro.” 

His eyes light up. “Muy buena, cariño. Now you’re getting it.” 

You don’t reply. You just stare at him, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line. 

He turns to the whiteboard and scribbles a phrase. You try not to look at his forearm as it flexes with each stroke of the marker—but God, it’s hard not to. 

“Alright,” he says, turning back with a smirk. “Go on.” 

You squint at the words, digging through years of memories—listening to Joaquín talk, watching him text his mother, the cheeky little notes he used to write in your birthday cards. 

“Estás... muy... guapo... hoy,” you say slowly. 

He chuckles, stepping closer. “It’s not ‘ess-tass.’ Loosen your tongue, cariño. Eh-stás. More breath. Less bite.” 

You roll your eyes, but try again. “Estás muy... guapo... hoy.” 

“Don’t chew it,” he says, folding his arms—and Jesus, do his biceps have to be so distracting? “It’s not gwaah-po. It’s cleaner. Crisper. Guapo. Let the ‘g’ glide. The ‘o’ is round. Like your mouth when you—” 

He stops—and laughs quietly, eyes gleaming. 

“Never mind. Try again.” 

You scowl at the board, determined not to let his arms—or his mouth—throw you off. 

“Estás muy guapo hoy.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you. Then that slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. 

“Eso, mi amor,” he says. “You’re getting it.” 

Your lips twitch, but you don’t let him see it. You roll them together and raise your brows instead—quietly daring him to give you the next one. 

He turns back to the board and quietly writes out three more phrases. Each scribbled letter winds the tension tighter, threading the air with heat and anticipation—but you don’t know why. Not yet. You recognise some words, sure, but you can’t piece together the full sentences. 

“Me vuelves loco,” he says, overpronouncing it like a smug high school Spanish teacher. 

You sit up a little straighter, arms still folded tight across your chest, and echo, “Me vuelves loco.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Bien. De nuevo.” 

You know he’s just told you to say it again—more from the look on his face than his words. 

“Tell me what I’m saying first.” 

He grins, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You drive me crazy.” 

Your breath hitches, pulse spiking—but you manage to keep your cool. 

“Me vuelves loco,” you repeat. 

He nods. “Very good, cariño. Next one?” 

You drag your gaze away from his stupidly handsome face—ridiculous facial hair still perfectly intact—and squint at the next phrase. You don’t recognise it. 

“Ponte… de… rodillas?” 

He chuckles—low, throaty—and steps forward, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s not a question, mi amor. Say it like you mean it.” 

Your brow furrows as you look past him at the board. 

“Ponte… de rodillas.” 

He moves closer, voice dropping. “The ‘r’—you’re swallowing it. It should roll. Just a little. Ro-dí-llas. You’re saying it too flat.” 

You try again. “Ponte de… rodillas.” 

He tsks. “Softer on the ‘ll’. It’s not rod-ee-yas, it’s ro-dee-yas. Let it melt. Let it glide off your tongue.” 

You give him a look. “If you think I’m going to get turned on by grammar—” 

“Not grammar,” he smirks. “Just me.” 

You roll your eyes—but he’s stepping even closer now, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that same reckless hunger he wore last night. 

“Say it right,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll listen.” 

“Listen?” 

He nods once. “Maybe I’ll do what you’re telling me to do.” 

You’re breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling beneath crossed arms. Your legs feel heavy, unsteady—too tense to stay crossed—so you shift in your chair, uncrossing them as Joaquín watches every movement like a predator tracking prey. 

“Look me in the eye,” he says softly. “Say it again. And mean it.” 

You clear your throat and meet his gaze. “Ponte de rodillas.” 

There’s a beat—one, long charged second where he just stares. 

Then—he sinks to his knees. 

His hands slide up your thighs as he settles between them, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He looks entirely too pleased with himself—and something else. Something darker. 

“See?” he murmurs. “Estoy de rodillas por ti, mi amor.” 

Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding like a war drum. It fills your ears, thrums beneath your skin. Every nerve ending burns where his hands rest—just above your knees—like he's branding you. 

“Next one,” he murmurs, leaning in. 

Your voice catches before you can speak. You’re frozen, eyes locked on him as he lowers his face between your thighs, gaze fixed at the apex. 

You force yourself to look away—back to the board—blinking until the letters come into focus. 

“I… I don’t know.” 

“Just try it, baby,” he says, breath hot against the tender skin inside your thigh. 

You swallow, voice shaking. “N-Necesito… sentirte… adentro.” 

He draws a sharp breath, jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands slide higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. 

Your whole body tenses. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“Uh uh.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to make you ache. “Dilo de nuevo.” 

You blink down at him. “What?” 

“Say it again,” he murmurs, dark eyes dragging up to meet yours. “And I’ll reward you.” 

Your head spins. He’s still there, between your legs, looking at you like you’re something holy and wreckable all at once. This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real. 

But the heat is real. The ache. The want. 

“Necesito,” you say slowly, breath shaky, “se—sentirte adentro.” 

He groans low, sliding his hands higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your panties. 

“Better,” he mutters. “But I know you can do it right, cariño.” 

You clutch the arms of your desk chair, grounding yourself, trying not to move. Trying not to beg. 

“Necesito sentirte… adentro.” 

His hands move again—slow and sure—one hand pushing your shorts aside, the other tracing down your centre, teasing along the fabric of your panties. He lets out a deep sigh before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, moving higher with each wet press of his lips. 

“Better,” he mutters against you. “But it’s not ‘sen-teer-teh’—you’re flattening the ‘i’. It’s sentir—longer. Feel it in your throat. Let it roll.” 

His thumb drags gently along the crease between your thigh and your core, teasing the elastic. 

“You want it?” he whispers. “Say it right.” 

Your grip tightens on the arms of your chair. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and try again—voice lower now, weighted with need. 

“Necesito… sentirte adentro.” 

A sound escapes him—almost a growl—and he dips lower, mouthing you through the fabric. You gasp, hips twitching. The heat of his breath, the shape of his mouth—it’s overwhelming. 

“Good girl,” he says softly, lips dragging over you. “Almost perfect.” 

You whimper, your body arching involuntarily. “Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me how to say it.” 

He chuckles against you, the vibration sharp and sinful. “You’re rushing it. Slow down. Let me hear you want it.” 

His hands are steady on your thighs now, anchoring you open as his mouth hovers just above your pussy. Breath hot, cheeks flushed, dark eyes locked with yours—waiting. 

You draw a breath, forcing your voice to steady, and say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“Sí,” he groans. “Eso es todo, mi amor.” 

Then his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and shove it aside. His mouth is on you just as quick, tongue hot and slick and merciless as he finally rewards you—lapping at your wetness like a man starved. 

You break—letting out a broken cry. One hand flies to his hair, threading through the curls, while the other grips the edge of your desk. Your hips lift into him as his broad tongue licks a slow stripe from entrance to clit. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine. 

Your thighs shake, breath coming hard and fast, but Joaquín doesn’t let up. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles around your clit—just light enough to drive you insane, just heavy enough to make you twitch with every pass. Then he flattens it and licks up again, long and firm, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking—slow, purposeful, obscene. 

“Así,” he growls into you, voice low and ruined. “Así me gusta verte.” 

Your hips buck. Your fingers tighten in his curls. 

“Joaquín—” 

He slides one hand higher, fingertips trailing over your inner thigh before gliding straight to your entrance. He drags two fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, torturous—coating them in your slick, collecting the wetness, then finally pushes in. One knuckle, then two, sinking deep into your heat, his breath catching as he feels how ready you are. 

You gasp—sharp and high-pitched—and he groans into you like the taste is making him drunk. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “Mierda.” 

You whimper something incoherent, every nerve in your body screaming, and he curls his fingers just right—hooking them inside you, hitting that spongey spot that makes your thighs spasm and your mouth fall open. 

And still, his tongue doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and flicks, lips wrapped around your clit like a prayer, and when he groans into you—low and wrecked—it sends a full-body shudder straight through you.  

“Say it again,” he pants, fingers pumping deep and slow. “Say it. Dímelo otra vez.” 

You’re half gone—hips jerking forward, body sliding closer to the edge with every wet, filthy sound echoing between your thighs. 

You choke on your breath, trembling as you manage to say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He growls—honest-to-God growls—and his fingers speed up, curling faster, thumb brushing your clit just as his lips close around it again. 

“Buena chica,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you cum with my mouth, with my fingers—todo lo que me pidas.” 

Then he sucks—hard. One long, deep pull with tongue and fingers working in tandem, filthy and focused and fucking lethal. 

You cry out, hips bucking, the hand on his hair holding him against you as you grind on his mouth. 

He groans into the mess he’s made, lapping it up like it’s sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue traces lazy, hungry circles. 

Your body shakes. You grip his hair like a lifeline, breath shattered. 

“Joaquín,” you pant, tugging on his curls. “Joaquín, I need—I need—” 

“Gonna cum, baby?” he murmurs, curling his fingers again. “Gonna cum on my tongue?” 

You let out a strangled moan as he licks you again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as his fingers pump in and out with an obscene squelching sound. 

“Joaquín,” you say again, firmer this time. 

His eyes flick up, meeting yours. 

“Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He freezes. Everything stops. His fingers stop mid-thrust and he just stares at you, lips glistening, eyes wide. 

“Joaquín Torres,” you say, breathless, chest heaving. “I need you inside me. Right fucking now.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up at you like you’ve broken something in him—something sacred. 

Then, slowly—deliberately—he pulls his fingers from your body and rises to his full height. 

You whimper, aching at the loss, feeling hollow. 

His face is flushed. His lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked, staring down at you now with wide eyes and an expression so raw it makes your chest tighten. 

“Are you sure, cariño?” he asks, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to. I—” 

“I’m in love with you,” you say, rising from your chair to stand in front of him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “And I’d really like it if you fucked me right now.” 

He just stares. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Brows drawn like he’s trying not to cry or laugh or do both at once. 

Then, slowly, his lips curl into that familiar grin. The one you know too well. The one you love more than anything else on Earth. 

“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it.” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Oh, did you now?” 

He nods, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why do you think I just gave you the best head of your life?” 

Your brows lift, and a laugh bubbles from your throat despite yourself. “Of my life?” 

He nods again, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze dipping to that stupid moustache—still glistening with your slick, making your thighs clench. “I didn’t even cum…” 

His grin drops, and he growls. A deep, guttural sound—low in his throat and hot on your skin—as his hands flex around your waist. Then in one fast, fluid motion, he twists your bodies and slams you back against the desk. 

You gasp, hands flying to grip the edge for balance. But before you can speak, his mouth is on yours. 

And fuck. 

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. 

It’s years of holding back, years of wanting, all pouring out in one searing, breath-stealing kiss. His lips crash against yours, tongue demanding entry, teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’s angry he waited this long. 

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between you but heat and desperation. He kisses like he wants to devour you—like he’s trying to rewrite every second you spent not doing this. 

His hands fumble at your waist, tugging at your shorts, pulling them down as you shift your hips to help. Once they fall to the floor, he starts yanking at his belt with shaking fingers. 

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long—” 

You reach down to help, fingers brushing his as you undo his fly and push his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. 

Your hand wraps around him on instinct—hot, hard, pulsing in your grip—and he curses again, burying his face in your neck. 

You stroke once. Twice. Just enough to hear him moan against your throat. 

Then—he pulls back, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he grabs the base and drags himself over your still-covered core. Nothing but the soaking wet scrap of lace left between you. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what you do to me.” 

He pushes again, the thick head of his cock dragging over your clit through the soaked fabric, the pressure maddening. Your hips jerk, mouth falling open. 

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the tip down your slit again. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

Your hand grips the desk, the other tangled in his curls as you breathe out, “Joaquín—please—” 

He looks at you like a man on the verge of losing control. Then he nudges your nose with his, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes blazing. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. “One more time. Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

Your breath shudders as your eyes lock on his, your voice barely more than a whisper—raw, pleading. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He groans—low, filthy, possessive—and grabs your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the desk so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. Then his hands are under your shirt—palms searing as they skim your stomach, over your ribs, until they find your bra. 

Without hesitation, he shoves it up—then your shirt—baring your breasts. He groans, deep and guttural, eyes locking on you. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice reverent and wrecked. 

His mouth latches to your chest, hot tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips wrap around it and suck—hard. His other hand is already at your soaked panties, pulling them to the side again, and you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance. 

“Please,” you gasp, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his bare back. “Joaquín—now.” 

He lifts his head, eyes burning, forehead resting against yours again. 

“You want me?” he asks, cock dragging along your folds. “You want every inch?” 

You nod, breathless, trembling. “Yes. I want you to fill me up. I need to feel you inside.” 

He curses under his breath, grips your waist, and thrusts forward. 

All the air leaves your lungs in a strangled cry as he slides inside—slow, thick, relentless. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, your bodies pressed tight, his mouth open against your throat. 

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. So warm. So tight. So perfect around me.” 

You whimper, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper—closer. He starts to move, hips rolling forward, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before driving back in with a filthy, wet sound that echoes in the office. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Just like that—don’t stop.” 

“I’m not stopping,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Not until you scream my name. Not until everyone in this damn city knows you’re mine.” 

His hand slides up again, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as he pistons into you—faster, deeper, every stroke hitting that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. 

“You’re gonna cum for me now,” he pants, “and I’m gonna feel every second of it. You hear me?” 

You nod—wild, breathless—but it’s not enough. 

He thrusts hard, dragging a moan from your throat. Again. And again. Every push deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your head tips back, your hands scrambling for purchase—on the desk, on his shoulders, anywhere. 

“Fuck, Joaquín—” you gasp, already so close. 

But suddenly, he stops. 

Buried to the hilt and breathing like he ran a marathon, he stills, chest heaving. 

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand catching your chin and forcing your gaze to his. “I said look at me.” 

Your eyes snap open, dazed and wide, vision blurred. 

“I fucking love you, cariño,” he says—raw, desperate. “So fucking much. You feel that?” He rolls his hips, just once, dragging a broken sob from your lips. “That’s what love feels like. Me, inside you, losing my fucking mind.” 

You whimper, thighs trembling around his waist, and he doesn’t wait. He starts to move again—deep and punishing, hitting every spot that makes you see stars. 

“Tell me you love me,” he growls, one hand sliding up under your shirt again to squeeze your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you're writhing. “Tell me, baby. Say it.” 

“I love you,” you gasp, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Fuck, Joaquín—I love you—I love you—” 

“That’s it,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours, fucking you like he means it—like he needs it. “Say it again.” 

“I love you.” 

His mouth crashes to yours mid-moan, swallowing the sound as he pounds into you, the desk rattling beneath your ass, every stroke sending shocks of heat down your spine. You can feel it building—tight and dangerous—coiling deep in your core like a spring about to snap. 

“You gonna cum for me, mi amor?” he rasps, lips dragging along your jaw as his thrusts start to stutter. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?” 

Your entire body is shaking, one hand in his curls, the other clawing down his back as you choke out, “Yes—yes, I’m so close—don’t stop—” 

“I won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked. “Not until I feel you lose it. I want it all, baby. Cada maldita gota.” 

His hand slides down your torso, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles in perfect rhythm with his hips. The pressure hits you like lightning—sharp, electric, blinding. 

“Oh my God, Joaquín—" 

You break. 

You fall apart. 

Your orgasm hits with devastating force, tearing through you in waves, pulsing around him as he groans—loud, low, carnal. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills inside you with a harsh, broken shout of your name, spilling deep as he holds you close like he’ll never let you go. 

You’re both panting, chests heaving, grinding slowly to ride out the high and clinging to each other in the aftershock—sweat-slicked, breathless, totally undone. 

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses a soft kiss to your temple and stays buried deep inside you. 

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts,” he whispers. 

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half disbelieving—and tip your head up to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you stupid. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” you murmur. 

He grins, still inside you, still pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest. 

“Good,” he says, smug and a little dazed. “Means I did my job.” 

You smack his shoulder, giggling now, and he catches your wrist—pressing a kiss to your palm, then the inside of your elbow, then the curve of your jaw. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you say, fingers carding through his curls while his lips assault your neck. 

His nose nuzzles into your skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m your idiot.” 

“God help me,” you mumble, smiling into his shoulder. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression so open it makes your stomach flip. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and sincere. “Not just physically—I mean, really.” 

You nod, heart suddenly so full you feel like it might burst. “Yeah. I’m better than okay.” 

His smile softens. “Good. Because I’m not pulling out until I get at least one more necesito sentirte adentro.” 

You bark a laugh, head falling back. “You’re insatiable.” 

He shrugs, hips shifting just enough to make you gasp. “And you’re going to be fluent soon.” 

