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mariasont · 29 days ago

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HOT SEAT, HOTTER MOUTH

you convince hotch to take a polygraph test

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, sexual tension, mature themes, use of sir in suggestive context, not full smut just some dirty talk, fluff, polygraph kink (???), guys idk how a polygraph really works if im being honest so if there's inaccuracies don't tell me, established relationship, they're just so in love wc: 1.1k

You are beautiful. This is a fact Aaron resigned himself to long ago, filed alongside other empirical truths like gravity, taxes, and the sun’s inevitable rise in the east.

Yet occasionally, he wishes your beauty included some sort of disclaimer. Something helpful, perhaps — warning, prolonged exposure may cause poor decision-making and severe lapses in judgment.

It’s the only plausible explanation for how, within a record-breaking twenty minutes (yes, he timed it), you managed to coax, manipulate, and outright swindle him into submission.

And Aaron Hotchner certainly is not easily swayed. He’s stared down killers without blinking. But then again, none of those killers had ever perched so temptingly in his lap, whispering promises with lips curved into both heaven and hell.

“I should have negotiated better.” The words come muffled behind his palm, as if hiding it might salvage some dignity. He doesn’t dare lower it, he’s fairly certain the smile will give him away.

“Oh, you’ll eat those words,” you chide, leaning across the table to silence his complaint with a honeyed kiss. “Along with a few other things, if you’re on your best behavior.”

Aaron shoots you a look, though its severity is laughably transparent, betrayed by the restless shift he makes in his chair at the thought.

He’s never considered himself particularly greedy, let alone insatiable, yet you manage to reduce him to something entirely primal on a daily basis.

You’re teasing, obviously, but the distinction hardly matters. He’s already picturing the way your thighs would feel dead-locked around his ears.

“Angel.”

"Relax, grump, it'll be fun! Just a couple harmless questions."

Aaron tries not to visibly wince. Your definition of fun rarely coincides with his, usually because your brand of amusement came at this expense. Like that night at the karaoke bar, when you pulled him on stage, oblivious to his internal vow to fake his own death emily-style rather than ever repeat that experience. Or marathon-watching dramas so cheesy he swore off television entirely (he still maintains that he watched Bridgerton ironically, even though you said you caught him misty-eyed twice).

Now, you have him strapped to a polygraph, promising harmless questions that, if history served as precedent, would likely be anything but.

“Forgive me if I don’t quite match your enthusiasm. Something tells me this is an ambush.”

Your quickly-stifled giggle only confirms his suspicions, but it’s the small notepad you pull from your purse that seals his fate.

“Exactly how long have you been planning this?”

“Oh just since I realized my hot boyfriend could access cool FBI toys,” you say casually, clicking your pen like a tiny guillotine. “But, like, you won’t actually get in trouble for this, right?”

“Not with work, no.”

What he doesn’t say is that if anything’s going to land him in hot water today, he suspects it’ll be you, your notebook, and your dangerously creative imagination. But he thinks it very loudly.

“Okay, first question, starting easy,” you say, leaning forward. “Have you ever snooped through my phone when I wasn’t looking?”

“No,” Aaron says. “I trust you. Plus, if you tried hiding something, you’d give yourself away in about two seconds flat.”

You peek at the machine, nodding slowly. “True. You’re safe. For now.” Then shoot him an indignant look. “And, for the record, I’m actually excellent at hiding things, thank you very much.”

“Interesting. Anything in particular you're currently hiding from me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Hotchner?”

“Careful. I have ways of making you talk.”

Your mouth opens like you might fire back, but you seem to think better of it, hunching as you scribble something clearly nonsensical into your notebook.

“Anyway! Next question. Do you secretly like it when I call you sir?”

“No,” he insists weakly, though it’s absurdly unconvincing, he doubts even a toddler would buy his claim at this point.

He doesn’t expect the polygram to spare him either, convinced it’s already penning liar in bold, red ink.

You’ve conducted multiple inadvertent experiments on this matter already, sprinkling sir lightly into passing conversation as if it were just another innocent pronoun. Each instance predictably resulted in skyrocketing blood pressure and his hands making insistent grabs for you.

“No surprise there, sir,” you tease, eyes glittering. “We’ll circle back to that. But first… before we were together, did you ever find yourself thinking about me inappropriately while at the office?”

“Yes,” he says, the truth tumbling out before he can muster any self-control.

His cheeks flush hot as he quickly clears his throat, a futile attempt to dull the sharp edges of his blunt confession. It does nothing for the sort.

You smile like you’ve just caught him cheating at cards, and tap your pen against your lips. Lips coated in that damned cherry-flavored gloss that somehow always manages to become a recurring feature in his most ill-timed daydreams.

“I knew it. How many times? Where? In your office? During meetings? Wait — did it ever happen on a case?”

“Slow down,” he murmurs. “You're limited to yes-or-no questions only.”

You climb into his lap, your already-short skirt inching higher as you drape your arms around his neck. “I think it’s only fair that I know how many times my boss daydreamed about me in ways HR wouldn’t approve of.”

Hotch arches an eyebrow, hands coming to steady your thighs. “That makes me sound terrible.”

“You’re not terrible. You’re perfect.” You lean in, peppering kisses along his cheek and jawline. “Just answer,” you whisper between each press of your lips, “the question.” Kiss. “When exactly —” another kiss, lower this time, near his ear “— did my very professional boyfriend first have very unprofessional thoughts?”

He’s losing, badly.

Finally, resistance crumbling entirely under your persuasive mouth, he murmurs a reluctant confession, “Do you remember your first day?”

You nod.

“We ended up alone in the elevator after your initial briefing, you were rambling about how excited you were, asking questions faster than I could answer.” He gently hooks a finger into your waistband, giving it a tug. “At one point, you dropped your badge and bent to pick it up, and all I could think about was how easily I could push that skirt up and see if you sounded as sweet as you looked when you came.” He shakes his head. “I spent the next two hours lecturing myself about workplace decorum. Clearly, it didn’t stick.”

“At least you made it to the elevator. I didn’t even make it through the introductions. Specifically, the second you said Agent Hotchner. Emphasis on the hot.”

“Good to know I didn’t stand a chance.”

Your fingers move across his chest, ripping the polygraph sensors from his skin.

“I think you’ve answered enough questions for tonight,” you whisper, attaching a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “Besides, I can think of much better ways to gather intel.”

He tilts your chin upward. “By all means, demonstrate.”

a/n: idk why i keep writing bimbo reader and hotch … it’s a disease … i can’t stop …

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#🌺 maria writes #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo assistant reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner smut #criminal minds fluff #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader

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the-shedevil-writes · 3 days ago

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B-A-B-Y (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: On a Monday morning, Rooster and Hangman bring Bob and Phoenix to a local diner, and Bob’s instantly smitten with the waitress singing along to the jukebox. Next thing he knows, “Diner Mondays” become a squad tradition… and so does watching Bob fall harder every week while the rest of the Daggers try to get him to finally ask her out. WORD COUNT: 2.7k WARNINGS: Fluff. Tooth rotting fluff. Reader wears glasses. NOTES: Yes. Like Baby Driver. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It was an early Monday morning, and Bob was awake and ready earlier than he would’ve anticipated. He always woke up early for work, and on the weekend, out of habit. But that day, he had to wake up even earlier. Rooster and Hangman insisted on going to this diner with Phoenix and him. Bob wasn’t gonna turn down the idea of a real proper breakfast before their shifts, though he knew Phoenix was gonna be grumbling the whole time.

He pulled up in his baby blue truck to Dot’s and Joe’s, a stout metal and red building not too far from base. The sun was just rising, and it painted the sky that sleepy light blue. Spotting Rooster’s Ford Bronco and Hangman’s Jeep, he pulled up next to them right as they were getting out.

“Mornin’ Bob,” Rooster said. They were all dressed in their khaki uniforms, knowing they would change into flight suits once they arrived at training anyway.

Bob nodded with a small smile. “Mornin’ guys.”

Hangman stretched, “Where’s your pilot?”

He shrugged. “Phoenix isn’t a morning person.”

As if on cue, her black version of Rooster’s Ford Bronco pulled up and parked next to Bob’s truck. They watched as she got out of the car, grumbling and rubbing her eyes.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” Hangman teased.

“Shut the fuck up, Hangman. It’s too early for your bullshit.” She groaned, making the rest of them laugh. Only she would cuss like a sailor at five in the morning. “Why on earth would you guys want to do this?”

Rooster started walking towards the doors of the place, and the rest followed. “They’ve got quite literally the best pancakes I’ve ever had. It’ll be worth it.”

They all walked in, and Bob looked around the interior. It was like they had hopped into a time machine. The classic 60s look was clean and colorful, even if the outside of the building seemed a little worn down. Red leather seats and silver table tops. Warm fluorescents wrapped around a countertop bar. Old movie posters and pin-up art hung up on every wall while a jukebox played oldies by the kitchen door.

Rooster and Hangman led them to a nearby booth, and they scooched in.

“It’s nice,” Bob said, nodding with a small smile.

Hangman chuckled, “Figured you of all people would like it. You look like you would’ve gotten your lunch money taken in Back to the Future.”

That made Rooster let out a laugh heartily enough to capture the attention of the staff, and Bob rolled his eyes. But he couldn’t help the smile. Okay, fine. That one was good. More original than his usual quips.

At the sound of Rooster’s laugh, the kitchen door swung open by the jukebox. A soft voice rang out. It was quiet enough for almost nobody in the diner to notice… But Bob sure did. A beautiful voice sang along to a song he didn’t recognize playing on the juke.

“B-A-B-Y. Baby. B-A-B-Y. Baby.”

His head turned over to see a waitress in a pink uniform and a little paper hat. In most cases, he’d just see the waitress and be excited to dig into some food. But for some reason, at the sight of her, his heart flipped in his chest. She was beautiful. In knee-high socks and glasses that were similar to his, though they weren’t nearly as big and awful-looking as his own. She swayed her head to the song without a care in the world as she held a notepad and pencil.

He didn’t even notice the rest of the squadron trying not to laugh at Bob’s obvious gawking.

“See something you like, Floyd?” Phoenix asked with a smirk.

Bob’s head whipped back around. “What? What do you mean?” He asked quickly, making the rest of them laugh harder.

When the waitress spotted the table, she smiled and walked over.

“You two again.” She said, stopping by and looking at Hangman and Rooster, “And you’ve brought friends.” She smiled at him, and Phoenix and Bob could’ve sworn his heart stopped.

“Yeah, well, we had to share how good this place was,” Hangman said casually.

Bob looked at the nametag pinned on her top. Y/n. God, he was practically melting, and he was trying to resist the wiggly Charlie Brown smile that wanted to appear.

She tapped her pencil. “What were your call signs again? I remember thinking they were cool, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they were.”

Rooster nodded and pointed to himself first. “Rooster. Hangman. Then those guys over there are Phoenix and Bob.”

She tilted her head with a smile as her eyes landed on Bob properly. “It’s Bob? What’s your real name then?”

With his heart beating out of his chest, he stammered, “B-bob. It’s just Bob.” He wished he could give another answer. He wished that his call sign wasn’t as simple as it was or that he had some sort of cool name like ‘Dagger’ or ‘Striker’... But he couldn’t even pretend like Bob didn’t fit him perfectly.

She laughed. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

She liked his name.

Hangman cut in, “We’ve made it stand for Baby on Board. He’s a backseater.”

“Oh, so like a WSO?”

She knew what that was? This conversation was just getting better and better, even with Hangman’s attempts to embarrass him.

Bob nodded, barely able to speak.

“That’s pretty awesome. My dad was Navy, so I like seeing ya’ll pop up here since we’re so close to North Island.” She explained, “Well, Rooster, Hangman, Phoenix, and Baby, what can I get started for ya?”

That wasn’t his call sign, and if it was, it would’ve been more embarrassing than just Bob. But having the beautiful waitress call him Baby? He could leap out of his skin. The massive blush that spread over his face was uncontrollable.

“Just four hot coffees to get us started, will ya, Y/n?” Hangman said

She didn’t even write it down. “Simple enough. I’ll be back.”

Bob watched her walk away, completely mesmerized. Especially as she jumped back into the song.

“Just one look- in your eye. And my temperature goes sky hi-” And the kitchen door swung closed.

There was a silence as the three pilots watched Bob, surprised as he sat there with a dreamy look on his face.

“Jesus, Floyd. I’ve never seen you so whipped. And you usually are by most people.” Hangman smirked, leaning back.

Once again, he was sadly snapped back to reality by Hangman. A common occurrence. “N-no. No, I’m not. She was nice.” He cleared his throat, pretending to look over the menu, “Really nice.”

Rooster made a little ‘Aw’-ing noise. “Buddy, it’s okay! I get it. She’s super cute.” He said, trying to be supportive, but Bob quickly shushed him, horrified at the prospect she might overhear.

“And she matches your dorkiness,” Hangman added

Bob shook his head, but he had that feeling, too. Their interaction had been so limited, yet he had a feeling they’d get along perfectly. He was already completely and totally captivated by her.

They left the diner an hour later to make it to work on time, but Bob couldn’t shake the thoughts of her that graciously occupied his brain. The whole day, even as he was driving or flying or doing push-ups, he’d hear her calling him ‘baby’. Or he’d think about how, when he put in his order for strawberry french toast, she winked at him and said that was her favorite. It was both horrifying and the best distraction he could ever ask for.

Wanting to make it a tradition, Rooster dragged the three of them back to the diner the following Monday. It was a nice thought. Start the week out with a great breakfast and end it with a Friday night at The Hard Deck.

Bob got out of his truck and looked over at Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix, who were already there.

“You’re here before me, Phoenix?” He asked, confused.

Phoenix chuckled even through tired eyes, “Couldn’t miss the Bob yearning show this morning.”

He practically choked on his own spit. “What?”

“Yeah, we’re surprised you weren’t the first one here to say hi to your little girlfriend.” Rooster teased.

He let out a little exasperated breath. “Can we go in now?”

Hangman walked towards the door, “Whatever you want, Baby.” He teased back, emphasizing the name the waitress had called him last time.

For the next few weeks, they had the same routine. They would sit down in their booth, and like clockwork, Y/n would strut out quietly singing along to whatever song was on the jukebox. It was like she had a Rolodex of 50s/'60s hits. The Supremes. Marvin Gaye. Aretha Franklin. Tom Jones. Even the songs he didn’t recognize sounded like his new favorite song coming from her.

Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix would all watch him stumble and smile up at her. His face lit up like a Christmas tree. And they would all tease him or even subtly try to hype Bob up to her. The three noticed how she seemed to pay special interest to Bob, even though he remained oblivious. They noticed how she always complimented him or would point out his glasses. There were little things- like her making his paper plate of ketchup a winky face or a heart, while the rest got stars or smiley faces. The fact that she always addressed him as Baby was more than enough to convince them. It wasn’t Bob or Baby on Board. It was just Baby.

