#what if I like...practiced and got better???

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[rosemaryhoney27]

Cat Conspiracy

The Cat Conspiracy

Damian Wayne had tracked assassins across continents, dismantled crime syndicates before breakfast, and fought rogue AI while still managing to ace his Latin homework.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for Danny Fenton.

Specifically, Danny Fenton and his suspicious pattern of visiting pet stores all over Gotham, emerging each time with an armful of cats.

Damian narrowed his eyes from the rooftop across the street as Danny exited The Purring Palace with five cats in various shades of tabby draped across his arms, a smug little smile on his face.

Damian’s voice was a low growl in the comms. “Grayson. I’ve got eyes on Fenton again. He’s acquired more felines. That’s the third pet store this week. Something is afoot.”

Across the city, Dick let out an exaggerated groan. “Maybe he just likes cats?”

“No one likes cats that much. Not without a nefarious purpose,” Damian replied, dead serious.

“Damian, buddy, you live with eight trained attack bats and a demon dog. Let the kid have some cats.”

“I will not rest until I uncover his scheme.”

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton was indeed up to something.

He wasn't robbing banks or raising a ghost army or even stealing Gotham's supply of tuna fish. His plan was, in fact, adorably petty.

“Here you go, Mr. Meowser,” he whispered as he tucked the newest stray into a box carefully prepared with toys, a mini litter pan, and an engraved name tag. “You’re going to love your new home. It has three fireplaces, heated floors, and a man who pretends to hate you but secretly buys you imported kibble.”

He grinned as the box closed.

Operation: Furry Revenge was going purrfectly.

After all, if Vlad Masters—billionaire fruit loop, obsessed with power, and frequent thorn in Danny’s ghostly side—was too busy dealing with the ever-growing clowder of feline freeloaders mysteriously showing up at his mansion, then he’d have zero time for evil schemes.

Better yet, Vlad hadn’t sent a ghost assassin after him in weeks. The last thing he’d screamed over the phone was, “Daniel, I am not a cat café!”—right before the line went dead and the sound of a kitten meowing played faintly in the background.

Success.

Vlad was unraveling.

He now owned no less than thirty-two cats, each with names like “Princess Fuzzums,” “Waffle,” and “Mr. Stabby.”

They appeared out of nowhere.

Well, not nowhere. Always in tidy, clearly handmade boxes, addressed to him, complete with vet records and gourmet food recommendations.

He’d tried to be mad. He’d tried to find the source. But the cats... they purred.

One had curled up on his chest and started kneading at his robe while purring like a chainsaw, and now she had a bed on his desk and he dictated business emails around her nap schedule.

He was losing the war, and the worst part? He was starting to like it.

Damian had enough.

He dropped down from a rooftop like an avenging shadow as Danny exited yet another pet store with a fluffy ginger kitten perched on his head like a crown.

“I knew it.”

Danny screamed and nearly dropped the kitten. “What the hell?! Do you practice dramatic entrances?”

“You’ve been acquiring cats for a dark purpose,” Damian said, voice cold and accusatory. “I demand to know what you’re planning.”

Danny blinked at him. Then grinned.

“Would you believe me if I said it was a long-term plan to neutralize a billionaire supervillain through the power of feline responsibility?”

Damian stared.

Danny kept going. “I call it Operation: Claw and Order. My target now owns thirty-two cats. That’s roughly thirty-one more than he emotionally admits to loving.”

“…You’re weaponizing cats.”

“Yes,” Danny said, very proud.

Damian folded his arms. “…Interesting. I approve.”

Danny blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I would’ve used snakes, but your method is arguably more insidious. If you require assistance in continuing this campaign, I can connect you with Selina Kyle. She has... resources.”

Danny cackled. “Oh my god, is this what friendship feels like?”

“No,” Damian said immediately. “…But I’ll help deliver the next batch.”

And just like that, Gotham’s weirdest alliance was born: the half-ghost boy with a vengeance plan powered by kittens, and the Bat’s youngest, most terrifying son.

Vlad never knew what hit him.

But his cats were very well-fed.

[gay-dorito-dust]

saja boys flirting with manager!reader that just does not give a shit and only focuses on their job ?

‘Do you wanna touch my abs?’ Abby said as you were taking to social media to gauge the reactions of Saja Boy’s latest album, thankfully and expectedly the reactions were overwhelmingly positive, a job well done you guessed but it didn’t take much to gain traction when your grouped with conventionally attractive men with voices of angels.

‘I know you secretly do-‘

‘I don’t actually.’ You cut him off with a sharp, tight smile, hoping to be the point across that you were working and didn’t want to be bothered by senseless and meaningless flirting, it was unprofessional and you worked hard enough to get where you were without the unwanted flirting. ‘Besides don’t you have prentice that you should be at right now, we’ve got a video to put out after all.’ You add as you walked away from him, head firmly in your phone where you kept all your schedules and important information to keep this group within the public eye.

Abby only pouts as you walked away, crossing his arms. ‘Everything that breaths wants to touch my abs.’ He tells himself before going to practice like you said, you were certainly something if his flexing didn’t have much of an effect over you.

Romance was close as you overuse the meet and greet, so much so that he might as well have been pressed against you, watching you closely in hopes you’d notice and be rid of the furrow in your brows and the clench in your jaw. He even went to reach out and brush a finger against your cheek, only for your hand to come up and grab him by the wrist.

‘I better have something on my face for you to be doing that.’ You told him as your furrowed gaze was now directly on him, not the way that Romance would’ve liked but he’s got your attention regardless, so he guessed he got what he wanted in the end.

Romance smiled. ‘And what if you didn’t?’

You frowned. ‘Then learn to keep your hands to yourself, you’re too touchy and it’s distracting.’ You tell him as you drop his wrist as he leans in close to you, smirking.

‘I distract you huh?’ He says, completely ignoring the rest of what you had just said, much to your dismay as you groaned about how you couldn’t have been Huntrix’s manager instead, at least they wouldn’t be trying to flirt with you every second of every day. You loved the boys, you really did but they seemed to act as though you could be easily swayed as their fans, which wasn’t true, and completely forgetting that you were their manager half of the time.

‘From doing my job.’ You corrected him. ‘Now take that flirtatious energy and aim it towards the fans that are about to burst through those doors yeah?’ You concluded as Romance could only sigh, vowing to try again another time when you least expect it.

Baby happened to be your favourite band member of Saja Boys. He didn’t bother you as much as the rest of them did, kept himself occupied with spicy foods, or watching videos while indulging in some sweets he got from the nearby convenience store.

However that didn’t mean he was scott free from having moments where he would disrupt your day by whatever means he could. And right now he was sitting with his feet kicked up onto your lap, sucking on a lollipop, acting like he had nowhere better to be.

‘Can I help you?’ You asked as you looked over at him.

He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth and replied, ‘nope,’ before putting the lollipop back into his mouth. You looked at him unamused as you push his feet from your lap, only for Baby to put his feet back on your lap, smirking at your clear dislike of your current position. ‘Then why are you not chugging spicy sauce on a talk show or just in general?’ You asked, hating his lack of transparency in favour of being this nonchalant individual.

‘Am I not allowed to hang out with you?’ Baby asked, raising his brow as though you were scrutinising you for his active choice to be here with you then his band mates. ‘Is it truly a sin to be here with my utterly gorgeous manager?’

‘It is when all you’re going to do is flirt with me the entire time and certainly not when I’m working, so yeah it’ll be a no for me.’ You stated as you once again shoved his feet off of your lap and stood up and walked out of the room, tablet in hand.

Jinu came to you after you were bothered by the rest of the group, late in the night as you were finally getting ready for bed, but felt yourself unable to sleep and instead go out on the apartment balcony that over looked the city.

That’s when he comes to stand close by, your elbows touching ever so briefly, but it felt a lot like you were closer than you actually was. ‘Tired?’ He asked as he watched you rub at the dark bags under your eyes and taking in your overall exhausted body language.

‘It’s the price I pay for keeping you guys in the public zeitgeist.’ You replied, eyes remaining on the city and its billboards that you were certain promoting your boys and their newest song. ‘And a price well paid for too, you’re dominating the charts and becoming more and more popular by the day.’ You add as you finally look over at him, only to see him firmly looking at you with a softness that you weren’t sure you saw before, at least as far as you were aware.

‘That’s all in thanks to your hard work, we just look good and sing.’ Jinu says as his eyes shift from you to the city then back to you again, his hands twitching as though he wanted to hold yours but was holding himself back from doing so. ‘You deserve all the praise for getting us where we are. You’re exceptional.’ He concludes.

You puffed your chest in pride, not aware that he may or may not have been flirting with you, instead finally being recognised for all your hard work and dedication to the group and their ever growing popularity. ‘I am exceptional aren’t I?’ You rhetorically asked.

‘Yes you are.’ Jinu replied, watching you as you beam with pride as a smile graced his lips. ‘Charming and charismatic too.’ He piles up the compliments that seemingly went over your head, or were intentionally being dismissed by you as you patted him on the shoulder and said. ‘Welp! We better get some sleep as we’ve got a big day ahead of us to prepare for and I’ve got a schedule to keep and don’t feel like wasting time trying to wake one of you up because you didn’t rest properly.’

And with that you left Jinu on the balcony as you went to bed, switching off your light and everything as Jinu was left wondering if that had just happened.

Mystery hovered over you like an over protective guard dog. He was attentive, silent but ready to start barking at things he thought were intruding on his territory.

He might as well have been sat on your lap at this point when you were gauging what would keep the fans attention, looking on social media if there was anything that they wanted to see from Saja Boys, and keeping tract of the fact that they were to go on a show in a couple of hours where they’d have to eat chicken wings dipped in hot sauce that got gradually hotter while talking about how they came together amongst other things.

Mystery nudged your side to get your attention. Nothing.

He nudged your side again. Nothing, you were glued to your phone.

Mystery huffs and puts himself between you and your phone by shoving his head into your lap, acting like that of an overgrown dog that didn’t understand that he was too old to be sitting on your lap anymore. You huffed this time and looked at him as he looked back at you, small smile upon his lips as his plan ahd worked to his advantage, yet you were only significantly behind on your work and weren't up for any distractions from anyone in the slightest.

'Yes?' you asked, only for Mystery to put your free hand upon his head, his silent plea for you to run your fingers through his hair, unfortunately for him you weren't in the mood to that today as you hated to be off schedule even if it was by a milisecond.

You removed your hand from his head, making him pout at your lack of touch, tilting his head to the side as if to ask what you were doing. 'i can't today i need to get back on schedule, seen as how half of you seemed to have forgotten that you're meant to be on a press tour. we need to be puncutual abovr anything else.' You tell him as your attention is brought back to the tablet.

Mystery didn't like that all that much, hating your lack of attention, snatched the tablet from your hand and ran away with it, much to your dismay as you took our your phone and sighed. 'I swear he acts more dog then anything, love him, but at least i can hopefully get work done now i'm alone.'

Meanwhile poor mystery was waiting for you to come after him like he thought you would for thirty minutes before remembering that you could easily have done your work from a phone or a laptop within your vicinity, he returned the tablet shortly afterwards.

[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.

[chrisfawns]

the girlfriend effect. . .all the ways matt and chris change after getting a girlfriend

꒰ ੭ ꒱ ᐣ matt. . .starts sleeping more 💌🍵🎀

it's a well-known fact that matt doesn't sleep at night. he sleeps the next day. it's not unusual for nick or chris to get up at 5 am to get water, only to see a sliver of light still coming from under matt's door. he's either on the computer, watching tv, or simply pacing, waiting until his body is so exhausted that he has no choice but to sleep.

after you, though? matt's in bed at a solid eleven pm. you're tucked safely into his side, head against his chest. he'll nuzzle his stubbly chin into your hair as you yap about your day until you fall asleep mid-sentence, following you into dreamland shortly after.

now, matt's up before the clock hits noon. his shoulders don't slump with exhaustion anymore; instead, he's awake, dressed, and looks more alive than he ever has. his eyes aren't plagued with dark bags anymore and he has energy now.

ଘ꒰ ꒱ chris. . .drinks more water 🏹🐇🪞

shocked was an understatement. the internet practically exploded the first time they saw it. chris' usual car video soda had been replaced by a bottle of water. in fact, it became such a regular occurrence that even nick and matt were shocked.

"what?" chris asks, looking up to see matt staring at him like he's got two heads.

"you're drinking water?" matt asks, staring at the new, blue stainless steel water bottle that's on the counter next to his brother.

"yeah?"

"since when?"

"since my girl said i had to." chris shrugs, going back to his phone.

before long, chris' water bottle is covered in stickers from places you and him have visited together, cartoon characters, and just about any other sticker you had. the bottle becomes such a regular part of car videos that even you can't resist cracking a joke or two in the comments about the "girlfriend effect".

᧔ ᧓ matt. . .takes an ego sick day 🍰🤍🍓

if you didn't know matt sturniolo, you'd think he was simply a shy, quiet guy. which he is, until you get to know him. then the retorts and self compliments spill out of him faster than a waterfall.

"what song would you want to be edited to?"

"hmm... p power, probably."

"who's the best looking?"

"me. though nick is a close second."

"kid, if you're gonna talk out of your fuckin' ass at least turn around so i can hear you better."

when you come into the picture, all that goes away. matt's flustered when you caress his jaw and tell him how handsome he is instead of spouting some nonsense like "thanks for telling me what i already knew."

his ears turn pink at the tips and a soft, slow giggle makes its way from his lips. when nick and chris tease him about it, the only thing he says is "god forbid a man gets a little shy around his girlfriend" rather than some reply about being sex on legs.

you like him this way. you softened him. it's nice to know that underneath the mattitude as his brothers call it, matt really is a big softie.

૮ ོ ོ𑁬 chris. . .changes his mindset 🪩🩰🕰️

chris sturniolo has never considered himself "famous", but there's a specific clip of him that circles the internet every few months that one could argue he's famous for.