You tip your head forward, looking at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“God,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “Vas a ser mi muerte.” 

He rolls his hips again, and you suck in a breath—he’s still hard, still thick and hot, dragging through your slick with maddening pressure. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair as you lift your chin and kiss him—hard and soft all at once, pouring everything into it. 

But then— 

You stop. And pull back. 

That sharp little ache flares behind your ribs, reminding you why you were in this office on a Sunday in the first place. Why you cried yourself to sleep. Why you weren’t even sure you could look at Joaquín today, let alone fuck him. 

He blinks, brow creasing. “What’s wrong, mi vida?” 

“Last night,” you murmur, eyes dropping to where your hand is fisted in his shirt. “Why didn’t you kiss me?” 

He gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “On the dancefloor?” 

You nod slowly. 

“I didn’t kiss you on that dancefloor in front of a hundred criminals because I didn’t want our first kiss to be undercover,” he says softly. “Didn’t want you thinking it was just for show.” 

“Oh.” Your lips twitch into a smile. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “Is that why you were upset? Because I almost kissed you and didn’t?” 

You nod again, slower this time. Cheeks burning, heart thudding. 

“Oh, mi amor,” he sighs, voice warm with laughter. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Well,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter in his hair, “you could start by fucking me again.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His lips are back on yours in a second, hips rolling forward, his hard length pushing into you with the most delicious stretch. You moan against his mouth, hiking your legs up higher around his waist to feel him deeper. 

His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, searing fingerprints into your skin—marks you know will make you squeeze your thighs every time you see them. 

And then— 

Ping! 

The sound of your phone cuts through the soft whisper of skin on skin. Neither of you can help but glance at it, sitting screen-up on the desk right beside where Joaquín is fucking you slowly. 

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Just a motion alert,” you reply. “I set it up a while ago when I was working a lot of weekends because Sam would come in and scare the crap out of me.” You look back at him, eyes trailing over his face so close to yours. “Doesn’t help though. I didn’t see the notification when you came in.” 

He frowns. “So it alerts you when someone enters the building?” 

“Yep.” 

“Right.” His eyes flick to the phone, then back to you. “So... someone just entered the building?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Fuck.” 

You grab the phone and unlock it with shaky fingers, bringing up the security system app and quickly flicking through the camera feeds until you find movement. 

Your breath catches. “It’s Sam.” 

“Shit,” Joaquín hisses, pulling out so quickly it leaves you winded. 

You let out a pathetic little whine, and he can’t help but chuckle as he fumbles with his pants. 

“Later, baby. I promise,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But Sam is going to be here in a few seconds, and he’s going to know what just happened in here if we don’t—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“You in there, kid?” 

You both whip toward the door, seeing Sam’s blurred silhouette through the frosted glass. 

“Quick, cariño,” Joaquín whispers, helping you off the desk. 

You scramble into your shorts, yank your bra and shirt into place, then turn to Joaquín, raking your fingers through his wild curls—both of you stifling laughter like love-drunk fools trying to clean up a crime scene. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“I can hear you.” 

You clear your throat, nod at Joaquín, and step around the desk toward the door. As you grab the handle, you glance back—and spot a little pool of evidence on the desk. 

“Joaquín,” you hiss, pointing at it. 

His eyes go wide, and he quickly sits on it, trying to look casual—as if he hadn’t just been buried inside you right there thirty seconds ago. 

Then you yank the door open, plastering on your most innocent smile. 

“Hey, Sam!” you say, probably a little too brightly. 

His hand was poised to knock again, but he drops it slowly, eyes narrowing as they bounce between you and Joaquín. 

“Hi,” he says, slow and suspicious, stepping into the room. 

You shuffle back toward the desk, sliding in beside Joaquín, praying to any god that might listen that Sam can’t read the Spanish on the goddamn whiteboard. 

“What are you two doing?” Sam asks, brows raised. 

“Working,” you both say, in perfect unison. 

Sam cocks his head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? On a Sunday?” 

You nod. “Yep. I was running data on Navarro all night and found a few leads. He frequents this deli in Washington Heights, owned by—” 

“Why does it smell weird in here?” Sam interrupts, sniffing the air like a police dog. 

“Weird how?” Joaquín asks. “I came straight from the gym, so if it’s sweat, that’s probably—” 

“Did you two have sex in here?” Sam exclaims, eyes wide—locked on that fucking whiteboard. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I was learning Spanish. Joaquín was teaching me—” 

“I know what that says,” he cuts in, pointing at it, brows drawn and lips pursed like he’s trying not to gag. 

“I was just being funny,” Joaquín says, tone light. “Nothing happened.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Oh, okay. So if I check the security footage, it’s not going to show anything?” 

Your heart lurches, your cheeks burn, and you turn toward Joaquín, burying your face in his chest with a groan. 

You hadn’t even thought about that stupid little security camera in the corner of your office. 

“I knew it!” Sam cries. “I can’t believe you two. This is a place of work,” he goes on, already climbing onto his high horse. “You just violated my trust—and the trust of everyone on this team. This is an environment for professionalism, not sex. I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless, so—” 

“Didn’t you bring a date back here the weekend after we started operating?” Joaquín asks suddenly, brows raised. 

You lift your head, blinking. “Oh my God. You did! What was her name—Kylie? Casey?” 

Sam freezes. His expression drops. 

“You know,” Joaquín continues, turning to you, “we could probably find the footage from that night. I think I remember the date.” 

“Wouldn’t take long,” you add, grinning now. “Could scrub through it before we erase ours.” 

“Okay!” Sam blurts, throwing up a hand. “Okay. You heathens win.” 

Joaquín grins, wide and smug, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer. 

“Go through the cameras,” Sam instructs, already backing toward the door. “Delete the footage. Both incidents.” 

“No offense, Sam,” you mutter, grimacing, “I really don’t want to see that.” 

“I’ll do it,” Joaquín says cheerfully. “I’m actually a little curious about how Captain America—” 

“Enough,” Sam snaps, pointing at Joaquín—but the twitch in his lips betrays him. “Do it. Go home. Take tomorrow off. Hell, take the whole week if you’re going to be all over each other like this. Just don’t defile any more government property.” 

Then he’s gone. Out the door and down the hall, muttering something about kids these days. 

Joaquín hops off the desk and wraps his arms around you, smiling like a sinner who just got a free pass to heaven. 

“You think we should keep a copy?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “I bet it’s hot.” 

Your thighs clench instinctively, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Oh, definitely. And Sam’s too—for blackmail. Just in case.” 

Joaquín laughs. “God. Could you imagine if Captain America’s sex tape got leaked?” 

“Might boost his approval rating,” you snort, moving to slide into your chair. 

He stands behind you while you pull up the security system app, his arms around your shoulders, lips brushing over your hair again and again. 

He murmurs it at first—I love you, I love you, I love you—until the words melt into Spanish, growing filthier, hungrier. You can’t understand all of it, but it doesn’t matter. 

Because you’ll make him teach you. 

Slowly. Thoroughly. 

Between your legs. All fucking night. 

END.

[megalony]

Special Victim- Part 3

Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback on this Elliot Stabler series, I hope you will all like this next part.

Please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @talicat713 @niamhmbt @strawberry-canyon @bieberhoodforever @911fangirlie @hollandxxmix @jasmineee05 @creat1venat1onn @devilslittlehelper @darlingcharling-blog @bear8585 @nickie-amore @elliott-calls @person-005 @mbioooo0000 @amara-mars @shypy92 @nikfigueiredo @sabsthedoll @rach2602 @itshamleth @ladespedidas @devilslittlehelper @buckslifeline

@elizaelaine @1dluvr12 @hoodiepandaninja16 @chillipeppersstuf @crabbygabby

Main Masterlist

Part 2

Summary: While Elliot is at work over the weekend, (Y/n) takes the kids out for a while. But things take a turn for the worst when their youngest girl goes missing.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You should try and drink something."

(Y/n) lifted her head when a can of pop was held out in front of her and she looked over to see Olivia stood in front of her.

She had her hips pressed back into the desk with one leg crossed over the other and an arm braced across her chest. But there was a calming smile on Olivia's face that did something to ease the tension overpowering (Y/n)'s system. That smile stopped her chest from quaking so much and eased one of the thousands of nerves knotted up in her stomach.

(Y/n) didn't want to take the drink, but she didn't want to be rude either and decline it. She wasn't thirsty. She wasn't hungry or peckish or tired; she was blank.

Having a drink was the last thing on (Y/n)'s mind, despite not having anything since before she left the house with the kids this morning. She wasn't sure she could stomach anything, her body was in so many knots that (Y/n) thought trying to digest something would just make her sick. But she didn't know how much longer her mind and body could continue if she didn't have anything, and clearly, Olivia thought the same.

She tried to nod her head in thanks and took the drink which she placed down on the desk. Maybe if she stared at it for long enough, she would guilt-trip herself into having some and try to make herself feel a bit better.

"Do you think Rosie's had anything yet?"

Olivia could feel her chest tightening like she was being forced into a corset with the strings being pulled an inch tighter every second. She hated how congested and wrought her system felt because she knew she didn't have the right answers and speculating might not help the situation.

Her nails dug into her upper arm through her jacket as she looked across at (Y/n) who was slumped in Elliot's desk chair at the moment.

(Y/n) looked drained. Her eyes were bleak and clearly finding it hard to focus. She was constantly rubbing and picking at her lower lip that had bled more than once this afternoon and she was biting through each of her nails in turn. Sitting there slouched down with her feet vibrating and tapping against the floor, (Y/n) almost looked like she needed to be in a hospital.

Whereas they both knew that Elliot looked the exact opposite right now. He had found some energy reserves from somewhere and was bouncing off the walls, moving from one desk to the next, to the board in the middle of the room and grabbing the phones when they thought it might be a credible tip coming in. His sleeves were scrunched up past his elbows, hands constantly grabbing his hips or scratching the back of his neck and his eyes were manic, constantly scouring around the room.

Elliot couldn't sit still or stay in one place whereas (Y/n) was finding it hard to keep breathing, let alone move around the precinct.

She tilted her head back so she could look over at Olivia, trying to gage her expression to see whether she thought Rosie had good odds or not.

Had this lady given Rosie a drink since she snatched her? Had she given her a snack or fed her? Was she currently hurting her to try and take her away and keep her quiet? Or had she already done something monstrous to the little girl?

Was Rosie currently being dumped somewhere that would take them hours to find her?

Maybe she wasn't even alive anymore.

"It's hard to say. Some people feed them and treat them like their own kids, we don't know why this lady took Rosie. She might be some kind of grieving mother."

That was what they were hoping for. They were praying that this woman was some kind of mother or at least had those maternal instincts, that she thought Rosie was a sweet little girl or resembled a daughter or sister this woman might have had once. They wanted this woman to treat Rosie like her own child because then, maybe, Rosie wouldn't get hurt.

This woman could have taken Rosie home and given her food and drink, she could have tried to take her for a drive or to the park or be reading her a story right now.

They had no idea what was happening or why she had taken Rosie, and without knowing who this woman was, they had no insight as to why she took Rosie or if she was liable to hurt her or not.

They were left completely in the dark, searching for answers they needed sooner rather than later.

Angling her head to one side, (Y/n) brought her hand up to run across her feverish temple that was throbbing like she was being constantly thwarted with a hammer.

"Do these perps usually hurt the kids they take?" (Y/n) wanted to know. She knew thatt Olivia and the rest of the team didn't want to tell her.

She knew they never liked to discuss these things with parents of victims because it would either give them false hope or a sense of dread and trepadition. But (Y/n) was different. She was married to Elliot, she knew how this job got to people and what he saw and the kind of people he dealt with. She knew more than an average parent and she wanted to know if she had to prepare herself for Rosie being injured or potentially harmed.

Olivia sighed and rung her hands together in her lap before she answered. "Usually, the women perps are less likely to harm kids in this situation unless they feel threatened or its for revenge. But you don't know this woman, that's a good sign."

Olivia wasn't saying that women never killed, because that just wasn't true, but if it had been a man who had taken Rosie then everyone would have been on red alert. Usually in these cases, the women took the child because of their own trauma and they were trying to fill that void. And she was more likely to hurt Rosie if it was for revenge, which was unlikely as neither Elliot nor (Y/n) knew this woman.

"Tell me why you think she took her. Honestly."

Having everyone tiptoe around her was getting tiresome. (Y/n) wanted an honest opinion and evaluation. She wanted Olivia to talk to her and tell her what she thought, rather than what (Y/n) wanted to hear. Elliot wouldn't tell her because he had seen what could happen, and he didn't want to think about one of his children ending up in that kind of outcome. But (Y/n) wanted to know her chances.

She wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not when Olivia leant forward to take her hand, and she found herself trembling all over again.

"To me, I think she wants or misses a child, and Rosie was an opportunity. And once we find out who she is, we can work out what she's trying to do."

(Y/n) found herself nodding along, and she tried to force herself to smile as she squeeze Olivia's hand. And she forced herself to sit up straight in a vain attempt to liven herself up. (Y/n) wanted to do something to help, whether that was talking to an officer again or helping with the tip lines or just going out on the streets to look for Rosie. But sitting here doing nothing was draining (Y/n) more than anything else would.

But her hand suddenly clenched around Olivia's to the point she was cutting off circulation to her fingers and her tired eyes went round with what Olivia guessed was panic when she looked towards the precinct doors ahead of them.

Olivia quickly spun to look over her shoulder and she felt shivers scratching down her back when she saw who walked in.

Kathy. She looked somewhat out of place and unsettled, with her hand tightly clenched around the bag on her shoulder and her eyes constantly scanning from left to right.

"Kathy…" Olivia wasn't sure why she was so shocked that Kathy would be here. One of the kids had probably called her to let her know what was happening, and of course she wouldn't want the kids to think they had to stay here at the station if they didn't want to.

But all four of them had begged to come back to the station, they wanted to be here in case any new developments happened or in case they could somehow help with the search for their baby sister.

Olivia pushed up from where she was resting against the desk, but Kathy was already advancing towards them both.

(Y/n) could feel her anxiety multiplying when she set her sights on Kathy. Being around her had never been comfortable or easy, especially in the beginning when Kathy kept saying and sometimes referring to (Y/n) as her 'replacement'.

And when she had been pregnant with Rosie, seeing Kathy had never been a walk in the park. It took Elliot quite a few tries of talking to his ex for her to finally come to terms with the fact that he was happy with someone else, and with the kids accepting (Y/n) as part of their family, Kathy didn't really have a choice.

They were ammicable and civil whenever they dropped or picked the kids up and when they had to see one another for family occasions. But right now, (Y/n) didn't know what to do or what to say.

Was Kathy going to be upset? Would she turn this against (Y/n) and say that she was clearly a bad mother? Would she imply that any of her kids could have been snatched today and therefore weren't safe when they were out with (Y/n)?

All sorts of worries and dramatic arguments flooded (Y/n)'s mind until she was dizzy and close to slouching back in her chair again. But she wasn't expecting the words that came out of Kathy's mouth.

"Are you alright?"

She looked so concerned, so worried and frightened as she came to stand near Elliot's desk.

Her dark bluey-grey eyes were narrowed in on (Y/n), but they weren't full of malice or annoyance like (Y/n) expected. Her eyes were drowning in concern. She kept rolling her lips and biting them like she was physically holding back a mountain of words she wanted to express. And somehow, she looked ready to hug (Y/n) if the occasion called for it.

There weren't the right words for (Y/n) to answer that. Her baby was out there somewhere with a stranger that may or may not resort to hurting her. They didn't seem any closer to finding Rosie or even finding the name of the woman that had taken her. (Y/n) wasn't alright, but she wasn't falling to pieces yet; she was somehow holding her fragile self together.

So she settled for trying to nod and give some kind of acknowledgement so Kathy knew she wasn't being ignorant or unkind.

"Kathleen rang me, and I- I saw the news. Do you know anything yet?"

"A woman walked out the shopping centre with her, we're trying to use store cameras to pinpoint where they were heading."

Kathy nodded at Olivia, but she didn't seem sure whether to accept that as relieving or worrying.

"The girls are upstairs, and Dickie's helping Elliot on the phonelines." Olivia motioned towards the corner of the room near Munch's desk where Elliot was hovering, one phone pressed to his ear and a pencil tapping madly against his hip. And he had Dickie sat in front of him, trying to listen in on each tip that was coming through the phone lines.

All while Dickie had Rosie's shoe on the desk in front of him, almost as if he was using it as a mascott or a momento to keep himself going and prevent a breakdown. Or like he was reminding everyone at the table why they were all here, doing this.

