#fried perch

[kzak]

[rubysapphrald]

dreaming yearning longing for that fish sandwich i had at that random bar up by mackinaw city

[aphomic]

Dopie is Ozy's lil meow meow now I don't make the rules here

Doppie tagging behind Ozy's back bc the crowd has suddenly grown larger and he's now anxious

[rosemaryhoney27]

Dead End Diner

Inspired by this post

Link

The neon sign above the little corner diner buzzed faintly, its flickering letters spelling out The Dead End. Rain drizzled from the Gotham sky, casting reflections of sickly green and crimson across the slick asphalt. Crime, chaos, and capes ruled the night—but inside the warm diner, a world of sizzling grills, greasy coffee, and ghost-proof walls thrived in peace.

Danny Fenton wiped down the countertop, ghost core humming gently with contentment.

Leaving Amity Park had been easy once his parents screamed the word “monster.” The lab accident that gave him ghost powers had changed everything, and not everyone could handle the truth. Especially Jack and Maddie Fenton.

Vlad Masters hadn’t taken rejection well either. Maddie still wanted nothing to do with him—half ghost or not. In a final, dramatic end, Vlad destroyed his ghost half and drank himself into the grave. The only note he left behind was a signed will, bequeathing everything to Daniel Fenton.

So now Danny was wealthy.

And utterly, devastatingly bored.

Money didn’t thrill him. Mansions made him feel lonely. Charity galas were stiff and full of liars. So he’d packed up and moved to the most chaotic, unpredictable, high-stakes city he could think of: Gotham.

He bought a crumbling building right in the Narrows, cleaned it out, reinforced it with ghost tech and some stolen WayneTech from Vlad’s stash, and opened a 24/7 diner.

He called it The Dead End.

It was a hit almost instantly. Not because of the food, though it was great (Danny had a mean hand with greasy spoons), but because of the way he ran it.

“Pay if you can, eat if you’re hungry, and don’t be a jerk.”

Word spread. The homeless knew they’d get warm soup and hot fries. Night-shift nurses sat next to henchmen on break. Cops blinked awkwardly at villains scarfing pancakes. No fights, no weapons, no questions. If a rogue battle broke out outside, people flooded in for shelter. Danny never locked the doors.

He sat behind the counter and watched the madness through the windows, eating his waffles in peace. If he had to step out and go invisible to redirect a missile away from his roof, well, that was his business.

Gotham’s vigilantes didn’t see it that way.

Nightwing was the first to break in.

Danny caught him perched on the rafters like an oversized, very broody bat.

“You want eggs or pancakes?” Danny asked, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.

“…I’m not here to eat.”

“Then you broke into my diner for nothing? That’s kinda rude.” Danny gestured to the stools. “Sit. I’m not feeding a potential burglar unless he’s sitting.”

Grumbling, Nightwing slid down and took a seat.

A week later, Red Hood tripped the back alarm. He got a grilled cheese shoved into his hands before he could say a word.

Tim Drake hacked the registers. Danny dumped a milkshake in his lap and gave him a free slice of pie “as an apology.”

Spoiler got caught trying to blend in by wearing a hoodie. She got extra whipped cream and a “next time just ask for a table.”

They kept coming. Not even Batman himself was immune. One evening, the lights flickered and dimmed as a familiar voice echoed behind him.

“You’re not what you seem.”

Danny, utterly unbothered, slid a coffee mug across the counter.

“And you look like you need caffeine and a therapist.”

The cowl’s frown deepened. “How is your building still standing after Joker launched a rocket at this block?”

“I reinforced it,” Danny said, sipping his soda. “Ghost-proof, explosion-dampening, and built with spite. That helps.”

“You let known criminals hide here.”

“I let everyone hide here. I’m not a cop, Bats. I’m a fry cook.”

“You’re not just a fry cook.”

Danny’s eyes shimmered green.

“No,” he said. “I’m also a ghost. Now sit your haunted butt down and let me feed you before you faint from low blood sugar.”

Eventually, the Bats gave up trying to prove he was a villain.

Instead, they started… showing up.

Red Robin brought his laptop and camped at a booth during patrol. He claimed it was “recon,” but Danny always brought him extra hash browns.

Red Hood “accidentally” forgot his helmet once and got his favorite booth permanently labeled “Angry Soup Guy.”

Nightwing flirted with the waitress, annoyed Danny to no end, and somehow ended up helping wash dishes on busy nights.

Even Batman… tolerated the place. He’d never admit it, but he once grunted “thanks” after Danny saved Batgirl from getting crushed by falling debris—without revealing her identity or asking questions.

The Rogues started calling Danny “Ghost Chef.”

The vigilantes? “Spook Fry.”

He’d been called worse.