"what's your biggest fear?"

"having a girlfriend."

you had to admit that when the video had first come across your tiktok during your early days of dating, you were a bit hesitant. would he really commit to you?

that video is specifically is why matt and nick are shocked when chris hands you a plate of food as you grin up at him, eyes crinkling. "thank you, baby." you hum, seemingly unaware of the eyes on you.

even just the pet name has his brothers staring between the two of you, waiting for chris to mumble some shit like "it's not a big deal. it's just food."

instead, chris kisses your forehead, before sitting down beside you. "you're welcome, my love."

nick practically chokes on a piece of pasta. in his entire almost-twenty two-years of life, he's never heard chris call anyone my love and mean it. you and chris seem oblivious to the obvious shock radiating around the deck outside of the boy's boston home.

you reach over and tuck a curl behind chris' ear, a soft, shy smile appearing on your boyfriend's face. again, there's no "stop" or "not now". this time, matt decides that he has to see if you've just changed chris or if an alien has replaced his younger brother.

"you've got sauce on your face, baby." he croons, using his thumb to wipe the side of his brother's face.

chris bats matt's hand away, glaring. "fuck off."

you giggle, watching the chaos before you. chris is glaring at matt like he wants to kill him and matt's just laughing.

"what happened to 'i'm scared of having a girlfriend'?" matt asks.

"times change," chris grumbles. "besides, my girl isn't a dickhead like you."

"you've done something to him." matt says, pointing his fork at you, but you see the smile on his face.

© chrisfawns

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡: i love it when men change their whole personality after they've met their girl 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ interactions are appreciated but not expected!!

tags ⋆. 𐙚 ̊: @mattslilies @backwardshatnick @bernardsbendystraws @h3arts4nat @mattyblover07 @mattsstarlet

if you'd like to be added to my taglist, inbox me/dm me/comment!!

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ rafe defends you at the country club

he slams the door like he’s trying to wake the dead. you blink up from the couch, half-curled beneath a knit throw blanket with a cherry popsicle and an old rom-com playing on low volume. it’s peaceful, calm, your favorite time of day. until rafe storms in, yanks the collar of his white polo like it’s choking him, and mutters under his breath, “fucking doug.”

you raise a brow. “i didn’t know you hated old white men named doug. explain.” you bite your popsicle, staring at him like he’s your girlfriend about to gossip.

rafe looks at you like he forgot you were here. his eyes soften. “you look cute.” he melts when he looks at you.

“don’t pivot.” you chuckle, wiping melted popsicle off your fingers.

he drags a hand through his hair, all messy from golf, and paces around the room. the words are still caught behind his teeth. “he was talking about you.”

you frown. “who was?”

“doug,” he spits. “the one who always wears those cheap-ass loafers and thinks he’s the richest man alive.”

you set the popsicle down. “what did he say?” an uneasy feeling swirls through your stomach. you never liked half the men at the club. they always undressed you with their eyes and muttered nasty things under their breath.

rafe doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just begins muttering it like it tastes bad. “cameron’s got the right idea. keep a pretty one around, they stay quiet if you spoil ‘em enough. i used to have a girl like that. good for your ego. even better for weekends.” he mocks doug’s annoyingly high-pitched voice.

your stomach twists. your face contorts like you’ve eaten something rotten. rafe’s jaw clenches. you can practically hear his molars grind. “and you said…?” you murmur, mentally preparing for whatever bloodbath he’s about to describe.

“i said if he ever said your name again, i’d knock his veneers down his fucking throat.”

you stifle out a laugh and chuckle, “that’s my man” under your breath.

rafe shrugs like he’s trying to play it off. but you can still see the rage simmering just under his skin, warm and wild and utterly feral in its loyalty. “he tried to laugh it off. like it was a compliment. like you’re just,” he growls, “just some thing i let tag along for photo ops. some little doll i keep in the background so i don’t have to listen when she talks.”

you stay quiet and wait. rafe breathes out. his hands are fists at his sides. like he doesn’t know where to put them, only that they want to hit. “i hate that shit,” he mutters. “i hate when men talk like that. like they own women. like a girl’s worth is measured in how well she shuts up and smiles. like you’re disposable.”

you rise to your feet and he looks up. his eyes are dark with rage. his fingernails are bleeding from how much he’d bitten them. his hair is tousled like he was on some rollercoaster. you cross the room slow, until you’re toe-to-toe. until you can feel the heat coming off his chest and see the guilt still hanging in his eyes—not because he said it, but because he couldn’t kill the guy who did.

“i’m not disposable, rafe.”

he nods, quickly. “i know.”

“i’m not here to stroke your ego.”

“i know that too.”

“i talk back.”

“you don’t let me get away with shit.” he smirks. he’s not ashamed of it, he’s proud. he’d tell anyone that asked that—he’s not your boss. if anything, you’re his.

“and i never will.” the sides of your lips curve into a grin. pink floods your cheeks.

his eyes flicker, warm and wrecked. “good.”

you tilt your chin. “so what now? you start a feminist book club? throw hands in the locker room? get ‘respect women’ tattooed across your ribs?”

he smirks, faint. “you’d like that last one, huh?”

“i’d like not having to flinch when i hear my boyfriend’s name at the country club.”

he’s quiet for a beat. he looks at the ground. “i’ll never let them talk about you like that again. i don’t care who they are. money doesn’t make them right. and it sure as hell doesn’t make them safe.”

you hum, soft. “neither do country club memberships.”

he shrugs. “i grew up there. that doesn’t mean i have to become them.”

and that, right there—that’s what breaks you open a little. not the protective streak, or the fact that he came home furious on your behalf. but that, he doesn’t want to be like them. not for money. not for status. not even for safety.

“c’mere,” you whisper. he steps in like gravity, pulling you in by the waist, forehead pressing to yours.

“you’re mine,” he says, so quietly it barely counts as sound. “but not like that. never like that.”

you breathe him in, nod once, and press a kiss to his nose.

[starmapz]

deprived - r. sukuna

❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]

❦ smut oneshot

❝ when you get home after work grumpier than sukuna usually is, he knows something's wrong. when you deprive him of a kiss once you've returned, well now he's just pissed. for that, he'll deprive you of all of your senses as he pampers you with his mouth and fingers. ❞

❦ cw ; 18+ only. mdni. contains explicit sexual content. husband!sukuna. dom!sukuna. sub!reader. sensory deprivation. ball gag. blindfold. music. manhandling. nipple play (f! receiving). neck kissing. marking. biting. licking. bondage. fingering. oral (f!receiving). spit. use of pet names (brat, baby, sweetheart, wife, girl). praise. praising degradation. taunting. edging. pussy slapping. toys (bullet vibe). teasing. aftercare. kinda soft!sukuna during aftercare :]. part of the love & company series of oneshots but can be read separately/out of order.

❦ words ; 5.2k.

previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist

Biker!Sukuna leans his head on the back of the couch, windswept pink hair hanging over the fabric as you sigh the moment you shut the door of your shared home behind you. He twists, a bulky bicep resting on the back of the couch to see you better. “Long day?”

“Long fucking day,” you agree, sighing once more.

“Work?”

You nod, pulling your laptop from your bag and setting it on the counter, only to open it back up and resume working. Your husband’s eyes narrow as he watches you stand at the kitchen counter in your work attire without so much as a welcome home kiss.

Like really, what the hell? You didn’t even kiss him?

With his extremely usual scowl, he pushes up from the couch, discarding the hoodie he was wearing (because there’s no world where you can resist Sukuna’s cocky charm and veiny forearms, right?) and follows you to the kitchen. He slides his body up to you, his hands finding a place along your waist as he presses his body against your back.

“I need to work, Ryomen,” you mutter tiredly, pulling away.

Stunned and downright offended at this point that you’ve just used his government name, denied him of his ‘honey, I’m home’ kiss, and shrugged him off like a discarded shawl, his lip curls in confusion. 

“You should quit.”

Your head finally whips around, and he swears his own scowl is mirrored on your face. “I can’t just quit. We have bills, Ryomen.”

“Stop fuckin’ calling me that-”

“Your name?” You query incredulously, giving him just an ounce more of your attention.

“My full name,” he corrects you, crossing his arms over his chest, and that’s when you notice it. Your big beefy husband is pouting.

Oh you do not have time for this. Shaking your head, you turn back to your laptop, still standing at the counter in your work clothes.

“C’mon. At least change into something comfy,” he prods, knowing you’re just at wit’s end with the day, and not with him specifically. He may be offended by your dismissal of his affections, but he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Probably.

He does pause to think about it, though.

No, no. He’s good.

“I will later,” you wave him off again, leaving him further perturbed as he makes a show out of huffing and trudging back to the living room to resume what he was watching.

As over an hour goes by and you haven’t even moved from standing at the counter, he gets fed up, shutting the TV off and practically stomping back into the kitchen. He stands on the cusp of entering the room, arms crossed over his chest.

“You done yet? I need to make dinner, you’re in the damn way.”

That’s not the issue, he’s deflecting and he knows it, but Sukuna’s not about to admit that he wants your attention.

And his kiss.

“Not yet, give me another hour.”

“No. You got home fuckin’ forever ago. Go get changed, lemme make dinner.”

Sighing, you rub at your neck, sore from craning it to look down at your work. “Please, sweetheart. Give me a bit.”

Sukuna’s nose scrunches up in disdain. You only call him that when you’re attempting to sweet talk him in order to get your way when he’s uncooperative. And damn it, he’s a lovesick fool and it works. Every time.

You want to play dirty? He can play dirty.

With a huff, he takes a few steps towards you and physically shuts your laptop.

“Hey-!”

“Nuh uh. No more,” he frowns, looking you dead in the eye with that signature scowl, his hand firmly resting on your computer.

“You don’t understand, I have deadlines, I need-”

“You need to recharge,” he insists, his tone dropping to a hint of a growl. “I’m not arguin’ with you on this, sweetheart,” he mocks, flipping his hand to grab your wrist so that he can slide your hand into his much larger one. His skin is calloused and rough against yours, but the softness with which the grumpy and hardened man handles you never fails to make your heart race.

You want to give in and curl up on the couch and watch a reality show that he pretends to hate, but you have a presentation due early tomorrow morning and- “Please, Ryo. I just need one more hour, I promise.”

His scowl deepens and you fear the lines etched into his forehead might be permanent with the frustration he’s regarding you with. He grumbles your name, setting his free hand on your hip. He squeezes, making sure his intent comes across. “Go change into something comfy. I know you’re tired, don’t make this harder on yourself. Or are you askin’ to be tied up?”

With his breath fanning your face, he doesn’t miss the subtle way your pupils grow, your eyes darkening.

He snorts, squeezing your hip tighter. “If that’s whatcha want, then try me,” he taunts, pleased to have finally caught your attention. He knew from the moment you entered the door that you were overwhelmed and he equally knows that the easiest way to get his pretty wife to finally relax after the day he’s sure you’ve had is to take away your senses and allow you to focus only on him, only on pleasure, and only on yourself.

You contemplate his words, eyes sliding towards your laptop, then back to his lips. Your presentation is important, but you could just get up a bit early, right? Maybe you need a fresh perspective anyway, and you’re so wound up from the overwhelming day at work that giving in to Sukuna doesn’t sound so bad.

In fact, it sounds almost heavenly.

He watches carefully as you pull your arm out of his grasp, a bratty little smirk on your lips as you aim to open your laptop. He clicks his tongue before you even get the opportunity to touch the computer, barreling into your legs and flipping you over his shoulders with a triumphant grin.

“Good choice,” he hums in a gravelly tone as you squeal in surprise and cling to his shirt. “Even if you’re bein’ a brat.”

“Wait, my shirt, you’re gonna wrinkle it-”

“Enough about work,” he huffs, tossing you on your bed and pinning both of your arms over your head in one hand. “Enough. I don’t wanna hear about the damn presentation. You can finish later.”

“But-”

He growls your name in warning. “Don’t be a brat. Lemme take care of you.”

Your chest rises as you suck in a breath, nodding. He can see in the way that you hold your shoulders and the crease between your brows that you’re still stuck in your head and if that’s the case, he’ll give you something else to focus on. Pamper you in his own ‘Sukuna’ sort of way.

“That’s my pretty little wife.” He holds his hand out to you, searching for your consent. “You gonna let me take care of you?”

Again, you nod, taking his hand as you squeeze your thighs together. Heat pools in your core and you shuffle your hips, chasing the friction.

“Good,” he grins, rubbing his hand over your knuckles before disappearing altogether to open a drawer you know all-too-well. Your eyes darken a shade again as you watch him pull out a familiar set of ropes, as well as a new matching blindfold and ball gag you have yet to see. Your eyes widen, lips pursing as you take in the sight, shuffling on the edge of the bed.

“Is that new?” You ask, reaching out to slide your hands along the silk blindfold that matches Sukuna’s Ducati bike, a bright cherry red.

“Mhm,” he hums, a concentrated look on his face as he ties a slip knot into the shibari ropes you let him use on you every so often. “Wrists,” he commands, holding the knot out expectantly at you.

You make no attempt at arguing with him, slipping your wrists into the silk rope and allowing the cool material to bind your hands in front of you. The thrill causes your heart to race as you give in to your husband, allowing him to take full control. You shuffle once more, seeking any amount of friction on your already-throbbing clit.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, pressing his hands down on your thighs and spreading them just enough to keep you from seeking the friction you want so badly. “Be good,” he growls, leaving one hand on your thigh as your legs hang over the edge of the bed. “I’m only askin’ nicely this once.”

Your tongue swipes your lower lip before tugging it between your teeth, nodding slowly when the door suddenly creaks open. Sukuna pays it little mind until the newest furry addition to your family is softly headbutting his ankle and yelling.