Elliot briefly glanced to the left when he heard his name, but the shock was clearly written across his features where his jaw hung down when he realised his ex was here.

He hadn't called her, but then again, one of his kids must have. It seemed appropriate. Despite the kids wanting to be here at the station, if they didn't find Rosie soon they couldn't keep all four kids here. This wasn't the right place for them to wait for news, especially if the news they received was bad. They would have to go home at some point, and Elliot and (Y/n) couldn't go back home until they found Rosie. No matter where she was or what condition she was in.

The phone in Elliot's hand was tossed back down on the receiver and he clamped his hand down on his son's shoulder, briefly motioning in the other direction to show him who had turned up.

The pair of them headed towards Elliot's desk and once they got there, Dickie hopped up to sit on the edge of the desk. His hands clamped down on the sharp edge that cut into his palms and gave him a blistering feeling which kept him concentrated and prevented him from giving in to the panic that made him want to burst into another fit of tears.

He looked between all three parents, trying to gage their reactions, but this was one of the few times where none of them seemed annoyed or uncomfortable around each other. They were on the same page.

Elliot's hands found (Y/n)'s shoulders as he stood behind her and he bent down to peck the top of her head before he looked across at his ex. Kathy was trying her best to smile and put on a brave face, and she briefly glanced towards their son before looking back at the couple.

"I can take the kids home, I know they're supposed to stay the weekend with you, but you both need to be here-"

"I wanna stay, I- I wanna find Rosie." Panic rose in Dickie's voice as he glanced to Olivia stood beside him as if silently begging for her to agree and chip in on his side. He didn't want to go home. What good would that do?

Whether they were here or at home, they would all be frantic and panicking about Rosie. They might as well stay here where they would be the first to hear new information and stay updated on the situation as it evolved.

A silent look passed between them all while (Y/n) looked down and waved her hand. This wasn't her decision, it was between Elliot and Kathy whether the kids stayed or left.

It was Elliot who relented, mostly because he knew going home would drive them all out of their minds. "Just for a bit longer, then you go home with your mum."

When Dickie nodded, Kathy advanced towards him and reeled him in for a hug before she stepped to one side and rested her hand on Elliot's shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze.

While Olivia drifted from the desk and Dickie leaned into his mum's side, (Y/n) tilted her head back until she could lean her cheek against Elliot's bicep. She closed her eyes, trying her best not to picture her daughter each time her eyes shut, and she reached her hand up to grip Elliot's wrist.

"We'll find her."

(Y/n) nodded, but she didn't dare open her eyes because she knew they would give away the fright those words caused. She knew they would find Rosie, she just prayed they wouldn't find her too late.

"Wanna help go through security tapes?" Elliot knew what the answer would be and he managed a small smile when (Y/n) nodded and finally opened her eyes to look up at him. And he felt his heart calming down just a little when (Y/n) kissed the inside of his wrist before she pushed forward to get up.

They hadn't had much luck so far with finding Rosie and this mystery woman on the tapes. But they were canvassing and collecting any CCTV from nearby shops and on any roads they guessed this lady might have taken since the last place they saw her.

(Y/n) dragged her fingers through her hair and tried to liven herself up. She wouldn't be very much use looking through tapes if she felt like this, she had to at least keep her eyes open and peeled ready to scour through grainy tapes.

She moved to follow Elliot when he rounded the desk and aimed across the vast room, but her attention was drawn over to the doorway to the SVU squad room.

Finn and Olivia were talking, and whatever they were discussing, neither of them seemed happy.

She couldn't help herself, (Y/n) just had to edge closer. After all, they might be talking about Rosie and whether it was good or bad news, (Y/n) had to know.

Her hands felt like they were turning numb at her sides and her fingertips were as cold as ice and it was spreading up her arms and towards her chest which was shaking with each step she took towards them.

It was as if every other sound in the squad room faded out and their voices were the only ones that (Y/n) could hear or focus on.

"How reliable is the tip?"

Finn shrugged, his expression as grave as Olivia had ever seen. "Cap said it's legit, there's already patrol on scene."

"Okay, how sure are they that it's her?"

"Right age, hair, skin colour, found in the scope area…"

It was as if the world stopped turning and time was broken when (Y/n) finally understood why their expressions were so gaunt and their complexions were pale; and she realised why Olivia was holding back tears.

"Y- you found a body."

(Y/n)'s voice broke when Olivia spun round on her heels, jaw gaping and eyes as hollow as an empty casket. She didn't think the couple were within earshot. This wasn't something they wanted either (Y/n) or Elliot to hear.

A body had been found. A dead one. They needed to go and confirm whether it was indeed Rosie or if it was some other parent's worst nightmare coming to life.

Was it her baby? Was it Rosie, out there somewhere, all alone and frail and left without a second thought? Where had she been left? Had she been covered? Was she cold? Was she somewhere dingy and dark- she was afraid of the dark. What had that woman done to her? Where had she left their little girl?

Elliot couldn't breathe. He was halfway towards the rookie sitting at a desk with a pile of security tapes at his side when Elliot heard (Y/n)'s frail outburst. Tears were already stinging his eyes and blotching his face red, despite how pale and deathly he looked from today's events.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he turned on his heels, storming towards his team. But out the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his son.

Dickie's face had gone the colour of a strawberry and deep rasping breaths were leaving his lips as tears began to flush down his face. He was shaking his head, whispering a rendition of 'it's not her' while he collapsed into Kathy's arms. Allowing her to cradle him close as if he were five years old again while she kissed his temple and hushed him, agreeing that it couldn't be Rosie. For what else could she say or do to console him?

Kathy's stricken eyes locked on Elliot before she kept looking back towards (Y/n). Someone had to help her. Someone had to comfort her and hold onto her before she too went into a desolate state of panic or tried to bolt from the station.

Elliot couldn't feel his legs moving, he felt like he was floating. His body was moving without his command and he stormed past the desks in his way until he was standing in front of Olivia and Finn with (Y/n) stood to one side, seemingly in a trance.

"Is it her? Is it Rosie?" Neither of them wanted to answer him, and Olivia gasped when Elliot's hands seized her arms and he shook her to gain her attention. "Liv! Is it Rosie?"

"We don't know," Olivia tried her best to steady her voice and hold her emotions at bay while she reached up to seize Elliot's wrists. "I'll go find out, but I doubt it's her."

"I'm going-"

"That's not a good idea." Finn shook his head, looking as heartbroken as Elliot had ever seen.

It wouldn't be wise for either of them to go down because if it was Rosie, seeing her wherever she was would be an image they would never forget. And if it wasn't, they would be traumatising themselves with the image of an unknown dead child, something they didn't need right now.

"No. If it- if it's her I don't want strangers leering over her-" Elliot's eyes snapped closed and he wavered in Olivia's arms when he heard (Y/n)'s cries.

He didn't want to speak his thoughts in front of his wife and upset her any further, but he didn't know what else to do. If it was Rosie out there in the cold, in some alley or hidden corner, Elliot needed to go to her. He needed to see her and take her and bring her back. He didn't want strangers moving her or leering down at her.

Shallow breaths left Finn's lips as he bypassed Elliot and cautiously reached out for (Y/n), unsure if she would be okay with him trying to comfort her or not. But she seemed to need someone to hold her broken pieces together. Her hands were cupping her ears to block out their voices and her eyes were snapped closed with her head angled down towards the floor.

"El… Elliot, look at me." Olivia did her best to smile and put on a brave face when Elliot's watering eyes finally looked down at her. "I'm going to the scene, I'll identify that it's not her and I'll come straight back and let you know. I promise."

There was no room for debate and before Elliot could put up a fight and ask where the scene was or try and make a break for it, both Kathy and Captain Cragen were reaching out for him and pulling him back. And when he felt his son's hands latching onto his arm, he knew he couldn't run after Olivia who was already jogging out the squad room.

Olivia knew Rosie, she was her Godmother. She would go and make sure that it wasn't that sweet little girl who had been found. She would reassure them all and come straight back so they could continue looking for Rosie.

It wasn't her. It couldn't be her.

***

He couldn't breathe. Each breath Elliot tried to take got harder and harder until he was gasping and wheezing little puffs of air that were barely enough to sustain him.

It made him feel drunk. It made him feel like he was sinking in quick sand that was almost over his head. And he didn't know how he was going to drag himself out if it consumed him fully because at least drowning for air like this meant his mind wasn't working on overdrive with a million horrid possibilities.

His eyes closed for what felt like the millionth time and his head tilted down until his lips were smothering the back of Lizzie's head.

She was sat beside him, tucked under his arm like she was a little child again seeking comfort and reassurance.

Dickie and Kathleen were sat together at Elliot's desk, no words passing between them but every now and then they would lean into one another or share a look. And Maureen was sat with her mum, dried tears stained into her pasty features and apologies constantly floating from her lips because she felt partially responsible.

If she only kept hold of Rosie's hand, this might not have happened. If she didn't let her play hide and seek in the clothes aisles, if she didn't let her little sister out of her sights for one second. If that woman hadn't been in that shop at that precise time. If none of them went upstairs to look around.

If they had all carried their bags rather than dumping them in the pushchair, Rosie would have been strapped in and this would never have happened.

There were so many what ifs about this whole situation and it was turning their world upside down. A minute or two was all that Rosie had been out of their sights, and that was all it took for someone to seize the moment and snatch her and cause such mayhem.

And why? Why take her? Did this person want to hurt Rosie? Did she want to take her and keep her as her own daughter? Did she want to inflict torment on their family? Or had she taken Rosie specifically to harm her?

Maybe that body that had been found was Rosie, and this had all been some sick psycho's game to harm someone, and Rosie had been a victim of chance.

It felt like they had all been sat around waiting for hours, days, weeks even, as they waited for Olivia to come back with news.

No one knew what to do, and none of the officers in the station knew how to act around them. Finn was sat with (Y/n), but neither of them were speaking. He didn't know what to say to try and somehow help or calm her down, it seemed that his presence was enough for now since (Y/n) hadn't said one word since Olivia left.

Munch was combing through security tapes, plotting out the movements of Rosie and this woman while tips were still coming in on the phone lines. Although most of them were misleading or simply untrue.

Despite the hustle and bustle of incoming calls, people fluttering about asking what to do and giving information left right and centre, the family felt like they were trapped in silence. They were all sat close together in their own little bubble. And for the first time since arriving back to the station, Elliot sat silently with his family, becoming motionless and void.

That was, until Olivia came back into the squad room.

No one knew how long she was going to be, they were all left in the dark, waiting to see how long it took for her to reach the scene, wherever that may be. And how long it would take for her to identify whether it was her Goddaughter or not and then either go along to the morgue or come straight back here. They had no concept of time or how long Olivia would be, therefore they didn't know if this was going to be good or bad news that she brought along with her.

She looked out of breath, like she had ran up here from her car and her hands were twitching and flexing at her sides like a coping mechanism to keep herself calm and settled.

Her eyes roamed around the room, seeing (Y/n), Kathy and all the kids sat close together, clearly waiting for her to come back.

But it was Elliot who jumped to his feet first. His arms untangled from Lizzie and he found a reserve of energy he didn't know he had which allowed him to rush across the room until he was standing in front of his partner.

He debated reaching out for Olivia but settled on resting his hands on his hips where he could pinch his skin if necessary to try and keep himself calm and under control.

"Was- was it-"

"Was she-"

Voices came at Olivia from all angles, needing answers as swiftly as she could give them.

She looked around the family, seeing a mixture of panicked faces staring back at her. Each of the kids had clearly been crying, Dickie and Maureen still looked distraught with wobbling lips and blown pupils and tears soaking into their features.

But it was Elliot's watering eyes that set Olivia off guard. She had seen him cry before, when he and Kathy broke up. When they couldn't save someone on a case. When a child had been sking for help in a tough situation or seeing one of their victims pass away too soon. This was different. These were tears of a broken heart and it had never felt so hard for Olivia to look up at Elliot before.

Her hands reached out for his upper arms as if ensuring he wasn't about to collapse when she told him her news.

"It wasn't Rosie. I swear on my life, it wasn't her. She's still out there, alive."

She wasn't sure what kind of reaction she had been expecting, but having Elliot's arms binding around her middle and his tears soaking into her neck wasn't what she anticipated.

Nevertheless she wrapped her arms around him and began gliding her hand up and down his back, giving what little comfort she could in this moment.

It hadn't been Rosie. Olivia had been in tears before she pulled up on the scene, but when they showed her that little girl, she burst into tears as she shook her head wildly. It wasn't Rosie. She didn't know who that little girl was or what family she belonged to, and Olivia felt an enormous wave of guilt rising in her chest at how relieved she was.

She was happily inflicting agony upon some unsuspecting family who would receive news that no one should ever hear. But she was glad Elliot and (Y/n) didn't have to hear such news.

Their little girl was still out there somewhere. She still needed them to find her, and more importantly, she was alive. Or in the very least, they could assume the best and hope that she was still alive and hadn't been hurt in any way.

For the first time in hours, a trace of a smile hinted across (Y/n)'s lips and she squeezed Finn's hand when she heard him murmur "What did I tell you?"

It hadn't been Rosie, but they weren't much closer to finding her.

***

Leaning to the right, (Y/n) laid her cheek on Elliot's bicep and curled her hand around his elbow while she stared at the board in front of them.

There was a map pinned up to the board with little dots stuck all over it. There was a red dot over the shopping centre where Rosie had been snatched. Another three dots around that where she had definitely been sighted on security cameras or by witnesses in nearby shops.

Three yellow dots signified possible sightings that they hadn't yet confirmed, and the dark blue sticker dots implied places they thought this woman might go to.

They had a name. TARU had cleared up a picture of the woman from a security camera and found a match in the database. They knew her name and home address, although when a team went to her house it had been empty. But at least they were a little bit closer to knowing about this woman and guessing why she had taken Rosie.

For a little while now, Elliot had been staring at the map, trying to guess where this woman was going and what she was doing. He couldn't find anything or come up with any possible answers, but he didn't know what else to do.

He felt (Y/n) leaning into his side and holding onto him and it made a soft look crease at his features. He turned to peck the top of her head and he reached his hand down to squeeze her wrist.

It was getting late. After the false alarm, Kathy had managed to convince the kids to go home with her. Elliot promised to ring them if he had any news whatsoever and that they could come back as soon as they found Rosie or got some credible information. But he and (Y/n) couldn't leave. They needed to be here for any sort of developments.

"She'll be tired by now… and hungry." (Y/n) knew talking like this wqasn't exactly going to help, but all these thoughts were going round and around in her mind and she didn't know what to do to get rid of them.

She felt Elliot tighten his grip on her wrist while he shifted to press his lip to her temple rather than the top of her head. She was sure she felt him sighing against her skin, but he didn't pull away or tell her not to go down this road.

They just wanted her back. It had been hours now.

"Someone will spot her. This woman hasn't taken her home yet and Rosie's plastered all across the news. We'll find her soon."

If she tried to take Rosie to a hotel or a fast food place or even to a corner shop, the chances were that someone would recognise Rosie from the news and tell the police. And this woman hadn't been back to her home yet, she might go there eventually lest she wanted to spend the night on the street or in a car with a screaming child who would be begging to go back home to her parents by now.

A comfortable silence enveloped the pair of them as they stared at the map and listened to the bustling sounds around them.

It felt like they were drifting apart from the rest of the world, right until Munch's voice broke through the air, louder than all the rest.

"Possible sighting!"

Those two words were enough to spark hope and adrenaline straight to (Y/n)'s heart. Her nails dug into Elliot's elbow as the pair of them spun on their heels to try and spot John in the bustling squad room.

The couple hurried towards him, as did Olivia and Cragen as if John had just announced that he had found the last golden ticket or had the winning lottery numbers; and everyone wanted them. They crowded round his desk, eyes wide and eager to know what tip he had just heard on the phone.

"Where?"

"Are we sure it's them?"

"Is she okay?"

John held out his hand, waving at them all to signal for them to stop bombarding him with questions. He would answer them. "A woman matching Marlene's description was seen dragging a little girl towards a car. Number plate matches what we have on file."

"Is it Rosie?" Elliot had to be sure. After their scare earlier in the afternoon, he wanted- no, needed to be sure that this was real. That his youngest was indeed alright and alive and fighting. He needed to know if this was a real tip that he could go to and find his girl once and for all.

"Witness said the girl wasn't wearing shoes, we didn't release that to the press. They're on the corner of fifty-ninth street."

They had released a recent photo of Rosie and a description of what she was wearing, but they hadn't told the press that she had lost her shoe at the shopping centre. So a little girl matching her description, without shoes, was a very close match to Rosie and less likely to be someone trying to cause trouble or wanting a reward for a bogus tip.