But Bob was oblivious. He was completely convinced that she was just being friendly because she was being paid to be. He figured that a girl like that would already have a partner, and he didn’t want to be a creep. It wasn’t like him to hit on a girl while she was working. His mama taught him that it wasn’t appropriate.

So even as the rest of them egged him on to ask her out, he didn’t. He stayed comfortable with the small talk and stammering banter he’d make with her on those Monday mornings. It got to a point where even the rest of the squadron knew about this. Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote wanted to come with and see for themselves, but for the first time- Bob vehemently rejected them from coming. It would be obvious if suddenly there was a crowd watching him try not to turn red in the face while talking. And she deserved better than that.

One Monday, Y/n came back out singing that Carla Thomas song again. And when she reached the table, Bob couldn’t help himself.

“What’s that song playing? You’re always singing it.” He asked

Her eyes widened, “Oh goodness, I hope it’s not too cringy that I sing while working.” She said with a nervous smile.

All of them shook their heads, looking up at her. Rooster and Hangman went back to their menus with smirks while Phoenix looked down at her phone, as if they were all letting him have his moment. His favorite part of the week.

“No. No. I- I like your voice. I’m just wondering what the song is.” He said with his typical bashful look.

Her nervous smile upturned to a genuine one. “Oh, well, it’s Baby by Carla Thomas, but the title is spelled out like B-A-B-Y… Hey, that’s like your call sign, isn’t it?” She asked excitedly.

Bob nodded. “Kinda. Kinda yeah.”

“Guess, I’ll be listening to this song even more then, Baby.” She said, which made Hangman and Rooster look at each other with raised brows that said ‘it’s so obvious’, “I’ll be right out with your guys’ coffee.”

As she walked away, he heard “Whenever the sun don’t shine.”

The kitchen door swung shut.

“Jesus Christ, Bob, this is torture.” Rooster groaned, leaning his head back.

He looked at him, confused with furrowed brows.

“Look, Bob, I was a whole proponent of the whole don’t ask her out at work thing, but this is getting ridiculous,” Phoenix said, grabbing her menu.

“I don’t know what you guys mean. She’s just being nice.” Bob said, looking around at his friend’s exasperated faces.

Hangman dragged his hands down his face, “And calling you ‘baby’.”

Bob shook his head. “She thinks that’s my call sign.”

“So… she’s going to ‘listen to the song with your call sign more now’ because…?” Rooster added.

He couldn’t deny that. It was probably the most forward thing she had done besides smile and point out they were matching every Monday because of their glasses.

Bob shook his head. “I shouldn’t.”

Phoenix exchanged a look with Hangman… That couldn’t be good. Those two could barely stand each other, so if they were joining forces, something was up. Bob saw their stares.

“What-what are you guys doing?” Bob asked.

Phoenix turned to him, “If you don’t ask her out, I’m gonna have Hangman kill us in every dogfight this week. 200 push-ups each.”

He immediately groaned and put his head in his hands. The idea of that was pure torture. Not only did that mean he’d barely get to fly because he’d be tagged out every time they did, but 200 push-ups daily for a week. Look, Bob was strong… but his shoulders and biceps shivered at the thought.

“You’re evil. You’re literally evil.” He said, looking over at Phoenix.

Rooster tapped the table. “You’ll thank us later.”

After they all paid, Rooster, Hangman, and Phoenix all walked out, leaving Bob still lingering behind inside. He felt awkward. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there anymore because it was outside of this routine. When Y/n came back out, his heart beat so hard he thought it might stop. It had gone from zero to sixty at just the sight of her.

When she spotted him, her eyes brightened and she walked straight towards him. He swallowed anxiously.

“Hey, Baby! What are you still doing here? Need something?” She asked smiling

Oh god. Oh dear god.

“No, no, I was just uh, I was just-” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his friends not so subtly watching him from outside the window. He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say thanks.” He nodded.

OH GOD WHAT WAS HE DOING? THANKS? A little confused, but still smiling, she nodded. “You’re welcome. Any time.”

He took a deep breath before spitting out, “I was just wondering if you’d like to… go out sometime. I- I know this isn’t appropriate when you’re working and all, but-”

“I’d love to.” Her face was the brightest he had seen it. It didn’t seem like forced hospitality. She seemed genuinely enthusiastic. “God, Bob, I was waiting for you to ask.”

He blinked and shook his head in disbelief, “You were?”

“I was worried you never would.” She said, “I’m free this weekend if you are.”

It felt like he was melting into the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I am. I’ll uh- here.”

He reached over to a table and grabbed a napkin, quickly scribbling his number on it. Handing it to her, he added, “And if you change your mind, I won’t be mad.”

She took it and folded it neatly before putting it in her pocket. “I would never.”

They stood there for a moment just looking at each other. She smiled, and Bob let out a nervous laugh. This felt like a dream, and he was still waiting to wake up. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She didn’t seem creeped out. And she had been waiting for him to ask her, despite being at work.

“I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll see you.” He said, nodding.

“See ya soon, Baby.” She waved before going back into the kitchen.

Walking out, Bob’s legs felt like jelly. It was like he was on the aircraft carrier for the first time, and he couldn’t get his bearings. He fully wore the bashful smile now, unable to resist it.

“So?” Phoenix asked, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk.

“She said yes.” He said breathlessly.

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kxsagi · 2 months ago

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“𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧”

a/n: okay so… i have dante brainrot

(fanart found here)

you don’t know when it started – well, technically, you do. it was a saturday morning, the kind where the sky is grey and the coffee machine starts sputtering at the worst possible moment. you’d just slapped on your apron and were trying to wrestle a ketchup bottle back to life when he walked in.

all tall, dark, and devastating. like he was in the wrong movie. like he was supposed to be fighting demons in hell or racing luxury cars across italian rooftops, not standing in your small local diner, blinking up at the specials board like he was decoding a program.

“uh…hi,” you said, a little breathless. “just one?”

he smiled, and the air shifted like a song started playing just for you.

“yeah,” he nodded, and then… then he really looked at you. “unless you’re off in twenty minutes. then two.”

you’d laughed. it was polite. professional. you’d been hit on before. you were gorgeous, after all (and humble). but this guy, he looked like he meant it. like he’d follow you out of there and help you change a flat tire and write poetry about it.

“booth or bar?” you asked, already leading the way.

he took a booth. he took every booth after that. because that was the first time dante walked into the diner. and somehow, it was never the last.

“let me guess,” you say now, pen hovering over your notepad. you were standing in the same spot, just three months later. “you’re going to order the other side of the menu today.”

dante grins, the kind that could make your knees weak if you weren’t too busy leaning on the table like a girl in a romcom who still has three tables left to take care of.

“how’d you know?”

“because you circled the first half last week like you were doing SAT prep.”

“that obvious, huh?”

enzo, who is already sitting across from dante with the dead eyes of a man who has been dragged here nearly every wednesday and saturday for the last month, doesn’t even look up from the menu. “you’re pathetic.”

“i’m learning about local culture,” dante retorts smoothly. “and it’s not pathetic if i’m in love.”

enzo groans so loud it startles the old man in the corner booth. “again with the love.”

you raise an eyebrow, flipping your pen between your fingers. “oh?”

“don’t indulge him,” enzo mutters.

but you do. because it’s funny. because it’s dante. because he’s got this way of talking like everything he says is a compliment in disguise. especially when it is.

“so…what’s the order today, romeo?”

dante’s eyes flicker down to the menu like it’s the first time he’s seeing it and not like he’s been aggressively trying every variation of breakfast sausage on god’s green earth just to talk to you.

“i’ll take… the pancakes.”

“the banana ones?”

“surprise me.”

enzo makes a strangled noise. “he’s trying to make that sound sexy. do you hear that? i’m not hallucinating.”

you stifle a snort and turn away with a little smile. “you want bacon with that?”

“only if you eat one with me.”

enzo slams his head onto the table.

but despite the old man’s warnings, you can’t help it – dante’s charming.

not just flirty. charming. he says thank you like he means it. he helps old people with their coats at the door. he offers to fix the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom with his bare hands like he was born to. he even pulled a stray cat out from under your car last week and tried to name it after you (“look at her, she's got your attitude”).

it would be easier if he was annoying. or weird. or just some guy with a terrible pickup line and an ego problem. but instead he’s funny. he’s sweet. and yeah, he’s tall.

you just hadn’t expected his height to be his opening line today.

“so,” he said casually, elbow on the table like he belonged in a cologne ad. “did i mention i’m six foot three?”

you blinked. “… is that your order?”

enzo dropped his head into his hands. “kill me.”

“i just thought you should know,” dante went on, sipping his coffee like it was wine and he was at a gala. “for science.”

“science?”

“yeah. for… height-based compatibility purposes.”

“wow,” you said dryly, scribbling on your notepad. “and here i was, trying to decide if you were a blueberry or a chocolate chip pancake kinda guy.”

“i’m flexible,” dante said, all smooth as enzo was actively searching for exits at this point. “but i lean sweet.”

the weeks go by. dante keeps showing up. he’s tried everything from the chili cheese fries to the tuna melt (“a bold move,” you told him, he looked proud). he tips generously (even though you can tell he has no extra pennies for himself). flirts even more generously. sometimes he brings enzo. sometimes he comes alone. and when he does, he sits at the bar and spins the little napkin dispenser like he’s trying to impress it.

“you ever think about getting a job here?” you joke one afternoon while pouring him another soda. “you’re basically an unpaid intern at this point.”

“only if i get to wear the same uniform,” he says, eyes dragging up your apron with a smirk.

you roll your eyes. but you’re smiling. you always are when he’s around.

enzo walks in late that day, takes one look at dante smiling like an idiot and you laughing like you’ve known him for years, and sighs the sigh of a man who has already drafted his best man speech out of spite.

“don’t even,” dante warns before enzo can sit. “we’re having a moment.”

“you’re having a delusion,” enzo corrects. “this is a restaurant, not a dating sim.”

you just shake your head, grabbing their plates. “pancakes and existential dread, coming up.”

enzo salutes you. dante grins proudly.

and you?

you’re starting to like the regulars. especially the tall one.

#dante sparda #sparda dante #devil may cry #dante dmc #dante sparda dmc #dante sparda x reader #dante sparda devil may cry #dante devil may cry #dmc dante #dmc anime #i love dante sparda #table for two and one desperate man

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numbpill · 3 months ago

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========================================================

[tutorial: build your own neocities/nekoweb page]

========================================================

a beginner's guide for making your very own home on the indie web—retro, personal, weird, and 100% yours.

this ain’t an average wix, squarespace, or tiktok aesthetic.

we’re talking full html/css with soul and attitude.

[ prerequisites ]

------------------

> an idea

> basic text editor (vscode, notepad++, or even notepad)

> account on https://neocities.org or https://nekoweb.org

> some gifs or tiles you love (dig deep or make your own)

> optional: image host or gif repo (or self-host everything)

[ feeling overwhelmed? read this. ]

-----------------------------------

you do *not* need to know everything.

html is not a mountain. it's a garden.

you plant one tag. then another. then a style. then a button.

you can build your site piece by piece.

and every piece is a portal to somewhere personal.

you are allowed to make broken pages.

you are allowed to use templates.

you are allowed to start over as many times as you want.

this is *your* world. you control the weird.

[ step 1: create an account ]

-----------------------------

> neocities: https://neocities.org

> nekoweb: https://nekoweb.org

this is where you upload your files and see your site live.

[ step 2: your first file - index.html ]

----------------------------------------

make a new file: `index.html`

basic starter:

<html>

<head>

<title>my weird little corner</title>

</head>

<body>

<h1>welcome to the void</h1>

<p>this is my page. it’s strange. like me.</p>

</body>

</html>

> upload to the dashboard

> boom. you’re live at

https://yoursite.neocities.org

or https://nekoweb.org/u/yoursite

[ step 3: add a style sheet - style.css ]

-----------------------------------------

create a file called `style.css` and upload it.

here’s some nostalgic magic:

body {

background: url('tile.gif');

color: lime;

font-family: "Courier New", monospace;

text-shadow: 1px 1px 0 black;

}

img {

image-rendering: pixelated;

}

marquee {

font-size: 20px;

color: magenta;

}

link it in your html and the vibes activate.

[ step 4: decorate it like a haunted usb ]

------------------------------------------

> use <marquee> for chaos scrolls

> embed gifs from https://gifcities.org/

> steal buttons from https://cyber.dabamos.de/88x31/

> set up a guestbook at https://www.smartgb.com/

> loop audio with <audio autoplay loop>

> add fake errors, 90s web lore, random link lists

[ step 5: resources, themes, and comfort ]

------------------------------------------

> templates & layouts: https://numbpilled-themes.tumblr.com

> glitchy gifs & buttons: https://glitchcat.neocities.org/resources

> layout builder: https://sadgrl.online/projects/layout-builder/

> free tiled backgrounds: https://backgrounds.neocities.org/

> beginner html intro: https://www.w3schools.com/html/

> pixel fonts & cyber assets: https://fontstruct.com/

remember:

you don't need to know js. you don't need to be a coder.

you just need a mood, a direction, a dream.

the html will follow.

[ bonus concept: shrine pages ]

-------------------------------

> a page just for one character you love

> a room to house digital fragments of your identity

> embed quotes, music, images like altars

> call it shrine.html and link it from your homepage

[ closing mantra ]

------------------

you are not here to be optimized.

you are not a brand.

you are a ghost inside the machine,

carving your initials into the silicon void.

welcome to Your website.

========================================================

425 notes · View notes

pukefactory · 1 month ago

Note

I have one more. Any Jealous BBQ ENA for both sides? Idk if I make sense with what I mean sorry if not.

(sorry I keep coming up with so many my mind is like a BBQ ENA X Reader Hyperfixacted Machine rn)

•☽────✧˖°˖ VANISHING VISIONS ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Jealous Salesperson ENA X Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ The moment she sees you laugh too freely with someone else, someone who doesn’t hiccup in dual tones or flicker like a cursed stock photo, her Salesperson side immediately interjects with a cheerful, “Ah, splendid! Another competitor enters the market. Shall we place our bids now, or later?” You think she’s joking. You hope she’s joking. But she’s already nudging between you and the stranger with a gracious, too-wide smile and a firm handshake that feels more like a takeover.

☆ Meanie is less diplomatic. She watches your conversation from a distance with twitching eyebrows and seething limbs. The moment the other person so much as touches your sleeve, she’s already marched across the room like a war general caught in the act of treason. “HEY, DINGUS! You can flirt with a MANNEQUIN if you’re so desperate! BACK OFF BEFORE I TURN YOUR LARYNX INTO A HELPLINE!” Then she clings to your arm like you’re hers. Which you are. But now it’s just… known.