“Not now, Cati,” he grumbles as though the young cat can understand him. When the little creature doesn’t let up and yells at her father for attention, Sukuna just sighs and picks her up, holding her out in front of him. “I’m tryna set a mood. You don’t make the mood better,” he explains. Her ear flicks and she wiggles her back legs, twisting her body in an effort to escape Sukuna’s grasp. “We can cuddle later,” he explains as he shuts the door with her outside it and heads to the ensuite to wash his hands.

“Brats, both o’ my girls,” he mutters to himself, turning to see you fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. He returns to the space beside you, picking up the blindfold and tying it expertly behind your head. He then takes the ball gag, using one hand to grab your chin as the other hovers the device over your lips. “If anything feels bad,” he says in all sincerity, staring straight through you to your soul as he even temporarily folds up the blindfold to get your full attention, “you use your foot to tap me twice, yeah?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes, baby.”

“Good girl,” he approves before buckling the leather of the gag in place and replacing the blindfold. Testing your senses, or lack thereof, you twist your wrists against the rope, tilting your head in an effort to find your husband, only to whimper at the realization that you’re giving all of your trust to him right now and it’s hot.

You wait at the edge of the bed, twisting your head in search of any sign of him, but you’re unable to find him. It’s only when he turns on what might be the most generic ‘sex music’ you’ve ever heard that you get an idea of where he is. You want to tease him for his playlist choice, fight against the ball gag, maybe be the brat he keeps saying you are, but before you can, you’re yelping in surprise as your arms are carefully tied to the top of the bed, your body dragged with them.

You struggle to swallow, adjusting your lips around the gag as you aim to search for him again, but with all of your senses aside from smell completely deprived, you can only whimper.

A large hand presses against your collarbone, pushing you into the bed and allowing you to relax into the mattress and pillows. Your husband’s weight makes the bed dip as he crawls over you, testing the hold the shibari bamboo ropes have on your wrists. Satisfied with his setup, he sweetly kisses your cheek once, before shocking you as he massages your shoulders.

“Relax,” he purrs into your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. Beneath the blindfold, your eyes flutter shut as you turn to putty in his hands with the way his digits work the knots from your muscles. This isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but you’re pleased nonetheless. He slides his hand down the front of your chest, unbuttoning the front of your white blouse and pushing it over your shoulders to give him better access.

You sigh, melting as he straddles you in order to rub the knots from your muscles. It only takes a mere couple of minutes before you’re blissfully relaxed, eyes heavy with the exhaustion of the day as your husband takes care of you. So comfortable, you barely even notice that he unbuttons the rest of your top. He searches for the zipper on your skirt, unzipping it and slipping them down your legs.

He smirks at the sight of you in a pretty pair of black lingerie that he got you on your first wedding anniversary. Always spoiling him, even if you don’t mean to. His cock twitches in the tent of his pants, but he sets his own needs aside in favor of servicing you.

Placing himself over top of you again, he kisses down the expanse of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collar. He grins as you sigh in pleasure, relieved that you’re finally letting go of the shitty day.

His lips travel the length of your neck down to your collar, sucking and leaving his mark just below where the neckline of your shirt falls. Any higher and he knows you would scold him for forcing you to use makeup to cover it at work, but he toes the line anyway, sucking just a bit higher. Pleased with the marks that make up your skin and the way you’re squirming beneath him, he moves lower, palming your left breast over your bra.

His other hand slides around your back, unhooking the lingerie and letting your breasts free with a small jiggle that has him eagerly grinning.

“Mmph,” you attempt to ask him not to rip or ruin your favorite bra, but the gag does you no favors.

Moving your bra up to rest on your upper chest, Sukuna runs the flat of his tongue over your bare nipple, thrilled when you jolt hard at the suddenness of the metal of his piercing grazing your nipple. “Yeah, baby?”

Your muffled words make no sense as you attempt again to worry about something, and Sukuna’s not having it.

“Stop thinkin’. No sight, no sound, no taste, just feel me. Be a good lil’ slut for me, yeah?”

It’s hard not to listen to him when he talks in that low purr you adore so much, his hands roaming your body as he sucks your nipple between his lips. He flicks and pinches the other bud between his forefinger and thumb, allowing his teeth to graze the sensitive skin between his lips when he grins.

Every reaction is tenfold with how heightened your sense of touch feels right now, every movement by Sukuna increasing in pleasure immensely when it’s all you can focus on as everything fades away. Your head lolls back as he swirls his tongue around your perky nipple, breath coming in fast pants when he switches his attention to the other side. He nips at the perky skin, satisfaction coursing through him when you jerk and jolt, your wrists tugging on the bamboo ropes.

With a final soft kiss, his lips move down to your waist and hips, kissing every inch of your body as he quietly worships you. This may be about you, but Sukuna takes great pleasure in seeing you melt and quiver under his gentle and saccharine touch. After all, he’s not a particularly soft man, so he knows it turns you to putty when he shows another side to him.

He spreads your legs, one hand on each thigh, positioning himself between them so that you can’t close them. Leaning down, he watches the way you fiddle against your restraints, unable to stay still under his attention. He chuckles lowly, though you can barely hear it over the music, when your entire body jerks as he licks a stripe up your damp panties.

“So wet,” he groans, both of his hands roaming up your thighs to your hips and waist, before he brings them back down and pulls your panties with them, discarding them from your ankles. “So fuckin’ wet,” he repeats with a view of your bare pussy.

Unable to see him, your breathing quickens as you eagerly await the feeling of his tongue on your clit, but he only teases you as he runs his fingers through your soaking wet folds. You let out a muffled whine, jerking your hips up to meet his fingers as you chase the friction he won’t bestow upon his poor needy wife, too occupied with teasing you.

His fingers pause as you wriggle in his grip. “Ah-” he clicks his tongue, lightly slapping your pussy. “Be good for me.”

Your body jerks as you shuffle away from him, whimpering at the unexpected sensation and attempting to close your legs. Your husband pulls you back by your thighs, keeping you spread as his weight shifts, before he’s finally where you want him. He tests the waters, pleased when you tense with the small kitten lick he gives your clit. You can feel his grin against your skin when he buries his tongue in your needy cunt.

Your back arches for him and you tug against the ropes when his tongue plunges into the depths of your pussy, the metal of the ball piercing in his tongue amplifying the sensations of pleasure. He moves slowly, enjoying the taste of your slick and the way your body jolts, tenses, and twitches as his tongue explores your body.

He hums in approval when you whimper and whine, accentuated with gasps as it’s all you can manage behind the gag. You can feel drool slipping down your chin, unable to care as Sukuna has you so thoroughly bound, unable to care about anything but him.

You just barely hear him mutter “all mine”, before his tongue moves up to swirl around your clit. Your jaw clenches against the red ball gag as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, intense pleasure coursing through your body.

God, you needed this. You just didn’t know how badly, but the muscles in your stomach are already clenching as you feel the wave of your orgasm nearing its shore, only for Sukuna to pull back. You whine in protest, tugging hard against your binding as you yearn to pull him back down by his hair. You whimper again when you aren’t able to, lifting your lead in an effort to see him, but it’s all in vain. There’s nothing but darkness, no sounds to fill the air but yours and his, no taste but the blandness of the gag, and no smell but him to fill your nostrils.

It’s so overwhelming in all the right ways, unable to think of anything but his touch as you seek him out in whatever way you can. Work is a problem of the past as you clench your thighs.

“Thought I told ya to be good,” he hums, though his only punishment seems to be more serviceable to you, and you certainly won’t complain about that as he plunges his middle and ring finger suddenly into your soaking hole. He hums in approval as you gasp and clench your fists, nails digging into your palms with the sudden wave of pleasure that ripples through you.

He pulls them out slowly, pushing the digits back in to the hilt as you feel the cool metal of his wedding ring sink between your folds. You whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head, attempting to whimper a “please”, but it barely comes out as anything more than “pfff”.

“I know, princess,” he hums, kissing your rib below the swell of your left breast. “Feels good, yeah?”

You manage a nod, crying out when he curls his fingers forward, your stomach clenching each time he expertly hits your G-spot. It sends you into a flurry, legs closing in around him as you chase that same wave from earlier, every muscle tensing as you swear you’re right there, only for him to pull his fingers from you.

Another whine, another tug of the ropes as you’re left hanging right on the edge of your orgasm. Again. Your stomach relaxes as the feeling passes and your chest heaves. You clench your teeth down on the ball again, growing frustrated and needy as hell. Sukuna can see it in the way your brow knits, a crease forming just above the blindfold.

You hear him chuckle again. “Somethin’ got you riled up, sweetheart?” His hand slides from your breast around your body until he’s arching your back closer to him. “Easy to forget all the bullshit when all you can focus on is me, huh?” You can hear the grin in his voice as the flat of his tongue licks a stripe up your right nipple, making your head hang back in sheer pleasure.

Your pussy pulses around nothing, desperate for attention and release. As you buck your hips up towards your husband, he presses you into the mattress with a strong hand.

“Needy girl,” he chuckles, sliding his opposite hand from your sternum to your chin. He runs his thumb along your lips, wiping the saliva from the corners of your mouth as you whine and whimper around the ball gag.

Every sense is completely occupied only by Sukuna, his touch electrifying. A shiver runs up your spine as you just barely hear the scraping of your bedside drawer open once more. The mattress shifts under his weight, before he’s leaning over you again.

His lips brush your ear for a moment, the deep rumble of his voice only making you more wet for him. “You’ll cum when I tell you, got it?”

Whining around the gag, you nod.

With a satisfied hum, the bed shifts beneath you as Sukuna positions himself between your legs again, able to feel his strong thighs seated between your own. He leans down, pressing a startlingly gentle kiss to your stomach that throws you off-kilter, only to meanly bully his middle and ring finger back into your pussy.

Your hands curl into fists as you cry out, desperate to cling to anything as you attempt to close your thighs on your husband, who keeps you spread with his free hand, while your other leg presses against his torso. Sukuna doesn’t let up his pace, hitting the gummy part of your walls with ease and sending bliss straight to your core like lightning.

His name comes out muffled as you attempt to whine for him, bucking your hips up as a knot ties in the pit of your stomach, threatening to come undone at any moment. The second your abdomen begins tensing, Sukuna’s pace slows to an agonizing halt.

“Ah- what’d I say?”

You whine, but he’s not having any of it.

“What did I say?” He repeats lowly.

It surely makes no sense with the ball still between your lips, but you repeat back to him that you’re only allowed to cum when he says. He hums in approval, one large hand leaving your thigh to caress your cheek as he tries to- literally- fuck you dumb, until you forget about your presentation altogether.

And it’s working. Well. 

Your head hangs back against the pillows, your chest heaving as you shuffle against your bindings, whining when he doesn’t pick up the pace at all, even as you obey his commands. The slow in and out of his fingers is just enough to keep you squirming and whining, but equally not enough to satiate your desire.

It’s muffled, but you just barely manage a “please,” much to Sukuna’s pleasure.

“Yeah, princess? You willin’ to beg?” He hums. The bed shifts again, and you jolt when cold steel is pressed to your clit. Gasping at the sudden chill, your body gradually relaxes as the toy is held still for a moment, only to be turned on a second later, the vibration sending a tingling sensation through your body to your limbs.

Your hips jerk and twitch with the subtle movements of the metallic toy, the continued stimulation to your clit and his fingers still slowly curling sending you closer to the edge and closer to overstimulation. You whine out, your stomach tightening as the knot is just about to unravel when he pulls away altogether.

You whine louder, pleading with him behind the gag though it all comes out as little more than mmphs.

Your legs are trembling, your walls pulsing around nothing as Sukuna teasingly flicks your nipple, pulling a cry from your pretty lips. “What’s that, princess?” He chides, tugging on the leather strap of the ball gag and pulling it back just enough to hear your whiny request.

“Please let me cum, Ryo, plea- mmph-!” Your chest heaves again as you pull on your restraints. Your movements are growing wearier the more fucked out you get, and Sukuna figures he might just have some mercy on you.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he purrs, and before you have time to process that he’s there, his tongue is on your clit, sucking hard and sending sparks straight to the knot in your abdomen. It tightens as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his teeth grazing it and causing you to jump. He keeps you right on the edge until tears of overstimulation are wetting the blindfold and you’re trembling around his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby,” he commands, latching his lips back onto your clit.

The final push across the finish line are his fingers effortlessly pinpointing your G-spot and sending you straight over the edge in an orgasm that rocks your body. Your husband slows his movements, pulling wave after wave of your climax through you and watching every subtle twitch and jerk of your body as he coaxes you into a completely blissed out state.

Your head hangs back against the pillows as he slowly pulls his mouth and fingers from your core, slipping the soaked digits between his lips. He pulls them out with a sinful pop! and a smirk that betrays his satisfaction, despite the rock-hard and throbbing issue between his own thighs.

His weight disappears for a moment as the volume of the music softens to something low and comfortable, before he’s carefully untying your wrists. No longer bound, he brings them down to your lap before focusing on the gag and blindfold. As he slips them both off and sets them aside, you blink as your eyes adjust to the low lighting of your bedroom.

“How’re you feelin’?” He grunts, gently taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head in either direction as he searches your skin for any signs that anything might have been too tight.

Yawning, you nod. “I’m good. I needed that, thanks Kuna.”

“Mmm. I could tell,” he smirks, satisfied that the gag and blindfold he bought are to his liking. He checks your wrists over and nods to himself before focusing in on you. “Relax for the night, yeah?”

You nod again. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I was a little snappy earlier.”

He kisses the crown of your hair in acknowledgement before making his way to the ensuite washroom. You watch as he leans over to fill the tub for you, a subtle smile making its way to your lips.

As he returns to your side, you eye the twitching tent in his pants, your gaze sliding up to meet his. “Turn off the bath,” you murmur sweetly, a feline look in your eyes that Sukuna shuts down with a scoff.

A goddamn scoff while he’s looking like that. Bewildered, you stare at him from your place on the bed.

“I got a hand, I’ll take care of myself. Now lemme take care of you,” he gruffs, slipping the sleeves of your blouse off your arms and pulling the straps of your bra along with it. He hoists you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you bridal-style to the bath and setting you on the edge to check the temperature before lowering you into it.