One night, just before closing, Danny flipped the sign to CLOSED and leaned against the window. Outside, Scarecrow and Batwoman were having a rooftop showdown. The sky was full of smoke and red light. He yawned.

Behind him, Damian Wayne sat sipping a very serious cup of cocoa and glared at the sugar skull art on the wall.

“You’re suspicious,” Damian said. “You let Joker’s goons eat here last week.”

“They paid in stolen casino chips. I took it. Better than nothing.”

“You don’t fear us.”

“I don’t fear much.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

Danny winked. “Aren’t we all?”

The Dead End became legend.

A safe zone. A neutral ground. A place where Penguin’s thugs might sit next to Batgirl and silently agree not to wreck the place.

Danny never asked questions, and he always served the best damn pancakes in Gotham.

He’d been disowned. Betrayed. Abandoned. But in Gotham, the city of masks and monsters, he found peace in chaos, purpose in pancakes, and power in doing what no one else dared: building something kind in a world built on fear.

And honestly?

That was way more fun than being rich.

[callmeimlost]

✷ HEART SHAPED BOX:: main!mark Grayson x Reader

WARNING:: naked pictures, pictures during sex, smoking (weed) kissing, riding, unprotected sex, teasing, friends to lovers, porn w plot, stoner! Mark !

SUMMARY:: after the discovery of an old camera under his bed, you and mark have a bit too much fun having your own little photoshoot !

MEIMEI YAPS:: so this is like an updated version of an old smut I had; I’m a slow writer and someone requested something that I really wanted it to be well written, so enjoy this while you wait��🏽

Music played as both you and Mark laid on his bed, the smell of weed taking over your senses as this was the third blunt in an hour you both had smoked. Your eyes were low and glossed over, you let the burning blunt sit between your lips and inhale the strong smoke.

You felt your lungs burning as you held in the smoke. Handing it off to the boy who was equally as high next to you seeing him stare at the ceiling as he hits the blunt as well. The blunt was slowly starting to burn out due to the constant chatter bouncing back between the two of you making you take one more weak drag before patting Mark’s leg furiously.

“Can you get me the lighter, feel like my blunt is on life support over here; Grayson” you whine looking down at the neatly wrapped blunt you had rolled along with 2 others that you and Mark had managed to already have smoked after hanging out only 4 hours. Regardless he groans and pats around sheets before he realized it’s not where he last put it. “Where’s the lighter?” He began rolling around lifting up blankets and pillows before huffing frustrated.

“Your lighters grow legs and walk?” Mark asks now as he’s perched up on the back of his legs looking around stupidly as you raise a brow at him unimpressed. “Did you ever think ‘hey, maybe I could’ve dropped it under the bed’?” And it make’s the onyx hair boy slouch slightly before he rolls to the edge of his bed letting his head slip over it bunching the blanket in his hands.

He finds the glitter covered lighter he’s so familliar with he slides the dusty box he doesn’t recognize to the side before grabbing the lighter, his brows scrunch together before he pulls out the box from underneath him then grabbing the lighter before he sits up on the bed along with his new mysterious box. You hold a hand out for him to give you your much needed tool sparking it again.

“What’s in the box?” You ask sluggishly as you take another hit your voice clouded in smoke that fogs the room; but Mark can only shrug “never seen it before, maybe my mom left it in here on accident” he shakes the box hearing how hard whatever was inside was hitting each other making him stop and shake the lid loose until it popped open.

Digging through the box the sound of rumbling could be heard over the music, feeling for the familiar pair of glasses and camera. He clutched them both in his grasp and pulled them from under the rest of the junk he found with a lazy grin.

Mark had the bright idea that came to his fried out mind "lay down I wanna take pictures of you" he says as his hand gently pushes down on your midriff, you lean back until you're in the position that he was once in before he was sitting on his knees as they dig into the mattress , moving his legs to straddle over your stomach.

Your shirt riding up your stomach caught the eye of Mark who had a small smile on his lips, his brain practically short circuits as his large hand pushes your shirt up over your chest revealing your pace bra with a bow sewn into the middle.

Your eyes widen in shock at the feeling of his cold hands on your warm skin "what are you doing?" You ask shyly, seeing the boy above you with hungry eyes "pose for the camera" he mumbled lifting the camera above you. You smile covering your eyes with your arm slightly embarrassed that your friend was taking a picture of you in your bra.

Waving it around you opens your eyes to look at the onyx haired boy who had still been towering above you. His eyes darken as he looked down on you with your sweet doe eyes looking back up at him like a deer in headlights and he loved every single second of it.

Dropping the camera on the mattress his hands pull your shirt over your head and toss it into the carpeted floor. "Mark" you say just above a whisper at how bold the boy had become. "Pose" he whispered back, picking up the camera, the tension in the air becoming thicker by the moment.