☆ Salesperson doesn’t like shouting. She prefers to handle things with professional sabotage. That “friend” you were getting a bit too close to? Suddenly misplacing things. Their pocket watch ticks backwards. Their memories of you go fuzzy. “Must be a clerical error,” ENA muses, scribbling something in her notepad with the ink of denied affections. “You’re far too important to be involved in their faulty infrastructure,” she purrs, pressing a coupon to your palm that reads: One (1) Free Eternal Commitment Consultation. Redeem Now.

☆ When Meanie is jealous, her emotions come out sideways—frustrated jabs, accusations dressed up as jokes, and glares that could make the moon blush. “You’re all chummy with that walking jar of beans now?” “No. I’m fine. Whatever. They’re not even that interesting. Not like YOU’D notice. Or care. You’re too busy being SPECIAL.” The word special is snarled like it betrayed her first. Later, she tries to apologise with a strange sculpture made of fishhooks and seashells. You treasure it like a diamond.

☆ Salesperson hates the feeling of being out-negotiated. So if someone makes you laugh harder than she ever has, she’ll spend the next few days researching humour modules, downloading joke scripts, and trialling comedic timing in her mirror. Eventually she slinks up to you in the middle of a stressful day and whispers, “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “A lifelong partnership built on mutual respect, and—AND I THINK YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL.” She combusts into a flustered mess immediately after. The joke didn’t land. But your smile did.

☆ If ENA catches you complimenting someone else’s voice, her split selves react wildly differently. Salesperson will say: “Of course! A unique tone is worth its weight in gold. Perhaps I could curate something for you? A new tone? Would you prefer deeper? Lighter? More romantic?” Meanie will say: “GAG ME WITH A CABLE WIRE. What, my voice not good enough for you anymore? I sound like an opera ghost with a marketing degree and YOU KNOW IT.” You assure them both you love their voices. They reply in unison: “Prove it.”

☆ Salesperson ENA schedules a “relationship audit” when she suspects your eyes have been drifting. She drags you into a dim-lit conference room (which is actually a tilted canoe filled with papers) and pulls out a slideshow: Slide 1: “Reasons I Am the Optimal Partner” Slide 2: “Risk Management: Threats to Our Dynamic” Slide 3: A spinning gif of you two holding hands, titled ‘Projected Eternal Affection.’ She stares into your soul and murmurs, “Please don’t diversify your emotional assets.”

☆ Meanie just says it. “No. No no no. I don’t like it when you talk to her like that. I don’t like it when he calls you sweet. I hate that look in your eyes when you say their name like it’s wrapped in lace.” She crosses her arms. Her mitt hand trembles. “You’re mine. Just mine. Please stay mine.” And then she grabs your sleeve, head lowered, as if the universe might punish her for being honest.

☆ You were chatting with a soft-voiced puppet when ENA appeared, eyes narrowed, smile tight. Salesperson slid between you and them like a curtain, voice sugar-slick. “Oh-ho! Making new friends? Curious. Risky. Economically inefficient.” Meanie, however, was already spiraling. “WHY DON’T YOU JUST MARRY THEM THEN?! I’m just a walking meltdown with cute socks, right?!” Salesperson grimaced. “Apologies. Emotional firewall breached.” She snatched your arm and marched you away under the guise of “inventory protection.” Later, you noticed a sticky note left on the puppet’s forehead: “Position filled. Try HR.”

☆ The worst is when they both get jealous at the same time—Meanie and Salesperson, arguing through you. “You’re too soft on them!” “We can’t scare them away! They’re the best investment of our whole existential model!” “I SHOULD PUT A CURSE ON THAT WANNABE LOVE PEST!” “I SHOULD PUT THEM ON A MAILING LIST FOR BAD DATING TIPS.” You have to scream “I’m in love with YOU, not them!!” to get them to shut up. Silence. Then, softly—so softly it sounds like both of them at once: “…Promise?”

356 notes · View notes

magewritesstories · 7 months ago

Text

[ SPENCER REID ] WHIPPED

cw. derek uses a little experiment to prove that the reader's whipped for spencer (fluff.) wc. 542

"YOU ARE SO WHIPPED," Derek says as the two of you stand in the tiny kichenette next to the bullpen.

You turn towards him and raise a brow, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh? So you weren't making heart eyes at pretty boy just now?" he counters, "Or when he was going on about Doctor Who this morning, or yesterday when he told you that dumb fact about the Mayans and their sun calander?"

"Again, I have no idea what you're talking about," you deny, reverting your eyes back to the drink in your hand.

Derek looks between you and Spencer before smirking. "Yeah? Let me give you a little explanation then."

He drags you over to Spencer's desk.

"Hey, pretty boy, Y/N and I were just talking about how horrible the coffee from the new coffee machine is," he said as the boy genius turned to them, "So she's going to that coffee shop down the street, you want anything?"

Spencer thought about it for a second, "Uh, no, I'm good actually."

"You sure, it's Y/N's treat?" Derek added in a sing-song.

"Uhm, I guess a glazed donut would be nice?"

You turn to Derek with a confused look on your face, which Spencer the Amazing Profiler somehow managed to miss.

Derek turns to you with a knowing smirk, "Give it a second—"

And just as those words leave his mouth Emily pipes up from next to JJ. "Oh, if you're going, get me a coffee?"

"I'd love a chocolate cookie," Penelope, who had come out of her batcave to hand over some reports to Hotch, adds excitedly, "You're going to that new coffee shop right? I could smell the deliciousness from a mile away."

Slowly but surely everyone in the bullpen piles onto it—all of them clearly not a fan of the new coffee machine either—and your teammate looks at you with a smirk.

"You want a notepad or?"

"Shut up."

The man lets out a bark of a laugh. "You'd have to dissapoint boy genius over there," he offered, before looking pointedly at Spencer who was now excitedly talking about the new café with Penelope, "But you could just not go."

You let out an annoyed huff as you looked at him too.

A full twenty minutes later you stood in front of Spencer's desk with a crumbled bag containing his favourite flavour of glazed donut (because of course I know what it is, Derek, I'm a good colleague), completely and utterly out of breath.

You'd just spent 15 minutes of your break running to and from the new café—in your brand new heels too— and then giving everybody their coffee and/or cookie.

"Thank you," the boy genius replied with a bright smile on his face, looking in the bag, "Oh, and you got my favourite flavour too, you're amazing!"

You just offer him a small, tired smile. "Of course, Spence, no problem."

On your way back to your desk, you walk into Derek, who's already leaning against his.

"Just couldn't stand dissapointing your pretty boy, huh?"

"I swear to all that is holy, Morgan, I will throw this scalding hot coffee on you."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so whipped."

"I hate you."

"W-H-I-P-P-E-D, whipped."

#criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #bau #behavioural analysis unit #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader fluff #criminal minds fanfiction

660 notes · View notes

p0orbaby · 6 months ago

Text

Dancing in the Dark

summary: a tactics coach and a vice captain walk into a bar… have a not so secret relationship

warnings: mentions of sex but nothing graphic

a/n: i asked for requests and someone sent me this gem

word count: 3.1k

Leah texts you at exactly 12:02 a.m., a time she insists is “late enough to avoid suspicion but early enough that we’re not knackered in the morning.” The precision of it is very Leah—practical, calculated, with just the faintest whisper of rebellion. It’s always the same text—Room 308—as if she’s writing it for a stranger who might need the address for their sat nav. She never adds punctuation. You think that’s intentional, a way of keeping it casual, devoid of any intimacy that could be misconstrued.

You’ve stopped bothering to reply. It’s not that you don’t want to see her—want isn’t the word for what you feel when you see her name flash on your screen, but it’s close enough. It’s that typing on my way feels excessive when the answer’s already obvious. She knows you’ll come. You know she knows. And there’s something about that silent agreement that feels like the only part of this whole arrangement that makes sense.

The desk lamp casts a faint yellow glow across the room as you pack up. Your laptop goes into the bag first, followed by the notepad you’ve been using to scribble ideas for tomorrow’s strategy meeting. You pause to carefully align its corner with the edge of the desk—a habit you’ve had since you were a child, though you’re not sure if it’s a quirk of personality or a learned behaviour from years of Catholic school and its draconian rules about neatness.

Your hoodie is next, slung over the back of the chair like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. It’s an old one from university, the logo cracked and peeling, the sleeves stretched from too many washes. It smells faintly of your laundry detergent—a scent marketed as “ocean breeze,” though you’ve always thought it smells more like cheap fabric softener and an overactive imagination. Nothing about it suggests the ocean, or even a breeze. It’s more akin to the air freshener in a Southend-on-Sea rental cottage, the kind with faded floral curtains and a broken kettle. You wonder, briefly, if Leah would find this thought amusing. Probably. She has a way of laughing at things that don’t seem funny until she does.

The hotel corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional creak of overused floorboards. You walk quickly, your trainers barely making a sound on the patterned carpet—a gaudy, swirling design in shades of burgundy and gold that seems to scream corporate retreat. You keep your eyes trained forward, as if avoiding eye contact with the carpet will somehow render you invisible to anyone who might happen to step out of their room.

You’ve mapped out every staff member’s room, memorised the most efficient route, and calculated the probability of running into someone based on their known habits. Karen from PR always goes to bed early, probably still jet-lagged from the US tour. The physio, Jamie, is a night owl, but he’s more likely to be glued to Netflix than wandering the halls. Leah finds this level of detail ridiculous.

“You’re acting like MI5 is going to raid the place,” she’d said once, sprawled on her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a faint halo of gold catching the light as she turned her head to look at you. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know”

She’d been peeling off your shirt as she said it, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, her eyes glittering with amusement. You wanted to argue, to tell her that fun is precisely what you’re having, in the only way you know how to have it: meticulously planned, risk-assessed, and executed with the precision of a military operation. But then her hands had moved lower, and the argument had dissolved into something else entirely. Something much harder to put into words.

Room 308. You knock twice—firm, precise knocks that betray none of the absurd nervousness bubbling under the surface. The kind that makes your palms clammy and your chest feel like it’s trying to audition for a drum solo. The knocks are part of a ritual now, as familiar as tying your boots before a match or double-checking the pitch markings. Three sharp raps, never four, because three would seem impatient, and two would feel too casual, as though you’re dropping by to borrow sugar or ask for her Netflix password.

The door opens almost instantly, as if she’s been standing on the other side, waiting for you. Leah’s dressed in one of those oversized T-shirts she always wears off the pitch, the kind that blur the line between effortless and lazy. This one is black, or it might have been once, but it’s faded now, the fabric soft and worn thin at the seams. The logo across the chest is barely legible—AC__ME—as though it’s been through the wash one too many times. You can’t tell if it’s a nod to Arsenal, a subtle homage to Wile E. Coyote’s endless misfortunes, or one of those niche designer brands that only appear on people with a six-figure salary and a curated Instagram aesthetic. It’s probably the latter. Leah strikes you as the kind of person who’d know what Vetements is and pretend she doesn’t care about it while secretly owning three pieces.

“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. Her voice has this easy warmth to it, like she’s just woken up from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, the faint lilt of someone who’s just thought of something funny but isn’t planning to share it with the group. You’ve always liked that about her—how she can hold a joke in her mouth like a secret, like it’s something she doesn’t owe to anyone else.

“Hi,” you reply, because what else is there to say? Hello feels too formal, like you’ve shown up for a job interview, and anything else—anything softer, more intimate—feels dangerous. Like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff just to see how far you can lean before gravity kicks in.

Her room is a mirror image of yours, down to the garish burgundy carpet and beige curtains that don’t quite close properly. It’s a symphony of stereotypical hotel design, where the furniture all looks like it’s been bolted down as a precaution against theft. But there’s something different about hers, something distinctly Leah. It smells faintly of her perfume, a citrusy Chanel scent you’d once looked for in John Lewis out of curiosity. You’d sprayed it onto one of those paper tester strips, only to feel your lungs contract at the price tag. It smells like sunshine and sharp edges, and now it’s permanently tangled up in your memory of her.

The bed is unmade, the covers thrown haphazardly across the mattress like they’ve been caught mid-escape. One pillow teeters on the edge, a casualty of her apparent inability to sleep neatly. There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand, its label peeling from condensation. A pair of socks—crew-length, white with a small Nike tick—lie abandoned on the floor near the foot of the bed, one inside out. The room is messy in a way that surprises you. Leah, who is precise and meticulous on the pitch, leaves her personal space in a state of mild chaos. And for some reason, it makes you smile. It’s humanising, like finding out that superheroes still get toothpaste on their shirts.

You step inside, careful not to trip over her trainers—Adidas Sambas in a muted beige tone, scuffed at the edges but somehow still immaculate in their coolness. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound punctuating the silence like a full stop. You turn to face her, and she’s leaning against the dresser now, her hands resting in the pockets of her shorts. She’s watching you, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of open skies and lost afternoons.

“What?” you ask, because the weight of her gaze always makes you self-conscious, like you’ve walked into a room wearing mismatched socks.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth curving into a smirk. “You just look…” She pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air like an unfinished melody.

“What?” you repeat, a little sharper this time, though you’re smiling too.

“Like you’re trying not to smile,” she finishes, pushing off the dresser and moving closer.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying not to give away how much you like this—the quiet intimacy of it, the way she looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who knows what this feels like. Maybe you’re trying not to admit how much you want to reach out and touch her, to close the space between you with a single step. But you don’t. Not yet.

The sex is unhurried, languid. Leah moves with the same precision she does on the pitch, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, like she’s planning her next move three steps in advance. It’s the same deliberation you’ve seen in her during matches—the way she reads the game like it’s written in a language only she understands. But this isn’t a match. There are no spectators, no whistles, no rules, just her and you and the slow, deliberate way she’s undoing you, piece by piece.

Her kisses are deep, focused. They land with intent, the kind that makes you forget your own name, let alone the fragile, tenuous boundaries of this arrangement. Her mouth lingers on yours, then moves to your neck, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. She doesn’t bite, not yet, but you can feel her teeth graze your skin, an unspoken promise that leaves you gasping, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of the hotel sheets.

Her fingertips press into your skin—not hard enough to hurt but just firm enough to leave the ghost of her touch behind, as though she’s marking her territory. They trace the length of your back, down your spine, to your hips. Her thumbs skim over the waistband of your joggers before she tugs them down with a kind of casual confidence that feels maddeningly unfair. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.

“You’re so quiet,” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. She presses a kiss to your collarbone, her hands slipping beneath your shirt to push it up, her palms warm against your ribs. “That’s not like you”

“I’m—” You try to respond, but her mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, and the words catch in your throat.