The water warms your skin and you feel your muscles loosen even more, but you still pout up at him. “Are you sure? You could join me, maybe-”

He says your name chidingly. “You’ve had a long day. Relax.”

Letting out a breath, you just smile at your husband. For as rough around the edges as he is, and for how frustrating and stubborn he can be, he’s a sweetheart when it comes to what matters. Pushing up on the edge of the tub, you place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” you murmur.

You don’t expect him to reply, he rarely does. He’s a man of action, not of words, so his next movements don’t shock you.

He hums, heading to the cabinet below the sink. “Y’got any of those bath bomb things?” He asks, in his own little ‘I love you’ sort of action.

“Um, probably. Towards the back in a little bag, maybe?”

He rustles through the cabinet for a moment before pulling out a brown stone with a questioning raise of his brow as he presents it to you.

“That’s a pumice stone.”

“So… no?”

Stifling your giggle, you shake your head. “Definitely not.”

“Don’t say ‘definitely’,” he gripes sarcastically. “I don’t know any of this shit.”

You don’t hold back your giggle now, only pausing your laughter when he presents a pink bath bomb to you. You nod, though your fit of giggles doesn’t cease.

Returning to your side, your husband flicks your forehead softly in mock disdain, waiting silently by your side for the water to fill before dropping the bath bomb into the water in front of you. It fizzes softly, dyeing the water (and the side of the tub) a soft pink. With shining eyes and a weary but satisfied expression, you grip Sukuna’s wrist before he can leave.

“Thank you.”

“‘Course. Maybe now you won’t forget my kiss when you get home,” he grumbles, grumpy as ever once again.

Your jaw slacks, gaze narrowing. “Hold on. Is that what this was about?”

Sukuna freezes in your grip, regarding you with a deep scowl. “No. Just wanted you out of the kitchen to cook.”

It’s just about the saddest excuse you’ve ever heard, and while you brushed past it earlier while you were busy, it sounds even more pitiful now. “Ryo.”

“What?” He huffs.

“Come here, you big baby.”

He doesn’t move for a split second, still caught in the grasp of your hand on his wrist, but even with the frustrated scowl he’s sporting, he can’t deny you. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s doing this for you.

Duh.

He gets down on his knees, letting you pull him in for his hard-earned ‘welcome home’ kiss. It’s soft and sweet, filled with the very same love he’s poured into taking care of you.

Your eyes flutter open as you pull back, your fingers tracing the rough stubble poking through his skin along the tattoos lining his chin. “Better?”

He grunts, side-eyeing the wall as if it’s suddenly interesting. “Love you.”

Your eyes widen for a split second before you break into a grin, pulling him in again. Your lips brush his as you whisper your reply. “I love you, too.”

previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist

❦ a/n ; hope you enjoyed the return of my fave freaky couple! needed a break from the angst of my ongoing sukuna series [wyk], but the next chapter is about halfway done <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist to be added or removed. 18+ only, age must be visible on blog.

@toffeebrat @gojodickbig @4acoffee @billiondollarworth @qyuin

@bxnfire @jayghostedu @favvkiki

writing & format © starmapz. art © too-many-owls. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune.

[date-everything-has-taken-over]

Hi hi hiii I wasnwondering if u could do a fic thing where reader is basically dating most dateables n one day they (the reader) basically ends up feeling extremely sick from not taling care of theirself properly, running around to fix stuff, starting a new part-time job, going out with new friends. Could some of the characters included be dorian, eddie & volt, hector and whoever else? Pls and thank uu!!

Gonna add Barry and Betty because I think they'd fit in very well with this case (And they're my babygirls)

Dorian🚪

● One of the first to notice something was off

●After losing your job at Valdivian, you had gotten two part-time jobs to make up for it, and it was beginning to take its toll

●He was the kne to see you before you walked through the front Dorian. Before you would take a deep breath and put on your best, "everything's okay" face

●He'd try his best to convince you to give yourself a break and get some well needed rest, but you kept reassuring him you'd be fine

●Well, he was right. After one too many overtime shifts combined with coming home to help everyone with their problems resulting in many sleepless nights, you come home and practically collapsed in the front hallway

●"Right, that's it. You're taking a couple days off work and resting"

●Unfortunately, he's still the front door, so he can't take you to bed himself, but bedroom Dorian will take things from there

●If you thought he was like a bouncer before, you haven't seen anything yet.

●A dateable wants to see you. "Are you on the list?" "What do you need with them?" "You're not gonna cause a fuss are ya?"

●He even contemplates moving the hanks downstairs. Sure, they're usually in your room, but they're so loud. He gives them a stern warning (which scares them just a bit) and let's them stay

●He makes sure the house is safe and that your room is the pinical of peace

●"Autherized personal only" Dorian blocks anyone trying to get in, but especially the more rowdy members of the house

●"Darling, you never believe what I heard about Hoove!" Scandalabra tries yelling through Dorian, which was followed by a suspicious thud (I'm sure it's nothing to worry abt)

●Until he sees you're 100% better, Dorian doesn't let you out of his sight (not that he does that anyway). Going to the kitchen for chicken soup? He's got an eye on you just in case

●When you actually do recover, he's making sure you don't get yourself in the same issue and makes you promise not to push yourself

●"It's not just my job to keep you safe from the outside world, love." He holds you close to him, enveloping you in a warm hug. "I will always be there to keep you safe from all danger"

●Even after you're better and going back to work, he's checking on you every chance he gets, reminding you to eat and sleep at a reasonable time

●He may not woo with words as much as other dateables, but he shows how much he loves you every day by being a safe and reliable presence for you

Eddie & Volt⚡️

●Work was short-staffed, and with it being busy season, you were picking up extra shifts almost every day

● They know overworked when they see it, so when you show up to the club, noticeably tired, they clock you right away

●Volt takes a seat next to you, placing his lips on the side of you head

"You know we're always happy to see you, live wire-"

Eddie cuts him off

"-But you look dead tired, go to bed"

● Volt chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you onto his lap

"Our live wire doesn't need to leave to rest, do they?" He brings you closer. "You can relax right here, live wire"

●After that night, Eddie stopped letting you help out around the club

"Don't worry about it, alright? You look like you're about to fall over anyway"

●Eddie acts tough, but he's checking on you and bringing you water every time you visit the Breaker Box after work

●When everything catches up to you and you actually do end up getting sick enough to take a couple of days off work while stuck in bed, they're both worried (and a little pissed)

●They've seen you running around the house helping everyone, fixing things around the house, settling arguments between other members of the house so they have a pretty good idea of how you ended up like this

●They check on you every day to make sure you're doing alright

●If you're not awake when they come by, you'll wake up to find a glass of water, Nyquill, and a note

'Rest well, live wire -E&V

●After a couple of days of bedrest, you return to the club, and they're happy to see you doing well

●They've both accepted you're too nice to say no to helping everyone in the house, so how do they remedy this?

●By practically keeping you hostage in the club for the next couple of days (Can't get exhausted again if they just keep you at the Breaker Box)

●Eddie still refuses to let you help out even if you insist

"And you get on me for not taking a break," he sets a glass in front of you. "Little hypocritical, don't ya think?"

●He places a gentle kiss on the top of your head, keeping close for a moment before going to the back to do maintenance

●They may be busy running the club, but never too busy for you, and they make sure to remind you

Hector💨

●Also, very quick to notice

●He was very worried when he noticed how much slower you seemed lately

●Asks how you're doing multiple times a day. Never believes you when you say you're fine but he doesn't wanna push it and upset you

●Fully panics when he sees you collapse after walking through front Dorian

●The temperature spikes for a moment until he calms down

●He doesn't leave your side for a moment

●Takes extra care to keep the temperature at a comfortable level for you

●You don't even have to say anything. Ate you pulling the blanket closer to you? Heat up. Are you kicking away the sheets? Air on.

●He so badly wants to be there with you. To hold you and comfort you. But he's still terrified to leave the vents

●He's slightly soothed knowing Betty is taking very good care of you (but also kinda jealous)

●In the middle of the night, when he's sure everyone is asleep, he sits beside your bed, watching as your breath rises and falls

● He brushes your hair aside, admiring your beautiful face (even though it's sick and sweaty, he doesn't care)

●Before leaving, he gives your forehead a kiss. "Feel better soon, my love."

● If someone tried disturbing you or kept you awake, he'd turn the heat up in the room they're in to be petty

●When you're well enough to get out of bed, he's overcome with both joy and anxiety

●Joy because you're well enough to see him in the attic now. He can hold you again (and you can watch him turn bright red as you kiss his face)

● But anxious because, what if this happens again? What if the human keeps pushing themselves? What if it's WORSE next time?!

●He begs you to slow down and not push yourself too hard. To give yourself more free time and rest more often

●The look he gives you is like a kicked puppy, and you just can't help but hold him close and promise to take care of yourself better

●He clings to you for a bit before you leave the attic to go to bed "Rest well, my love."

● When you finally go back to work, he anxiously waits for your return, watching Timmy just a little too closely

●When you finally return, he observes your every move to see if you look tired or overwhelmed

●If not, good. But if you look any kind of distressed, he's whisking you away to the attic to cuddle, then practically dragging you to bed at the end of the day

●You're honestly a little surprised since he's normally not this bold face-to-face

●Even long after recovery, it becomes a new routine. If you come home tired, he's attaching himself to you koala style

Barry💄

● Well, technically, he noticed pretty quickly when he'd see you so exhausted every morning, buuuuut then he forgot and would notice all over again each morning

●Feels terrible when you come home sick and remain bedridden for days

●He's almost too nervous to visit you, scared you'd be mad at him

●"Are you feeling alright, darling?" He peeks into your room, "Anything I can do to help?"

●When you tell him you'd just like to hear his voice and that you love it when he goes on little rants about whatever he's obsessed with at the moment, his whole face turns red

●"Oh! W-well, that's, um, very n-nice, darling." He laughs nervously. He takes a moment to compose himself. "I 'm-I'm glad you enjoy hearing me talk. I'm happy to keep you company, darling."

●Since you're stuck in bed with nothing to do, Baeey is happy to keep you company while you recover

● He'll talk about just about anything that interests him at the time. Makeup, toucans, history, lions, movies. He's also happy to listen if you have anything to yap about

● If you're not able to shower, he'll brush your hair so it doesn't get too knotted while you're sick, taking care to be extra gentle.

●It's so soothing you send up falling asleep. He brings the covers over your body and turns the lights off, letting you sleep peacefully

●Before leaving, he leans down to kiss your cheek "Goodnight, darling."

● You may or may not have woken up with a lipstick smudge on your cheek, but you certainly didn't mind

●When you're feeling better, Barry helps you through your post-sick self-care routine. Warm bath, skin care, hair care

●Helps you with your bath so you don't fall asleep, definitely not because he wants to rub your soapy body noooo definitely not

Betty🛌

●She noticed right away. You've barely been sleeping and even when you do, you toss and turn all night.

●She tries to get you to come to bed early, but you're busy helping around the house. Then she tried getting you to sleep in, but you got called into work early.

●This repeated a couple of times until you stumbled into your room and fell onto her.

●She's happy to be able to spend so much time with you, but she wishes it weren't under such conditions.

●She holds you close, your head just under her chin and your face against her chest (awooga). She's somehow the perfect temperature for when you're cold or overheating.

●She'll gently stroke your head and hum softly until you fall asleep.

● When you wake up, she looks down at you and brings a hand to your cheek. "Good morning, lover." She presses a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I'm afraid I can't let you go anywhere until I'm sure you're better." Her gentle voice makes it seem like a joke, but you know she's serious.

● You wouldn't have thought to leave anyway, you could barely move, and your whole body felt achy but more importly Betty was just so damn sweet and comfortable.

●Ngl it's mostly sleeping and cuddleng with you and occasanaly getting food

●When you finally felt better, she convinced you to take an extra rest day with her "just in case"

Sorry, Betty's is so short! I couldn't think of much for her

[realcleverscience]

hey @ralfmaximus

Thanks for the thoughtful response. My view is a bit different. Mostly, I don't share your certainty that general AI systems will never be good or reliable. For instance, hallucination rates have been falling dramatically each year. In 2022, most AI systems had a hallucination rate of around 30%. In 2023, 15%; in 2024, 8%, and this year it's already below 1%. It may be true that hallucinations can never be 100% removed, but I think we may well be able to reach levels comparable to humans and possibly better. Similarly, just as hallucinations have fallen, other metrics have been steadily improving as well. For instance, GPT3 had an estimated iq of around 85; 3 years later, the GPT-O series had an iq around 140. This is very significant and rapid progress. I'm not at all convinced that this progress is just going to hit a wall and stop. "AI companies keep pushing larger LLM data sets, but that just seems to make them worse rather than better." This is definitely an issue, however, this seems to overlook that larger systems initially did better than smaller systems, which is why everyone thought, 'ok cool, then let's push for even larger systems'. So there's a good reason the research went in this direction. Further, I'm not convinced that scaling to larger systems is dead. It may just require some clever innovations to make use of it (or, simpler still, more refined training data instead of just plopping everything into it). Alternatively, many people are imagining agi systems built as connected communities of smaller, dedicated AIs. E.g. You ask your AGI system a question, but instead of it being expected to know and be good at everything, what it does is find the narrow AI systems to answer the question. Kinda like having a room with an AI for each specialty, instead of one AI that's expected to do everything. We already seem to agree that narrow AI systems can work quite well. But more fundamentally, I am again not convinced that we've seen the end of AI progress, however it is achieved.

"The current hype around AI is a grift, a way for investors to make a pile of money before the bubble pops."