Pushing yourself on your forearms you look up at the lens your eyes drain from the bright flash, again the camera spits out the picture. Pulling it out this time Mark didn't look at the picture he put the camera down and took his own shirt off laying next to you with a smile on his face.

You felt your body flush as your shoulders rub against each other. Lifting the camera above both of your faces Mark looked over at you who had already been looking at him. Your eyes are red and glossy as your eyelashes cast a shadow on your cheeks.

Holding eye contact for what felt like forever his eyes flicker down to your lips then back into your eyes. He didn't move any further making you almost let a whine ripple through your throat at how needy you felt to have his lips on yours.

Moving in closer, your eyes leave his and fall to his plump lips, you feel the tip of his nose brush against yours, even the smallest touch makes your stomach churn with butterflies. Giving him one last look your eyes flutter closed as you close the little distance between you and the feeling of his soft lips on yours was all that surged through your mind.

Sucking in a breath through your nose your hand falls to the back of his neck pulling him in deeper making the kiss more needy and lust filled. Progressively speeding up your teeth clash against each other as the smell of his cologne takes over your senses.

Letting out a small groan Mark's hand makes way to the belt loop of your jeans, hooking two fingers inside and pulling your hips closer against his. Your bra covered chest pushes against his naked one while your hand finds his hair, entangling your fingers and shamelessly moaning into his mouth.

His tongue now licking a stripe on your bottom lip begging for access, parting your lips, his tongue immediately brushing against yours mixing your saliva. As you suck on his tongue the remnants of weed and candy on his taste buds didn't bother you a bit.

The flash of the camera goes off making you pull away with hesitation written all over your face, Mark pulling back to see the picture develop and show up with a frame of you and him swapping saliva and shoving your tongues down each other's throats.

You could see the tent in his jeans starting to grow "I'm gonna hang these up all over my room" he mumbled content how they came out . His words make your thighs push together at the thought of Mark having such intimate pictures of you and him being seen by your friends in his room.

But you aren't as slick as you hoped to be. Mark caught the way your knees and thighs pushed together at his words making the small boyish grin on his lips turn into a smirk. Looking back over at you both still high, Mark couldn't help but ask "you wanna keep going?" You could pounce on the boy at any moment seeing as his hair was now messy, his lips now swollen with your lipgloss smeared on them, and his labored breathing making his chest rise and fall more noticeably.

You nod your head looking him in his deep coffee brown eyes with adoration and lust "I want you to fuck me" you say loud enough for him but just above a whisper in the silent room. Your words make Mark twitch in his boxers. Letting out a groan his head falls back "you're gonna fucking kill me" he said as his cock aches within the confinements of his tight boxers and pants.

The way you looked at him was like you were begging for him to just fuck you dumb on his cock. So when he gripped your chin pushing your head back, you could feel his lips on your neck, aimlessly sucking hickeys on your neck leaving purple and red splotches on your supple skin.

You let out small moans at the feeling of his teeth brushing against your sensitive spot that makes you shiver and your hand entangle in his messy black locks. His thumb rubbing against your bottom lip, you open your mouth letting the harsh pad of his thumb press against your tongue.

Sucking on his thumb Mark groaned as the feeling of your warm mouth engulfing his finger, he couldn't help but imagine how good you would look with his cock on your tongue instead of his thumb. Kissing a trail down your neck to your chest.

Your body is covered in goosebumps at the feeling of his warm tongue licking at your cold skin. His hand finds itself behind your back unclipping your bra letting it slip off your shoulders; watching your breasts spill out of the fabric and padding. Discarding it his hands palm your chest as leans down to lick your sensitive nipples making you let out a small moan.

Licking a stripe on one of your nipples you roll your hips at the feeling. But as soon as he pulled away you whine, "sit on my lap" he says in a low tone. Catching a glimpse of the look on his face as the both of you shift until Mark's back presses against the headboard. Pulling his jeans down and tossing them on the floor he looks up expectantly waiting for you to pull yours off as well.

Understanding without saying a word you pull them off discarding them with his as well. Leaving you in your panties that were sticking to you with a small wet patch seeping through the thin fabric. Crawling into his lap you press your ass down on his bulge with no regard earning you a choked moan. You could feel as if your pussy practically stuck to the wet fabric of your panties while you grind your hips against him.

The small wet watch of precum becomes larger as your panties make friction soaking his underwear as well. The outline of his cock rubbing against your clit makes your head spin and you couldn't help but moan and grind harder against him. "You feel so good" you whimper hearing the sticky sounds of your slick thighs rubbing together, it was messy yet the both of you were too eager chasing some form of an orgasm to care what kind of mess you make.

Your hand moves around the mattress to find the camera as you look down at Mark whose head was thrown back while he lets out the deepest groans of pleasure. His hands guiding your hips against his at a faster pace makes you choke out louder moans.