“Exactly,” she says, her voice smug as she moves lower, her lips trailing down your chest, your stomach, her pace agonisingly slow. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips instinctively, barely registering the soft laugh she lets out, the sound dark and smooth like melted chocolate.

There’s no rush. Leah’s always like this—methodical, unhurried. She knows how to take her time, how to keep you teetering on the edge until your body feels like it’s no longer your own. She kisses her way back up, pausing to nip at your jaw, your shoulder, the place where your pulse beats just beneath your skin. Her hand slips between your thighs, her touch deliberate, controlled. And you’re gone.

It’s like a tidal wave, slow to build but devastating when it crashes over you. You’re not sure when you start begging—if it even counts as begging, the broken sounds spilling from your lips without your consent—but Leah doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems pleased, her smirk pressing against the hollow of your throat as she mutters something you’re too far gone to catch.

At some point, she presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She murmurs something—low, unintelligible, a slurred mix of swear words and your name. Or maybe it’s not your name. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s both. You don’t ask her to repeat it. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe, your hands clutching at her back, pulling her closer like you can merge into her, like you can stop time if you just hold on tightly enough.

By the time you collapse onto the mattress, tangled in the hotel’s suspiciously rough sheets, you’re vaguely aware of how loud you’ve been. The walls are thin. The kind of thing where you can hear your neighbour’s TV murmuring away or the occasional flush of a toilet. It’s almost comedic, really, the way you’d tried so hard to avoid being seen earlier, only to make it painfully obvious now. You half expect a knock on the door, some irate teammate demanding silence.

Leah doesn’t seem to care. Of course she doesn’t. She lies beside you, her face flushed, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she’d barely tried to secure. She’s smirking, the way she always does after these nights, like she’s just scored the winning goal and nobody else on the team noticed. Her arm brushes against yours as she stretches out, her skin warm and damp, her breathing slow and even.

The next morning, you arrive at breakfast twenty minutes late, a record even for you. You’ve spent the better part of that time in front of the mirror, tilting your head at impossible angles to assess the carnage Leah left on your neck. Hickeys, in various stages of bruise-like blossoming, dot your skin like a battlefield casualty report. You try concealer—two layers, then three—but it only makes you look like you’ve dipped your neck in cake batter. After an extensive wardrobe evaluation, you settle on a jumper with a collar just high enough to obscure the worst of it, but not so high that it screams I’ve made several poor life choices and am now concealing the evidence.

You enter the dining area cautiously, your eyes scanning for witnesses like you’re in the opening sequence of Casino Royale. The room is loud with the sound of clinking cutlery, chairs scraping against linoleum, and conversations overlapping in a way that is both chaotic and oddly comforting. You spot Katie McCabe first, standing by the buffet with a bowl of cereal that is more milk than anything resembling a solid. Her spoon hovers mid-air as she glances at you, then swivels her head in Leah’s direction, who is seated at a corner table, scrolling through her phone like she has never made a suspicious noise in her life.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and her mouth stretches into a grin so wicked it should be trademarked. She sets her cereal down and makes a beeline for you, walking with the kind of determination that belongs exclusively to people with too much time on their hands and absolutely no regard for personal boundaries.

“Well, well,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to your neck, then back up to your face. “Someone had a busy night.”

You freeze. Instinctively, your hand twitches toward the collar of your jumper, but you stop yourself. Guilty behaviour. Act normal. Be cool. You shrug in what you hope is a convincing display of nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Katie tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward your neck. “What’s that, then? Tactical bruising? Working on a new game plan?”

“I slipped in the shower,” you deadpan. It’s a lie so bad it physically hurts to say, but the alternative is giving Katie McCabe ammunition, and you’d rather die than give her the satisfaction.

She snorts. “Jesus, you’ve got to at least try with these excuses”

You glare at her, but it’s useless. Katie is like a shark in open water—she can smell blood, and she’s circling. She follows you to the table, sliding into the chair next to yours without so much as an invitation. Her cereal sloshes precariously in her bowl, milk dripping onto the edge of the table. She doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

Leah, of course, is completely unbothered. She’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone like she’s reading the football section of The Guardian and not actively trying to avoid eye contact with you. Her hair is still slightly damp from her morning shower, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like yours. Katie clocks the hoodie immediately and raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Not yet.

“Just to clarify,” Katie says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next table, “are we calling this a team-building exercise or…?”

Leah doesn’t even flinch. Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Mind your business, McCabe”

Katie lets out a delighted laugh, stealing a slice of toast from your plate like she’s earned it. “Oh, it is my business,” she says, buttering the toast with an enthusiasm that borders on offensive. “You lot kept me up all night. Thought someone was being murdered in the next room. Turns out it was just—”

“Katie,” you interrupt, your voice sharp enough to cut through her sentence. Your face is burning, your ears hot enough to fry an egg on.

Katie leans back in her chair, utterly unrepentant. “Relax,” she says, taking a bite of the toast she stole. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now”

She winks at you, a gesture so insufferable you consider lobbing a teaspoon at her head. Instead, you glance at Leah, whose lips are twitching at the edges, betraying the smirk she’s desperately trying to suppress.

You shoot her a glare that you hope translates to I will kill you later, but she only raises an eyebrow, as if to say go ahead, make my day.

Katie’s still watching you, her grin as infuriating as ever. “You’re lucky it was me who heard you,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Imagine if it had been Beth. She’d have the whole squad doing impressions by now”

Leah finally looks up from her phone, her expression cool, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. “You done?”

Katie holds up her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, try keeping it down. Or don’t. Makes for great entertainment”

You slump in your chair, burying your face in your hands. You can feel Leah’s gaze on you, and when you finally peek through your fingers, she’s smiling. Not smirking, not teasing, but actually smiling, like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks.

You make a mental note to kill her later. Or maybe kiss her. You haven’t decided yet.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

436 notes · View notes

moneypowerglorymiddleofmiami · 1 year ago

Text

— trickentine જ⁀➴♡ ︎

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader

summary: when eros, the god of love, makes the annual valentine visit to camp half-blood, he conveniently unintentionally leaves his bow and arrow in the capable hands of his younger half-sister.

warnings: nothing i think, except for like one curse word (pls do tell me if i miss any though!)

genre: ...romcom?

part 2

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

The gods were many things: powerful at their core, benevolent to those who merit it, temperamental when goaded, and mysterious in their methods— but there was one trait that defined them most of all, incandescently littered in their tales and lores: they were tricksters.

You really should’ve known better than to pick up that stray quiver of arrows.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

The Aphrodite Cabin consistently made it a point to celebrate Valentine’s Day with much fanfare. Everyone has been busy the entire week preceding it; there were fresh roses to harvest, pink and red deserts to be made, hundreds of paper hearts to be cut, ribbons to be tied and acres to decorate. As one of the older siblings, a huge chunk of the responsibility fell on your shoulders. Needless to say, you spent an entire extra hour in the bathroom trying to put your concealer to good use.

A mere 10 minutes after leaving your cabin on V-Day, you’d managed to snap and glare at nearly everyone who even thought of intercepting your path.

Nearly everyone because you knew better than to direct your ire at the god of love.

“You didn’t even blend.” Eros said, perusing your make-up judgmentally. “Consider your favorite demigod sister card revoked.”

In his current human form, his hair was a deep shade of black and coiffed to perfection, his eyes a brown hue that you could only describe as melodramatic, and his skin beautifully tanned from frolicking in the sunlight.

Gods, how you missed to frolick in the sunlight. These days, you had to slave in it.

“Lord Eros.” You bowed, desperately fighting the urge to roll your eyes and purse your lips.

“I adore what you’ve done with the place.” He waved his hand off dismissively. He trudges ahead of you, officially beginning his annual Valentine inspection. “Although I definitely think it could use a little more sparkle. Perhaps a little more pink, too.”

‘Pink? For Valentines? Groundbreaking.’ You drawled inside your head. “The Hephaestus cabin is tinkering with a smoke machine to make it emit glitter.”

“Wonderful.” He replied passively, his attention drawn towards the dining pavilion where hundreds of glowing hearts hung from mid-air. Eros turned towards you. “Fairy lights on the beams?”

“On it.” You nodded your head tiredly, scribbling messily onto a notepad. “Anything else?”

“Everything’s perfect, except…” He trailed off before raising an eyebrow at you. “Find yourself a boyfriend, maybe? You need to loosen up.”

“Oh my gods,” You muttered under your breath, fighting the urge to physically recoil.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you slacking off on training.” Luke chastised with a tut, tugging your arm towards the training areas. Your feet were basically dragging against the dirt, soiling your sneakers and flicking particles of dust against your skirt, but you couldn’t care less.

“Luke, look around you. What do you see?” You asked, your tone too saccharine to be considered serious.

He decided to humor you anyway. “Hearts.”

“10 points to House Hermes. Now,” You leaned in conspiratorially, “Who do you think set this whole place up?”

Luke barely opened his mouth before you answered your own question.

“Me.” You jabbed a finger against your chest. You narrowed your eyes at him. “I set this whole place up. I planned it— the theme, the color scheme, the glitter, the ribbons, the dazzling pink fountain with mini-Cupids who sing at the hour!”

“It looks very pretty!” He said, panicked.

“Yes, I know it looks very pretty.” You kissed your teeth. “Don’t you think I deserve a little break because it looks very pretty?”

He shook his head.

“You are insufferable!” You groaned.

“Hey! In my defense,” He raised both of his arms in the air to plead innocence, “You’re the one who said you wanted to develop a skill by the end of the summer."

His voice was pitched higher by the end in a poor imitation of your’s. You scrunched your nose in distaste.

“Gods, why do I keep digging my own grave?” You mumbled. Luke shook his head in amusement.

He led you into the clearing of the archery field, a line of circle targets dotted around the edge of the forest. A quiver of arrows was hung against the branches, different from the ones in the armory but definitely familiar to you.

“You can use those. Guess one of the kids forgot to return them after practice.” He shrugged. Luke mustn’t have noticed the difference.

You reached up to grab the weapons, still incredulous but definitely not alarmed enough to hesitate. The material thrummed in your hands.

“Go shoot.” He grinned.

“Very helpful instructions.” You muttered.

“Well, it’s pretty straightforward, sweetheart.” He sauntered over to one of the targets, leaning against the wooden frame. “You’ve been taught the basics, you just need the application. Now, shoot.”

“I could literally hit you.” You said blankly as you mounted the arrow against your bow.

“Consider it your challenge to not hit me.” He raised a thumbs-up.

“You’re insane.” You responded, irked and stressed by his casualness. “I’m sleep-deprived!"

Again, Luke just shrugged his shoulders. You huff, but then follow his lead anyway. You close one eye as you raise your weapon to your line of vision, zeroing in on the target.

As soon as the arrow flicked away from your fingers, it changed its course. When it should’ve followed a curved arch towards the red target, it whizzed away and made a beeline straight for Luke. A pink trail of haze followed its path.

“Duck!” You yell.

The arrow pierced through his chest at nearly the same time Luke’s body collided with the ground.

“That’s where those went.” Eros snapped his fingers as he emerged behind you. His glinting eyes were looking intently at the bow and quiver on you, an imperciptible smile on his face.

Your eyes widened in surprise. Shit.

“Lord Eros! I sincerely apologize.” You immediately took off the weaponry, holding them in your hands then kneeling as if to offer them back. You definitely did not want a god to be at odds with you. The two of you might have the same mother, but that didn’t mean you were equal in Aphrodite’s eyes. “I wasn’t-”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, sis.” He said, tapping your shoulder. Was he actually consoling you? “I shouldn’t have left it out in the open anyways.”

He pulled you up by the arm gently, snapping his fingers and getting the remnants of grass off of your knees. He even picked off a stray leaf from your hair. What in Tartarus was this?

For as long as you’ve known Eros and he’s practically coerced you into a dysfunctional sibling relationship, this was the kindest thing he’s ever done. Yes, the bar was low.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“You didn’t use this on someone, did you?” Eros asked, cradling the quiver and bow against him like a child.

“I think I managed to hit Luke—”

“You didn’t!” He interrupted with a theatrical gasp, a hand covering his mouth. He was such a drama queen.

You narrowed your eyes. He planned this, didn't he?

He smirked wider when he noticed the change in your demeanor, the realization behind your gaze. You swore his pupils changed to hearts for a moment.

“Good luck with lover boy, little sis.” He turned around, showing you the back of his hand as he waved goodbye.

#luke castellan imagine #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #pjo tv show #pjo series #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy series

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sashaisready · 10 months ago

Text

Starting Over: Chapter 1.5 - Before

Mob!Bucky x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending. (Standalone series - not related to any other of my stories/characters)

Hello! I know I said this would be a 2 part series but this part of chapter 2 felt like it's own section, so I've created a mini chapter to bridge the two parts and keep us fed - this is a flashback. Part 2 still to come! Thank you all for the love and engagement you've given this story, as always reblogs and comments are appreciated!

💔

Around 18 months earlier…

This was the shift from Hell.

You must’ve accidentally cursed yourself; it was the only explanation for the non-stop chaos the day had wrought. Apologies to any magical being you may have offended.

The kitchen were somehow out of both maple syrup and hash browns. Roscoe must’ve messed up the inventory order again. The customers affected by this egregious error were certainly making themselves known when you broke the news, while Roscoe sheepishly hid back at the grill. You understood their anger, what kind of diner doesn’t have hash browns or maple syrup?! Sure, you shared their pain – but throwing a spoon at your head seemed unnecessary.

The soda machine had leaked all over your arm an hour into your shift and you couldn’t shake the sticky, goopy feeling no matter how many times you had washed your hands. Your shoe broke, the sole flapping against the floor with every step. A table who had spent their entire two hours there demanding an array of elaborate substitutions and ‘softer napkins’ stiffed you on the tip, despite you bending over backwards to help them out. You found yourself counting the minutes until you could clock out, go back to your shoebox apartment, and bury yourself in bed. Not long to go.

“Hon’, sorry…” Lou called out to you, in that tone he always used when he was breaking bad news, “I know you’re swamped – but can you take care of the gentleman in the corner booth? Marcy just went on break and I gotta cover her other tables and whip that jack-off in the kitchen into shape…”

You sighed wearily, you were due to clock off soon and were closing out your section. But you took a deep breath and nodded over at him, “alright, Lou, but only cos it’s you…”

“Thank-you Hon’,” he beamed at you gratefully, disappearing into the kitchen to go yell at Roscoe.