"Let's go." Elliot was already turning away from the rest of them and looking for the nearest exit before he realised Cragen was moving to stand in front of him to gain his attention.

"Elliot-"

"Cap, I have to go. I have to get her back."

He knew that Cragen had been lenient already by allowing Elliot and (Y/n) to be here in the squad room helping out and hearing all the possible leads and new information. They didn't usually have parents this close to the case trying to get involved, but then again, the parents weren't usually one of the team.

But Elliot couldn't be held at bay now. He couldn't be remanded here to the station while they went out and possibly found Rosie. If this was a reliable tip and they found her, then her parents needed to be there. They would need to be with her sooner or later when she was found, and waiting wasn't going to help anyone.

He could see the debate happening behind Cragen's eyes before he nodded and a sigh slipped past his lips.

"You stay with Olivia, let her take the lead. Finn take (Y/n) but stay behind the lines."

Elliot was a detective, he knew the rules and if he stayed with Olivia she could make sure he didn't step out of line or get too involved trying to get his daughter back. This still had to be played by the rules. (Y/n), however, wasn't one of them. She didn't know the rules or the standards and she was a civilian, they had to look out for her. She would have to hang back and watch from the sidelines until they got Rosie safe and sound. Her being allowed down to the scene was lenient enough.

"Everybody move!"

The whole car ride felt like a timer was set on them, and Elliot was the bomb that was ready to explode.

His feet tapped and jittered against the floor, his clenched hand was constantly tapping on the door and his other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying so hard to keep himself quiet. He didn't know what to do with himself.

What if it wasn't Rosie? What if they didn't get there in time? What if this Marlene managed to take Rosie away or find a different vehicle and escape with her? They would be chasing them throughout the night, possibly for days.

He wanted his baby girl back.

None of his kids had ever been taken like this before or gone missing. There had been one or two close calls, but nothing on this scale. Elliot had always sympathised with parents in this position, he tried to imagine what they were going through and help them as much as he could. But now he truly felt the fear that felt like a hand squeezing their heart. He experienced that constant stream of adrenaline and those horrid sailor's knots in the stomach that tangled up the more he tried to calm down.

And none of it was going to disappear until he had Rosie back safe and sound in his arms.

The closer they got to the scene, the more unsettled and sick Elliot started to feel and he knew Olivia felt the same nerves because she kept tapping her nails against the steering wheel and looking over in his direction.

All of a sudden, Elliot perked up in his seat and sat forward, one hand resting on the dashboard while the other started pointing.

"There! There, it's her car she's on the move. Go!"

She had managed to get into her car. From what the officers had said who were arriving on scene, Marlene was struggling to get Rosie into her car and it was causing a scene, just what they needed to find her. But if she was driving off that meant she had either dumped Rosie in favour of trying to get away, or she managed to get the toddler in the car with her and was on the run.

Either way, they had to catch her.

"Finn, they're going down tenth-ave, cut them off. We're in pursuit." Olivia spoke into her radio while Elliot switched on the sirens and clung tight to the door handle when she spun the car in the opposite direction.

Elliot knew (Y/n) would find it hard to stay in the car once they cornered Marlene and tried to get her out of her car. (Y/n) would want to be out with them, trying to get Rosie back. She wouldn't want to just sit and wait to be told when she could come over and when it was safe, but she would have to wait.

At least he could get out. He wasn't benched or stuck on the sidelines, he could go and get their girl back.

The feeling of his gun strapped to his right hip was weighing heavy on Elliot's side and it was starting to burn a hole in his skin. He didn't want to brandish his gun if Rosie was within sight. He didn't want anyone risking shooting his daughter by mistake or frightening her, but he didn't want this woman getting away with her either.

His shoulder rammed into the door when Olivia skidded the car to the right, the brakes squealing to a stop as they blocked off the end of the road. And once their target was in the middle of the road, there was nowhere to go. Especially when Finn's car blocked the other end of the avenue.

"NYPD, turn off the engine and step out the car slowly." Olivia hurried out the car and approached the vehicle in question with her gun held low in her hand, pointed down towards the floor as a precaution.

Elliot's eyes zoomed in on the car as he stepped out, his hand hovering over his holster, ready to take aim if the woman tried to make a break for it or tried throwing anything at them. They had no idea whether she was going to be violent or not. They didn't know if she had or was willing to hurt Rosie or attack them to try and make her escape if she even thought that she could get out of this situation.

The woman climbed out.

She looked to be mid to late thirties. She had shoulder-length black hair and a fringe that almost reached her eyes that were rabid like a wild animal caught in a snare. But when she reached down and grabbed the hand of a little girl who scurried out the car, Elliot felt like he couldn't breathe.

A purple dress with flowers. Plain white tights that were now ripped and black around the knees. No shoes on her little feet that were scuffing against the floor with holes in the ends around her toes and dirt and mud clinging to he tights.

Those big doe eyes made Elliot see red. His baby girl. That was his daughter, and this woman had tried to take her away from him.

He took one step forward with his right hand still hovering over his holster and his left hand held out in front of him to try and keep Marlene from doing anything stupid. But his shoes scuffed against the road and he stopped in his tracks when he watched her move.

She locked one arm around Rosie's waist, hoisting the writhing and screaming child up against her chest. But her other hand was holding something near Rosie's neck, and from the look of things, Elliot took an educated guess that it was a knife or some kind of weapon.

He couldn't risk her hurting Rosie.

He glanced across at Olivia, but she was already tucking her gun back into her waistband. "Marlene, we're here to talk. Why don't you put Rosie down?"

A feeble whisper of "Auntie Liv?" hushed past Rosie's lips and her timid eyes tried to crane to the side to see where Olivia was as she recognised that familiar voice.

It was clear that Marlene wasn't happy about being known and recognised, and she seemed even more disgruntled at the fact that Rosie knew the cops who were trying to get her back. Her arm tightened around Rosie who started to wriggle and whimper.

"It's me sweetie, are you okay?" Olivia tried to smile but she could barely hear her own voice over the pounding of her pulse in her ears. Seeing Rosie wriggling and talking and mostly unharmed was like a dream that felt too good to be true. After searching all day and having a brief worry that she might be dead, seeing Rosie now was sending Olivia into a delirious state.

"Rosie, baby are you okay?" Elliot breathed harshly through his words when his girl didn't respond to Olivia.

He loved the spark of hope he saw ignite in her eyes when she saw him stood just over a hundred yards away from her. He saw those watering eyes brighten up and her little red lips parted into a mewl as she began to wriggle.

"Daddy!"

A smile pulled at Elliot's lips and he flashed his teeth as he nodded, barely able to contain himself at seeing his girl alive and well. "It's me baby, we're here now."

When Marlene took a cautious step back, Elliot's smile faltered and he held himself back from trying to move. He knew it would only push Marlene to keep retreating and he didn't know if she was liable to hurt Rosie in such a panicked state. She was getting caged in and she didn't know what to do.

"Marlene, why don't you put her down? We want to talk." Elliot could barely remember what he was supposed to do in this situation when the paternal instinct within him was telling him to bolt over there and snatch his child back to safety.

"No… no, just g-go away."

"We can't do that, we're here to help you and Rosie." Olivia tried her luck stepping closer but Marlene was still trying to step away, all with Rosie wriggling and fighting in her arms.

She wanted to be put down. She wanted to go back to her dad. Rosie wanted to go home. One minute she was shopping with her mum and all her big siblings, and the next some lady was taking her hand and telling her they were leaving. She had been crying all day, desperate to go back home but she kept being told that her family weren't coming for her.

But her dad was here now. He was here with her auntie Liv, they were here to take her home. That was what Rosie wanted. To be taken back home and to be with her family, not this strange, frightening lady.

"She's mine now, she's my little girl. So- so you're going to let us leave."

Her arms adjusted to hitch Rosie higher against her chest and her hand hovered the knife closer to the little girl she had grown attached to. She didn't want to hurt her, but if it was the only way to get it through to the police that they couldn't have her back, then it was something she would have to do.

This little girl was hers now. This was her daughter now and she wanted the police to stop searching for her and people to stop staring when she tried leaving with Rosie.

Elliot began to shake his head, trying hard to keep his expression neutral but it wasn't working. His eyes were close to watering again and his chest was aching and tightening just looking at his daughter who was crying and wriggling, desperate to be back in his arms once again.

"We can't just let you take her." There was a hint of sorrow in Elliot's voice as he locked eyes with Marlene. She couldn't truly expect them to let her walk away and take Rosie from them.

He couldn't stand here and watch her run off with his daughter. Rosie belonged with him, she belonged with her family, not with this unhinged stranger.

"No I want daddy." A deep whine left Rosie's lips as she started to swing her legs, desperate to do anything to get back to her dad.

Hearing her pleading voice and seeing the utter terror plastered across Rosie's face caused Elliot's heart to crumble in his chest and weigh down in the pit of his stomach. She wanted him. She was calling out for him to come and get her and Elliot had to fight every fibre of his being not to run over there and snatch his little girl back into his arms.

He found himself wincing when Marlene sobbed and tilted her head back like she was looking up to the sky for the answers she couldn't find.

"She's mine!"

"No!" Deep whines rumbled past Rosie's lips followed by a sob as her hands started to stretch out, bash and wave in Elliot's direction.

Didn't he want her anymore? Why was this lady trying to take her? Why did she have to stay with this lady? She wanted to go back home. She wanted Elliot to take her back, not let her leave with this person.

"Baby it's alright, I'm right here-"

"You have enough!" Marlene's sudden outburst stunned Elliot into silence as his wide eyes flooded with confusion. "All those kids, too many and no one was watching her. I- I can give her the attention she deserves."

Now that wasn't fair. She couldn't simply assume that Elliot- or rather (Y/n), since he hadn't been there at the shopping centre- had too many children and therefore it was perfectly fine to take one. Marlene couldn't assume that Rosie wasn't cared for her loved or given the attention she needed and deserved.

Rosie might have four older siblings, but that didn't mean she wasn't loved or wanted or spoiled.

She was their girl, she was their family and they weren't going to let her be taken and let her go without a fight. Marlene couldn't just take their daughter because she assumed they had more than enough children to sustain them and make them happy. And she couldn't take one from someone else simply because she didn't seem to have a child of her own.

The world didn't work that way and Elliot was going to get his daughter back one way or another. There was no happy ending for Marlene in this situation and there was nothing Elliot could do to change that.

"Her sister was watching her, they've all been desperate to get her back. We want out little girl back, please. You don't know how much its hurt us, trying to find her and make sure she's okay."

Marlene began to run.

"No- no!"

Elliot couldn't brandish his gun from his holster, he couldn't take aim and risk hitting his daughter and he knew that Olivia thought the same. The pair of them set off into a sprint after Marlene who didn't seem to know where she was heading for.

There were a few side streets leading from the main road they were on, but she wasn't going to get far on foot. And she couldn't backtrack and try to get Rosie in the car and make a break for it when Elliot or Olivia could easily reach the car and get in her way.

Marlene hurried as fast as she could whilst juggling Rosie in her arms, who kept falling and slipping and wriggling making it impossible to hurry without dropping her.

Rosie wanted her to stop. She wanted to go home. She was lost, on a street she didn't know with a strange woman and she was hurt. She wanted to go home.

When the lady pressed the knife near her face and hissed at her to stop moving, a blood-curdling whine left Rosie's wavering lips and she began to sob. Her eyes scrunched up tight as tears stained her face and her arms stretched out like she was trying to reach out for Elliot.

Why was she being dragged around? Where was her mummy? Why had this lady taken her away from the shops? Why did none of her family follow or meet them outside like the woman said they would?

Elliot continued to sprint whilst ramblings and yells left his lips. He was gaining on them. He was close. His arms stretched out in front of him as he was so close that he could almost reach out for his daughter. It was like a race, a competition, and Elliot needed to win.

A blaring car horn. Back up hadn't arrived yet to block off the other side streets and barracade Marlene in to stop her from getting away. That meant bypassers and civilians weren't diverted or told to stay away from this area.

"Rosie!"

Elliot stumbled, deep breaths raging past his lips that made his chest heave and feel like it was splitting apart. He surged forward when Marlene stumbled. Everything happened so fast that Elliot couldn't tell whether the car hit her as the brakes squealed to a stop or whether she stumbled from sheer panic and terror.

Either way, she went down with Rosie in her arms who let out a mixture between a scream and a choked howl as she and the stranger collided with the road.

The moment they were down, Elliot was moving. He didn't care about being careful and he didn't think about the possibility that this woman might have sustained injuries or in the very least a few bumps and bruises. His touch was rough as he turned and battled with her arms, flinging them in every direction like he was digging through dirt to find buried treasure.

And he found her. His girl. His crying, screaming little girl who was terrified beyond belief and tormented to no end.

"Come here, okay baby it's alright. I've got you, shh." Words tumbled past Elliot's lips in a whirlwind as he tried to be careful and as tender as possible, but he just wanted to scoop her up and retreat as far as possible.

His arms bound around his girl and he lifted her up, carefully huddling her against his chest as he took a few wide steps away to add as much distance between his daughter and this crazed kidnapper.

It was a relief that Olivia crouched down beside Marlene because that meant Elliot didn't have to check her for injuries or read her her rights. He could stand back with Rosie and check her over and get ready to take her to hospital for a thorough check up.

He hushed Rosie as she let out another scream, trembling in his arms despite how she was clearly trying to burrow down into his chest. Smelling that familiar cologne clinging to Elliot's shirt which helped to quieten her down somewhat. She was back in familiar arms. She was safe. She was with one of her parents again.

Her arms bound around Elliot's neck and she nuzzled her face into his skin as he peppered her temple and cheeks with dozens of kisses.

"Oh baby, we've been looking everywhere for you. Are you hurt?" Elliot kept his lips glued to his daughter's temple, unable to truly register or believe that she was safe in his arms.

A dark part of his mind had resigned to the fact that he might not find Rosie safe and unharmed. He had been in this job for twelve years, he knew how bad a situation could get and how unlucky parents could be. Children didn't always come back alive. Having Rosie trembling in his arms and clinging to him like this proved that she was alright and that the worst hadn't happened to Elliot and (Y/n).

"El! Elliot!"

Tremors rattled through (Y/n)'s voice as she pelted away from the car, Finn's voice turning to careless whispers on the wind behind her. Her shoes scuffed against the road, her knees quaked and threatened to drop her down to the ground and her heart was beating frantically in an effort to escape her chest.

She saw that little frame in her husband's arms. She recognised that look of relief in his eyes and the tears streaking down his face. He had Rosie back, and (Y/n) needed to see her.

She stumbled, unable to stop herself from how fast she had been running in her efforts to reach her family. Both arms outstretched and bound around Elliot who almost went down on his back with the force which (Y/n) barrelled into him.

Her face smothered into his arm and one of her arms bound around his waist while the other hand reached out to cup the back of Rosie's head.

"Mummy," Rosie whimpered and went off into another round of crying as Elliot turned her a bit better in his embrace so (Y/n) could see and reach out for her.

Tears poured freely down (Y/n)'s face as she peppered kisses all over Rosie's face and started to card her fingers through her daughter's tangled mess of hair. She had been petrified today, she was trembling and sobbing and clearly she had gained a few injuries. But she was alive, and she was safe now. They had her back with them, where she belonged.

"It- it's alright baby, we're here."

[starryoak]

#god i remember the start of this disc horse #and that the og op was being...reasonable actually #and saying that games such as sdv aren't ''games without politics'' actually and that all art has politics because politics is everywhere #and that cozy farming sims in particular are often resting on some reeeeeaaally nasty tropes with ugly history in the real world #and if that's what you think of as ''as story with no politics in it'' you are in fact laughably uninformed #and btw there's a reason that the fantasy of ''run away into the vast wild untamed frontier and make a home there'' is so popular in the us#and it's not a pretty reason #and calling that fantasy specifically ''apolitical'' is tone-deaf and uninformed at BEST #and like. the og op was responding to a different conversation about how tired certain people are of ''politics being in everything now''

#and they were talking specifically about sdv as an example but the overall point was that if you as a leftist are complaining about art #being ''too political these days'' you are in fact turning into a reactionary and you need to stop and remember that EVERYTHING has politics #BUT THEN A HANDFUL OF OTHER BLOGS GOT HOLD OF THIS TAKE. AND JUST IGNORED THE ENTIRE ACTUAL POINT IN FAVOR OF#CLAIMING THAT PLAYING GAMES SUCH AS SDV IS AN ACT OF RACISM IN ITSELF AND SHOULD BE SEEN AS A MARKER OF WHITE SUPREMACIST BELIEFS #truly some ''harry potter books were always evil and if you were a true leftist you never would have enjoyed them'' type shit #''i find this media annoying but seemingly everyone else likes it THANK FUCK i now have an excuse to call its enjoyers problematíque'' #and now we're here. with people making the completely unironic statement that if you enjoy harvest moon games you're a genocide apologist.