"Fuck" he whispered harshly as you finally find the camera and holding the camera up you place your eye close to the view finder as you point the lens at a dazed Mark who was on cloud 9.

Pressing down on the shutter button the flash finally goes off making Mark open his eyes and look up at you, "you looked too good" you whisper placing one of your hands down on his lower abdomen as you feel Mark buck his hips into you faster.

The feeling of the fabric running against your pussy slightly burned but it felt too good to care. "Feels so good" he grumbled as the pressure began to build. The both of you chasing your orgasms push your panties to the side rubbing your bare pussy against the fabric of his boxers at a fast pace that makes you whine.

You gasp feeling yourself being sent over the edge, Mark begins to slow down but you only shake your head as you anticipate him reaching his peak. "Please keep going, I want you to cum" you moan as your nails drag against his skin leaving behind a trail of red marks.

Your needy words make his eyes roll back as he pushes your hips down, he ruts into you as he moans shamelessly. Mark had no idea if it was just the weed or if your pussy had fucking magic but your sweet moans and the sloppy sounds send him into a spiral of pleasure. His cum seeps through his boxers as his hips twitch in a bit of overstimulation he didn't care, his hips slow down and then stop completely as he feels himself slowly coming back down to earth.

He lets out a large huff as a shy smile finds its way on his face, he can't believe he just came in his boxers after literally letting you dry hump him like a needy puppy. His hands grip at the flesh of your ass he lets out a small chuckle with a smirk on his lips.

"You're driving me crazy- fuck" he groaned as he continues to catch his breath. You giggle at him still feeling your mind trying to process. Who would've thought getting high off of 3 blunts and having sex would feel this good.

Pushing you off his thighs Mark gently pushes you down into the sheets pulling your panties down and sliding them off your ankle he discards them. The view of your pussy practically shining in all its wet glory. Mark was desperate. To touch, taste and fill you up in so many ways he couldn't even think straight.

Nobody had ever made you feel so good just by barely touching. Until Mark had decided to drag his face down your stomach, littering small kisses on your sweet supple skin until he stopped at the place you needed him most. Kissing down your inner thigh sucking hickeys into your skin you shiver at the feeling of his warm tongue giving your puffy lips a small lick. Whispering a curse under his breath he licks again this time he is much more confident.

he holds your thighs when the pleasure starts seizing your limbs, as the feeling of his warm tongue licking from your hole to your clit and sucking needly. You moan as your hand reaches for the back of his head pushing him against your pussy.

Groaning against you sent vibrations all over as you let out a small giggle that broke into a moan feeling the harsh pad of his thumb rub against your clit while his tongue worked to push inside you.

The sounds you make are music to his ears. He presses his nose on your clit, inhaling your scent deeply before his tongue dives inside your waiting pussy. You pull onto his hair, writhing against his face. "Feels so good Mark" you moan as you roll your hips against his face.

You could feel his lips curve against your pussy sending shivers down your spine. The wet muscle repetitively enters you, eager to gather your nectar. It feels like heaven, stomach tightening with each second.

Pulling away his thumb Mark flattens his tongue against you licking from your entrance to your clit again, kissing it he sucks harshly on the bud with no regard as you moan his name mindlessly. "Oh fuck" you manage to whimper out you tug at his hair as he groaned, your eyes shut as you "please use your fingers" you moan neediness dripping from your tone.

His hand moving from your plush thigh, his thumb rubbing harsh circles on your clit he pulled away licking your clit once more his middle and ring fingers make way to your entrance. Pushing in slowly you groan at the penetration, easing your tight walls around his thick fingers as he pushes them deeper you feel the cool metal on his rings all the way at the knuckles of his fingers as it grounds you from the euphoric feeling.

Pulling his head he looks up at you with your juices on his swollen lips and on his chin his fingers begin to move, opening your eyes. You look down at him feeling his gaze as he watches you react gasping as the feeling you grind down against his fingers "you like that? Hm?" He says as he licks your essence off of his lips.

His hair now disheveled as his cheeks were blooming with a soft blush, you nod eagerly "yeah? You want me to go faster for you?" He coos feeling you clench around him at the sound of his lewd words, you clench harder "yes please" you say losing your mind on his fingers as you absentmindedly grind down on them.

Without a single falter in his movements his fingers began to rub against the gummy part of your walls at a faster rate as the sound of your sopping pussy getting pounded by his fingers made you squeal. "Feels so good Mark" you cry out hoping to god he wouldn't stop the rewarding pace he had set. Your hips involuntarily buck against his fingers as his assault of pleasure on your pussy consumed you whole.