You wandered over to the corner booth Lou had pointed to, swallowing your frustration and fatigue. There was a man sitting by himself, his face obscured by the menu he held up to read. His fingers curled over the sides of the paper, littered with gold rings and scars. One of his hands seemed to be…metal? A strange glove, perhaps? You could see from the sleeves alone that the dark suit he wore was expensive. Not to mention what appeared to be diamond encrusted cufflinks…

Huh. You at least hoped you’d get a good tip out of him.

“Good afternoon, Sir, I’ll be taking care of you today,” you said sunnily as you pulled your notepad and pen from your apron. “What can I get you started with? Some coffee maybe?”

The man didn’t move. The menu remained upright. He was so still it wasn’t almost eerie. You briefly had a crazy thought that he may have died and nobody had noticed, then dismissing your silliness as quickly as it arrived. Besides, dealing with a corpse in the diner was the last thing you needed today.

A few beats passed, but he still didn’t respond. You cleared your throat and tapped your foot to alert him to your presence. Still nothing. You frowned, maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe he had airbuds in or something.

“Sir…? Would you like to order?” you asked again, your tone a little more strained this time.

Silence. But you saw one of his fingers twitch so you knew he was still alive, at least.

You were used to rude customers, the ones who were outright hostile towards you, and the ones who treated you as if you weren’t there. This was nothing new. But the stress of your shift with the combined fuckery of everything that had gone wrong meant you were hanging on by a thread. Your usual hardiness and thick skin were weakened, and your customer service mask slipped.

“Look buddy…it’s incredibly rude to just ignore your waitress you know…” you snarkily told the hovering menu, “are you gonna order or what?”

You realised what you’d said too late, clapping your hand over your mouth as an amused chuckle came from behind the menu shield. Just as you went to apologise, the paper dropped to the table, revealing the mystery man behind it.

You blinked, a little stunned at the sight of him.

His chestnut brown hair was slicked back into a perfect bun, complimenting the light dusting of stubble on his cut-glass jawline. Pouty pink lips curled into a smirk as his large, bulky frame manoeuvred in the booth to get a better look at you. But you were most struck by his eyes, so blue and piercing that you could drown in them. Better women than you probably had.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I-” you flustered.

“Don’t be,” replied the man commandingly, his voice low but soft, “you were right. That was rude of me, I’m very sorry. I was lost in my own world there for a moment. I hope you can accept my apology”.

You gawped at him, surprised at his reaction. You felt your face flush with embarrassment. “Uh…yeah. Sure. Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you; it’s just been a long day…” you admitted sheepishly.

He nodded and studied you carefully, his gaze sweeping you from tip to toe. It felt exposing to be looked at like that, but you couldn’t deny the hint of a thrill it gave you too.

“Well, I’m sorry to have added to it,” he smiled at you.

And what a smile. A knee-weakening smile. All white teeth and warmth. And maybe something…darker?

“My name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes…” he extended a hand towards you to shake, his smile dangerous yet enticing, “Doll, I’d love to hear yours…”

💔

#mob!bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #starting over fic

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joelsrose · 2 months ago

Note

I just started watching Narcos and girl, Steve and Javiiiiiii….I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of all of that…

What about something really fluffy with reader being a goody two shoes secretary or something, like really smart but totally shy…and Javi is flirty and teasing and Steve is sweet to her?

Love your writing 💖

i loved this prompt! hope you enjoy x

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

It was your first day, and to say you were nervous barely scratched the surface of it. You were practically vibrating with anxious energy, your fingers clutching a notepad like it was a holy text, the strap of your purse leaving a red line on your shoulder as you followed the very pregnant woman you were replacing through the narrow corridors of the DEA field office. The air was thick with heat and the faint tang of cigarette smoke, a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead, as if it too couldn’t be bothered with the pressure of the day.

The woman walked slowly, one hand resting low on her belly like she was holding the baby in place, her voice calm but brisk as she pointed out the important things you’d need to know: the coffee machine that only sometimes worked, the drawer with the good pens that no one else knew about, the printer that jammed if you looked at it the wrong way.

“Here’s the printer,” she said, giving it a gentle pat like a temperamental child. “The agents are usually too lazy to copy their own files, so don’t be surprised if they come sweet-talking you into doing it.”

You nodded quickly, trying to absorb every word and committing them to memory with the panicked focus of someone who absolutely did not want to mess this up.

She paused before heading toward the elevator, shifting her weight with a soft, maternal groan. Her eyes softened as they swept over you. “Buena suerte, cariño,” she said, her voice warm and kind.

“Gracias,” you replied in your quietest voice, the syllables soft and careful on your tongue. She smiled, gave you a wink, and disappeared down the hall.

You took a breath. Then another.

Your new desk sat tucked into the corner, a little nest of organized chaos—files stacked neatly, a potted plant that had seen better days, and a phone that had already rung twice before you figured out how to transfer calls. You were seated there, chewing nervously on the edge of your pen, furiously typing something you hoped was formatted correctly, when a low voice startled you out of your focus.

“Afternoon.”

You gasped and nearly knocked over your water, your wide eyes darting up to find a man standing by your desk—tall, with a calm smile and a gentle glint in his blue eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, tie loosened just enough to make him look like he’d had a long day, but still cared.

“Shit—sorry,” he said quickly, hands raised a little in apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blinked, heart pounding, already flustered. “Sorry—I, I didn’t see you coming.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and easy. “You’re new, right?”

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. First day. Is it that obvious?” you asked, trying to smile through your nerves.

“Not at all,” he said, with a warmth that made your cheeks flush. “You’re doing great.”

Your eyes dropped to the stack of papers in his hands—typed reports, some of them dog-eared, all of them marked with red pen. “Do you need those photocopied?” you asked quickly, already half-rising from your seat, desperate to be useful.

He glanced at the stack, then at you, like he hadn’t expected you to offer. “Would you? That’d be real helpful.”

You nodded, carefully taking them from his hands like they were precious. His fingers brushed yours for a moment—warm, calloused—and it sent a weird little buzz down your spine.

“I’m Steve,” he added, smiling down at you. “If anyone gives you trouble around here, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

You flushed again, muttered a soft “thank you,” and he gave you a nod before stepping back toward the hallway. You watched him go, then glanced down at the reports.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The day had dragged on in the way only long, hot days in Bogotá could—the kind that left a sheen of sweat clinging to your collarbones, your blouse stuck to your back, and your legs aching from running errands across the office like a girl with something to prove. Phones rang, the typewriters clacked with relentless rhythm, and you’d barely had time to sip your lukewarm coffee, let alone catch your breath.

Now, with the sun beginning to dip low outside the hazy windows and your shift nearly over, you were at the filing cabinet, quietly humming to yourself as your fingers skimmed over manila folders—searching, focused, tired.

And then—you heard it.

A low whistle behind you, smooth and deliberate.

You turned, startled, your heart skipping before your eyes even landed on him.

He was leaning against the doorframe like he was born to do it—one arm hooked just above his head, the other resting casually at his hip, thumb tucked into the waistband of jeans worn soft at the edges. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, the light cotton clinging to the heat-slicked curve of his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he couldn’t be bothered with formalities, like formality had never once tamed him. The ceiling fan above him turned lazily, lifting the edges of his dark, slightly mussed hair, and a cigarette sat tucked behind his ear.

No tie. No badge in sight. Just the lazy drape of his frame against the door and that impossible calm in his posture—as if nothing in the world could rattle him, but you just might.

His gaze found you instantly, dragging slowly over your frame in a way that made your throat tighten, like he was memorizing the way the light hit your cheek, the soft mess of your hair pulled up from a long day.

“Didn’t know angels came with filing cabinets,” he drawled, voice low and honeyed, like he said things just to see how they'd sound curling out of his mouth.

You blinked, caught off guard, your cheeks already heating like a match had been struck under your skin. The folder in your hand wobbled slightly in your grasp.

He stepped into the room with the kind of ease most men faked—every movement loose and casual, but still impossibly confident. The cigarette stayed tucked behind his ear as he sauntered closer, boots heavy on the floor, his eyes never leaving your face.

“You always this shy, mami?” he murmured, stopping just a foot away, his voice dipped in curiosity and just enough tease to make your stomach flip. The way he said it wasn’t mocking—it was gentle, almost sweet, like he’d stumbled across something delicate in the middle of all this noise and didn’t know whether to pocket it or leave it untouched.

You tightened your grip on the folder like it might anchor you to the floor. “I’m not shy,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

He chuckled—a soft, amused sound that made your spine tingle.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, voice low, something amused dancing behind his eyes. “You blush easy, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to say anything more without squeaking.

His eyes flicked to the way you fidgeted, and his smile shifted—still playful, but a little warmer now. He reached out slowly, not abrupt or showy, and took your hand in his like it was the most natural thing in the world. You froze as he lifted it, turned your wrist slightly, and brought your knuckles to his lips.

“I’m Javi,” he said simply, brushing a kiss over your skin like it was a greeting he gave everyone, though something in the way he lingered—barely a second longer than necessary—told you maybe it wasn’t.

Your breath caught. “Oh,” you whispered. “Javier Peña?”

His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise—and something smug behind it. Like he wasn’t used to people saying his full name so softly. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at the way you were looking at him now, half entranced, half terrified, all butterflies.

“In the flesh,” he murmured, his voice dipping even lower, smooth as aged whiskey and just as dangerous.

Then, after a beat, his head tilted slightly, dark eyes scanning your face with slow interest. “No te he visto antes,” he said, the Spanish rolling easily off his tongue, like smoke curling in the summer air. I haven’t seen you around before.

Your lips parted, a soft little sound escaping before you could catch it. Your face grew warm—warmer, somehow—and you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers suddenly clumsy.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know Spanish. Not yet. I’m… I’m trying to learn.”

His mouth curved again, but this time, it was softer. Not a smirk. Something quieter. Something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

“Don’t apologize, cariño,” he said, the word slipping out with so much casual affection it made your knees go a little weak.

Your brows lifted—almost instinctively, like your heart was reaching for understanding before your head could.

He leaned in just slightly, close enough that the scent of his cologne wrapped around you—warm leather, smoke, and something unnameably him.

“Cariño,” he repeated, his voice velvet-smooth, “means darling.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your throat tightening like a ribbon being pulled gently.

“Oh,” you said, blinking up at him, your lips curving in shy surprise.

He took one step closer, and you didn’t move away—not because you weren’t nervous, but because something about him made it feel like gravity had shifted in the room and you were being pulled toward him, whether you liked it or not.

“If you’re serious about learning,” he said, tone suddenly low and conspiratorial, like a secret passed between friends—or something more, “I could teach you.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, heart hammering, words tangled in your throat. He was so close. So confident. So intentional. And you were just… a girl with sweaty palms and a head full of butterflies.

“I—um… I mean, if you want to,” you managed, instantly wanting to crawl into the filing cabinet and shut the drawer.

He chuckled, low and rich. “I offered, didn’t I?”

Your mouth opened again, but he was already turning, already walking away with that easy, unhurried gait, as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a single word. He glanced back once over his shoulder, just long enough to catch your stunned expression, and smirked.

“Hasta luego,” he called, like a promise.

You stood there, your heart beating loud in your ears, wondering how a man could make a single word sound like foreplay.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

By the next day, things felt easier.

You still walked a little fast when someone called your name and still triple-checked the spelling on every file, but the rhythm of the office had started to settle into your bones. You knew which drawer stuck slightly and had to be tugged twice, which phone line belonged to which department, and how to make the coffee strong enough that even Peña didn’t complain. You felt—if not confident—then at least not completely lost.

And then came lunch.

Most of the agents took their breaks out on the front steps of the building, perching wherever the sun fell just right. Some ate in the breakroom that always smelled like reheated leftovers and strong cologne. You could hear the laughter echoing down the hallways sometimes, voices calling out, boots clunking against tile.

But you, quiet thing that you were, stayed at your desk.

It felt safer here. The whirr of the fan. The hum of the fluorescent lights. The comfort of your own little corner in the chaos. You’d made your sandwich the night before—plain, careful, pressed in wax paper—and now unwrapped it slowly, laying the napkin across your lap like you were still trying to be perfect even when no one was looking.

That’s when you saw a figure approach from the corner of your eye.

You looked up.

“Hey,” he said, with a soft, easy smile.

Steve Murphy.

He was in his button-down, sleeves rolled up, his tie slightly askew in that charming way like he’d been too busy solving things to fix it. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his fingers through it a few too many times, and his eyes—so blue and so gentle—found yours like they already knew how to read your every nervous thought.

“Oh—hi,” you said quickly, startled but trying not to show it, straightening just a little in your chair. “What can I help you with?”

He chuckled, low and kind, as if your question had been sweet rather than unnecessary.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes flicking down to your desk. “Just saw you sitting here. Have you had lunch yet?”

Your fingers curled around the wax paper in your lap. “I was about to,” you said, glancing down at your sandwich, embarrassed like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Here?” he asked, stepping in a little, brows tugging together slightly. “Alone?”

You shrugged, the heat creeping up your neck again. “I… I don’t really know anyone yet,” you admitted, voice soft as your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your napkin. “It’s okay, though. I don’t mind.”

Steve’s expression softened even more. And then, with the same steady calm he always seemed to carry, he leaned forward just a little, one hand braced on the desk.

“Well,” he said, voice soft and laced with just enough warmth to make your chest ache, a small smile tugging at his mouth as his eyes met yours with something quiet and reassuring, “you know me.”

You blinked, startled for a moment by the easiness in his tone, the way he said it like it was a simple truth, like of course you knew him, like that fact alone was enough reason to follow him anywhere.

Your eyes lifted to his, wide and unsure, but already softening at the way he looked at you—gentle, patient, like he wasn’t asking for much, just a few minutes of your time and the tiniest bit of trust.

“C’mon,” he added, his voice low and kind, the words not coaxing but welcoming, like an open door. “It’ll be good to get out of the office for a bit, don’t you think? You’ve been working nonstop.”

Your heart gave a quiet little flutter, a warmth blooming beneath your ribs that you tried not to show on your face. You looked down at your sandwich—still neatly wrapped in wax paper, untouched, suddenly small in your hands—and then slowly looked back up at him.

You hesitated for just a second longer, then nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

His grin widened—pleased, but not smug. Just honest, like he was genuinely happy you’d said yes. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go.”

And then—just like that—he was leading you out into the hallway with that easy warmth radiating off him, like he didn’t even realize how much it meant. Like he didn’t know that, with just one smile, he’d made the noise of the office seem a little less scary, and the world a little less lonely.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Murphy made things easy. He had a calm way about him, the kind that didn’t draw attention to itself but wrapped around you like warmth from the sun. He asked questions that didn’t feel nosy, made quiet jokes that surprised a laugh out of you, and somehow made the walk down the stairs feel like less of a walk and more like… company.

“I know a place just down the street,” he said, holding the door open for you like it was second nature. “Best empanadas in town, no contest.”