#(also i cannot help but notice that this particular bad take is lowkey obsessed with farming sims as the sign of a particularly usa sin) #(while just Completely Ignoring that stardew valley did not invent the genre actually and was/is a love letter to harvest moon) #(which is a distinctly japanese game with japanese politics)

#(but no. we're gonna ignore that in favor of claiming the entire genre of ''cozy farming sim'' is a us american invention and phenomena) #(DESPITE LITERALLY ALL OF THEM BEING MORE OR LESS DIRECTLY INSPIRED BY HARVEST MOON) #(YOU CANNOT TALK ABOUT PLATFORMERS AS A GENRE WITHOUT AT LEAST ACKNOWLEDGING SUPER MARIO BROS) #(AND ARGUABLY HARVEST MOON IS EVEN MORE IMPORTANT TO COZY FARM GAMES THAN MARIO IS TO PLATFORMERS) #(PLATFORMERS HAVE OTHER ARCHETYPES AND MAJOR INFLUENCES) #(MEANWHILE THE ENTIRE COZY FARM GAME GENRE IS HARVEST MOON CLONES ALL THE WAY DOWN) #(that is not a criticism of the genre btw i'm just saying it's maybe important to consider that Americans Did Not Invent This Actually)

#(if you're gonna talk about the politics of the cozy farm game genre you need to at least have a passing knowledge that harvest moon exists) #(and that harvest moon is very much a product of and reaction to the japanese bubble economy bursting in '92) #(but anyway. god forbid the disc horse acknowledge that not everything is about the usa.)

we shouldn’t judge people based on their sexual fantasies. We be smart enough to understand know the difference between fantasy and reality and we shouldn’t make assumptions about someone’s real life behavior just because they mentioned having a certain kink. but if someone says they like cozy farming sims then they definitely support ethnic cleansing.

[weaver77]

Ready player 2

Gamer Shiesty!Mark x Reader

Part 1

Inspired by @clairewritesfanfics version of Shiesty, I didn't know i needed gamer Shiesty until now.

If Mark were to go back in time and told his past self, that he would one day. Buy Animal crossing, Stardew Valley and even the Sims. He would have promptly laugh in his face and tell him to fuck off

And really, Mark couldn't blame him. Because after all he hadn't meet you yet.

When the two of you started dating he didn't expect it to last long.

At best, he thought it would last for a week or two. Before ultimately the two of you would part ways due to respective differences.

But that never happen.

Instead he was surprise when not only did you made an effort to know the things he liked. But you remembered them too.

He mentioned offhandedly about an anime character he liked and you got him a keychain of said character.

Before he knew it, the two of you started talking about all his favorite series, games. Heck, he even showed you the cosplays he made and the figurines he collected.

For the first time in his life, Mark felt like could just be himself around someone. Not Invincible the masked hero or Mark the resident bad boy who gets in trouble with the cops.

Just Mark Grayson who likes to read Seance dog and learned how to sew so he can cosplay his favorite character.

So when he accidentally insult you, he knew he fucked up

You had invite him over to your place, its the first time his been inside your house. And Mark was trying his best to hid how nervous he actually was

He lowkey regrets not doing any romance routes in his games. Maybe it would better prepare him for these stage

Maybe you picked up on his nerves because low and behold you set up a game console for the two of you.

How did he get so lucky?

He toke his respective seat ready to play the game you set up. Mark already decided he would go easy on you on the first round

When the game boot up and the title screen appeared. It toke a minute for Mark to register the name. Mario Kart

"What's so funny?" You ask carrying a bowl of popcorn catching the tail end of Mark's snicker.

"I'm sorry Babe, its just-" Mark bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing again as he reach for the popcorn bowl "I think you bought the wrong game"

You stilled for a moment processing what he said "What do you mean?"

"Its a racing game, you nailed that part sweetheart but it's for kids"

You didn't say anything

"It's okay" He paused to munch on the popcorn "We've all been deceived by good cover art "

You watch Mark pop more popcorn in his mouth

"We can exchange it for a real game so you didn't waste your money, or if you like I'll find a way to get your money back babe"

".. Mark" You spoke softly drawing his attention immediately "I didn't buy these game for you"

He blinked "What?"

"I owned these game for a while now, i played a version of it when i was a kid. And when i saw they're releasing a new version, i got it for myself"

Oh "Oh" Mark looked between you and the tv screen

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"I don't understand, how can you like these?" Mark ask waving his hand towards the screen like it has personal offended him "I understand liking it as a kid but how can you still like it now, is it the nostalgia?"

You toke in a deep breath before responding "I had fun playing it by myself and with friends. You like racing games so i thought we could have fun playing it together"

Mark remembers when he introduced you to one of his favourite anime, you haven't watched the show before and despite it not being in your genre. You watched it with him and listen to him gush about it.

And here he was interrogating you on why you like Mario Kart when you set it up as a cute co-op gaming date with your boyfriend.

"Its fine" You sigh snapping Mark back into the present "We can just watch a movie or something"

Before you can take away the controllers Mark stopped you "Y/n- baby wait" grasping your hand Mark inhaled looking up at you with his sad puppy dog eyes "I'm sorry, i shouldn't have said that too you. I meant not like these game but i shouldn't be an ass about you liking it"

Your expression soften as you hear out Mark's apology, due you didn't respond right away. Letting him sweat for a moment before ultimately bringing him into a hug "Apology accepted". Mark sighed sagging in relief as he returned the hug tenfold, nuzzling his face into your neck before separating.

"Do you still want to play?" Mark asked holding up the controller

"Mark we don't need to play Mario Kart if you don't like it" You replied not wanting Mark to feel pressured into playing it with you

"I know but you like it. And if it's something you enjoy playing then I'm happy to play it with you" Mark replied blushing at how sappy he sounds, but it was no less true.

And that was how Mark mange to salvage the date, only to lose the battle that was Mario Kart.

It seemed simple enough, cross the finish line. Something Mark is familiar with

What Mark didn't account for was how brutal you were with the turtle shell

Mark can figure out the best route of the race course but it was the power ups that got to him

He wasn't familer with them and even when you explained what each were he was still getting use to them

Meanwhile you were incredible experience in the game and it shows

Mark used the squid to ink up your side of the screen, limiting your vision in hopes of catching up

But you were still able to navigate through the course from the small clean gap the power up didn't cover

Which Mark is impressed by and finds attractive as hell

"I can't believe i lost" Mark stares in disbelief at the screen as you cross the finish like first

"Well that's not true you came in second place, that's a good first try" You point out patting him on the back

"Yeah but I'm usually come first" He muttered with a pout "I swear I'm usually good at these"

"Hmm i don't know" You hummed thoughtfully "Sounds like an excuse to cover up your skill issue"

"You did not just say that" Mark gasp

"Oh but i did, what are you gonna do about it Bowser?" You smirked raising your controller

"Oh now it's on!" Mark grinned in return starting round 2

Mark ended up winning that round and both of you ended up having a competition too see who can get the much wins

Mark knew some of the characters, like Peach, Mario and Luigi. But he was surprise there was more then one Mario and Luigi who apparently called Wario and Waluigi

You start to explain the characters history as the two of you played, even going into the other Mario games.

"I'm not sure if they kept these in the new release but in the original Mario and the thousand year door. The robot who was Princess Peach jailer fell in love with her when he watch her take a shower"

".. What?"

"And in another section she had to take off her clothes when she turned invisible to sneak around the castle she's in"

"What!?"

"Yeah it happened"

"Why- wait no go back, rewind. Tell me more about what happened with these perv robot"

By the end of the night not only did Mark have fun playing Mario Kart but he also takes back the Mario franchise being a game only for kids

[setmeatopthepyre]

iceberg (guess what i want you to write!! heehee! smooches, cam)

one iceberg for you 🫡 gonna take a stab in the dark and guess you were hoping for some antarct-fic ❄️

-

The first time Tommy becomes acquainted with one of McMurdo Station’s favorite activities, he has just finished up only his second non-training flight. They’d had him start out just observing from the co-pilot seat, getting a feel for all the peculiarities of flying over this particular part of the world; the no-fly areas enforced to protect both wildlife and research, the corrections that needed to be made for altitude pressure due to the cold air, the antenna farm and fuel tanks that were to be avoided when flying the Wind-Driven Alternate Pattern - more commonly referred to as the ‘gap’ procedure, for the gap between two hills that overlooked the base and had a habit of funneling particularly strong wind gusts between them - and the procedures for waiting until any research party they dropped off had established radio contact before departure. Everything accounted for the fact that being left behind in this harsh climate without a means of contact was a death sentence.

He’d known most of it, had spent a significant chunk of his flights to Auckland and then to Christchurch poring over the air operations manual, willing the details to stick in his mind, but theory and practice were two entirely different beasts and he was well aware that repetition was key. So, he hadn’t minded being back in training wheels, though actually flying while someone was actively checking his every move again did take some getting used to. It was worth it, to be back in the pilot’s seat.

It hadn’t taken long for calling into Mac Radio to feel as natural as radioing in to Harbor Station. At one point, Roslyn had him take point on a run out to the Dry Valleys. She had stayed silent the entire way back, watching out the window as they edged closer and closer to the Peninsula, glancing Tommy’s way whenever he’d make an adjustment. After they had landed and had run through all the post-flight checklists, she had declared him ready and had him put on the roster for solo-pilot trips.

That was two days ago. Now, Tommy wraps up his post-flight procedures and heads up to McMurdo Station’s big blue main building that everyone just refers to as 155. When he arrives he finds it more abuzz than ever. There is a palpable excitement - something has gotten everyone, regardless of department, talking amongst each other. Sure, from what he can tell that isn’t completely abnormal, but usually by this time of day everyone is worn out by their long shifts and the cold, and the vibe is generally at least a little more subdued. That is, until people kick back in the bar, or there’s some event going on. Which there are a lot of, he’s noticed. The station’s residents will clearly take whatever entertainment they can get.

This… isn’t that, he decides as he joins the short line to get help himself to a tray full of dinner. Hisham, one of the other helicopter pilots, seems to have made it his personal mission to keep everyone at helo ops up to date on the goings-on at base and he would have said something if there was anything big planned.

“What’s going on?” he decides to ask the galley crew member serving up food once he makes it to the front of the line. She’s short, doesn’t even come up to his shoulder, and has her brown hair in a pony tail pulled through the back of her cap.

“Iceberg spotted in the Sound,” she says, scooping a giant heap of fried rice onto his plate. She glances up at him and either clocks that he’s new or something else inspires the interested glint in her eye. Tommy hopes it’s the first option but he’ll take either if it gets him the inside scoop. And maybe an even bigger serving of food in the future.

The crew member sets her serving spoon down, obviously undeterred by the handful of people waiting behind Tommy. “They’re pretty rare, so we like to bet on how long it’ll take for it to round Hut Point.”

“Huh,” Tommy raises his eyebrows. He had never considered betting on icebergs, but from what he can tell anything out of the ordinary passes for entertainment out here. And it’s not the first bet he’s heard of. “So how long would something like that take? Hours? Days, Weeks?” he asks, suddenly realizing how little he knows about icebergs.

He wonders, for just one moment until he shuts that thought down, if Evan would know. Surely it had come up in one of his documentaries on penguin migrations, or something.

“I’m not telling you shit,” the galley crew member grins at him. “It’s a rite of passage to be wildly wrong about these things.” She nods over at an older woman with a long silver braid who has just accepted cash from someone sitting at a table nearby. “Talk to Katie if you want in on the action. I recommend it. We track the iceberg’s process on the webcams and everything.”

-

-> send me a prompt and make me write <-

[ego-osbourne]

I have tried to make a nice introduction to this post many times and keep fumbling it so I’m just going to jump right into it.

There’s a few posts/reblogs going around discussing the—for lack of a better term—racially charged designs of elves in the Oblivion Remaster. You can find the post here—op expressed that they didn’t want to continue the conversation on their blog, and I’ll try to respect that as much as possible, but I wanted to contribute to the argument because I feel like a lot of people are missing the point.

To summarize, an anon pointed out to op that NPCs like Mankar Camoran and Mannimarco look like racist Asian stereotypes, the kind you’d find in WWII propaganda (extremely slanted eyes, talking in a way that emphasizes their top row of teeth, etc.). The counterargument by op was that they did not agree with the assessment, saying OBRE’s Altmer were not much different from the Altmer of Morrowind, Skyrim, and ESO. In a reblog, op added that many of OBRE’s character artists came from various Asian backgrounds. In a final reblog, op added that TES’s elves have always been based off of potentially offensive stereotypes of Asians (with exaggerated facial features and hastily-woven inspirations from various Asian cultures), but since the studio behind OBRE probably didn’t intend to offend anyone, it shouldn’t be of much concern.

This is where I find the most concern.

The biggest thing I want to address is the argument of intent. Many people claiming that the OBRE Altmer aren’t racially charged will say that the developers did not intend for these designs to be offensive, and intent should be a serious contributing factor when judging these designs. I agree! I do not think that the devs at Virtuos and Bethesda ever intended to be offensive with their designs. That does not mean that they still weren’t offensive designs though, and the devs not realizing that their designs could be seen as offensive is half of the problem.

Think of the artists and animators over at Disney and Warner Bros in the 1950s when they were making what we can clearly see in hindsight as racist cartoons. Whether it be the indigenous people of Peter Pan, the siamese cats of Lady and the Tramp, the black characters of Tom & Jerry, or the crows of Dumbo, each of these depictions likely weren’t seen as offensive by the artists creating them. If anything, these characters were probably seen as “accurate” for who they represented.

This same idea of “not stereotypical, just accurate” followed the attitude of minstrel shows. Many white people performing these shows would claim imitation as flattery—they weren’t making stereotypes, they were just living out the “Black experience,” and it couldn’t be offensive if it was “enjoyable” and “accurate.” The point is, something doesn’t need to be seen as offensive by its creators to still be obviously offensive, even when its creators are part of the demographic that is being the most affected. Minstrel shows were also performed by African Americans, and at least one of the crows of Dumbo was voiced by a black man (with the other voice actors being uncredited aside from one white voice actor). This phenomenon has been argued to be a blend of desensitization to offensive depictions (they’re “funny/accurate,” so what’s the harm in participating?) and as a way to appease those with more power (the white man) so that you’re seen as “one of the good ones” and can avoid being targeted in the future.

That^ is to say that the many Asian developers at Virtuos don’t discount the fact that these OBRE Altmer designs are still very uncomfortable to other POC people, especially those of Asian background. You can be “on the team,” so-to-say, and still do something that offends and disgusts “your team.” I’m very certain that the people over at Virtuos did not intend to make something that resembled a racist caricature out of elves, but intent starts to matter less and less when you are a big company that, purposefully or not, is reinforcing an ugly, exaggerated stereotype and desensitizing both white fans and POC fans to the point that they (the fans) will not only refuse to criticize designs like this, but actively fight against people who point out the harm these designs cause.

No matter your racial background, if you can stomach these designs and enjoy OBRE or TES as a whole, if you can treat this series as a form of escapism and have the privilege to live apolitically through it, that’s awesome. Escapism is a very healthy and valid way to process the events of the real world, and if you are able to experience that, great. That’s not what matters though.

Not everyone gets to live apolitically. It’s important not to disregard or discredit those who point out real issues in any media, no matter how you view it. You might see TES as nothing more than the Funny Elf Game, but there are many very valid people within the community who recognize the very biased hand of the author and cannot enjoy it to the same extent that you do. I found it baffling that so many people were so quick to disregard the arument responding to op as a “violent, non-intellectual group hounding a concept art blog” (paraphrased from many different responses, though all these words were used)—the use of “violent” and lacking “intellectual integrity” has been the common kneejerk response to POC concerns for decades on decades to discredit and devalue genuine critiques, thus shielding the offending party from having to think twice about something that makes them uncomfortable (I don’t think you intended to touch on an offensive and racially charged practice still used to this day, I just think you have been desensitized to that particular reaction so much you have failed to recognize how it can affect other minority groups, even if you yourself are part of a minority group (/ironic); the use of “hounding” is also a bit… silly? Much smaller blogs cannot “hound” a bigger blog, and it is the responsibility of op to understand that they are prone to considerable backlash just by virtue of being a bigger blog—there is no such thing as “punching down” on or “hounding” a bigger creator than yourself, especially not when the conversation remained as on-topic as it did; additionally, op is not just a “concept art” blog, if they were they wouldn’t have engaged in this conversation in the first place. They did not have to answer the ask.