"I'm close" you whine as the sloshing sound and the sound of you and Mark's mixed heavy breathing had been the only thing you could hear "yeah, you gonna cum all over my fingers?" He asks teasingly as his tongue licks a long stripe against your clit that had the feeling in the pit of your stomach churning in anticipation for your orgasm.

"Yes, wanna cum just for you" you whine under your breath as he pushes and pulls his fingers in and out of you faster watching you come closer and closer to the edge waiting for him to catch you. He sucks and licks your clit harshly making you let out a loud moan as you cum all over his fingers.

"So good" he hummed as he fucks you through your high slowing down as he kisses your clit that's now sensitive making you writhed under him. "Doing so good for me" he chuckles breathily as he pulls away from you kissing your thighs as if he was rewarding you.

You let out a small giggle that turned into a choked moan when his long fingers pulled out of you. With no hesitation he sucked on his fingers licking off any essence and cum you had left on his digits.

Pulling them away he leans in to kiss you letting his tongue brush over yours to taste yourself. The smell of weed and whatever sweet smelling candle he stole from Debbie had sent you into a spiral of neediness. "Want' you to fuck me so bad" you mumble against his lips.

"I got you don't worry" he says reassuringly, pulling off his cum stained boxers he let out a sigh of relief, his hard cock twitching and blushing a soft red at his tip he couldn't help but wrap his hand around his length and jerk himself off at the beautiful sight that was you naked in his bed looking up at his with round red eyes.

“Fuck, I wanna see you on top of me” he hissed as the sticky sound of his hand wrapped around his cock makes your thigh twitch. “Ride you?” You ask lazily and he hums as he watches you grin letting Mark lay against the pillows in the middle of the bed.

He moves your legs open wider as he takes his rightful place in between them once again. Watching the tip of his cock rub up and down your slit as your hips twitch in sensitivity. His cock glistening from a mixture of precum and your slick he presses the head of his cock at your entrance slowly pushing inside you enjoying the warm and tight feeling inside you.

His hands move to either side of your legs as he looks down on you with complete adoration in his eyes. Pushing deeper inside you he lets out a moan "fuck you feel so good" he says as he catches his bottom lip in between his teeth.

"You're so big" you slur seeing how good he filled you up to the brim your arms wrap around his neck your foreheads pressed together as you watch his begin to slowly move. Mark couldn't get enough of the sight as his cock disappeared inside your pussy.

His cock buried deep inside you that you moan and dig crescent shaped dents into his skin. set a pace for bouncing in his lap. The feeling of your velvety walls tightening around making him choke back a moan. "Oh- god" you whisper shakily. His hands holding onto your hips guiding a pace, the soft sound of skin slapping with your small moans could be heard throughout the room.

You looked so good with your chest bouncing and your hair all messy. You looked good with a small sheen of sweat on your skin and your makeup smeared, he was addicted to the sight. Mark; eager to let his load off inside you, holds your thighs stopping you from bouncing any longer and begins to thrust his hips into you. The feeling of his tip pushing at your cervix.

His hips piston into you as your thighs and ass jiggle at the repetitive thrusts "right there!" You moan as you feel him pounding in a certain part of your walls. You tighten around him as your essence forms a white ring around the base of his dick.

"Just like that! I just want you to come inside me" you babble mindlessly as his stomach churns at the words spewing out. "Yeah? Want me to fill you up with my cum?" he groans as the knot in your stomach begins to tighten and Mark's death grip on the fat of your thighs almost sends you over the edge if it wasn't for how hard he was pounding you.

You nod eagerly as you begin to alternate between grinding and bouncing, your nails drag against his back leaving behind a red and irritated trail- yet he didn't mind it as it pushed him closer to his orgasm.

Leaning down to him your moans against each other's lips push you closer and closer. Your back is arching as you move faster wanting to cum so badly "keep going. Don't stop" he groaned, letting his head fall back.

His hair messily pushed against his forehead as it was covered in sweat and his eyes rolled back "god I'm gonna cum" he said breathily "I want you to look at me when you cum okay?" Says opening his eyes looking up at you.

You nod as you let your moans fall past your lips, the sensation building more and more until it became to overwhelming you gasp "I'm gonna cum" you whine as your hips fall more hastily on him, the strings of your juices latching onto your thighs. His moans mixed with yours as he drowned in the feeling of your walls spasming around him pushing him completely over the edge.

"Fuck" he groaned as warm spurts of cum filled you, grinding down and letting the cum spill past your walls and down the base of his cock you hum as your content with your orgasm. And just as fast as all of this began- it ended with you pulling off of Mark and laying down beside him, your chests both slowly riding and falling, you turn your head over to him with low red eyes, he meets your gaze "want me to re-light the blunt?" You ask with a smirk.