“Really?” you asked, your voice lighter than it had been all morning.

“The best,” he grinned. “And I don’t lie about food. It’s sacred.”

You stepped into the humid afternoon together, the city humming with heat and noise around you. You walked side by side on the sidewalk, Murphy keeping just a half step ahead like he was ready to shield you from a rogue taxi or a sudden gust of wind. You were still tucking a piece of hair behind your ear when the scent of cigarette smoke reached you—and then a voice followed.

Low. Lazy. Familiar.

“Bueno, hablamos luego.”

You looked up just in time to see him—Javier Peña, leaning against the edge of the building like a man who belonged to the street itself, phone pressed to his ear, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. His shirt was wrinkled in that unfairly perfect way, tie loose, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose. He turned his head, eyes catching on you first—then Murphy—and that easy, smooth line of his mouth shifted.

The phone dropped from his ear. “Chao,” he said flatly into the receiver before hanging up without waiting for a response.

“Well, well,” he drawled, pushing off the wall with slow grace. His eyes dragged over you both, sharp and unreadable. “Where you two headed?”

“Lunch,” Murphy said simply, barely glancing back.

Javi’s smirk curled like smoke. “That so?”

“Yep,” Steve replied, tone easy.

Javi flicked the ash from his cigarette and checked his watch with theatrical boredom. “Damn,” he said. “I’m starving.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he added, voice soft and low, eyes trained straight on you, “So… where we goin’?”

Your heart jumped. Murphy looked over at you, brows raised like he was waiting to see what you’d say. Javi didn’t even bother pretending—he was watching you closely, cigarette still between his fingers, like the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.

You blinked, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “I… um…”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Murphy said casually, kind as ever.

“Wasn’t asking you,” Javi murmured, eyes never leaving yours.

Your stomach flipped.

Murphy gave him a look—dry, unimpressed—but didn’t argue. He just smiled at you gently. “Up to you,” he said, soft enough that it grounded you.

You glanced between them. The calm steadiness of Steve. The simmering fire that was Javi. And you—stuck in the middle, blushing, trying to decide who your knees would give out for first.

“Of course,” you said, trying to keep your voice from wobbling as you tucked your hair behind your ear. “Best empanadas in town, apparently.”

You smiled up at Murphy, and he grinned back, bright and easy like always, a little wrinkle forming at the corner of his eyes, the kind of expression that made you feel like you were someone worth smiling at.

“Damn right,” he said, his hand already in his pocket as if he were checking to make sure his wallet hadn’t somehow disappeared just from thinking about lunch.

And then—of course—Javi.

“That so?” he repeated, his voice lower, slower, and just sharp enough around the edges to cut through the summer haze. He stepped forward, flicked the last of his cigarette to the pavement, and gave Murphy a long, sideways look. “I’d argue I cook better ones.”

Murphy raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”

Javi smirked, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them into the front of his shirt. “What, you think gringos are the only ones allowed to throw meat in dough and call it a meal?”

“Didn’t know you had time to cook between all the—” Steve gestured vaguely, “—charm and cigarettes.”

Javi just grinned wider. “What can I say? I multitask.”

Your face was already warm, but it only got worse when Javi’s eyes found yours again.

“Tell you what, cariño,” he said, voice syrupy, way too smooth, “you come over one night, I’ll show you how empanadas are supposed to taste.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, entirely useless.

Murphy glanced at you, gentle and kind, but there was something knowing behind it now—like he saw the way you shifted under Javi’s gaze, like he noticed how easily your breath caught.

And then—just like that—you were walking.

Down the sidewalk, between the two of them, like it was the most natural thing in the world and not completely insane that you were flanked by two armed federal agents who smelled like warm leather and aftershave and power, one radiating sweet protection, the other lazy fire and smirking danger.

Murphy was all calm presence—his gun concealed under his jacket, his steps steady, his voice warm as he asked you about where you grew up, what you liked to read, if you’d tried any Colombian desserts yet.

And Javi? Javi was chaos in a collared shirt—his sidearm stuffed into his pocket like he didn’t care who saw it, hands in his pants as he walked with that signature swagger, eyes occasionally flicking down to you with that same unreadable heat. When he spoke, it was slower, more calculated. Less about facts, more about watching you react.

And God—they both smelled so good. One like soap and sun-warmed cotton, the other like cigarettes and something rich and musky, and you didn’t know if it was the heat or your own mind playing tricks, but your knees felt a little weak, and your heartbeat was tapping against your ribs like a trapped bird.

They were opposites in every way—Steve with his soft drawl and honest eyes, and Javi with his cigarette voice and sin-soaked charm—and yet… somehow, you were drawn to both.

Two storms. One gentle. One electric.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The lunch spot was small, tucked between a hardware store and an old pharmacy, the kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you knew what magic it held inside. The windows were fogged with heat and the smell of grilled meat and cumin wafted out each time the door opened, mixing with the thick air and the street dust that clung to everything in Bogotá. A faded sign above the door read La Esquina, the paint chipped but still proud, and inside, the radio played something soft and lilting in Spanish, the kind of music that felt like a breeze even in the sweltering warmth.

Murphy reached the door first and opened it for you, stepping back with an easy smile.

You blushed, eyes dropping automatically as you passed. “Thank you,” you murmured.

“Always,” he said, gentle and sweet, like it wasn’t anything special, like it didn’t make your heart do a quiet little tumble in your chest.

And then Javi, right behind you, muttered with a smirk, “Thanks, gringo.”

Murphy gave him a look, but Javi just flashed a toothy, unapologetic smile and followed you both inside.

The place was buzzing with locals, the smell of oil and spice and fresh lime lingering in the air. Ceiling fans turned slow above cracked tile floors, and the walls were lined with old posters, curling at the edges, and handwritten specials tacked to a corkboard. Booths lined the far wall, red leather cracked and faded in places, but they gave the place a charm that felt lived-in. Familiar. Warm.

You were still looking around, taking it all in, when Javi’s hand lightly touched your back.

“Here,” he said, already guiding you toward a booth near the window, the sun slanting just right to catch the soft sheen on his forearms. He slid in first—fast, confident, smooth—and made sure there was only one seat left on the inside.

Next to him.

You hesitated for a second too long.

Murphy raised an eyebrow like he might say something, but didn’t.

You sat down.

You could feel Javi’s leg warm against yours almost instantly, his body stretched out beside you with one arm draped along the back of the booth like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. You kept your hands in your lap, trying to pretend you weren’t entirely aware of every inch of him next to you, of the way his thigh pressed against yours with casual certainty.

Murphy slid into the seat across from you both, his jaw tight but his expression otherwise unreadable.

He gave Javi a look. Subtle. Controlled. But it said Really?

Javi didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he leaned back against the booth with that infuriating, devastating ease—his arm still draped along the backrest behind you, his knee brushing yours like it belonged there, like this seat was his by right.

You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck.

“Is there… a menu?” you asked, voice soft, desperate to cut through the tension with something normal, something neutral. Your hands were folded neatly in your lap, even as your pulse drummed just under your skin.

Javi let out a low chuckle, head turning just enough for you to catch the flicker of mischief in his eyes. “No need, cariño, they know what to make.”

Murphy rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something snarky—but instead, he looked at you, softening instantly.

“They don’t really do menus here,” he explained, voice low and warm. “They just kind of… bring you what they’ve got going today. Usually a few different fillings, whatever’s fresh. You just tell ’em how many you want, and if you want them spicy.”

He paused, his smile gentle. “Trust me, it’s good.”

“Real good,” Javi added, low and smooth beside you. He didn’t look at you when he said it—he was watching Steve, his smirk now laced with something more subtle. Something sharp.

You nodded, trying to focus, trying to stop your eyes from flicking between them like you were watching some high-stakes poker game. The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve, all kind words and quiet steadiness, his hands folded on the table like a gentleman, his badge tucked neatly beneath his jacket… and Javi, sprawled out beside you like a slow-burning fire, gun heavy in the pocket of his slacks, cologne mingling with the faint scent of smoke clinging to his shirt.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The food arrived quickly—hot, golden, impossibly fragrant. The plate was set in front of you with a cheerful "¡Buen provecho!" and the smell alone had your stomach fluttering in anticipation.

You picked one up carefully, the crust still steaming, the edges crisp and flaking at your touch.

And then—without thinking, without meaning to—you bit into it.

The flavor hit you like a wave. Rich and warm, the filling tender and spicy and perfect, the dough crisp and buttery, everything so unexpectedly divine you couldn’t stop the quiet sound that left your lips.

A soft, involuntary moan.

Just a small one. But it hung there. Obvious. Intimate.

Across the table, Murphy’s brows lifted just slightly—barely a twitch of amusement—but it was enough to deepen the lines at the corners of his eyes, his lips tugging into a smile that was half playful, half tender as he leaned forward, resting his chin in the curve of his hand like he had all the time in the world just to watch you.

“That good, huh?” he asked, his voice a low hum of warmth, teasing without cruelty, kind in a way that made your pulse stutter, like he could make your fluster feel less like embarrassment and more like something sacred.

You blinked, cheeks burning hotter by the second, and reached for your napkin, fumbling to wipe at the corner of your mouth as you mumbled, “I didn’t mean to—sorry, it’s just… really good.”

Murphy chuckled, and it was soft and genuine and boyish in that way that made something bloom painfully warm in your chest. “Don’t apologize,” he said, voice dipped in affection. “You’ve got good taste.”

And then—without fanfare, without hesitation—he reached across the table.

Gently, with that easy, steady confidence that came so naturally to him, he took hold of your napkin and dabbed just beneath your lower lip, the soft cloth brushing your skin as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world and not the most intimate moment you’d had since arriving here. His fingers grazed your chin for the briefest second, and you held your breath like a startled deer, too dazed to move, too overwhelmed by the kindness of it to process the closeness.

Your breath caught in your throat.

And then—you felt it.

Javier’s body next to yours, no longer relaxed, no longer lounging—he was coiled now, the shift subtle but unmistakable. His cigarette was back between his fingers in a flash, but he didn’t lift it to his lips. He didn’t light it. He just rolled it, slow and deliberate, between his thumb and index finger, like it was standing in for the things he wanted to say but wouldn’t. His mouth curled into something that might’ve been a smirk or a grimace, sharp and tired and too knowing.

And then, under his breath, low and in perfect rhythm with the movement of his cigarette, he muttered in Spanish, “Claro, el caballero perfecto.”

Of course, the perfect gentleman.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant to be. But there was an edge to it—dry and rough and bitter at the core, like the taste of something he didn’t want to swallow. His gaze flicked to you just long enough to notice you hadn’t caught it, and he exhaled through his nose, the tension still rippling under his skin like a live wire waiting to spark.

But you—oblivious and bashful, cheeks still flushed from Murphy’s touch—just gave a soft, nervous laugh and took another bite of your empanada, your lashes fluttering, eyes cast downward like you could hide in the comfort of your food, unaware of the storm rolling in beside you.

And Javi?

He said nothing more.

But his eyes didn’t leave you.

Not once.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of quiet productivity, the kind that lulled you into a rhythm—sorting files, answering calls, typing up reports with the soft click-clack of your keyboard filling the room like a heartbeat. The office had slowly begun to empty as the sun dipped lower in the sky, its fading light turning everything gold through the hazy window panes, dust floating in the air like little flecks of glitter suspended in time. You were tired, but not unpleasantly so—there was still a pleasant warmth curled low in your belly, the echo of the empanadas lingering like a hug from the inside out, reminding you of laughter and heat and Javi’s thigh pressed ever-so-casually against yours in that booth.

By the time six o’clock crept up, the office was mostly silent. Phones had stopped ringing. The fan hummed gently overhead. You glanced at the clock, blinking slowly, your limbs heavy with exhaustion as you yawned behind your hand and leaned back in your chair, spine arching slightly in a stretch that made your blouse pull taut across your chest.

And then you felt it—that shift in the air.

The kind that always seemed to come with him.

“Hola, muñeca.”

Your breath hitched.

He was standing just a few feet away now, half-shadowed in the doorway, and somehow—even after hours of work and heat and sweat—he looked untouched by the day. Javier Peña, tall and devastating as ever, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long forgotten somewhere, sunglasses now tucked lazily into the collar of his shirt.

“Hi,” you breathed, your voice smaller than you intended it to be.

He stepped closer, his boots slow and heavy against the tile, and leaned a hand on the edge of your desk, his body folding toward you in a way that made you instinctively shrink back—not out of fear, but anticipation. Like the space between you was an invisible thread, and any closer would snap it.

“Still here?” he asked, voice soft, the corner of his mouth curling up just a little. “Office all emptied out, and look at you—la buena niña, working late.”

You smiled shyly, fingers twitching near your notepad, though you couldn’t remember what you were even writing. “I just… wanted to finish up a few things.”

He hummed low in his chest, his eyes scanning your face. “Dedicada,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like that.”

You swallowed, feeling your pulse quicken beneath your skin.

And then—almost like he’d read your thoughts, like he’d felt the quiet wanting gathering between you—he reached into his back pocket with a slow, easy motion and pulled out a sticky note, the edges a little worn and curling at the corners, the paper crinkled as if it had been sitting there for hours, waiting to be offered. He laid it down gently on your desk, the soft pap of it landing against the wood far louder in your ears than it had any right to be.

Your eyes dropped instinctively, your breath catching when you saw the scrawl—his handwriting rough and slanted, the letters uneven and fast, like he wrote the way he lived: unbothered, unrushed, with just enough edge to keep you guessing. A phone number, half-smudged at the corner, and beneath it, just two words.

Spanish Lessons.

“I was serious about those lessons,” Javi said, voice low, that familiar smirk ghosting over his lips as he looked down at you—like he wasn’t just giving you a number, but pulling a thread you didn’t even realize had been wrapped around your heart all day.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then tried again. “I—I mean, you’re already so busy,” you stammered, your voice quiet, almost too soft, already half-apologizing for even existing in the orbit of a man like him.

He shook his head, just once, the motion slow, deliberate.

“Not for you, preciosa,” he said, the pet name curling off his tongue like honey warmed over low flame.

Your breath faltered again.

“I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flushing so hot you were certain he could feel the heat rising off your skin.

And that’s when he leaned in just slightly, his voice dipping even lower, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth like he wasn’t sure where to land. “I know,” he murmured, the words sliding over you like silk, “I’ll teach you at our first lesson.”

And then—of course—he winked.

Slow. Sure. A little devastating.