To finish off, I want to make it clear that I am white. I have been a fan of TES since I was a kid, and did not recognize any racially/marginally charged aspects of the game on my own, because, obviously, none of those aspects have ever affected me. I am making this argument on the grounds that all of these things were pointed out to me by POC friends within the community (especially my Asian friends, in this regard), and I find it important that anyone from any background is able to validate the concerns of the marginalized.

This is my main argument, but I’m going to go into a few extra details in a reblog. If you’re interested in a very in-depth post from an Asian POC regarding this, @bforblitz has a project in the works.

[thaumasilva]

OP if i may i'd like to add this bit of adam meta from page 240 of the raven king:

this is several minutes before ronan kisses him-- he finds a photo of ronan's parents, and lingers on it for a while, especially in how the niall in the photo is similar to ronan ("his face was ronan's.") the first thing this scene is doing is reinforcing the iconic adam parrish character trait of "finds older men attractive" but more importantly:

he's being set up in direct parallel to aurora here. both in the obvious in-hindsight that he is about to start a romantic relationship with ronan and that makes him metaphorically aurora in the same way ronan is metaphorically niall within the photo. but also in how aurora is described. adam is surprised that she "was capable of happiness and dynamism." ronan/niall is "ferocious, wild" and adam/aurora is "wild, happy."

so much of adam's journey in this book, aside from firmly stepping into his own power (re-gaining his hands magically, moving on from his parents emotionally), is about being happy for the first time and not quite knowing what to do with it. being surprised that he's capable of it. no longer being mild and quiet within his own life but fully going after what he wants. page 403: "adam could not decide if this was the worst thing that had happened to him, or if it felt that way because he had been so recently and senselessly happy that the comparison was making it so." he is moving on from his parent's household, page 428 when he visits for the last time: "this was not his real home anymore, so he knocked." 242: "he was ever so slowly moving himself out of that trailer."

in this scene what he's seeing is a vision of relational happiness that he really wants but he doesn't understand. he's seeing himself as aurora and doesn't understand it. in my opinion this happening before ronan kisses him isn't important as the entire book hammers in again and again that all of time is happening at once, and that's present in this scene too (adam playing with the toy car, "adam would have recalled that memory again and again," the repetition of "he did not understand anything" right after ronan kisses him.) 243: "he knew he had started his entire time at aglionby certain that all he wanted to do was get as far away from this state and everything in it as possible," but now he's unsure, because he's starting to see a future for himself here, and finding it's possible to be safe here, wanted here, at the barns: aurora's domain.

so to bring this all the way back to gender... yeah. i feel the same in that i don't necessarily read him as nonbinary, but this is pretty explicitly playing with his masculinity. like it rings true to me as expression of femininity within a masculine queer character. envisioning and perhaps confirming that the life he's going to have is not the life of a standard cis-straight man.

he is the secret third thing. "maybe i dreamt you."

okay. well. welcome to my genderweird adam manifesto. standard disclaimers: i’m not god, i’m not the author, i’m not the boss of you. this is one way to interpret things found in the text. you don’t have to interpret it this way. you don’t have to agree with me. stay tuned for part 2 — Ronan Lynch: Electric Boogaloo 🐦‍⬛

this interpretation, for me, is built primarily upon a few key moments.

exhibit a:

exhibits b & c:

exhibits d - g:

other things of note:

in BLLB adam is frequently described by others as “not” a boy, but something more, different, other, separate, a secret third thing that’s never explicitly named

adam is the only male psychic

adam lives under his father’s thumb, in circumstances that are inherently emasculating. adam’s mother is a non-entity. the conflict in the house exists between adam & robert—the discord exists between adam & robert. robert must be more of a man than adam—he won’t accept anything else. it is necessary for robert’s ego that adam be subservient, small, scared. it’s a crucial part of a young man’s development that they have the space/opportunity to exercise/build their masculinity. robert will not allow that—this means that adam must fit into a specific role when he is at home.

it’s noted that when gansey is polite, he takes control by using his manners. in contrast, “when adam was polite, he was giving something away.”

adam himself regularly observes that he is Not Like Other Boys, but instead some Secret Third Thing

all of his jobs are physical and extremely demanding, in typically male-dominated fields

in many ways he performs his masculinity, nowhere near as aggressively as ronan or as easily as gansey, but in a way that’s somewhat defensive, somewhat clumsy

in the same vein, he attributes gansey’s masculinity to his wealth and believes if he’d personally come from privilege he would have all the answers. also, he observes ronan’s relationship with masculinity & magic & is jealous of the way he’s able to present himself as A Dude despite the magic and its inherent otherness. adam isn’t able to do that, yet, and it bothers him. he wanted the only weird things about him to be the magic and the poverty, but it’s so much more than that

he puts himself in situations where he ends up being the one with power/the one who “wears the pants”, because it’s gratifying and validating for him to feel like he’s The Man

robert observes at one point that there’s “something not right about that boy” and that adam has “grown up into someone he doesn’t like very much”

adam fights gansey about moving into monmouth because he doesn’t want to “belong” to gansey. he specifically says: “i’m his [robert] now, and then i’ll be yours.” ownership of his body and autonomy over his person are a huge part of adam’s character and his journey. there’s also probably something to be said here about daughters & the way they are by and large expected to go directly from their father’s house to their husband’s house. the marriage pipeline—he identifies himself here as a housewife or a daughter, not in words, but in stating what he believes would become his role in life should he allow robert/gansey to be his parent/patron/landlord/supervisor

he��s often paralleled/yoked to blue in the text, which is partially about class, but blue observes that he “doesn’t go to aglionby like Other Boys went to aglionby” and she returns his compliment by saying “i think you’re pretty too”

trb chapter 20 when Ronan Who Isn’t Ronan outperforms him at groceries is just as much about him envying power and presence and masculinity as it is him envying money and privilege. that boy is better at being a boy than him—why can’t adam be a boy like that?

to sum up: i think he’s a little weird. i think he’s kind of like that tweet that’s like “im probably nonbinary but i have a job so i can’t worry about that rn”. i don’t necessarily read him as nb, but you get my point.

the other thing i think it’s really important to remember when taking this lens to adam is that he’s part of the gay community, but he’s not Culturally Queer. he collects lgbt friends in college like funko pops—he doesn’t think he’s one of them, he doesn’t think they’re capable of knowing or understanding him. he’s not assimilating himself into the culture/community—he’s hiding behind it—he’s identified marginalized people who “needed” him (where did he find you crying?) and has made himself their knight in shining armor.

i’ve said this before when analyzing adam’s character and i’ll say it again: he is going to possess a creeping sense of alienation and otherness for the rest of his life, and he is going to do everything other than think about or address it properly. he is going to be weird and insecure and A Secret Third Thing forever. hooray!

[kikyoupdates]

Made to Destroy ⭑˚💎⭑ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑒

bnha x op!reader

op!reader, my hero academia x fem!reader, reverse harem, over powered reader, f!reader

You are the product of a series of twisted experiments, an anomaly that shouldn’t have ever existed in the first place. Thankfully, you are taken into the arms of a hero and given a new purpose in life. But as you soon discover, it isn’t easy to deny your true nature, especially when you were made to destroy.

previous | story masterlist | next

It’s a day just like any other. The sun is slowly creeping up into the sky, the early morning air tastes crisp and sweet, and the roads are still pleasantly quiet. 

Today, too, you’re being beat up by your dad. 

“Come on, [Name],” Aizawa chuckles. He throws more of his cloths your way, and you just narrowly manage to avoid them before your foot gets snagged. “Is it just me, or are you slowing down?” 

You furrow your brows. To be more precise, you aren’t actually being beat up by your dad, but the difference in strength is so staggering that you may as well be.

For the past few years, Aizawa has taken it upon himself to train you in the art of hand-to-hand combat. Your Quirk allows you to regenerate, which is an incredibly useful ability, especially if you ever find yourself in trouble, but you need to have the fighting prowess to match your defensive capabilities. 

So, training. You agreed to this long ago, ever since you made up your mind about becoming a hero. Of course, you were just an innocent little kid back then, who clearly didn’t know any better. Now that you’re twelve—practically an adult (in your mind, at least)—you’ve come to understand just how tall of an order it is to keep up with someone like Aizawa. 

Put simply, your dad is a badass. You always knew he was, of course, but it’s different when you’re actually facing off against him all by yourself. 

Still. No matter how rigorous his training sessions may be, and no matter how exhausted you feel after the fact, you don’t regret your decision even the slightest bit. 

In order to become a hero, you’ll do whatever it takes. 

“You’re imagining it,” you say, flashing him a lopsided grin. “I think your eyes are drying out again, dad. Do you need me to buy you more eye drops?” 

Before he can respond, you kick off the ground and lunge towards him. His reflexes are incredibly sharp, but yours are no joke either. It’s just those damn cloths of his. Not only is he an expert at using them, but the material is incredibly sturdy, and once you’re caught, you have little hope of breaking free. 

Aizawa tries to bind you, but you’re fast enough to avoid him yet again. Unfortunately, his attacks don’t stop there, and as usual, it turns out that he’s been going easy on you. 

You let out a rather pitiful attempt at a battle cry, gambling everything you’ve got left on one final, reckless kick, but it ends pretty much as expected—with your body tied up against the trunk of a nearby tree.

“Shit,” you curse. “I really thought I might be able to land a hit today.” 

Aizawa crosses his arms and frowns. “Where did you learn to talk like that? Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap?” 

“It’s Katsuki’s fault,” you say, eager to shift the blame. “He swears all the time, and I think it’s rubbed off on me.” 

“Him again,” Aizawa sighs. He shakes his head, then bends down to untie you. “Well, it was a good attempt. You’re fast and pretty good at reading my movements, but at the end of the day, you’re just a kid. I’m not so out of touch that I’d lose to you yet.” 

“But shouldn’t I have at least been able to land a hit by now?” you whine. 

“Of course not. If you had, it would’ve been because I let you hit me on purpose. But I’m not letting my guard down, so that you get a real challenge. It’s the only way you’ll learn.” He pauses for a moment, gathers his cloths back up, then smiles. “You’re only twelve, [Name]. Already, you’ve probably had way more training than any of your peers. Just because you haven’t managed to hit me yet doesn’t mean you’re not strong. Don’t doubt yourself.” 

He ruffles your hair, and you have to admit, it helps to soften the blow somewhat. As nice as it would be to be able to say that you’ve won a spar against the famed Eraserhead, at this stage in your life, it probably isn’t realistic. Besides, even after all these years, you still haven’t figured out how to use your other Quirk. That rush of power you felt during the museum attack, and with Dr. Garaki. 

You’re not sure what the trigger for it is, but you figure that at some point, you’re bound to figure it out. In the meantime, routinely training your combat skills seems like a pretty safe bet. 

“Alright, let’s head home so you can get ready for school,” Aizawa says. Most kids your age would probably be loath to wake up early in the morning to train, but you’re as diligent as they come. Even Aizawa is impressed with how hard you always work. 

Sometimes, though, it makes him a bit sad. When he thinks about why you were created, that is. 

For obvious reasons, nobody’s told you that you’re an artificial human. Several years have passed, and by now, your memories of Dr. Garaki are rather faint. You’ve never really questioned the circumstances surrounding your background, and over time, you just accepted that you’ll never know who your real parents are, assuming they’re even alive. Your interpretation of the whole thing is the explanation the adults have chosen to go with—that you were the victim of a kidnapping by some deranged scientist who implanted a Quirk in your body. 

It’s better this way, though. It’s better for you to feel normal, so that you can have a normal, happy life, like all the other kids.

Even if your origin is undeniably unique, it doesn’t make you any lesser than the others. 

However, it certainly doesn’t make things easy either. 

You’ve had countless nightmares over the past few years. Similar to the first you ever had, where Dr. Garaki was repeatedly slicing your skin open. Trauma doesn’t fade easily, although the passing of time can certainly help. The nightmares have decreased in frequency as you’ve gotten older, and as your life has become filled with more joy rather than pain. 

But just because the nightmares have faded doesn’t mean they’ve disappeared completely. 

You still get them sometimes. Recently, however, it’s been less about Dr. Garaki himself, and more to do with that strange voice in your head.

Kill all heroes. 

That’s the number one thing you hear. The words repeat themselves, over and over again, like some sort of mantra. Like some strange force that’s seeking to take control of your body. 

You don’t like worrying Aizawa or Present Mic, so you make no mention of these dreams. They make no sense, after all. You’re training to become a hero, so why in the world would you want to kill them?

Just like that inexplicable second Quirk of yours, it doesn’t make any sense. But you’re a good kid, and your mental strength is unmatched. You won’t let some silly nightmares get the best of you. No matter how frightening or how real they seem… everything will be fine. 

That’s what you’re choosing to believe. 

You quickly rid your head of these morbid thoughts and focus on getting ready for school. You hop into the shower, get changed, then meet Aizawa in the kitchen for breakfast. 

“You know what would be amazing?” you sigh dreamily. “Burgers for breakfast. I think it’s a fun idea. We should try it from now on, okay?” 

Aizawa shakes his head. “Seriously. All these years and you’re still not sick of burgers, even after how many you’ve eaten? I swear you must have had over a thousand by now.” 

“How could I ever get sick of the best food in the world?” 

“Jeez. But no, burgers are way too heavy for breakfast. In fact, they’re too heavy in general. I really shouldn’t be indulging you so much.” 

He brings the pan over and flips some scrambled eggs onto your plate, then sets down a few pieces of toast and a small salad he put together. Unfortunately, it seems like burgers for breakfast will forever remain a fantasy, but Aizawa’s always been pretty good at cooking, so you can’t really complain. 

“When I’m an adult,” you say, mouth half-full, “I’m going to cook burgers every single meal of every single day, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” 

“You underestimate the sixth sense parents have for this kind of thing,” Aizawa muses. He leans across the table and flicks you on the nose. “I’ll show up at your house, even as a grumpy old man, and nag you to eat healthy food instead.” 

“Aren’t you already a grumpy old man?” you point out. “That’s what Uncle Mic says.” 

“[Name], I’m not even thirty years old yet,” he sighs. 

“I dunno. That sounds pretty old to me.” 

“Cheeky little brat,” he mutters. “Finish your food and leave the sassy remarks for later.” 

You giggle, happily stuffing your mouth. You’ve always had a big appetite, so it doesn’t take long for you to polish off your plate and set it aside. Then, you grab your backpack, slip on your shoes, and make for the front door. 

“I’m heading out,” you beam. “Don’t miss me too much!” 

“I’ll try my best,” Aizawa chuckles. He waves you off with a subtle, yet gentle smile. “Have a nice day. Make sure to stay out of trouble.” 

“Pfft. I never get in trouble.” 

You flash him one last grin, then set out. 

The trip to school isn’t awfully long, and when you step inside the classroom, the very first thing you do is march straight over to your best friend’s desk. 

“Izuku! Good morning!” 

He jolts to attention, turning towards you with a timid smile. “G-Good morning, [Name]. Did you sleep well?” 

“Like a baby,” you smile. “And I got my usual workout in this morning too.” 

“Training with Eraserhead, right? How did it go? Were you… able to land a hit on him this time?” 

“I wish,” you sigh dramatically. “He’s way too good at fighting. I seriously wonder if I’ll ever be able to beat him.” 

“It’ll happen eventually,” he reassures. “You’re really strong, after all. He’s got the advantage right now because he’s an adult, but you’ll catch up one day. I’m willing to bet on it.” 

Your smile widens. Even though several years have passed, Izuku is still the same old sweetheart as always. As a matter of fact, he’s just gotten even kinder over time—something that you didn’t think was even possible. 

“Thanks,” you say, leaning over his desk. “By the way, I finally had the chance to watch that new superhero movie that came out, and you were right! It was totally awesome—” 

“Get your ass out of my way, loser.” 

You’re forcibly cut off mid-sentence by a sudden kick to your rear end, which makes you stumble and collide with Izuku’s desk. You wince momentarily, but you already know who’s to blame before you even look over your shoulder. 

Several years have passed, and much like how Izuku hasn’t changed, the same can be said for Katsuki as well.

He’s still a massive shithead. 

“My ass wasn’t in your way,” you glare. “Why are you looking at my ass anyways? I’ll tell my dad that you’re a pervert, and then he’ll beat you up.” 

Katsuki grits his teeth, cheeks instantly reddening. “Shut up! I obviously didn’t mean it like that, you freak! God. Seeing your face always pisses me off.” He pauses to glance Izuku’s way, then narrows his eyes. “Both of you piss me the hell off. Morons.” 