He nods, leaning over to kiss your lips he smiles against your lips as his hand reaches over to the bed side table that holds the ashtray his fingers pluck the blunt from out of the ash tray as well as grabbing the lighter he hands bedazzled lighter you gifted him in his invincible colors; he presses the blunt between his lips as you spark the flame watching him glow under the warmth of the fire.

Watching as the thick clouds of smoke begin to cloud the room filled with the smell of weed and sex wafting over your senses. “One more round after this?” He asks as he blows out another puff out handing the blunt to you which makes you laugh and nod as you take a hit yourself perching your naked chest against his.

Mark looks down at the sheets and reaches for the boxy hunk of plastic he leans away from you before holding the camera up to his face “so pretty” he coo’s teasingly as the camera shutters you snatch it from his hands as the camera spits up the picture you toss it to the end of the bed before tugging his body back into yours he rolls onto you slightly pecking your lips twice before plucking the blunt from your grasp with a boyish smile.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

I'LL SAY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ falling in love with spencer reid was never a question, only an inevitability. it was in the way he remembered things you barely remembered saying, the way he defied probability just to make you smile, the way he learned you like you were his favorite subject. four times he surprised you—quietly, sweetly, in ways only he could. and then, when it was your turn, you made sure to give him a surprise worth remembering

WARNINGS ಇ. excessive fluff, spencer reid being the most thoughtful man alive, reader being absolutely whipped, the bau being the ultimate group of enablers, and just an overwhelming amount of love A/N ಇ. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,524

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasn’t with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out plan—it was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.

You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, absently flipping through a book he’d left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you weren’t entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringing—nothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencer’s words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.

“—kind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. That’s her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.”

You blinked.

Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about once—once—over takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something you’d figured was lost to the ether.

But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.

Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. “Damn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?”

Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t combust on the spot. “Spencer—”

“What?” Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. “You said it was important to you. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because I said it once. Months ago. In passing.”

He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. “You love it. That makes it important.”

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. “Did I say something wrong?”

You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. “No, Spence. Not at all.”

You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[sillygoose067]

Livestream Love

Danny Ramirez x Reader

The livestream had been going for 56 minutes and 12 seconds, but who was counting?

You were perched at your desk in one of Danny’s hoodies—oversized and soft and definitely not yours—legs tucked underneath you like you always sat, surrounded by a half-finished smoothie, a candle you forgot to light, and three separate mugs (two with tea, one with coffee—you couldn’t decide). The plan had been to go live for thirty minutes. Answer a few questions. Recommend some books. Maybe read a bit.

That had been almost an hour ago.

"And yes," you were saying, waving a well-loved paperback in one hand while the other hovered near the keyboard, "this one made me cry like four separate times and no, I’m not embarrassed about it—"

You didn’t hear the door open or hear the soft steps across the hardwood.

You were mid-laugh when a plate of food appeared beside you—neatly assembled, still warm, complete with a folded napkin and your favorite dipping sauce on the side.

And then, like it was just part of his programming, Danny leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

The kind he did when you were curled up with a book on the couch. Or when you were brushing your teeth and he walked by. Or when you were half-asleep on a Sunday morning and he brought you coffee before you even opened your eyes.

The camera, angled slightly up, caught it—just the lower half of his face, the gentle press of lips to skin, the soft breath he let out as he pulled away.

You blinked, surprised, a smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head toward him.

“Oh,” you murmured. “Hi.”

He smiled—eyes crinkling just out of frame—and then disappeared again, slipping back out without a word like it was nothing.

The chat? Immediately feral.

“I SAW THAT. WE ALL SAW THAT.” “HE JUST DID THAT LIKE IT WAS A TUESDAY.” “I NEED A DANNY RAMIREZ TO BRING ME FOOD AND KISS MY HEAD 😭😭😭” “THE DOMESTICITY OF IT ALLLLLL” “NO SERIOUSLY I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE” “IS THAT HIS HOODIE TOO?? I’M CRYING”

You laughed—full and unfiltered—covering your face with your hands as your cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable red.

“Okay,” you said between giggles, “so… apparently that was visible.”

From the living room, where you could hear the sound of him flopping down onto the couch and probably stealing a bite of your fries, Danny called out casually, “Only meant to be for you, cariño, but if the world’s gotta see, they better recognize the standard.”

“CARIÑO? I’M MELTING.” “THEY’RE TOGETHER??? THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE NOW” “I’D LET HIM RUIN MY LIFE IN THE SOFTEST WAY POSSIBLE”

You peeked at the chat again, still grinning, your voice going a little breathless as you read aloud: “‘Danny’s the blueprint. Everyone else take notes.’” You glanced toward the living room. “They’re not wrong.”

He didn’t miss a beat: “I just know how to take care of my girl.”