And just like that, he turned and walked away, his back straight, his gait unhurried, as if he hadn’t just left your entire nervous system in shambles and a sticky note burning like a secret in the middle of your desk.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

You slung your bag over your shoulder with one hand, the other reaching back to sweep your hair into a quick, messy twist, your fingers working automatically despite the fatigue weighing down your limbs. Your heels pinched with every step, the ache radiating from the balls of your feet with that familiar, dull throb that came after a long day of being polite, poised, and perfectly put-together. You gathered the last of your things—the folder you’d meant to leave on someone’s desk, your notepad, your pen that always leaked a little ink—and stepped out into the quiet corridor, the office behind you hushed and emptied, bathed in the soft gold light of early evening.

You’d only just started walking, your mind already drifting to the quiet comfort of your apartment, when you heard them—voices. Low, hushed, male. Serious. The kind of tone that slowed your steps instinctively.

You paused, half-hidden by the corner, your body tensing before your mind could catch up.

You didn’t mean to stop. You didn’t mean to linger. But something in their voices—muted, clipped, almost like they didn’t want to be heard—made your skin prickle. You hesitated, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag, and you knew it was wrong, that you should’ve turned around, kept walking, left them to their conversation.

You were just about to do exactly that—your foot already shifting to step back—when you heard it.

Your name.

Spoken clearly. Firmly. And not in passing.

You froze.

Your brows drew together before you could stop them, a quiet frown pulling at the corners of your mouth as confusion began to twist, low and slow, through your chest. Your heart, which had only just begun to settle from the rush of the day, now beat with sudden urgency, and your breath turned shallow, catching at the top of your lungs. You stood frozen in place, body pressed lightly against the cool wall as if it could ground you, protect you, hide you from the fact that you were—very much—eavesdropping.

��She's not just another girl for you to flirt with, Javier,” Murphy said, his voice low but firm, words sharpened just enough to carry even though they weren’t meant to.

There was a pause. A beat of silence so thick it made your stomach clench.

And then, Javi’s voice—smooth and dry like aged whiskey poured over ice.

“¿Perdón?”

The word was soft, but laced with warning.

“Oh, come on,” Murphy scoffed, not backing down, the tired edge in his voice laced with frustration. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No,” Javi said, his tone cooling all at once, the shift so subtle you could almost miss it—almost. His voice came steady now, sharper at the edges, like a man squaring his shoulders before a fight he didn’t ask for but wasn’t about to walk away from. “Go ahead. Spell it out for me.”

There was a pause.

You could imagine Murphy standing there with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed—not angry, not exactly, but tired in that bone-deep way that came from watching someone make the same mistake over and over. You pictured him dragging a hand down his face, his voice dropping into something quieter—not softer, but more weighted.

“Everyone knows what you’re like, Peña,” he said at last, the words careful, deliberate. “You flirt. You lean in. You get close. You—”

He faltered, and for a moment it sounded like maybe he wouldn’t finish. Like maybe part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Javi didn’t give him that luxury.

“Vamos, gringo,” he said under his breath, a mocking lilt curling around the words. “Dilo completo.” Go on, big boy—say the whole thing.

The silence that followed felt like a held breath.

Then Murphy did.

“You fuck them,” he said, flatly. “And then you leave.”

The words were blunt. Brutal. They landed like a weight in your chest, heavy and cold and unforgiving.

Javier didn’t speak.

But you didn’t need him to.

Even from around the corner, you felt it—the shift in him. The tension coiling tighter. The sharp inhale through his nose. The silence that wasn't surprise, but insult. His jaw must’ve clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides, fighting the instinct to lash back.

And you—frozen behind the wall—felt your stomach drop as your name echoed silently in the air again, because you weren’t just hearing a story about Javier Peña anymore. You were part of it.

Tangled in it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

eeeekkk this was my first narcos fic, im happy to write part 2 if anyone requests it ૮꒰>⩊< ྀི꒱ა

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rafestacenda · 1 month ago

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SWEET STUFF ! rafe cameron ♡

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ rafe cameron x baker!reader

cw: nothing, just our favs being adorable together a/n: this is my first fic soo sorry if it's shit i wanted something short but also fun for you guys to read!

on second thought, he was actually glad he came with sarah and wheezie to the bakery down in figure 8. because god, weren't you just the prettiest thing he'd ever seen.

he stepped into the cool shop, a stark difference from the hot carolina heat outside. the minute he laid eyes on you— walking up to the front counter with the sweetest smile on your face, your white baby tee on display and the light pink apron over it— he just couldn't stop staring, eventually snapping out of the trance your beauty put him in when his sister slapped his arm.

“what do you want?” sarah asked him in a quick tone, giving you a small apologetic look.

rafe blinked profusely, his mind blanking. “uh.. what?”

she mumbled a quiet 'oh my god' before turning to you. “he'll have a six pack of vanilla macarons and a custard danish,” she ordered for him without a stutter in her voice.

you nodded, writing down the order on your little notepad, briefly glancing up at your friend's brother.

his eyes met yours and he nearly folded, opening his mouth to say something before quickly closing it as your gaze shifted to wheezie.

“and a dozen strawberry frosted donuts for you?” you suggested to the young brunette girl with a raised eyebrow, already knowing her exact order.

wheezie grinned, nodding her head in response, “yes please.”

you smiled back, placing the notepad down as you began carefully packaging the pastries for the two eldest, placing the bag onto the counter before turning around and heading into the kitchen to get a box for the youngest.

you spun— and that caught rafe's attention. the way your skirt ever so slightly flew up, the mesmerizing sway of your hips when you walked.

gosh, it was getting hot in here.

when you returned with a big, pink box in your hands which seemed to have contained wheezie's favourite overly-sugary donuts, you placed it on top of the counter while rafe held his card out, ready to pay.

“$13.50.” you spoke in a soothing tone with a sweet smile, making his heart race.

“you sure that's the total, sweet stuff?” he questioned, his eyes boring into yours, “we ordered quite a few pastries.”

you let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling flustered, “i don't charge too much.”

wheezie made a false gagging sound at the interaction. “gross, stop flirting with her!” she called him out.

rafe held back a smile before tapping his card on the machine, making sure to press tip- 20%, to which you didn't even notice he did.

sarah grabbed the bag, wheezie holding the donut box as they began to leave.

“thanks y/n!” the blonde name dropped you, the bell above the glass door ringing, signaling their exit.

rafe stayed behind for a little, taking his time with putting back the card into his wallet while fishing out an old business card, taking a pen and quickly writing down his number on the back of it.

he slid it over to you across the granite countertop, his gaze locking onto you.

“you gon' let me take you out sometime sugar?” he asked in that deep, masculine voice which made you melt.

“maybe.” you replied just as flirtatiously, batting your lashes at him before glancing down at his card.

rafe smirked, leaning in closer. “tomorrow, eight pm,” he told you.

he wasn't asking— oh, no— he was being direct, it was more like a demand than a question.

you pressed your lips together, nodding without another word.

and just like that, the bell rang, and he was out.

#rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe x reader #baker!reader #drew starkey #rafe cameron x reader #rafe outer banks #dolcendior #drew starkey x reader #drew x reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe

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zxvmp · 4 months ago

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Closing Hours - Douxie x Fem! Reader

tags: smut, reader is 19 and in college, happens before WTOH, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, car sex, not proofread! sorry

a/n: douxie is so bad… how have i never discovered him until now? 😔 is this fandom still even alive… CHAT AM I MUTED ?

Great. Another closing shift with him. Hasn’t your manager noticed the two of you didn’t get along? You gripped your tray as you maneuvered through customers.

“Excuse me miss, could you get me more creamers?”

You put on your fake smile, “Of course, anything else?”

The man hummed, “More sugar.”

You nodded.

“Oh! And more napkins.”

You let out a sigh and fake-smiled again, “Of course…. Anything else?”

He eyed you up and down, “Depends on what you’re offering.” The man grinned in a way that made your stomach twist. And not in a good way.

“Um-”

“Here’s your cream, napkins, and sugar.” Douxie swiftly came from behind you and laid out what the man had requested. “Could I get you anything else, sir?”

You let out a sigh of relief and managed to escape the creepy man, thanks to Douxie. You may not like him, but he sure knows when you need help. Not that his help would change the way you felt about him. God, no.

He’s dumb, a slow worker, incompetent, not funny at all, stupid—

“Thank you miss,”

ill-mannered, although he does have his way with words sometimes. His accent helps with that.

“Uh, miss?”

He’s also pretty good with music, you’ve heard him strum his guitar in the break room a couple of times. You know what people say, a musician is always good with their han-

“EXCUSE ME?!”

You snapped out of your trance and focused your blurred vision onto the customer. “Y-Yes? Sorry.”

The woman scoffed and nodded towards the table that was soaked in coffee. You must’ve spaced out when you poured her a cup.

“Oh my gosh, i’m so sorry.” You mentally face palmed as you observed the situation, “I’ll get you to another table, follow me.”

As you led her to a new, clean table, Douxie was watching from behind the counter, a smug smirk on his face. You wanted to hop across and rip it off of him, but obviously you couldn’t do that.

“I really am sorry ma’am, what can I get you? This one’s on me?”

The lady let out a huff, “Get me a black coffee and a chocolate croissant.”

You nodded as wrote down her order on your notepad before sliding it back into your apron pocket. “Coming right up.”

As you made your way to the back, where all the machines to make the coffees were, you groaned and massaged your temples with your hands.

“Not your day, eh?” Douxie stood beside you, emptying out an old coffee filter and replacing it with a new one.

It was only his second week working here and he already knew how to do everything. When you first started, it took you an entire month.

“Douxie, not now. Matter of fact, not ever!” You placed your hands on your hips, “You seem to be everywhere I go. You’re such a pest.”

He faked an injury, “Ouch, (Y/N). That hurt.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and grit your teeth, “God! You’re so-”

“Hot? I know. No need to tell me, love.” He winked, mimicking your stance.

You crossed your arms and huffed out in an annoyance. Curse him and his stupidly sharp jawline and perfectly messy man-bun. You hated to admit it, but he was pretty hot. Not to mention his beautiful hazel eyes.

“Just shut up and go help the customers, or whatever.”

“Hey, who made you boss?”

You rolled your eyes, “Technically, i’m still training you. So I am your boss.”

He quirked a brow before letting out a small chuckle, “Whatever you say, boss.”

And just like that, he was gone, and a freshly brewed coffee pot beeped. Had he prepared it just for you? You didn’t even notice. Whatever, you needed to get this lady her things so she could maybe tip you.

As the day went on, more people came. You were used to the afternoon rushes, but with all the things that happened earlier in the day, you were already on edge.

“Can I get more creamers?”

You nodded, taking their empty dishes onto your tray and hoisting it onto your worn out shoulder.

“Can I get some sugar packets?” A customer asked as you passed by, to which you nodded and smiled.

“Where is my food?”

You were stopped in your tracks when a customer tugged on your apron, causing your tray to lose its balance and a mug to tip over the edge, crashing to the floor. You stood still for a moment staring at the broken glass on the marbled floor.

“Hey, I asked you where my food is!”

You turned around, a frown on your face, “I-”

“Right here, sir.” Douxie swooped in with a tray filled with dishes.

“Ugh, finally! At least someone around here knows what they’re doing.”

Your eye twitched in annoyance, but you didn’t say anything. Instead, you knelt down to pick up the broken shards.

“Woah, be careful. You could cut yourself.” Douxie knelt down to your level and shooed your hands away.

You sighed, “Douxie-”

“(Y/N)! Go on break.”

The sound of your managers voice made you look to the side, but when you looked back down, the mess was already cleaned up. “What the-”

Douxie wiped his hands and cleared his throat, “Ahem, I’m quite sure you were sent on break, boss.”

You looked down at the floor where your mess once was, but you were too tired to question it, so you made your way towards the break room.

While scrolling through your phone as you nibbled on a sugar cookie, you stumbled across Douxie’s instagram.

A little snoop wouldn’t hurt, right…?

You couldn’t stop yourself from clicking on his page and scrolling through his photos. There was a lot of posts about music related things, but one in particular caught your eye. It was a video of him tuning his guitar while laughing and talking to the person who was recording.

“Fuck off, man.” He laughed. “Quit makin’ fun of me, will you? It’s my first time.”

“But i’ve showed you a million times, it’s not that hard.”

He shook his head as he rolled his eyes. Then, he began strumming the guitar while humming to the tune he created.

You admired the video, at a loss for words.

And just as it ended, it stopped on a frame of him smiling. He was happy he finally got whatever the person was trying to teach him.

You never would’ve thought you’d be sitting in the break room, smiling at a dumb video of Douxie, but here you were. Cheesing like an idiot at your phone at a boy you barely knew.

The sound of the doorknob fidgeting made you jump in your seat, causing you drop your phone against your chest and onto the floor.

“Manager said-” The dark haired boy stopped in his tracks and raised an eyebrow, his eyes following from your frame down to your phone that was face up on the floor.

You practically jumped from your chair to snatch your phone off the ground, “M-Manager said what?”

He raised an eyebrow before laughing, “He said your break was up.”

After shoving your phone into your pocket you nodded and pushed past him to head back out to the lobby.

God, you were not acting yourself today. What’s gotten into you? You’ve been dropping dishes, not thinking straight, and completely off your game!

The only time you act like this is when you’re in love.

But you’re not a dumb horny highschooler anymore, so there’s no way you were. You’re a college student now. An adult; Moved out, and living your own life. There wasn’t any time for distractions. Not that there was any. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself for the past two weeks. Which is weird because Douxie had been hired two weeks ago.

He wasn’t the reason you were acting this way. Of course not! Like you thought, you barely knew the boy. You couldn’t be in love with him. That’d be crazy.

You shook your head and focused your attention on the customers.

“Oh my, what’s for your cheeks so flushed? Are you alright miss?”

You blinked a couple of times at the polite lady’s question, “Y-Yes! I’m more than okay, actually. Thank you though. Can I get you anything else?”

“No…” She raised an eyebrow, studying you.

You cleared your throat and backed away to tend to another table.

Once it died down, you found some time to yourself in the back as you waited on a coffee pot to brew. Pulling out your phone, you opened instagram for no particular reason.

If you could go back in time, you would.

Your eyes widened as you looked at the filled in pink heart on your screen. There was no way you liked the video. The said video that was from three entire years ago. The said video that was buried deep into his other posts.

“Hey, you alright boss?”

You jumped at the familiar sound of his voice. Quickly turning off your phone and straightening yourself up, you focused on the coffee pot that had 30 seconds left.

“Me? Im doing perfectly fine actually. Just got tipped $57.”

Cmon just 20 more seconds.

“57 huh? Nice.” He leaned his back on the counter eyeing you.

Oh God, this night would never end. You stared at the coffee pot watching as the time took forever to reach 0.

“So, uh, you gonna clock back in from break?” You try and create small talk to get your mind off the way his luring eyes reeled you in. Even thought you weren’t even looking at him in his eyes.