He buries his hands in the pockets of his pants and stomps off, as per usual. By now, you’ve seen this exact scene play out so many times that you’re hardly fazed. You wonder how he has the energy to be so angry all the damn time. It looks exhausting. 

“Poor guy,” you say, shaking your head disappointedly. “It must be hard not having anyone who likes him.” 

Izuku swallows. “K-Kacchan is really popular, though… so, I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. He’s just always been angry. Which you probably already know.” 

“Just because people follow him around doesn’t necessarily mean they actually like him,” you counter. “He’s popular, but not in a good way. Everyone knows he has a bad attitude. And I doubt he even considers anyone his friend.” 

“I guess… that could also be true.” Izuku hesitates before glancing towards Katsuki’s desk. Thankfully, the blond is looking out the window, because you’re certain he would’ve made some unsavory remark had they locked eyes. 

Anyways, Katsuki is much of a pain as always, and you doubt that’ll change anytime soon. 

But the hopeful, perhaps naive part of you can’t help but dream of a day when Katsuki will apologize to Izuku, and they’ll finally be on good terms again. 

It sounds ridiculously far-fetched, though. 

A few more minutes pass, and then the teacher walks into the classroom and gets started with the first lesson of the day. Over the years, you haven’t just trained your body, but also your mind. Even though you were admittedly pretty far behind your peers, your natural intelligence allowed you to learn quickly and catch up, and now, you’re proud to say that you’re the best student in the class. 

“Who’d like to come up to the board and solve this question?” the teacher asks, and he makes a big show of pretending to look around the class before smiling and locking eyes with you. “[Name], would you mind?” 

You nod, and you’re able to solve the question without much trouble. When you’re done, the teacher congratulates you on always being such a good student, and meanwhile, Katsuki mashes his teeth in frustration. 

It’s almost always you who gets called on. Normally, teachers like to give others a chance, or even pick out the weakest links to force them to put in an effort, but since everyone knows you’re smart, the teachers love having you answer their questions. Maybe it makes them feel like they’re doing a good job of teaching the material or whatever. Katsuki doesn’t know the exact reasoning behind it, but either way, it pisses him off. 

It wasn’t like this before. Up until you showed up, he was used to always being the best at everything. He had the strongest Quirk, he was the smartest student, and he was pretty much always the hottest topic.

But you took all of that from him. You, with your ridiculously overpowered regeneration, and that impressive incident at the museum—which people still talk about, to this day—with your apparent giftedness and ability to learn faster than anyone else, and with that stupidly carefree attitude, no matter what people say about you. 

Katsuki can’t even begin to express how angry you make him. You and that stupid idiot you always hang out with. The bane of his goddamn existence—Deku. 

He despises both of you to no end. It actually seems rather fitting that the two of you would band together. It’s almost as if you’re both conspiring against him, to see who can piss him off the most. 

Katsuki watches as you take your seat. Some of the students are whispering about you under their breaths, making snide remarks like how much of a goody-two-shoes you are, and how you must be desperate for attention. Unlike Katsuki, you don’t actively intimidate people, which means they aren’t afraid of the repercussions if they gossip about you. Katsuki isn’t a loser, so naturally, he doesn’t partake in said gossip (he’d much rather just insult you to your face), but time and time again, he’s surprised by how little you care. 

You don’t care about other people’s opinions. Even if they look down on you or call you all sorts of unpleasant things, you never let it get under your skin. 

Even though Katsuki refuses to admit it to himself, part of him secretly envies your mindset. He envies the ability to live your life without constantly comparing yourself to others, like he does.

But since he’s a stubborn, insecure bastard, he’s nowhere near ready to come to terms with how he feels. Which means he’ll keep on doing what he’s been doing until now. 

Hating your fucking guts.

“Yay, classes are finally over! Maybe I can convince my dad to take me out to a burger joint for dinner,” you hum. 

Izuku chuckles softly. “Nobody loves burgers as much as you do, [Name].” 

“I’m a burger fanatic,” you proudly declare. It’s admittedly a strange thing to boast about, but it makes Izuku laugh, which is a victory in itself. 

As always, you and Izuku leave school together. You usually walk together for a little while until your paths diverge. Sometimes you go hang out at his place. His mom, Inko, is super nice and has always been incredibly welcoming towards you. Even now, you can still remember the very first time Izuku invited you over, and how ridiculously nervous he was to show you his room. 

Izuku’s gone over to your place a few times before too, but it’s usually just easier to go to his house, because, well…

“You want to bring a boy over?” 

Aizawa didn’t quite seem like himself when you first breached the topic. In fact, Mic had to grab him by the shoulders to try and pacify him. He was practically blowing smoke out of his nose. 

So, yeah. Since Aizawa can be rather overprotective and has a way of intimidating people—even diehard hero fanboys like Izuku—you normally prefer to keep your hangout sessions away from home. 

Your phone vibrates, so you pull it out and check your notifications. “Oh. My dad said he got suddenly called in for a job, so I guess no burgers for dinner today. Is it alright if I stay at your place for a while? We can do our homework together.” 

“Of course,” Izuku smiles. “You can come over whenever you want. My mom’s always happy to see you.” 

“Great! Oh, also, I was watching a video on DIY facial masks the other day, and I really want to try some! Apparently, they leave your skin feeling super-duper smooth. We can make a little spa day out of it!” 

Izuku laughs and nods, always willing to keep up with your antics. You walk out of the school building together and head for the front gate, excited about the impromptu hangout session you’ve just put together. 

However, someone blocks your path. 

“Where are you losers going?” Katsuki glares. “I get sick just watching you two, always giggling like idiots. It’s disgusting.” 

One of Katsuki’s thug friends crosses his arms and openly sneers. “Don’t make fun of them, Katsuki. Can’t you tell they’re in love? They’re always making googly eyes at each other. I bet they’ll start blowing kisses next.” 

Unsurprisingly, the implication makes Izuku blush and shrink in on himself. You, on the other hand, roll your eyes and sigh heavily. 

“You guys are so annoying,” you scowl. “Don’t you have anything better to do? I’m looking forward to my spa day, so please don’t ruin it.” 

“Spa day…? What is this stupid girl talking about?” 

The two groupies exchange confused looks, and you’re really not sure why they keep referring to you as stupid or idiot when you’ve got better grades than both of them combined. 

Katsuki just stands there and keeps glaring at you. As expected, you and that asshole Deku are an infuriating pair. He was already pissed off because of how many questions you solved in front of the class, and how the teacher kept praising you for it, but seeing you and Izuku attached at the hip like this just adds insult to injury. And seriously, did he hear that right? You’re going over to that loser’s house again? 

You’ve known Katsuki for just as long as you’ve known Izuku, and yet, even after all these years, the two of you may as well be strangers.

Of course, he’s to blame for it, since he’s treated you like nothing but dirt, but for some reason, it makes his chest tighten. 

Not once have you asked to go to his house. 

Katsuki clenches his fists. It’s happening again. His face is getting hot, and his stomach feels funny. This only ever happens when you’re involved, and being the stubborn, immature little brat that he is, he can’t make sense of what he’s feeling. 

He doesn’t understand what he wants, and it drives him absolutely insane. 

Katsuki’s crimson eyes dart towards Izuku, the usual target of his rage. It has to be this asshole’s fault. After all, it just doesn’t make any sense. You might be insufferable, but your Quirk is undeniably strong, so why are you always hanging out with a weakling like him? He must have infected you with his loser genes. Otherwise, you would have chosen to stay by Katsuki’s side all these years. Surely. 

Yeah. As expected, everything is always Izuku’s fault. 

“Fuck you, Deku,” Katsuki grits out. He forcefully shoves the boy back, hard enough that he topples over and lands on the ground. 

You react immediately and rush towards Izuku, ample concern in your eyes.

“Izuku! Are you okay?” 

“I-I’m fine,” he reassures. “It didn’t hurt or anything. Let’s just… let’s just go.” 

You offer him your hand to hold onto while he stands up, and Katsuki isn’t sure why, but watching you help just pisses him off even more. 

All the anger he’s been struggling to suppress over the years is bubbling up to the surface. The fact that you’ve always been so powerful, even as a kid. The fact that even though he thought you were dumb at first, you’re now an even better student than he is. The fact that you choose to spend all your time with Izuku, and now, that shitty nerd actually looks happy for a change.

And worst of all… 

The fact that every time you smile, his entire body feels like it’s been set on fire. 

It’s too much for someone with an ego as fragile as Katsuki’s to bear. He simply can’t stomach it anymore. He’s angry. He’s so, so fucking angry. 

So, he explodes—both figuratively and literally. 

Katsuki’s gotten in trouble for using his Quirk on school grounds before, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Without thinking twice, he unleashes an explosion that strikes Izuku right in the face, and the latter splutters weakly from the sudden assault. 

But he doesn’t stop there. Katsuki can’t repress his cruelty anymore. In this moment, he’s aching for Izuku to feel the same pain he feels. Not just a physical pain, but something that stems from deep within.

“Don’t believe her lies,” Katsuki grits out. Of course, you’ve since assumed a protective stance and are standing in front of Izuku, trying to block him in case Katsuki strikes again, but you can only shield him from injuries, not words. “She’s lying to you, Deku. Do you really think someone like you can become a hero? Come on. Be realistic. You still have no Quirk. You’ll never have a Quirk. But it’s not just that. You’re spineless and weak. You need a girl to fight your battles for you. Isn’t it obvious that she’s just making a fool out of you? She knows your dream is pointless, so she must think it’s hilarious that you’re still holding out hope. She’s getting a kick out of messing with your head.” 

“Izuku, don’t listen to him,” you insist. You turn back to face Katsuki and clench your jaw, eyes darkening. “Stop it. None of what you’re saying is true. Do you enjoy being a horrible person? I seriously don’t understand what’s wrong with you.” 

Katsuki doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him either. He’s spent years trying to figure it out. Why does he care about a weakling like Deku, or an annoying girl like you? Everyone is below him. So, then… why should he care so much? Why should he let it bother him? 

He really doesn’t understand. 

Which makes it even more unbearable. 

“You’ll never be a hero,” Katsuki glowers. “Not now, not in a million years, not ever. You’re not a little kid anymore, so how can you keep believing in something so goddamn stupid? It’s embarrassing. I almost feel sorry for you. Everyone else does too. I bet it makes them sick to have to share a classroom with someone like you.” 

Izuku whimpers, and despite your insistence that he ignores Katsuki, you realize that’s easier said than done. 

“Cut it out,” you warn. “You’re really upsetting him, and you’re upsetting me. Hurry up and apologize. I’m not kidding.” 

Katsuki isn’t deterred in the slightest. “I would rather die than ever apologize to a loser like him. He’s pathetic. He may as well be vermin. Isn’t he ashamed, saying that he’ll become a hero when he’s so goddamn weak? I don’t know where he gets the nerve. He’s insulting everyone who actually has a chance.”

You glance back towards Izuku, and to your horror, fat tears have filled his eyes. He’s frantically trying to wipe them away, but Katsuki’s words cut deep, like a knife to the heart. Izuku is a sensitive soul, burdened with unfortunate circumstances beyond his control. He already struggles with self-doubt on a daily basis, and that’s without Katsuki adding fuel to the fire. 

So, Izuku cries. He can’t help but cry. He’s still only twelve years old, and the amount of bullying he’s endured from such a young age has undeniably left its mark. 

Katsuki knows this. He knows how much pain he’s causing his former friend, and yet, he refuses to stop. 

Your temples throb. It feels like your entire stomach has twisted into a knot. The sight of Izuku sobbing like this… it hurts. Your heart aches for him. But it isn’t just sadness that you feel. 

You feel anger, too. 

“Shut the hell up, Katsuki.” Your shoulders are trembling, and you don’t bother to mince words anymore. You can’t recall the last time he’s spoken to Izuku like this. There have been plenty of unpleasant altercations in the past, but usually, you managed to stop the situation before it got too out of hand. 

This time is different. 

This time, Katsuki isn’t going to be satisfied until he’s completely torn Izuku down. 

“Deku. It’s time to get it through your head already. You’re useless, and weak, and hearing you talk about becoming a hero is the biggest joke I’ve ever heard. When are you going to stop being so stupid? When are you finally going to learn how the world works?” Katsuki takes a step forward, just so that he can stare more closely into Izuku’s wide emerald eyes. “You’ll never amount to anything. You’re not worth anything. So, hurry up and learn your place. And stop dragging [Name] into your mess. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she can’t wait to get rid of you.” 

It’s the final nail in the coffin. Izuku’s tears continue pouring down his cheeks, and he can hardly even get a proper breath in between each frantic sob. The worst part is that all you can do is watch. There’s nothing you can say to him at this moment that will magically erase the damage Katsuki inflicted. There’s nothing you can do. 

Except direct your anger towards the source. 

You feel it again. Even though it’s been a while, this is undeniably the same sensation you’ve felt in the past. Strength is gradually seeping into your limbs, coursing through your veins and pulsing, desperate for release. 

It’s the same thing as before. This is the power that allowed you to escape from Dr. Garaki’s clutches. It’s a power that should only be used to punish evildoers. 

But right now, it feels like Katsuki is deserving of that punishment.  

“I warned you to shut the fuck up,” you seethe. Katsuki reacts by shrugging indifferently, of course, but that’s only because he doesn’t know what’s coming. 

In the very next moment, he finds himself on his knees. 

Of course, you’re no fool. You aren’t reckless or shortsighted enough to hit him, knowing full well how much damage it can cause. Instead, you pull your punch at the last moment and strike the area just next to him. But the force is enough to shatter the school gate, and it lets out a horrible creaking noise, akin to a wail, as it falls apart from its hinges and collides to the ground. 

A dust cloud settles, and all the while, Katsuki is still there, fallen to his knees, unwilling to admit that he’s shaking from head to toe.

For just a moment, he swears he saw his life flash before his eyes. 

Just like before, the surge of power you felt is gone. You frown and ponder it for a moment. It almost felt like your sheer anger gave birth to that impressive feat of strength. But you could be wrong. You still don’t completely understand what the trigger is. 

But that’s beside the point right now. You cast a glance towards Izuku, who is thankfully no longer crying, but now proceeds to stare at you in bewilderment. 

And then you turn back to gaze upon the destruction you’ve just caused. You’ve completely decimated a piece of school property, not to mention the few passerby students who happen to have witnessed the whole thing. 

“Make sure to stay out of trouble.” 

You suddenly remember Aizawa’s words from earlier, and it’s safe to say that you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain. 

“Uh oh,” you mutter. “Dad’s gonna be mad.” 

More chapters are available on Quotev or Wattpad!

⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰

💎 main masterlist ♡ oneshot masterlist

[ironcade]

johnny & a kiss of desperation

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up here. 

It had started out as most nights do following a return home from a long op. Since none of the team really had much to return home to, besides Kyle, everyone got together to decompress at a local bar off base. It was a dingy place, one that a lot of soldiers went to. Almost felt like a second home at this point.

Now usually, it was an easy night. Some drinks were shared, stories told, and any attempt was made to forget the horrors left behind in the field. However, something had been off the entire night.

Well, more specifically, Johnny had been off the entire night. He was more sullen, quieter and to himself. Every so often he might throw out a quip, but he seemed trapped in his own thoughts. Every so often he’d send a glance your way, you noticed. Once he’d meet your gaze, his eyes would dart away, as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

However, you didn’t really say much at the time, not sure this was really the place to interrogate your teammate. You tried to enjoy your drinks at least, chatting away with Kyle about his plans to surprise his partner. Yet, your eyes always ended up on Johnny, concern eating at your insides.

Once the team returned to base, you finally confronted Johnny. You stopped him in front of his room and softly asked, “You alright?” His soft blues met your gaze, his expression twisted with some unspoken thought or emotion. 

That was how you found yourself stumbling into his room, lips clashing with his in a desperate hunger. The taste of whiskey was on his tongue, probably what was fueling this impulsive and emotional moment. Yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself to really care as Johnny gently herded you into the safety of his quarters. 

Sharp inhales and gentle moans escaped the two of you as passion took over. Johnny’s hand gripped to your hips, tugging you close to him. It was almost like he was afraid you might disappear if he lost even a moment of your touch against him. 

Eventually, a moment of clarity struck and you pulled away. You opened your eyes and took in the sight of the handsome Scot panting softly. His eyes were gazing down at you with a turbulent storm of emotions present in them. Finally, he opened his mouth and found words.

“When you stopped respondin’ on comms,” he started with a slight quiver to his voice. “I thought…” he swallowed, his gaze staring at you with such intensity. “I thought the worst.” 