“HIS GIRL???? OKAY EVERYONE BREATHE” “I THOUGHT THIS WAS A BOOK STREAM, WHY AM I SOBBING OVER A RELATIONSHIP I’M NOT IN”

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But when you saw the next comment, you lost it.

“‘This livestream went from book recs to emotional damage real quick.’” You laughed so hard you had to lean away from the mic. “Okay. Okay, I need a second.”

From the living room, Danny called out again, voice softer now, mellow in that way he got when the day was winding down. “Eat first, amor. The books can wait.”

You looked down at the plate—your favorite kind of comfort meal, the one he always made when you forgot to take care of yourself—and smiled.

“Bossy,” you teased, but there was no real heat behind it.

He hummed. “Only ‘cause I love you.”

You cleared your throat, trying not to let your smile take over your whole face.

“Alright,” you said into the mic, glancing back at the camera, “brief intermission while I eat the food my sweet, meddling boyfriend just brought me.”

From the living room, almost muffled now: “You’re welcome, princesa.”

“I CAN’T TAKE THIS” “THIS IS TOO DOMESTIC I’M GONNA CRY” “he calls you princesa?? i’m unwell”

You laughed softly, head bowed as you reached for a fry and continued to chatter with your viewers on stream.

How on earth did you manage to bag a man like Danny Ramirez?

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ resolution ] | sylus

— summary: he tells you to take a load off—clear your head. it would be a nice gesture if the center of your torment didn’t accompany you (or the one where sylus is tired of waiting for you to want him, too). — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, misunderstandings, self-deprecating thoughts, mutual pining, sexual content, more self-indulgence, alcohol, language, mentions of violence, implied naughty things done in public, sylus is probably ooc, i struggled with this but i hope someone likes it, mdni — tracklist: mystery survivor - brown eyed girls bonnie & clyde - dean heaven & back - chase atlantic pon pón - khruangbin lago azúl - jamila velazquez efecto - bad bunny lights up - harry styles

You’re halfway through a glass of something acrid when heavy leather plops on the bar counter beside you. 

Its brass buckles gleam ominously beneath the foggy, red glaze of Lux. You arch a brow. Tilt your head. The ice in your glass shifts, and your jaw slackens.

You don’t have to turn around to know who the source of the commotion is. Feel him before you see him, a solid mass of shifting muscle pressed up between your shoulder blades. The heat he exudes permeates through layers of skin and flesh. His cologne surfs above that of alcohol and tobacco, curling around your senses in a steady creep. 

He leans closer, and the static from his proximity prickles your skin. He perches loose fists on the counter’s edge, bracketing you between sinewy arms, just barely brushing yours. Just barely. 

You smirk. Try to hide that shiver when his lip grazes the outskirts of your ear, purposeful, slow, breath disturbing the delicate baby hairs framing your face.

“Up for a joyride?” he asks, his voice gritty, steeped low between the rock of the music and your pulse wild in your throat. It pools hot in the chasm in your chest, a slow trickle to your belly. 

You set your glass down. Peer over your shoulder. His face is so close, that pretty nose, those grey-fringed lashes, you can almost kiss it. 

“Can I change first?”

It’s a solid question; you’re still wearing your costume. Body glitter. Makeup. Limbs still hum with the adrenaline from your show. From the attention. From his eyes sweeping over you from the second floor’s rail as you swiveled your hips in rhythm with the music.

He noses along your cheek, siphoning the breath from your lungs in a sticky gasp. That mouth again—it moves along your ear, murmuring so hot and fevered, you wonder if you’re dizzy because of it or the alcohol coloring your veins.

“Later.”

You suppress a frown as he draws back, taking that overwhelming pressure with him. You watch him retreat into the crowd of club goers, eyes burning like two feverish flames before he makes for the door. 

You’re surprised by his easy command over your body, but you don’t have to be told twice. Don’t think twice.

Downing what’s left in your glass, the sting eases the ache of your nerves. You slip a fistful of crumpled-up bills onto the counter for the bartender before snatching up the leather jacket and sliding off the barstool faster than she can thank you for the tip.

“Have fun!” she calls at your back.

You miss the knowing smile kissing the bartender’s lips as you follow behind your boss’s afterimage, wending through the sea of pulsing bodies with all the purpose of the world. 

—

It’s chilly out.

The night air nips at your exposed skin, salted with the scent of exhaust fumes and evergreens and fried food. 

You had shrugged into his coat on your way out of Lux. 

It's too big for you, the sleeves’ hems brushing past your fingertips. But it smells like him, like drive-in movies and fresh cut grass and safety. And it’s warm like him. Warm like the blissful sweep of sun rays. Like a campfire amid the first crack of winter. You’ll bear the jacket’s weight if it means being closer to him. Carrying a piece of him over your shoulders, distributing his load so he doesn’t have to bear it all himself.