I don't quite agree with this either. In my view, the amount of progress which has been made, the usefulness AI has already shown, and the rapid pace of improvement all suggest that this is not just a hype scam. More importantly, AIs are already being used by huge numbers of people in a range of industries; that is, the demand already exists, whereas the 3d tv was a novelty that people hoped would have demand, but didn't. Further, even when bubbles appear that doesn't mean the tech they represent are useless. For instance, the 2000's internet had a big bubble that popped, but clearly the internet is not a grift. We're on tumblr, after all. I'm sure most of us use things like google or amazon or uber or a hundred other internet based technologies. (Additionally, while some people lost a lot of money in the dot-com bust, a lot of people got super rich if they managed to invest in the *right* companies.) So yeah, there are certainly individual AI companies which are overhyped without much to offer, and that might create an investment bubble which pops, but it's also bc the underlying technology is growing rapidly, and is expected to continue growing rapidly, so lots of investment is happening and not all those bets will pan out. But that doesn't mean *none* of the bets will pan out. Some AI tech companies could be the next tech giants society is practically built upon, comparable to google today. Lastly, I want to note that your post suggests that you're only against AI in practice, not principle. That is, your concern is that AI just won't be useful. But what if it is? Like, what if in 2026 new systems come out which bring hallucinations down to 0.01%? Or what if they find a way to continue scaling bigger with improved results - or even the opposite, scaling down for improved results (e.g. through distillation - this was one of the tricks DeepSeek used)? Cause, yeah, I understand not using AI for something if the results just aren't good enough for what you need - but what if they are? You seem to be suggesting that while you oppose using AI in practice, it's bc you believe AGI systems will always suck in principle. Again, I don't share that certainty. The history of science, and particularly the history of AI, is filled with stories of assumptions people have had about what can't happen - until it does.

p.s. The OP complained that AI isn't smart. It's just auto-complete. For one, I don't think this is entirely accurate, but for another: as you said, narrow AI systems are already used for science and industry and work really well. Those systems often work on the same fundamental tech. So if we agree that AI systems can be smart and useful in narrow applications, I don't understand why one would believe that general AI systems can't work in principle. The AIs coming up with cures for diseases are *also* "Big Autocomplete ... crunching numbers it's not understanding things". And yet it works, and does "cognitive labor".

tl;dr: AIs aren't perfect, but the data shows rapid progress and suggests this trend will continue.

i hate seeing people drink the openai/chatgpt koolaid 😭😭😭 genuinely feels like watching someone get seduced by scientology or qanon or something. like girl help it's not intelligent it's Big Autocomplete it's crunching numbers it's not understanding things i fuckign promise you. like ohhh my god the marketing hype fuckign GOT you

[directdogman]

We asked some of the DT cast for stories from earlier in their lives!

Gingi: "Hmmm... That's a tricky one. Well, there was... Uhhh... Okay, no. Not that. Uhhh... Pass."

Randy: "From MY life? Uhhh... Like, from when I was a kid or something? Uhhh... I, uhhh- Oh! Okay, s-so... I think I was about fourteen, right? Uhhh, my father was kinda... Y'see, he'd yell at me sometimes, like, "Randy, why aren't you GOOD at anything! I didn't raise a lazy QUITTER. You're going to find something that you're GOOD at if you're gonna continue living under this roof!" So, uhhh, I had to learn to play an i-instrument, y'know?

Uhhh, I-I think he picked the clarinet for me 'cause my brothers already played guitar and piano, y'know? Uhhh... Then I was trying to practice it at home... a LOT, and he stormed into the room, SNATCHED it from my hands and snapped it. He went off about how I couldn't do anything right, I was a failure of a son, I didn't live up... [Randy clears his throat] Heh... Anyway, I was relieved! I HATED playing that thing! I could never get my fingers in the right places fast enough, y-y'know?"

Karen: "Hmmm... I don't have many stories from when I was in school. I kinda kept to myself. I wasn't noticed a lot. I liked it better that way. But, when I was seventeen, our class was entered into a regional math competition. Basically, we had to solve equations in our spare time, and whoever got the most right answers got a prize. I did a LOT of them. Fifteen hours worth, one week. I was mostly curious to see how I'd place if I really tried for a short burst of time, see how I ranked. But, I kept going... and I ended up ranking in the top 5. Nationally. 

The organizers invited all of us to a ceremony where they handed out prizes. Our parents too. I watched other people from my class get smaller prizes one by one, for participating and when I didn't get one, I figured they'd just forgotten about me. It happens, I wasn't surprised. But, then out of nowhere, they started handing out scholarships to the top 5 entrants. I was one of the five. 

I can't tell you how it felt to be one of them, to be seen. To be recognized for giving it my all. Anyway. My parents weren't there, they arrived an hour after the whole thing ended, after everyone left. I told them about my win. My mother pointed out that the scholarship would've only covered a portion of my full tuition. I asked why they weren't there. She got angry and said I'd texted her the wrong time. I didn't. We went out for dinner after that. My sister seemed proud." 

Oliver: "Oh, man! Uhhh... Where to begin! Y'know, I was a real menace when I was in school! I wanted the world and I wanted it now! Oh! Oh! Okay, so back when I was in high school, we got all this HAM and then... Oh. Actually, y'know what, that story has a crime in it- Not, like, a BAD one, but...

Okay. Uhhh. Something, uhhh- Oh! I've got it. So, I was six years old, right? My mom came to pick me up from school that day, as per usual! The thing is, it was actually my BIRTHDAY! She didn't give me my present that morning, said she'd show me what she had for me as soon as I got home. I was stoked! I knew it had to be something REALLY gnarly or really pathetic for her NOT to want to show it to me right away and there's no way she would've short-changed me! 

So, we got home and there it was. She'd gotten me a SNAKE. I'd been reading books, talking about 'em CONSTANTLY... I didn't think she'd- Uhhh- It's not- Well, it wasn't a typical gift to give a kid like me, y'know? But, she noticed how much I loved them and wanted me to have one. 

Aw, he was the cutest little guy too! A corn snake! So, y'know, I got to hold him all the time and... Aw, I miss that little guy! I called him Mr Slithers when I first got him, but then we started calling him Schlep! Y'know, like Asclepius? The Greek God with the snakes! Aw, I miss that little guy… We didn't always have much, with my dad gone, but she always made sure I knew how much I meant to her."

Norm: "You want a story from MY life? Pardner, I've been around the world, OFF the world, in one end o' a wormhole and out th' the other SIDE. Where would I begin? Well... I worked at NASA for a spell, but I... Ah, t' hell with all that. I was with the Air Force, back in Korea. I 'member... Back when I was still a Corporal, actin'-Sergeant, th' job wasn't JUS' about shootin' down other planes. Sometimes we also handled folks who surrendered on th' ground, y'know? Admittin' POWS, which we traded back fer our own. 

Anyway, we had this one fella, Choe somethin'... You'll have t' forgive me, it's all a lil fuzzy now. He was a conscript, o' course. Jus' wanted to see th' end of the war. 'Cause o' my rank, it was my job t' oversee th' cataloguin' what he had on 'im and t' get him t' sign the completed inventory. The fella had a PPSh-41. Full drum. Doubt he'd ever even fired th' thing... It was MY firs' time holdin' one. Always wondered how they handled. 

I looked at Choe, I looked at my buddy Reggie... Oh. I knew Reggie from all th' way back in Phoenix... He picked up the language better than me... Y'know, they used t' give us candy in our rations. Hershey's Tropical. Haven't seen any on the shelves since the warp, but… Eh. A half-decent candy bar's pretty fillin', good source o' calories, stops yer men from losin' their goddamned minds. Even perfected the recipe fer the climate. Didn't melt like the bars here. Sorry, I'm ramblin' again. 

So, I made Choe an offer, with Reggie's help. We leave the gun offa the form, he gets the candy bar. The, uhhh, gist of what he said t' Reggie was that the gun was o' no use to him now that he'd been captured, but he'd very much like the candy bar. So, we left it off the form and o' course, he signed it. That night, me and Reggie went out, drank a whole bunch o' somaek and fired that thing off 'til we didn't have a single bullet left fer that drum. That night was really somethin'."

God: "Oh, man, have I seen some shit... I mean, hell, I've lived a lot of lives… I know I mightn't look it now, but hey, I had my fair share of jobs, little things for myself to do, friends... But, not anymore. Y'see... Ah. I just had this feelin' set in over time. A realization, I guess you could call it. There was this rot inside me. Every go around, there were these similarities. I'd notice more of 'em each time. I'd know stuff before it happened. I'd know people's thoughts before they'd think 'em... and. It was revolting, what I was doing. Keeping people around me that I knew would outlive me, taking up valuable time, making their lives worse for… Ah, you wouldn't get it.

Anyway, I tried to shove the feelings down for a long time, but sooner or later, I couldn't sleep at night, ignoring what I knew. I was a piece of filth, plain and simple. I made the world worse for being in it, and I couldn't make up for all that time, bein' around people for so long. The only thing I could do to make it up to everyone was to disappear. But, if I just went, people would've missed me. That wasn't right either. They had to know why. So, I went to everyone I knew. Well, anyone who'd care if I left. And I told 'em everything about me. Every bad thing I'd said, done, the things I should've done... What I was, deep down. If I thought of anything I didn't want to say, I said it. With as much detail as I could think up. 

Then, I started walking. I doubt anyone came to look for me. Doesn't really matter now, does it? Heh. I've been wanderin' ever since. You gotta keep your distance from people, y'know? A quick bite and a how-do-ya-do's dandy and all, but any more than that, and you risk getting attached. Or havin' other people get attached to you. Nothin' lasts forever."

Bigfoot: [wistful ape noises]

(It was dark at the foot of the Appalachian mountains. Far above the tapestry of leaves and pine needles, the sky was alight with stars. Distant, yet the dim specks staining the dark expanse above the trees were the only light reaching this place now. A shaggy behemoth sprinted through the foliage at a breakneck pace, knocking any tree unlucky enough to be in its path back with its hefty arms. Never slowing down, never stopping.

Suddenly, a powerful beam shone down from above. Brighter than the moon, glaring like the sun. The giant halted suddenly, locking up as the light hit its lens. It looked up slowly, his gaze trying to meet the light. Barely perceptible amidst the haze, a figure loomed on a branch, its silhouette visible against the sky as the absence of starlight. Its spotlight head flickered as if it was scanning, now the brightest thing against the sky. After a pause, the figure unfurled its wings and gracefully glided to the ground, where it landed. Even against the windless tranquility of the woods, its landing made little sound. The hulking beast didn't stir. He had seen this figure before, always at a distance. Closer each time. Mistakable for the moon against the night sky.

The furred brute thought to flee, but it had seen this figure in flight. He was swift, but it was much swifter. The figure inched gradually closer, its steps slow, deliberate and silent. Slower than it'd had ever moved before. As it stopped right in front of him, its head dimmed, allowing him to see it better. As he studied its slender figure, its head cocked in place, as if scanning him. A dim whir now audible from the bulb. At that moment, the monster felt as if the being was looking into his soul. Its movements were sorrowful and graceful, each movement angled like a bow. It could truly see him.

Slowly, a feathered wing extended towards him, gracefully connecting with the side of his head. The first time he'd felt the contact of another in a quarter of a century. The monster barely shirked, causing her to retract her wing momentarily. As he gazed back towards her, his lens now locked onto the bulb sitting atop the slender body before him, the figure's wing slowly caressed his face. No noises were exchanged, but the beast knew what this touch meant. "You could be happy."

Momentarily remembering who he was, the behemoth retracted. He sighed, his gaze now meeting only the dimly lit leaves at their feet. She too knew what this meant. "There is another." The figure looked down as well, visibly dejected. Not at his rejection, but for fate's cruel acumen. After a silent moment, its wings unfurled and it took flight, disappearing into the branches above them. Unsure of itself, the monster stepped forward, the moon's light glinting between the branches. Regaining its composure, the titan began its sprint again. Never ceasing, never yielding. It would find its family. Even if it had to search every inch of this land.)

Little Billy: "get fucked, narc."

Stabby and Shooty: "Oh, man! Have WE got some stories!" "Lotsa stories! Heh heh heh!" "Y'know, we're kinda bad boys… Hard eggs!" "The hardest! HEH HEH HEH!" "Y'know, we-" "Oh! Oh! Slick! Tell 'em about the time you i-" "…No. Not that one, bro." "What?! It's the most GANGSTER shit either of us h-" "I said DROP IT! OKAY?!" "…" "…" "…" "…" "Sorry, bro…"

Mayor Mingus: "What is this, for a MAGAZINE?! I don't have time for any of this. In case you haven't noticed, I have a CITY to run, and anything I don't do myself WON'T be done correctly. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

("When I was a kid, I used to bring Maw Maw to church. Someone had to. When she got older, she lost much of her sight. Her optical sensors deteriorated and she wouldn't let anyone open up her head to replace them. She never explained why. I was happy to spend time with her, though. Especially since my father never joined us. Like HE'D ever step foot in a church. 

I never believed in any of that malarkey either, to be clear. I don't even think she did, until her later years. Perhaps it comforted her? I guess that's beside the point. After every sermon, we'd go out and get a burger at the Burger Hovel in the mall across the street. Then, we'd go upstairs and she'd try on clothes at the department store. Because of her sight, she couldn't read the tags on her own. She needed me there for that, to know if something would fit. She rarely bought anything. I think she just liked trying them on, being someone else for a little while... It was nice, though. Being useful, helping her do something she couldn't do on her own.")

[demie90s]

nika muhl with a moody temperamental fem who likes to press her every nerve until she cracks and gets mean in a kinky type of way

Trigger Point

Nika Muhl x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: You’re a moody piece of work—sharp-tongued, pouty when you don’t get your way, and always poking at Nika just to see how long it takes her to snap.

Word Count: ~ 1.7k

Warnings: SMUT. Emotional manipulation, dom!Nika, bratty/submissive reader, rough smut, choking, degradation, possessive behavior.

Genre: Smut, Angst, Power Play, Emotional Tension

It started with the gum. You knew better than to chew it like that around her—open-mouthed, loud, obnoxious—but something in you enjoyed the way Nika’s eye twitched every time your jaw popped. Sitting across from her in the UConn locker room, legs spread, head tilted like you were innocent, you chewed slow and wide and grinned when her knee bounced faster.