There was a moment of silence as you took in his words. “Johnny,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “I realized then and there that I couldn’t lose ya,” his tone was firm. “Not without ya known’ that I fuckin’ love ya.” The sincerity of his declaration hit you like a freight train. 

You inhaled sharply and your eyes widened, freezing up entirely as you processed this. The reality that Johnny had somehow fallen in love with you during your time together seemed particularly impossible. Yet somehow, here you were. Words were beyond you, though it seemed. How does one respond to something so brutally honest and vulnerable? Especially when you hadn’t given yourself a chance to ponder that maybe you could have Johnny in the ways you desperately wanted. Although, the alcohol in your system did not help.

Instead, you tightly wrap your hands around the collar of his shirt. You then yanked, bringing him to you. Passionately, you kissed him again. This time, it was in an attempt to convey the feelings you could never speak of. Your lips mashed against his with an aching affection. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation before you felt him return the kiss. 

As you two clung to each other, seeking solace in feelings that had gone unspoken for a long time, a silent desperation was found. Love had blossomed among the death and destruction that was your life. One that both of you are scared to pursue, but even more terrified to lose.

[john] [kyle] [simon]

[maoam]

What do you think of this wattpad article explaining Sakura’s love for Sasuke?

https://www.wattpad.com/1165203867-sasuke-sakura-an-analysis-5-sakura%27s-reasons-for

You do understand this has like what 10+ parts? I can't use pics much because wattpad doesn't allow me to copypaste text, so I have to use screenshot. Thus I can't use as many pics from the manga to debunk lol. I am NOT going to handwrite her arguments. Maybe I'll make a video or masterpost to another site about SS. But I'll address couple of the claims now.

She lost hope in Sasuke though.

There is a reason why Kishimoto did this constantly with Sakura in the war arc. He used juxtaposition, a writing tool to compare Naruto and Sakura throughout the manga. While Naruto was determined, sure of himself and his relationship with Sasuke, and aware Sasuke was good inside (for example, he looked happy and content when he announced that he won't give up on Sasuke even if they both had to die), Sakura looked meek, unsure and upset. She didn't trust Sasuke. When that random guy told Sakura Sasuke must a good guy since she loves him, she felt guilty. Since she thought it wasn't true. Even in her confession, unlike Naruto, Sakura was angry, upset and pathetic. There was no other reason for Kishi to do that other than to show Sakura did not know the true Sasuke, nor did she care for him.

Sasuke shared his deep thoughts and feelings to Sakura... and Sakura said he never says anything to her. XD Because she does not give a damn about his deep thoughts or his feelings. Both her confessions showed she knew nothing of substance about him. She said she'd be just as lonely if Sasuke left as Sasuke was when his family was massacred, and then took her own family for granted in the process. She's ungrateful and shallow and takes things for granted that mean the world to Sasuke. How on earth are these two compatible? Aside from that, Sasuke does not need someone as weak as Sakura. He doesn't want or need Sakura bawling her eyes out and making a pity party to make him feel sorry for her, and he found it annoying everytime. Just because Sasuke found it in himself to be polite, nice or courteous with Sakura at times, doesn't mean she is someone who has traits Sasuke finds lovable, nor that he doesn't found her lact of tact or her selfishness irritating. He said it himself, there is no reason for him to love Sakura.

The listed reasons for Sakura to love Sasuke are pointless because they are reasons why op would like Sasuke over Naruto. These things are never shown to be the reasons Sakura likes Sasuke. Kishi said if he showed a reason for Sakura to like Sasuke, it would look contrived. Again, use evidence, not headcanons. And Kishimoto showed Sakura to be a hypocrite when it comes to the "pervertness" since she wanted to watch Sasuke pee while hitting Naruto on the head for trying to pee in front of her. She also liked Konohamaru's sexy jutsu when it was something she liked, once again showing her as hypocrite. Kishi also said she has a habit of stalking Sasuke so...

I lost interest when she used a bunch of filler to defend Sakura lol. Use canon or I'm not interested. I have a post that shows one filler that stole narusasu dynamic to use for narusaku. "Sasuke's courage and boldness inspired Sakura!" and then in Forest of Death she stood around screaming and did nothing. What Kishi does with Sakura is give her little something, and makes her go three big steps back. You can't say Sasuke influenced Sakura when she constantly went back in her progress. Sakura getting mad once or twice when the rest of the time she wilts like a dying flower (in canon, as I said fillers don't matter) doesn't change the fact she's pathetic. She also begged him to take her on his journey of atonement he wanted to take alone just for romantic purposes (when he had shown nothing but disinterest and rejection towards her) shows she has no respect for him. I did laugh when she compared Sakura vs Gaara (if you can call it that) to Hinata vs Pain because true, both were equally pathetic, though I'd say Hinata was far worse since she literally made the situation worse for Naruto. Sakura standing around uselessly with a kunai is a meme in the fandom for a reason. I'm also not impressed by her asking Tsunade to train her, since like I pointed out Sakura knows nothing of Sasuke, they don't have a deep bond, she's just addicted to him like Kishi said. She didn't have the resolve to train but expected Naruto to get Sasuke back for her, even after treating him like an inferior. Only when she realized he couldn't did she even bother to make an effort. She was too busy expecting the three men in her team to save her damsel ass. Lol. She did NO training even when she didn't make it to the chuunin finals. She actually did ZERO training in part 1 unless she was told to.

"The series says Sakura suffered many broken bones under---" filler, didn't happen. Sure, she did things because she was thirsty for Sasuke, like seek information about him or trained under Tsunade, but that doesn't change the fact she does display meek behaviour around him she does not around anyone else. And that does not change the fact she knows nothing substantial about him, considering she keeps saying the worst things in her "love" confessions, and keeps trying to act pathetic to get his attention.

And Sasuke didn't only care for Naruto because Naruto was needed to end the tsukiyomi. This is shown multiple times. And Naruto realizes it too.

イタチ 亡き今 やっ とオレは 一人になったように思えた…だがナルト…あいつ だけは斬っておかなければならない.

Itachi naki ima yatto ore wa hitori ni natta youni omoeta…Daga Naruto… Aitsu dake wa kitte o kanakereba naranai.

Now that Itachi is dead, I thought that I became completely alone… But Naruto… I must only kill (literally cut) him.

He believes that as long as Naruto is alive, he can never be alone and he can never accomplish his goal to become the darkness that he hopes to be. Naruto is the only bond left for him, and killing him is the only way for him to become alone in the dark. This is clear as a day. So for this SS shipper to completely ignore this and insist Sasuke is only saving Naruto because he needs him is completely false.

Sasuke is many times said he needs to "cut" Naruto himself. To be completely alone. Him cutting Naruto from the team 7 picture, Naruto's speech to Sasuke about body moving its own (Kishi's way of giving closure to this pivotal moment between them), Sasuke instinctively putting his hand before Naruto despite Susanoo already protecting him (which Naruto again took notice of), Sasuke telling Obito HE will cut Naruto, Sasuke motivating Naruto with only two lines... list goes on. Where does Sakura factor in this? Because she is not that important. Because as Naruto said, he is Sasuke's only one. SS shippers have no understanding of authorial intent or narrative or subtext. Sakura herself knows Naruto's importance to Sasuke, that's why in her pathetic confession she whines how she "can't get close to Sasuke" and "can't exchange blows with him" things that Naruto does. Sasuke himself noted in a chapter AFTER Sakura's confession that Naruto kept coming closer to his heart. It's Kishi's way of mocking SS and underlining NS. This is not rocket science.

Using @narutouzumakiarchive images for convinience.

And what's more, the reason why I'm against SS the most is not because Sakura is pathetic around Sasuke (although that certainly helps) but because Sasuke is not in love with Sakura. Sakura has no qualities Sasuke admires or finds lovable. Sakura doesn't respect him nor does she appreciate the things he does (family for example).

You can also check narutouzumakiarchive's posts debunking common SS arguments, it includes many that she also used.

[luxafers-triak]

Okay, I have another thought, but what about Orion/Optimus having religious psychosis. That shit is terrifying, okay?

Like the Church (can you just tell that I despise them, especially Evangelical Christians. They did too much to me, okay) would feed into his delusions that he is destined by Primus to heal Cybertron. That shit would damage him so much. He wrote books during this time (essentially a type of bible) and almost led an entire cult before his family pulled him out of it.

How did they pull him out of it, you may ask? Ratchet found out what he was doing and slowly tried to undo the damage. He, along with Jazz, Prowl, Wheeljack, Elita-One, reminded him what was important and then forbade him from going to church. OP threw a fit about it, but they didn't care. They knew that OP would understand.

It took a long time before OP was fully himself again, and all of them just decided never to mention it again.

He still has all of the notes and things from that era and has kept it secret. Do any of the others know where it is? No and they never asked him.

Does it get mentioned later when one of them was drunk off their mind? Yes. Does that also lead to many others finding out? Yes.

[syltheanti]

I would go off anon but… some proshippers really hate me!

You know that whole thing with proshippers how they say when you post something online it isn’t yours and you should just accept it when people misuse it or disrespect your dni? Yeah, I hate that!

Dnis are valid. We all still own the shit we post online. People have the right to call someone out for not making something of their ocs they didn’t want. Cuz damn- Why would OP want incest of their ocs???

Yeah legally people have the right to draw and write shit because it does fall under transformative works but like…did we all forget basic human decency? Courtesy? Respect? Just cuz the law says you can do it doesn’t make it ok when it clearly violates someone.

Oh yeah and dnis. Proshippers that go in and ignore on purpose are pieces of shit <3

No, I don’t fucking care you find them dumb. That person’s page clearly says “FUCK OFF” it means fuck off. Curating your own space online MEANS DON’T INTERACT WITH PEOPLE YOU DON’T LIKE EITHER.

It’s always the “rules for thee but not for me” bs with these people.

I ain’t saying they’re not human but these fuckers clearly lack empathy and some just like to find excuses to be assholes to people.

- anon 💙🦴

YES YES YES YES.

"It's the internet/a public space!" okay and? Your point is?

People are just as free enough on the internet to say fuck you, you're not safe on my blog, do not interact with me just as proshippers are free to say whatever bulllshit they've said before.

Proshippers are so damn entitled I swear.

[youphoriaot7]

CELLBIT!

The global chat somehow seems even more frantic than usual this afternoon, and he blinks blearily at the messages rocketing across the screen. The tell-tale red blinking dot of notifications is practically going haywire: private chats from Pac and Bagi, calls from Philza and Bad, messages mentioning him from Fit, Pierre, Tubbo, Baghera—

This feels like a lot, even for an average Wednesday.

Cellbit: Okay, okay, hold on. I'm on my way to spawn now.

Strapping the communicator to his arm, Cellbit tugs his jacket on as he makes his way towards the waypoint across the bridge. He's just barely awake, but something is pulling at his insides: wrong, wrong, wrong.

He wasn't out for that long. What could have possibly happened?

Taking a deep breath, his hands slide across the polished stone surface of the waypoint, and in moments, he's arrived at the main square.

Immediately, there's a barrage of voices that hit his ears. Instinctively pressing a hand to his forehead, he pushes his way out of the subway, staring in disbelief at the large gathering of people in the main square.

Bagi spots him first, quickly yanking him to the side, yelling in her traditional rapid-fire Portuguese. At the same time, he can see Pac talking to Bad nearby, the two of them clearly upset—he knows both of them well enough to see something is wrong.

Tubbo catches sight of him next, and at that point, the jig is up. Whatever Bagi had been trying to tell him is instantly drowned out by the younger's typical loud tone—which immediately catches everyone else's attention as well. Fit grabs the back of Tubbo's apron to yank him backwards towards him and Phil, who stands there shaking his head with arms crossed, but it's already too late: the damage is done.

Pierre is shouting greetings to him in his typical joyous manner, which doesn't seem to match the rest of the group's energy. Baghera seems somewhat frantic, frustrated and upset as she tugs on his arm. Cellbit manages to catch his husband's eye from across the square where he's chatting with a hyperactive Foolish, and Roier simply gives him a sympathetic look.

...something bad has happened.

Everyone is talking at once, and Cellbit rubs a hand to his temples as he tries (in vain) to quiet the group. Only some words ever catch his attention through the wide chorus of voices—"Nether," "worry," and the increasingly common cries of "what are we going to do?"

"Alright, alright, calm down!"

Eventually, with Bagi's help, he's able to get everyone to at least lower their voices, if not stop completely. Instinctively, Cellbit glances towards her and Pac, praying they know enough to clue him in. When he catches Pac's eye, however, the other man looks horrified, gaze locked on a spot in mid-air just behind Cellbit. Cellbit sighs, opening his mouth to speak—

"Good morning, Mr. President."

He can practically feel the blood drain from his face as he slowly looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, there looms Cucurucho, the damn white fucker staring straight at him with that hideous, frozen smile.

"...what did you say?" Cellbit questions, voice light-years steadier than he feels.

The bear doesn't move, repeating its words. "Good morning, Mr. President."

The square is so quiet, you could hear a screw drop. Silently, Cellbit glances back at Bagi and Pac. The woman has a look of sorrow written across her face, whereas Pac's fists are clenched in a show of barely restrained anger. "...wheres Forever?" Cellbit asks softly.

Bagi opens her mouth to reply—

"Classified."

Cellbit's eyes snap back to the bear. "I didn't ask you," he responds evenly—and he can hear a snort of pleasure from where Tubbo stands, even despite Phil's hand slapped over his mouth and Fit's hissed shush. "Bagi?"

"We think he went to the Nether," she responds, voice somewhat hoarse as she glances at him.

Pac nods. "He said it was a mission." His eyes slide to Cucurucho.

He doesn't need to continue.

Cellbit takes a deep breath.

...he has a lot to do.

[theangelstouch]

this question inspired me to write a mini-fic, thank you op <3

There’s something on his face.

But instead of pointing it out to him or getting it for him, Dominic continues to watch his every movement and pretends to listen to whatever he’s blabbering about. He’s in for a scolding once Safar notices he isn’t listening but for now, his gaze lingers on Safar’s face, a small smile etched upon his own.

“And then I was like– hm? What’s wrong? Is there something on my face?”

Safar finally notices his boyfriend’s silent stare, to which Dominic is caught off guard for a moment, before quickly regaining his composure and maintaining his almost-unnoticeable smile. Even as Safar’s face muscles twitch and shift, that ‘something’ still sticks to his face. He fights the urge to chuckle at the confused look on Safar’s face.

“There is.”

Safar raises an eyebrow at this. His right hand begins to pat his cheeks in search of this ‘something’ that apparently and stubbornly won’t leave his face.

“Huh? Where is it?”

Dominic simply keeps watching, the urge to laugh growing stronger by the second. Though his resistance persists, fortunately for him, as Safar is watching him intently and in need of guidance.

“It’s everywhere.”

Safar’s eyes widen in shock at this information and his left hand joins in on rubbing his face, still failing to find what it is that’s plaguing his facial features. Dominic can only hope he doesn’t accidentally make his boyfriend anxious but the look on his face tells him that he’s simply frustrated he still hasn’t gotten his hands on the mysterious ‘something’.

“What the hell?”

Safar takes off his glasses then rubs his eyes and face, stretching out his hands in front of him to see if anything got on his hands. His eyebrows furrow when he’s met with empty hands. He lets out a frustrated noise and sighs.

“I don’t see anything.”

His tone is one of defeat. Dominic sighs affectionately as Safar puts his glasses back on his face. Dominic puts a tender hand on Safar’s thigh, his gaze finally moving away and going towards his own hand.

“You never do. I wish you could see the beauty on your face like I do.”

Silence fills the room for a few seconds.

Then Safar bellows as he hits Dominic on the shoulder. He did all that just to find out that it was beauty smeared all over his face.

“God, you are so cheesy.”

Finally Dominic allows himself to laugh alongside his boyfriend as Safar leans his head on his shoulder. Dominic’s hand sneaks its way to Safar’s, intertwining their fingers together.

“But I truly wish that. You’re… you’re so handsome, love.”

Dominic’s cheeks grow red as he turns his head to plant a kiss on the crown of Safar’s head. As if contagious, Safar also grows flustered at the compliment, stunned into silence for a minute.

“...I’ll do my best.”

His answer is barely above a whisper but Dominic manages to catch it anyway. The latter smiles fondly, his heart full.

“That’s the spirit.”

Have you ever caught your F/O(s) staring at you before? Or them catching you staring? Was it a look of admiration or witnessing something absurd?

[marvelousmawn]

getting my ass absolutely handed to me by network effect, a compilation (so far):

[smoozie]

Literally so real and so true. Some of this was bugging me in a way I could not describe but now I know