“If i’m correct, i’ve actually got…” He hummed, “2 more minutes.”

The sound of the swinging door to the back kept creaking from your co workers constantly coming in and out, each coming and going with different trays.

“And you chose to spend the last two minutes staring at me?” You finally turned over to meet his gaze, and you wished you didn’t. Your heart rate increased and you could feel your stomach flutter.

He squinted his eyes a bit as a smirk crept up his lips, “Not staring, reading.”

You scoff, “Well, you better keep reading, cause’ i’m not an open book for everyone to look at.”

“You’re not talking about books, are you?”

You grab the coffee pot along with a tray and mugs, “I dunno, am I?”

There was a brief moment of silence as the two of you stared at each other both with smiles on your faces. Then, you made the move to brush past him to serve the table you were assigned.

When you steeped foot outside, the cool summer breeze hit you and made you realize what just happened. Where did all of that confidence come from? And were you really turning a conversation about books into a flirting contest? This day couldn’t get any weirder.

You started to reminisce over the scene in your head, constantly replaying it. Then, you realized he probably knew you liked his post. You slapped your forehead as you walked to the back. Luckily, he was there anymore.

Putting the coffee pot back in its slot, you began cleaning out the other pots’ filters to get a head start on your closing process. You had two more hours ahead of you.

You re-tied your loose ponytail and grabbed a new notepad.

Luckily, as the day grew closer to its end, less cutomers came. Of course it was still slightly busy, but not as busy as the morning and afternoon. Now, you could take your time as you poured coffees and prepared their food.

However, your stomach still fluttered whenever you were around him. Rather it be a quick glance or conversation between the two of you, you felt it.

You said your goodbyes as most of your co workers left, leaving you and Douxie behind to close for the night.

“See you tomorrow.” You waved and locked the door behind the last person.

Douxie had already turned off the “Open” sign and closed the curtains. It seemed he remembered some of the things you taught him your last closing shift with him.

You cleaned the lobby as you served the last customers of the night, so the only thing that was left was the mountain of dishes in the back. But when you walked through the swinging doors, the kitchen was spotless, and the dishes were already put away. The coffee pots were even filled with new filters ready to be brewed tomorrow morning.

“How’d I do boss?” A low voice came from behind you, and you flinched at the sudden noise.

You turned to look at him with a shocked expression, “You did this?”

He nodded.

“How’d you do all of this so fast? It would’ve taken me an hour.” You admired his work as you walked around, trying to look for anything he forgot.

“I figured I started on them a bit earlier so we could have the last hour to ourselves.” He hopped on top of a counter. “After all, we do deserve it.”

You let out a sigh of relief and smiled, hopping on top of a counter across from him, “Thank you, Douxie.”

“No problem.”

There was a couple moments of silence, and you were letting your thoughts. You remembered the events earlier in the day, and all of the stupid things you said to him.

“I’m sorry for calling you a pest. You’re no where near being that.” You averted your eyes away from him and stared at your twiddling fingers. “And thank you for everything today. If it wasn’t for you, I probably would’ve lost my shit.”

“It’s all good. Everyone can be a bit stressed out sometimes right?”

You sighed, “Tell me about it, I haven’t had one night where i’ve felt good.”

He snickered, “What, your sex life not good?”

Heat crept up your cheeks as you averted his gaze, “Not what I meant, perv.”

“Hey, some proper sex will do you some good. Believe it or not.”

You snapped your head over towards him, “Geez, do you just stick your dick in everyone or something?”

“No. And even if I did,” He smirked, “would you jealous or something?”

“Pft, why would I be?”

He eyed you up and down, “Well your arms are crossed and your eyebrows are furrowed, you tell me.”

You straightened yourself up and leaned back on your hands. There was no way you were gonna let him one up you, not after he had been all day.

“I don’t need to be jealous. I have a pretty good sex life, actually.”

This time, he was the one crossing his arms and furrowing his eyebrows, “Oh yeah?”

You nodded and smirked, “You jealous or something?”

He caught on to what you were doing, and decided to play along. “No, why would I be?”

“Dunno.” You hummed and took your hair out of your ponytail, raking your fingers between your hair strands.

“I’ve got a question for you.” He had a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you and a feeling you knew what the question would be about.

“And that is?”

“Was that video amusing to you?”

Now you will admit you were caught off guard by the video you just so happened to stumble upon, but you weren’t going to let him tease you about it.

“I liked it didn’t I?”

He chuckled, “You sure your sex life is good?”

“What’s my sex life have to do with me liking your video?”

“‘Cause of your attitude, love.”

“Then why don’t you come fix it.”

He raised is eyebrows at your boldness, to which you just grinned, knowing he didn’t expect you to say such a thing.

He laughed, “Not an open book, huh?”

“I never said I was talking about books.”

A silence fell over the two of you. Your eyes poured into his while you both waited for someone to say something, or do something.

Your eyes began to wander around, taking in his appearance. He had pale skin, almost like a vampire, but he made it work. As your eyes traveled more you noticed how lean he was. He definitely didn’t carry a lot of meat on his bones, but you kind of liked boys like that. He was in between skinny and somewhat muscular. One thing that also carried his looks—besides his beautiful eyes, sharp, dark and defined eyebrows, and his perfect face sculpture—he was pretty tall. A lot taller than you. And you weren’t very tall yourself. God, you didn’t even want to start on his hands. They were beautiful.

Technically, it was a given since he was a guitarist. And you know what they say about guitarist….

“Wanna head out for a bite?” Douxie’s voice snapped you out of your daze.

“You got a car?”

He laughed as he shook his head, “Why do you think I would ask, love?”

You hopped down from the counter and untied your apron from your waist in the process, “Lead the way.”

He smirked and lead you through the swinging doors.

After you both clocked out and hung up your aprons on the coat rack, you made your way to his car.

“You know, no restaurant or fast food place is open right now.” You looked up at him, too which he looked down at you, smirk still plastered on his lips.

“I know.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and butterflies swarmed your stomach. Thank the heavens you did an everything shower before your shift today. Maybe the gods knew tonight would be one of those type of nights.

As you neared the car, you stopped him from opening the back door. He shot you a confused look while you opened the passenger door.

“I like the passenger side more, it’s easier to ride.”

His eyebrows shot up and you could see his adams apple move from him swallowing hard. “Seems like you do this a lot, eh?”

You rolled your eyes, “Unless you wanna do all the work, I suggest you shut up.”

He plopped down in the seat and dragged you with him, closing the door after you. “My lips are sealed.”

You giggled as you made yourself comfortable, but quickly after, your breath was taken from your lungs. His lips crashed against yours as his fingers wove through the hairs on the back of head, bringing you closer. Your legs were on either side of his hips, straddling him as you made out.

His free hand snaked around your waist, ghosting over your lower back. His touch made your skin tingle underneath your shirt, and butterflies swarm through your stomach.

For the brief moment the two of you took to catch your breath, your eyes gazed into his. They were half lidded and filled with lust. He was already worked up after just kissing, but you couldn’t judge because you already felt your panties getting wet.

You leaned in and captured his lips, this time slower than your first. His hand sneaked under your shirt, trailing it up your spine. Your hips twitched and your hands gripped his shirt at the movement, causing him to let out a groan and grip your scalp. You took this as your chance to slip your tongue past his lips, deepening the kiss.

His hand traveled down, switching towards your stomach. Your core was on fire and your heart was beating out of your chest from the excitement you felt. He backed away to catch his breath, leaning his head against the headrest.

Now, his hands rested on your hips, and yours rested on his chest. From the way he was looking at you, you would think he just ran a marathon. But you knew why he looked at you that way. You could feel it too.

You experimentally rolled your hips against his, a devious grin on your face as you did so. His hips bucked and a groan escaped his mouth.

“Fuck,” He rasped.

You giggled and leaned in to plant kisses along his exposed neck. In between your kisses, you whispered a, “you okay?” because he seemed like he was about to go insane.

“You’re just driving me crazy, love.” A hand that rested on your hip slipped underneath your shirt and fiddled with the waistband of your underwear. Yet, he didn’t go any further. “Can I?”

“Please.” You whispered, continuing your markings on his neck.

Once he snuck past your underwear and slid his middle finger through your slick folds, you gasped. Clutching his shirt, you tried to distract yourself with his neck, but he’d already slid in a finger, making you bite down on his neck to silence your moan.

“Ouch,” He laughed, “you a vampire?”

“Don’t stop,”

You felt him smirk against your cheek at your demand. And once he added another, a small moan escaped your mouth.

His hands were a lot bigger and longer than yours, so it felt all the more better. You were in a state of bliss as you ground against his hand. The way his fingers curved into you had your head spinning. It was like he knew what your body liked without even trying.

At one particular thrust, you sucked in a deep breath and gripped his shoulders. He smirked at that, knowing that was your weak spot.

“How ya doing baby?”

You moaned at another snap of his wrist, “Fuck—just… just don’t stop.”

You hadn’t given him an actual response in the for the past three minutes, but how could you? He was plunging his fingers into you like there was no tomorrow.

A knot began to form in your stomach and you could feel your muscles spazzing around his fingers. “I’m—hah—so close.”

“Come on, baby. You got this.”

He began circling his thumb over your clit, making you squeeze your eyes shut and cradle your head into his neck. It was becoming too much to handle.

Your orgasm crept over you without warning, causing your hips to twitch and the knot in your stomach to snap. Quick and short breaths left your mouth as he fingered you through your release.

He stilled his fingers so you could get a moment to catch your breath. You practically just saw stars and he had only fingered you. Lord knows how his dick would make you feel. He removed his fingers from you and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean.

You watched him with half lidded eyes, panting as you felt yourself crave him unconditionally.

He hummed as he brought his hand to rest back on your hip, “You alright?”

You responded by capturing his lips once more, this time with hunger and fire. He was so hot it almost hurt.

And whoever said guitarist were good with their fingers, God were they right.

Leaning back, you brought your shirt over your head, revealing your light-pink silk bra. Unfortunately you didn’t wear a cute matching set, but at least it was a pretty color.

Douxie immediately leaned in to plant kisses along your newly exposed skin, slowly rubbing his hands up and down your waist. You let out quiet groans as he sucked and marked up your chest.

Suddenly, his contact was gone and he was lifting up his shirt, revealing a couple of scars that caught your attention.

There was a brief moment of silence as your stared the markings. Although, you had a million questions wondering where he had got them from, you simply leaned in and placed kisses along the rough skin. He sighed through his nose and embraced your actions.

But as time grew, he could only wait so long for something more. His hands began to fiddle with the clasps of your bra, waiting for any type of gesture for him to continue. You nodded as you fiddled with his pant zipper.

It was difficult getting off the remaining clothes the two of you had on, but you managed. Now, your bare cunt rested against the base of his dick. The wetness of your folds helped you grind against him, making it easy for his length to stimulate your clit.

He was big. Bigger than you would’ve guessed considering his lanky frame. Even though he wasn’t pretty thick down there, his length greatly made up for it.

“You ready?”

He snickered, “I should be asking you that, princess.”

You gasped as his hands slightly gripped your hips, hinting he wanted you to raise them. You used your hand to guide him towards your entrance, mentally praying you were actually ready.

As you sunk down on his length, your eyes were squeezed shut and your lips were parted. If he hadn’t prepped you earlier, he definitely wouldn’t have been able to fit.

“Fucking hell,” he rasped, digging his fingers into your sides.

You placed your hands on his shoulders as you rolled your hips, eliciting a groan from both you and him.

Now, you had to stay true to your words from earlier. So you began to lift your hips, stopping just before his tip, then you slid back down ever so slowly.

Douxie’s head was thrown back and his eyes were half-lidded, filled with lust and need.

You smirked and leaned in to kiss his lips gently as you lifted your hips again, repeating the same action.

“You’re s-such a tease.”

Letting out a giggle as you did the same teasing action, you leant in towards his ear and whispered, “Then why don’t you fuck me properly.”

He hummed and reached for the recliner to lay back the seat. Your hands rested on his abdomen as he admired the new view.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, ghosting his hands over your sides, making your stomach gain butterflies.

Then, he snapped his hips upwards, making you gasp sharply. You clenched your hands into a fist as he began fucking up into you. This new angle allowed him to hit deeper. His tip was practically brushing against your cervix at each thrust.

You moaned his name as he slammed his hips into you, making you see stars. You could feel each muscle and twitch of his dick as he rutted against your gummy walls. Not to mention the slight bulge in your stomach from how deep he was.

With one of his hands, he brought yours to feel against your stomach. “Feel that, love?”

You tightened around him and moaned, “Yes.”

Never in your 19 years of living would you expect to be fucking your new coworker in his car, but you certainly wouldn’t regret it. Not when he’s fucking you this good.

A knot began to form in your stomach and you couldn’t even get a second to breathe properly from the constant moans coming out of you.

“I-I’m close.” You gasp out.

He groaned gripping your hips as you squeezed him tightly, “Where do you want it?”

Thank god you were on birth control, because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t have the energy to get off him in time.

“Inside.”

He almost ascended at the thought, but he didn’t need to because this was reality, and by the grace of the gods, you’re allowing him to.

“What did I do to deserve you..?” He said, mostly to himself but you still heard him.

His thumb began to rub messy circles around your clit to help you reach your climax before he did. The giant knot in your stomach snapped and you let go of everything around you. Your vision blurred and your ears began to ring. The only thing you could feel were the euphoric sensations of your orgasm and his warm cum spilling into you.

You fell forward and leaned your forehead on his chest as the two of you calmed down from your high.

“That was…”

“Really fucking good.” You finished his sentence and softly laughed. “I’m so tired.”

He patted your back, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nodded and pushed yourself upwards, raising yourself off his member. He twisted his torso to grab something from the back of his car, returning with a t-shirt and a jacket.

“Put this on and i’ll clean us up.” He handed you the jacket with a smile, to which you returned the gesture and followed his instruction.

After getting cleaned up and helping each other re-dress, he climbed over to the drivers seat and started the car.

You didn’t realize how foggy the windows got until you were situated in the passenger seat. “Damn.”

He chuckled and turned the windshield wipers on to clear his view. You rested your elbow on the window and drew a heart with his and your initial in it.

“So,” he started.

You perked up and turned towards him.

“I can drive you home, or you could stay at my place for the night?” He nervously scratched the back of his head as a blush crept up his cheeks.

You smiled, “I wouldn’t mind staying the night.”

And just like that, you found yourself driving to the home of your coworker while singing the songs that played from the radio.

#douxie casperan #douxie casperan x reader #hisirdoux casperan #trollhunters #wizards of arcadia #toa douxie #hisirdoux x reader #douxie x reader #smut #fluff #embarrasment

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