“You good?” you asked, blowing a bubble and letting it snap.

She glared, tying her shoe like it personally offended her. “Fine.”

“You sure? You’re kinda moving like you got beef with the air.”

Nika didn’t answer, but her jaw clenched. You could see it, just under the skin. She looked real pretty like that—angry and pretending she wasn’t. Tall. Mean without trying. You loved pushing her. You didn’t know why y’all were dating, but you’d die before changing a damn thing about the chaos.

She’d been patient this week. Too patient. Letting you get away with little things. You’d “forgotten” to answer her texts. You’d rolled your eyes when she corrected your layup form. You’d flirted, blatantly, with some blonde from the dining hall—short, loud, didn’t even hoop. Not your type in the slightest.

But Nika didn’t say shit. Not then. She’d just watched. Waited. Let it build like steam under the surface. Today, though, you had plans.

You leaned against her locker after practice, towel hanging around your neck. Your sports bra clung tight. She walked out of the shower, hair wet, fresh-faced, and fuming for no reason—until she saw you.

“You’re in my way,” she muttered.

You smiled sweetly. “What’s the Croatian word for please again?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Makni se.”

(Move.)

“Mmm,” you hummed. “That’s not ‘please.’ That’s not even polite.”

“I wasn’t trying to be polite.”

You raised your brows. “Damn. You always this rude after a rinse?”

“Only when I come out and see you.”

“Ouuu.” You laughed, stepping aside like it was your idea. “You missed me, huh?”

She yanked her towel off the hook and ignored you. You could see it again—her jaw. Her clenched fists. Her patience stretching thin.

“So…” you said slowly, like you weren’t about to drop a grenade. “Are you gonna be mad if I say I think I’m gonna go to that party Friday?”

She looked up, stiff. “The one I told you not to go to?”

You tilted your head. “I don’t remember that. When did you say that?”

“Two days ago.”

“Oh. My bad.” You smiled again, too wide. “I don’t be listening when you talk like that.”

Her silence was deadly. You weren’t done.

You walked around her slowly, brushing your fingers along her arm, knowing damn well what it did to her. “You know I saw that girl again today. From the dining hall.”

Nika closed her locker slowly. “What girl.”

“The blonde. The one with the…” You waved vaguely. “You know. The voice. And the eyeliner.”

Nika’s nostrils flared. “I told you she was thirsty. Why the hell are you still talking to her?”

You shrugged. “She funny. And kinda sweet, actually. She offered me a cookie…coconut.”

“You allergic to coconut.”

“I didn’t eat it. I just smiled.”

She stared at you like she wanted to throw something. “Prestani se zajebavati sa mnom.”

(Stop fucking with me.)

You blinked like you didn’t understand. “Huh? Say it again slow. It sounded cute.”

Her voice was low and warning now. “Ne igraj se sa mnom danas. Ozbiljno.”

(Don’t play with me today. Seriously.)

But your smile sharpened. “I like when you speak Croatian. It makes you sound even meaner.”

You saw the shift in her face—the twitch in her cheek, the bite she was holding back. You were winding her up on purpose. Fact-checking her. Talking back. Refusing to listen. Teasing. And now this—speaking her native tongue like a weapon.

“You’re in a mood,” she muttered.

You leaned in close, lips almost touching her ear. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just like seeing you like this. All tense and angry and holding back.”

She stepped away from you, hand clenching the towel hard.

“Nika,” you cooed. “You look like you wanna hit something.”

Her voice dropped. “You’re lucky I don’t.”

“You wouldn’t,” you smirked, licking your bottom lip slowly. “You love me.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared. And for the first time all week, you saw it—her breaking point. Not soft. Not sweet. Not even loving.

Mean. Just like you wanted. She was getting there.

⚠️IVE NEVER WRITTEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS!! WORK WITH ME!!⚠️

I knew she’d seen the post the second I stepped into our dorm. The energy was different—thick, sour, electric. Like static before a storm. I got in late, same as always, and played it off like I didn’t feel her tension humming through the walls.

I took my sweet time peeling off my jacket, kicking my shoes off like I hadn’t just posted a picture in a cropped tank and barely-there boy shorts with the caption, “Should’ve come over when I asked.”

Nothing technically wrong. But enough. Enough to look single. Enough to piss Nika off.

I was under the blanket, pretending to scroll like I hadn’t done it on purpose. Like I wasn’t still in the mood to play. But when the door clicked open and I heard her drop her keys with a deliberate thud, something in my chest stuttered.

She didn’t say a word. Not “hey,” not “you up,” not even a passive-aggressive comment. Just silence. Ominous and way too calm.

Then her shadow fell across the room. I kept my eyes down, suddenly too aware of how short my sleep shorts were. She walked straight past me, reached down, grabbed my phone off the charger, and—

Clack. Tossed it to the floor.

My mouth opened. “What the fu—” She didn’t let me finish.

A sharp tug and I was yanked straight out of bed, blanket and attitude left behind as my knees scrambled for balance on the cold tile. Her hand wrapped firm around my wrist. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t need to.

I pushed her too far. And still—my heart was racing, thighs clenching, stomach fluttering like I was scared. But not enough to regret it.

“Nik—” I tried, half-laughing, half-bracing for her to pop off. But her voice cut through me like a blade.

“Shut up. I mean not a fucking word.”

My mouth snapped shut before I could blink. Something about the way she said it—flat, deep, that dangerous Croatian tone—knocked all the smartass out of me in one breath.

I didn’t even try to pull away when she dragged me by the wrist across the dorm and into her room, slamming the door behind us.

Maybe I thought I could still be cute about it. Maybe I thought she’d pin me, roll her eyes, threaten to break up with me again for the tenth time this month.

But nah. She didn’t speak.

She didn’t even look at me when she moved to her closet, yanked her old beat-up UConn hoodie off the top shelf, and pulled a belt down from the hook inside.

And that’s when my body went still. Like…oh.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, legs open just enough, and pulled me in again by the hips. I let her. Still acting dumb. Still not believing it. Still smiling, even as she pulled me over her lap like I was a toy.

But then I felt the belt.

She looped it around both my wrists, cool and slow, tugging it tight behind my back. She didn’t even say a word while she did it. Just wrapped, pulled, and fastened it. My hands were locked. Her grip was firm. My brain? Empty.

“Nika,” I whispered, suddenly breathless. “Wait—what are you—”

“I told you not to post that shit.”

Her voice was so calm I wanted to scream.

Not loud. Not shouting. Just disappointment mixed with possessive fury. The type of fury that simmers instead of explodes. That burns.

“You live in this dorm with me,” she said, her hand running up the back of my thigh. “You wear my clothes. Sleep in my bed. Then you get online and act single?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie. Not tonight.”

I stopped breathing when I felt her fingers trace the seam of my shorts, lifting the fabric to expose more skin. Her thumb dragged over the curve of my ass like she was planning out a map of pain.

“You like attention so much,” she murmured, nails dragging sharp down my thigh. “We’ll give you some. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

And then—SMACK. My body jerked forward. The belt didn’t budge.

My head dropped forward with a sharp gasp. “Nika—shit—”

She tilted her head, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Count.”

“Wh—what?”

SMACK. “I said count.”

“O-one.”

She hummed like that was acceptable. Not pleased. Not gentle. Just not disappointed for a second.

SMACK. “Two—fuck, babe—”

“I’m not your babe right now. I’m the bitch that’s gonna fix your attitude.” That’s when I really stopped smiling.

Because her hand wasn’t letting up. Her rhythm was slow, spaced out. Just enough time to breathe between each slap—never enough to recover. And with my hands tied, I couldn’t even pretend to be in control. My body twitched against her lap, skin stinging, core throbbing with each hit. And she knew. Of course she knew.

By the time she got to six, I was panting, forehead resting against her knee. Then she stopped.

I blinked. My chest still heaving. She rubbed her hand slowly over the welts blooming across my skin, soothing like she was proud of her work. Her other hand reached up to grip my jaw and force my face up to hers.

“Look at me.” I did. Of course I did. I’d never not look at her.

Her brown eyes were darker than usual. All that rage, all that repressed athlete fury—it was there, simmering under the surface, but channeled now. Controlled. Sexy as hell.

“You wanted to play games?” she said quietly. “You wanted this, right?” My lips parted. But no sound came out. She gripped my jaw tighter.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Good.” She let go, let my head fall back down. “Then take it. And if I hear one more smartass thing come out of your mouth before I say you can speak again, I’ll gag you and double the count. Understood?”

I nodded, dazed. Sore. Dripping. This wasn’t a fight. This was a warning. A lesson. A blueprint. Baby, I was only on lesson one.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

[saintshadow]

Pick a Card

….... what is your current

🦋 METAMORPHOSIS 🦋

pile i

your outlook & vision are shifting into something way more stable & realistic. you’re becoming less gullible, not in a bitter way but in a “i see through the mirages & bs now” kinda way. you’re learning the difference between what’s real & what’s not. who’s actually down for you vs who’s secretly an enemy. a lot of you are waking up from delusions, misconceptions, & outdated or straight-up unhelpful survival tactics that were passed down from family. this might lead to you cutting off certain family members in the future. you’re releasing burdens, fear, & trauma that were subconsciously and even genetically passed down to you. Some of you could be marrying or having children with some one that has a healthier family than you. This person could also have a family history that doesn’t include genetic mental health issues. This could be a confirmation that your child/children in the future will not suffer how you did. True happiness is attainable. Back to the messages, For some, you will be finding undiscovered family (dead or alive) or connecting with people that feel like found family.

there’s a lot of ancient, ancestral energy around some of you. i gotta be honest though, if you’re not doing the work, not doing veneration or communicating w the ancestors and haven’t ever gotten nudges or messages from spirit around this… then this part isn’t for you. but for those of you who have - the ancient ancestors want more dedication. I’m seeing shells & bones, also land mammals that dig holes? Like a groundhog or a meerkat. I saw a meerkat and meerkat bones specifically. Someone’s family could be Nigerian I’m hearing.

Back to the message: you’re all being taught how to actually follow through with the vision/dream you’ve carried for so long. maybe you used to put in a ton of effort & it never went anywhere. but that was then. you were young, & things aren’t the same anymore. you aren’t the same. new opportunities are coming that will push this transformation forward. some of them might seem completely random but they’ll bring you back to yourself & even closer to your original dreams & desires.

the weird, unexplainable stuff is going to start happening again. this time, you’ll understand. a lot of you came into this life carrying heavy stuff: anger, confusion, frustration, like your soul hadn’t moved on from the last lifetime; & now, whether you want to or not, you’re being pushed forward. some questions won’t have answers for a while. for some of you, not even in this lifetime. your purpose feels hard to define because it’s not meant to be put in a box. right now, you’re just being called to live. to be who you are, loudly & without apology. this is hitting especially hard for people with leo or taurus north node placements, or 1st, 2nd, and 10th house north node placements.

the ground you’re standing on is becoming more solid but you have to keep showing up with effort. You are literally surrounded by blessings, both physical & spiritual. some of you are deeply intuitive or spiritual by nature, prayer could be a literal gift from your bloodline. i’m hearing “healing hands.” and there are ancestors trying to teach you their ways.

someone is being called back to their ancestral practices. this might be an art that was lost, or maybe there was someone in your family who practiced in secret, who got disowned, or who was estranged.

a lot of strange stuff happens around you, & people can feel it. it makes them uncomfortable. they might not like your authenticity, or they just don’t understand you, & that’s ok. you’re becoming more secure in yourself & more at peace with change. you’re healing your inner child in real time.

things are getting harder right now, but not in a way that’ll break you. it WILL be manageable, & ironically it will free you. strangely enough life will feel better than ever. this is a test. you’re facing resistance because you’re meant to create the life you’ve been asking for. your spirits, your ancestors, your guides - they’re watching to see if you’re gonna fold, or if you’re gonna show up like you mean it. How bad do you really want it?

some of y’all have spirits around you who are fully capable of moving mountains and making miracles.

they just need to see that you’re gonna stand on what you claim to want. You are going to learn about the value of hard work, & you will begin to understand that the best things in life MUST be maintained with balanced effort.

pile ii

you’re becoming more whole right now. for some of y’all, that means realizing how far you’ve gotten from your real self. there might be masks you wear without even noticing. some of you could be dealing with body dysmorphia or feeling really triggered in how you see yourself physically. it’s like something in your environment is pushing you to your limit. honestly, this whole energy feels very scorpio-coded. deep fear of loss. fear of being left with nothing.

Living in survival mode. abandonment wounds. fear that no one really cares. where pile one was more overly attached to the emotional/spiritual , y’all are overly attached to the physical world- material human values.

for some of you, life is giving you a big, uncomfortable shove right now. you might feel confused, disoriented, frustrated, maybe even angry that the path forward looks so unclear. but the path isn’t out there. the path is within. & it’s different for each of you. what i can say is: it’s probably gonna come through an uncomfortable truth that’s getting exposed. something you might’ve wanted to keep buried.

this truth could show up in different areas of your life. i feel it in my solar plexus. this is tied to how you were loved. or not loved. maybe you had a jealous or competitive mother, sister, or feminine figure. someone who couldn’t stand your light. someone who made you feel invisible. whether that was childhood or something more recent, it still stings.

you’re being asked to examine the role you play in your own suffering now. when we actually confront the uncomfortable truths without taking offense & integrate them- we can find real & profound peace. even in chaos. For some reason i channeled money trees by kendrick lamar while writing this lol. some of y’all might have saturn in the 2nd house, or serious karmic themes around money & stability. i’m picking up on asia too, specifically cambodia- or this might hit home for someone who grew up in their home country and later immigrated.

you might carry this internalized sense that you’re always behind. like you have to work ten times harder just to be seen or to feel like you belong. but here’s the thing- you have a massive goal on the horizon. it’s something you don’t talk about much. This is about your ultimate freedom or a public exhibition.

i keep getting this “death” energy, but not in a scary or literal way. it’s transformation. like people will watch you evolve in real time. & some of you already are. you’ve been sitting with the pain & the realizations, & even if it’s slow, it is healing you.

You’ve begun to actually act on your self awareness.

example: instead of spiraling because trauma is getting in the way of a healthy relationship, you catch the trigger & choose trust. you choose calm. You choose emotional maturity and stability, even when doing so goes against your knee jerk reaction.

you’re learning how to show up better.. as a friend, a lover, & person.

but this will only happen if you let yourself actually accept the criticism that’s come your way.

some of y’all are learning the truth about a friend group. or specifically an air sign woman. (libra, gemini, aquarius placements: sun/moon/rising.) this person might be fake. or maybe the whole group dynamic is about to collapse in a full tower moment.

truth is gonna come out. maybe you’ll be the one to speak it. & if so, it’s gonna lift a lot of guilt off your shoulders.

sometimes the life we built just… isn’t meant to hold us anymore. spiritually. emotionally. materially.

accept the redirection.

you’re being led toward way better.

pile iii

Some of you may be called to pile one. Someone could have gone no contact with abusive family members, you are taking a chance on your independence. You are evolving beyond traumatic relationship experiences as well- coming above what you were told and taught to be. Or what you observed the women/men in your family to be like in relationships. witnessing yourself clearly. seeing who you really are without the projections, the expectations, the shame, or the fear that’s been built up over time. this energy feels like you’re stepping out of a fog, but your eyes are burning from the brightness of the world around you. You need time to adjust. Adjustment can be found through engaging with this new iteration of reality & getting hands on experience.

some of you have spent a long time adapting to be what other people needed. you might be someone who’s changed shape depending on who’s in the room. Maybe you were praised for being agreeable, easy to manage, or “strong.” but that wasn’t authentic, it was 100% survival instinct with a dash of you.

right now, you’re shedding old skin.

A very difficult & maybe even uncomfortable & ugly feeling shedding. This is the detachment from how other people

you’re mourning the version of you that helped you survive, because you know they can’t come with you. You have persevered through much more than the average person in your group/community. Faced a lot of loss, confusion, or pain. you’re waking up parts of yourself that were silenced.

& they are not being quiet anymore.

especially if you were raised in a space that dismissed your sensitivity, intuition, voice & shamed your inner world. that wound is cracking open to be healed, you may for the first time in your life be surrounded by authentic love. I sense that you scare easy, it takes little to nothing for you to doubt or run from someone or something. The relationships around you are showing you how to have true loving and trusting connections.

you’re learning how to stop betraying yourself to stay loved.

Speaking your truth while holding space for the truth of others without internalizing the unnecessary. You’ve developed a strong discernment, & now it’s being challenged- especially in the way of where you may FEEL you are right & instead you learn there is nuance to these problems or issues. Things aren’t always as black and white as you perceive them, you have to understand that people are multidimensional. Your loved ones are rooting for you, and they want to stay- you have to take the actions necessary maintain your relationships with yourself and others. Look more to you, the more you pour into yourself the more others will pour into you & the less you’ll accept low efforts from others.

[kelltonic]

Defences ★彡

Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x Reader

Description: While at the hard deck with the other daggers, Mickey - your boyfriend - get’s heavily flirted on by a stranger when you’re not around, and he is never more committed to shut someone down.

Warnings: Alcohol/Drunkenness, very light sexual harassment (fem on man). Canon-typical asshole Hangman. I love Reuben. Fanboy is a sweetheart. Other than that it’s just an established relationship and fluff. No use of y/n.

WC: 1,500

A/N: Guys if you want more Mickey (or any top gun) PLEASE request - I have been struggling for ideas lol - even if it’s just another version of an already made fanfiction with a different character, or a headcanons prompt!! - ALSO for anyone who read my prev a/n on my other fanboy ff, I GOT 100% ON MY ENGLISH EXAM!!! I actually started tweaking out (it was creative writing). We don't talk about my other exams though.

“Oh come on!” Mickey groaned while throwing his arms in the air, physically complaining over the miss he just hit in pool. “The tables gotta be uneven or something.” He said, mostly jokingly.

"Don't be bitter that I'm just better." Reuben shrugged, flashing a cocky smile to tease his best friend with.

After a long day of flying, most of the squadron retired to the most familiar place on base, the Hard Deck. A comforting yet bustling bar that welcomed naval aviators with open arms.

"Now that's funny-" Fanboy was about to start, but was quickly cut off by that oh so familiar southern drawl.

"Boys, boys, let me show you how a real man shoots." Hangman mocked, condescendingly snatching the pool cue out of Fanboy's hands while simultaneously shooting a wink to one of the many attractive women scattered around the bar. Payback's face formed a frustrated expression as he leaned back to watch what Hangman would do. Hangman did this more than anyone would like. Preferably, he'd never interrupt the games for some silly flirting exercise, but something about Jake couldn't live without the thrill of the tease.

Fanboy was about the opposite, despite what his callsign may allude. Sure, before he met you, he would throw around a few pick up lines and enjoy the spotlight whenever a pretty girl noticed him. But now? He is duller than a rock if someone tries to get a piece of him. You're his favourite person in the entire world, and he makes sure you know it - as long as you promise not to tell Reuben. He can't have another passive-aggressive flight because Reuben decided to teach him how significant of a role he plays in Mickey's life. He would rather jump out of his plane mid flight than let you think you meant anything less to him.

So when the girl Hangman had been flirting with had finally approached him with her friends who had been giggling like hyenas at the squadron the entire night, he just went to get another round.

He looked back from the bar to see the girls clinging to various daggers while waiting for the drinks, chuckling at the sight of Reuben getting surrounded. He didn't think anything of it until one of them separated and began approaching him.

But he didn't want to assume anything, she may just be coming to do the same thing as him.

"Hey handsome." She giggled, leaning against the bar next to Fanboy. Welp, there goes the lack of assumption.

"Hi." He responded bluntly, giving a brief polite yet not hinting smile. All that warranted was a giggly and flirtatious response.

"Come here often?" She said, clearly a little tipsy if not anything further. She scooted closer to him, practically brushing him. As much as he wanted to make space between him, the bar was particularly crowded and he honestly didn't want to bother the aviator directly behind him.

"Yeah a bit, most of us frequent this bar the most." He said with a dry sigh, averting eye contact. He couldn't help but wish Penny sped up with the drinks, but he would never in any lifetime say that to her and face her (and Maverick's) wrath.

"Come on pretty boy, loosen up." She giggled while gripping his arm, trying to push their bodies flush together.

"Okay no thank you." He quickly spoke, lightly pushing her away. He was uncomfortable, and couldn't help but feel guilty despite the fact he had done nothing wrong. "I have a girlfriend." He stated, easily plying her hand off his arm.

"Is she here?" She said while staring into his eyes playfully, unbothered by the physical signs he was presenting.

"No?" He said, puzzled by her persistence.

"Then she doesn't have to know." She responded while trying to close the distance again.

"Here ya go." Penny interrupted with a small smile, placing a tray of various alcoholic beverages in front of them before dashing off to another patron. all Mickey could think was 'oh thank goodness' as Penny saved him from this uncomfortable and awkward encounter.

He grabbed the drink tray and flashed the girl a small, awkward smile as he sped walk to the full group again.

"Ayy!!" Reuben and various others bellowed, grateful to see another wave of drinks. "Our saviour." He joked, taking a beer.

"On land and sky." Mickey responded, placing the tray down while grabbing himself a beer. It only took a few awkward shuffles from Mickey for Reuben to detect something was off, despite his current state.

"You good?" He asked with a smile, tilting his head as he carefully watched Mickey's reaction.

"Yeah, yeah, I just feel... dirty." Mickey murmured, the guilt of another woman's attraction to him weighing on him like an elephant.

"Dirty? Or like.. dirty." Reuben repeated, shifting from a playful to serious tone.

"Dirty." Mickey echoed, reaching for his phone in his back pocket. "...One of the girls was flirting with me. Hard." He elaborated.

"Since when was that a bad thing?" Reuben scoffed, before a wave of realisation hit him. "Ohhh... right, okay." A neutral tone flowing through his voice. It only took a second for a puzzled expression to take over his face. Mickey had to admit one thing, Reuben was one of the most expressive people he's ever met.

"So... why do you feel bad?" He mocked, a slight laugh leaving his mouth. "You didn't flirt back.. right?" Reuben questioned. He knew how utterly enamoured Mickey was with you, he had to get his callsign from somewhere. But he couldn't help but seek clarification.

"No!" Mickey swiftly reacted after taking a gulp of his beer, a frankly offended expression covering his face.

"...." Reuben just stared, a little dumbfounded at Mickey's loyalty policies. Despite a hint of respect also developing, he couldn't help but laugh at Mickey's commitment to you. And his standards for what counts as something he should feel guilty for or not. However, Reuben was also observant. Even if he wasn't, it would still be easy to tell how sad the thought of someone else flirting with Mickey made him. Someone other than you. But his trance was interrupted by an exaggerated sigh.

"Okay, look. I'm only ever going to say this once, so listen up." Reuben began, placing his beer down as he forced eye contact with Mickey. Landing a hand on his shoulder, he groaned as he realised what he was about to say and the possibility of Mickey never letting him live it down. "You're attractive. Really damn hot, man. Both physically and personality wise. You have good energy and people are naturally drawn to your confidence and kindness. So you're gonna have to get used to the idea of people, women included, approaching you and flirting." Reuben stated, more teaching than hyping.

Mickey was conflicted between smiling and teasing Reuben. "Come on man, that's the nicest thing you've said to me." He said with a chuckle as his shoulders dropped and his gave Reuben a quick hug before he potentially got bitch slapped by him.

"Okay off." Reuben scolded, pushing Mickey off of him with a forced groan.

"...I'm still gonna call her though." Mickey quickly ushered while typing in your contact on his phone, which just elicited a 'why do I even try' motion from Reuben as he walked away.

Your phone rang a couple times before you got the chance to pick it up, busy with an email.

"Hello?" you spoke seriously, forgetting to check the caller ID.

"Babe!!" Mickey spoke, excited to hear your voice. He always sounded ecstatic whenever you two spoke.

"Hey baby, what's up?" You spoke warmly, a complete shift from your initial greeting.

"I just wanted to tell you I love you more than anything in the entire world. Even flying." Mickey spoke quickly, not for a lack of authenticity.

"I love you too... why are you calling to tell me this?" You said with a small chuckle, it wasn't uncommon for Mickey to randomly declare his love, especially over the phone due to distance. It was however rare for him to do it at this late hour.

"Some girl was flirting with me. BUT! I didn't at all entertain it for a second." Mickey emphasised, he was only slightly tipsy but the honesty made you giggle. You would never in a million years have to worry about his loyalty, and this is one of the reasons.

"Well I appreciate that." You responded softly, the yearning for his presence briefly satiated by his voice. All you could hear on the other end of the line was a low giggle, as far as you could tell he could very well be twirling his (non-existent) hair and kicking his feet.

"I miss you sweetie." You whispered with a gentle desire from the heart.

"I do too, but you'll never guess what Reuben said to me." Mickey said with a chuckle, you could practically hear his smile, and his longing.

A/N: Bit of a corny ending but I didn't know what else to do lmao.

Started: 12:00am Sunday 22nd of June Ended: 8:00pm Thursday 26th of June

[zottts]

warnings - size kink, degradation, breeding kink (if you squint), not really a warning but worshipping, it's sentry expect it to be mean

you and sentry had been... 'together' for a while now, and you would think he would change somewhat, and he has - just a bit. but during sex? absolutely not, he was still the same man who wanted to be worshiped like a god, who will degrade and belittle you only because he finds it amusing when you moan and cry out his name as he pumps into you at his speed - why would he slow down for you he had l reasonings to, you liked it anyways. the way you could see his cock outline in your stomach, each little "oh you poor thing". it drove you mad, it was addictive. the only time he "went slow" was to put you in your place or fuck with you.

sentry just loved filling you up, every single time, watching your pathetic attempts to squirm under his hands - your almost doe eyes look as you looked up at him, hair all sprawled out on his pillows, mouth slightly ajar as he pumps into you mercifully, being able to see his cock completely fill you, and knowing you couldn't get enough of him. or from behind when he got his hands tangled within your soft locks of hair, pulling you up towards him with a semi-gentle pull, watching your back arch into him as be whispered how pathetic, useless, and stupid you looked being fucked by his cock.

how he is going to fuck you so stupid that you won't be able to walk nor speak for the next week. every little moan, whine, whimper, he would mock the sounds, how you reacted to things which each pump, as he moved in and out of you.

"so filthy. you want more, hm? you think you deserve more?" he spoke softly, despite the fact his tone was mocking,

he would make you beg for it til you were sobbing, trembling under him. it was so easy for him to ruin you, bring you down to nothing. because to him, like this - you were nothing, pathetic.

"sentry- mnn please?" between heavy breaths, it was a pathetic attempt, really. and you knew that.

"no, do better than that, now." he would slow down, painfully slow - and practically stopping until you were up to his standards. he wasn't asking, it was a command.

"sentry" he cocked an eyebrow, the words dying in your throat before you could even finish the sentence, like he was daring you to finish it. to see what would happen

"my god, sentry, ..my everything, p-please." you spoke through a broken sob, he started to move, in and out of you - slowly, on purpose. "aah-! fuck. please, oh my god please" a whine slipped out. you couldn't help that he was big, and it hurt. and he knew he was big too, of course he did. every time he fucked you like this he could always see the outline of himself inside you, the want to bury himself within you, to fill you completely with himself.

he couldn't help the low chuckle slip out of his mouth at your behavior, mmmn. i don't know if that's good enough." he held you in place so easily with his hands, it was like you were stuck in place. "so pathetic, can't even get a complete sentence out, poor thing." he paused for a moment, running his hands against your sides "you want me to fuck you stupid, fill you up?"

you quickly shake your head, it was hard enough to get a single word out - he knew that, but he wanted to hear you say it. "use your words or I'm pulling out." you took a deep breath "please, pretty please? god- please just move i need you so badly, you are the only one i need. just move" the words spilled out before you couldn't even get a thought in your head, the words sounded almost incoherent - it was like a flip that switched on in his brain, instead of belittling you, mocking you - he actually listens.

the after math of it you are out of breath, he went way past the point of your ecstasy. you laid on your stomach panting, hair in your face. he might be a god, an asshole, but not a monster. of course he was going to help you clean up. at least a bit.

[rafesyangel]

Reader (JJs younger sister) going to Rafe asking for money for period products bc yk moneys tight.

You stood outside Tannyhill chewing the inside of your cheek, anxiety bubbling in your chest as your arms crossed tight over your midsection. The cramps were killing you—deep, dull, twisting like a knife—and the last of your painkillers had been gone since yesterday. What was worse?

You had one pad left. One.

JJ was out all day, and you'd already scoured every corner of the house hoping to find a couple of spare dollars, maybe loose change—anything. But things had been tight lately. And desperate times called for... well, desperate measures.

So now you were standing outside Rafe Cameron’s house, practically shivering despite the sun. You knocked.

The door swung open with force like he’d been ready to fight someone.

His eyes narrowed the second he saw you. “You lost?”

“No.”

He looked behind you like JJ might come jumping out of a bush with a baseball bat. “You here alone?”

“Yes.”

His arms folded across

“The hell?” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “You lost or something?”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let your nerves show. “I just… needed a favor.”

He raised a brow at you

You hesitated. Then blurted, “Can I borrow, like, ten bucks?”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “For what?”

Your face burned. “For... period stuff.”

There was a beat of silence.

He blinked. “Period stuff?”

You nodded quickly. “Like pads and ibuprofen. Nothing crazy. I just—ran out and don’t wanna ask JJ right now.”

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, looking you up and down like you’d just asked him to preform open heart surgery

“You know your brother would actually commit murder if he knew you were here asking me for—” he paused, motioning vaguely at your stomach, “—uterus supplies.”

You almost laughed despite the cramps. “So dramatic.”

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, scratching his jaw. “He barely lets me breathe in your direction.”

“Can I just have ten bucks or not?” You were starting to feel anxious now worried about his reaction

Rafe groaned, stepping back inside. “Wait here.”

You expected him to come back and hand you some crumpled bills and tell you to scram. But instead, five minutes later, he opened the door againthis time with keys in hand, phone in his other, and a sweatshirt pulled over his head.

“Let’s go.”

You blinked. “Go where?”

“To the damn store,” he said, like it was obvious. “I’m not letting you walk around with cramps and no meds like that”

The trip to the store was… silent , to say the least.

Rafe banned you from existing the car while he went the feminine hygiene aisle

“No offense, but the fact that you're bleeding ,wanna go all the way there seems painful too me ” he grumbled, shooing you some candy in his pocket “Distract yourself or something. I got this.”

You tried to protest but he was already diving into the aisle like he was going to war. He stood there, hands on his hips, staring down the shelves like he was picking out a car instead of pads. You caught glimpses of him squinting at boxes, turning tampons upside down

At one point he grabbed an older woman and asked in a serious whisper, “Hey, quick question. If someone’s like... young but not a kid, what size tampon is that?”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

When you caught back up with him, his basket was stuffed. Pads, tampons, panty liners, painkillers, a heat patch, a heating pad, three different brands of chocolate, sour gummies, a full bag of mini cookies, and—somehow—a stuffed bunny plush.

You stared at the bunny. “...Seriously?” You thought

Rafe came back to the car 30 mins later hands full of plastic bags, He looked defensive.“I don’t know,what you use”

You tried not to smile at him trying but failed miserably “You bought, like, five different kinds of pads.”

“Didn’t know which ones you probably wanted ,” he shrugged, tossing another bag in the backseat“Better safe than sorry, right?”

You blinked at him. “This is... way more than ten bucks.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I didn’t mean for you to buy me a period starter kit, Rafe.”

He rolled his eyes. “Relax and just sit still “

You caught the tiniest bit of pride in his expression. Like he was proud he hadn’t gotten you the wrong kind. Like he cared

You hugged the stuffed bunny tight against your stomach and leaned back in the seat with a groan.

“Cramps?” he asked.

“Always.”

Then without warning he reached over and gave your lower belly a soft little pat.

You tensed slightly“Owieee!”

“What??” he looked startled. “I thought that’s what people do when you have a tummy ache.”

“Wh-whoo said this” you squirmed while burying the stuffed bunny harder in your stomach

“No one! I just figured—” He trailed off, “forget it”

You started laughing, still wincing. “You patted me like I was a sick puppy.”

“Because you look like one,” he shot back, but his voice was gentler now

You smiled, quietly, holding the bunny in your lap as you looked at him. “Thanks, Rafe. Seriously.”

He shrugged, turning away, “Whatever. Don’t make it a habit.”

You leaned back and rested your head against the window, bunny tucked under your arm, cramps dull but a little more bearable now.

Rafe Cameron was chaotic, unpredictable, and a little emotionally stunted.

[formulafanfics13]

Her Daddy, Always - LN4

masterlist

It started like every other lazy Monte Carlo morning: too much coffee, too little sleep, sunlight bleeding down white buildings and onto the café terrace the drivers had practically claimed as their own.

But this time, oh, this time, there was something different.

Lando was coming. And he was bringing her.

Not you, although you'd helped. You'd gotten up first, kissed him awake, packed the bottle, changed the nappy, triple-checked the emergency dummy. But it was his idea to take her alone. His first solo daddy-daughter breakfast debut. Just him and the tiny little chaos gremlin who had made him cry five separate times in the past month, for reasons that included her smiling in her sleep and sneezing while dreaming.

So when he walked in, baby strapped to his chest in a butter-yellow carrier with an oversized hoodie barely zipped up around both of them, the entire table stopped talking.

Charles blinked. "Oh my God."

Pierre made a strangled noise. "That's not legal."

Oscar clutched his chest. "He's wearing her."

Lando strolled in like he hadn't just detonated the collective minds of the grid. His curls were a mess. He had one sock on. A milk stain across the shoulder. But none of it mattered, because the way he looked down at her? The way his hand never left her back, even through the fabric? That was love. Raw, stupid, unapologetic love.

"She just fell asleep," he whispered, easing into his seat like the slightest motion might wake her. "Be chill."

"She's so tiny," Charles whispered.

"She's so perfect," Lando replied, already pulling the muslin cloth up to shield her face from the morning sun. "Isn't she?"

The baby, all six weeks of her, swaddled in peach cotton and a beanie that still slumped sideways, was nestled directly against his chest, cheek smushed into his hoodie, lips slightly parted.

And when Lando adjusted the strap to cradle her better, she let out a soft, squeaky sigh.

"Oh my God," Oscar whispered. "She made a noise."

Pierre was practically vibrating. "She squeaked. She squeaked, Lando."

"I know," Lando said, looking at them like they'd just discovered fire. "She squeaks when she's comfy. It's her thing."

Charles leaned across the table. "Can I-can I see her face?"

"Gently," Lando warned, shifting his body slightly so Charles could peek without disrupting anything.

He peeled back the muslin like she was a holy relic. And there she was, pink cheeks, pouted lips, her little fists curled like she was winning a fight in her dreams.

Charles melted instantly. "She's an angel."

"She's you," Pierre added. "She's got your nose."

Lando grinned. "She has her mum's eyes, though."

He said it softly, but you could hear the awe tucked into the syllables. You weren't even there, and still, he was talking about you like you'd just invented light.

"She looks at me," he continued, "like I hung the stars. I can't breathe when she does that."

Pierre looked alarmed. "You okay, mate?"

"No," Lando said cheerfully. "I'm in hell. I haven't slept in four days. I cried at a Pampers commercial. She shat on my lap and I said thank you."

Everyone howled.

But Charles wasn't laughing, he was still staring. "She's moving."

Sure enough, the baby let out another soft coo, lips twitching. And then, miracle of miracles, her eyes cracked open. Right onto Charles.

She blinked once. Twice. And then... gurgled. Loudly. Lando froze. "Did she just-was that-"

"She's smiling at me," Charles said in disbelief.

And she was. Wide gums, gummy grin, her hand waving like she'd just recognised her favourite TikTok sound.

Lando's jaw dropped. "What the fuck."

"Hi, sweetheart," Charles whispered, reaching out one pinky like she might grab it.

"She's flirting," Oscar said, scandalised.

"She's mine," Lando growled.

"She likes me!" Charles beamed.

"She's SIX WEEKS OLD," Lando snapped. "She doesn't like anyone."

"She smiled at me."

"That's gas."

"Mate, she literally just-"

"She smiles when she farts too, Charles, don't get cocky."

But it was too late. The table had entered full meltdown mode. Charles was practically crying. Oscar tried to get a selfie. Pierre attempted to hold her and was immediately denied.

"Not happening," Lando muttered, clutching her like she might evaporate. "She just fell asleep again. If she wakes up and cries, you're all dead."

They settled. Eventually. And Lando just sat there, holding his daughter, swaying slightly even while seated, like his body had learned the rhythm of fatherhood without permission.

He looked down at her again, brushing a curl from her forehead, eyes dark with something sacred.

"Hi, angel," he whispered. "Still dad's girl, yeah?"

She didn't answer. Obviously. She didn't need to.

*

It started as a normal beach morning. Sun blazing. Sand burning. Oscar already applying SPF 50 like his life depended on it. Pierre shirtless too early. Charles refusing to take off his jewelry. Carlos insisting he could light the grill without help.

They were all there, towels, coolers, snacks, Bluetooth speakers. Full summer boy energy. But underneath the sunglasses and flip-flops, the same conversation kept coming back.

"Can we just talk about it?" Pierre asked finally, cracking open a cold drink.

Charles raised a brow. "Talk about what?"

Pierre gave him a look. "Lando."

Carlos groaned. "Again?"

Oscar perked up. "No, I'm into this. Go on."

"Lando Norris," Pierre declared, waving a hand, "has a whole-ass daughter. Like an actual human infant. A baby. And we've only met the girlfriend once. At that preseason dinner. For like twenty seconds. I don't even remember her name."

Charles nodded slowly. "I remember her dress. That's it. Something pink."

"I think she was pregnant then," Oscar added.

"Exactly!" Pierre threw his arms up. "He didn't say anything! Just showed up six months later with a baby! And now he won't stop talking about her like he invented fatherhood."

"He's obsessed," Charles agreed. "In a scary way."

Carlos shrugged. "He's in love. Let him be."

Pierre shook his head. "No, you don't get it. He cried the other day because she hiccuped. He showed me a video."

"I saw that video," Oscar muttered. "I cried too."

Charles leaned back on his towel, sunglasses slipping. "It's just weird, right? Like we've known him for years. And now he's got this entire life, girlfriend, baby, stroller that costs more than my car, and we don't even know her."

"Yeah," Pierre said, voice softer now. "Like... what if she's a supermodel? Or an alien? Or, like, a witch who trapped him with her magic uterus?"

Oscar blinked. "I think you need to go lie down."

Carlos was squinting toward the beach entrance. "I think you're about to get your answer."

They turned. Lando had arrived. And he wasn't alone.

First came you, hair up, sunglasses on, long linen shirt over your bikini, a tote bag slung over your shoulder and baby wipes sticking out of the top. You looked calm. Radiant. Real. Not a mystery. Not a spell. Just his.

Then came Lando, shirtless but still wearing the baby carrier, his daughter tucked into the front like a kangaroo joey, a bucket hat shielding her eyes. He was balancing a cooler with one hand and a stuffed elephant with the other.

He looked like a dad. A hot one. But a dad. The boys collectively stopped breathing.

"Hi, guys!" you called out, smiling.

Max's jaw dropped. "She's normal."

Charles blinked. "She's real."

Pierre whispered, "She's beautiful."

Oscar mumbled, "And she's smiling. Like, she knows she's got him."

Carlos leaned over and hissed, "Don't say anything weird."

Lando walked right up, all grin, curls windblown. "Hey, lads."

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and then, carefully, pulled the baby out of the sling and into your arms.

You cradled her automatically, pressing a kiss to her tiny head, before turning to the group with a shy smile.

"Hi," everyone said in weird, hushed unison like they were meeting royalty.

"She's beautiful," Charles said, still staring at your daughter like she was glowing.

"Thank you," you laughed. "She's six weeks now. Sleep thief. Absolute queen."

Lando beamed. "She smiled at me twice this morning."

"Bro, she smiles at everyone," Oscar said, already inching closer. "Can I see her?"

You nodded, adjusting the blanket. The baby blinked up, cheeks round and pink, tiny hand flexing toward the sky.

"She's got your face," Pierre said to Lando. "Like, exactly."

"She has her attitude," Lando replied proudly. "She glares when I leave the room."

"She has boundaries," you deadpanned.

Lando turned to you, eyes soft. "Want to lie down for a bit? I can take her."

"I'm okay," you said, brushing his arm. "Let them meet her properly."

And they did. One by one, each of them held her like she was made of gold. Charles got the first smile. Oscar got a tiny sneeze and nearly passed out. Pierre tried to take a selfie and got kicked in the chest by a baby foot.

"She's everything," Carlos whispered to you while Max held her gently. "And you, how are you?"

You smiled. "Tired. Grateful. In love."

Lando overheard, turned, and grinned at you like you'd just given him a second daughter.

By the end of the afternoon, she was asleep on your chest under a parasol, Lando curled around you both, one hand protectively over her tiny feet, sunglasses tilted down his nose.

Charles turned to Pierre, voice quiet. "She's not a witch."

"No," Pierre agreed, still staring. "She's just magic."