He’s waiting for you. Propped all cool against his bike like the love interest of some dark romance novel, silhouetted by the winking city lights behind him. He’s a behemoth of black leather and white hair, and he smirks at you over crossed arms when he sees you. He reaches into his saddlebag to procure a helmet with cat ears mounted on its front, thrusting it towards you.

You lift a brow. Snort. Your lips crook as your heels click over asphalt. He’s so sure you’ll come with him. You’ll come to him. 

But you’d follow him to the ends of the world if he asked.

You take the helmet, your skin tingling when your fingers brush over matte kevlar. For a moment, the art of breathing eludes you. You excuse it as a consequence of the air, of the alcohol bubbling beneath your skin, of your hair tickling your neck. 

You mount the bike behind him after sliding the helmet onto your head. It purrs to life between your thighs, shaky like a slumbering beast, smoke crawling from the exhaust. You put as much space between your bodies as possible, hips pushed back, still wanting to maintain a modicum of decency. He peers at you over a broad shoulder, and you know he’s nothing short of amused behind the dark wash of his visor. 

You gasp, your helmet fogging with condensation, when he tugs you closer by the wrist. His back is deliciously rigid pressed up against your breasts. He taps your hands crossed over his navel, ensuring they’re secure, ensuring you’re holding tight before kicking the kickstand back. You lay your cheek between his shoulder blades once the tension abates. Brush off his brazenness as him wanting to keep you safe.

You cling to him for dear life with a yip in your throat as the motorcycle peels off. And he chuckles something smoky, adrenaline spuming all hot through your veins.

The pair of you cut a sleek outline of black as you whip through the quieted streets. Your destination’s unknown, but you’re just thrilled to be out. To be at his side like the universe isn’t conspiring against you. The wind is brisk and welcoming, licking your exposed thighs and legs, prickly through your stockings. 

Your lips ache with a smile, and once you’ve grown accustomed to the speed, you unwind an arm from around his middle to hold it out behind you. Lean slightly back. Wind eases through the spaces between your fingers. You feel like you’re flying. Free. 

It’s a rush, whatever hair you didn’t squeeze into your helmet whipping wildly around you. As street lights glaze over your visor, you feel like you’re in a dream. And the music playing in the built-in headset is transcendental, aiding that out-of-body experience. 

It’s been too long since he’s taken you out for a ride on the back of his bike. Hardly had time for it, what with the missions and deals and a pretty, infectious damsel soaking up the space between you. 

She’s off in Skyhaven on leave. 

You thought it strange she’d vacation there of all places, but you didn’t argue when you dropped her off at the station, shrugging her somberness off as anxiety for the trip.

Your boss has been surprisingly bold in her absence. Grew more purposeful with the brush of his fingers, with his staring, more concise with his words. You know it’s just his way of filling the crater Ms. Hunter left in his chest. You’re something of a placeholder. Someone to pass the time. But you’ve been taking advantage of it. Flirting back for old time’s sake, teasing him, manipulating him with the flutter of your lashes, knowing he could never be yours deep down. 

Something pulls in your chest. A steady tug like ivy through a lattice fence. A pull on your conscience. Your smile falters the slightest bit. You shove down those gut-wrenching feelings, trying to enjoy the night. The airiness between you. The familiarity. It’s just a joyride. No harm, no foul. You’re not betraying anyone by enjoying yourself a little. Besides…

You never know when it’ll be snatched away like a rug from beneath your feet.

—

You don’t expect an airfield to slide into view, the steel grate of a barbed fence, a stretch of grass painted with dew. The familiar outline of a jet catches your sight, the sleek metal gleaming in the coppery blink of the moon. You wonder what bossman’s up to as he cuts the bike into a hangar, its rumble echoing off thick metal walls whilst you ease to a stop. 

He cuts the engine. You watch the muscles in his back swim as he tugs off his helmet, shaking out those wispy tendrils of white. So cool, you think with pursed lips. You follow suit when you remember yourself, dismounting the motorcycle after him, throat thick with questions.

You wordlessly trail behind him, the click of your heels reverberating throughout the hangar, traded for that of muted clops against the asphalt on the airstrip. Crickets. Wind. Engines humming in the distance. He’s nearly twice your size, yet you’re practically his shadow. Always have been, a silent presence at his back, a viper ready to strike at his command. Loyal thing you are, through and through. 

“What’s this about?” you finally ask when you near his private jet. You’ve had enough ambiguity for the night. 

He’s halfway up the stairs, massive hands swallowing the rails. He studies you from his shoulder, a roguish crease around his eyes. 

“Do you trust me?”

You snort. Has he ever given you a reason not to? He’s always had your back. Always a sturdy palm on your shoulder, squeezing. Antiseptic and gauze to dress your wounds. The comforting burn of whiskey in your throat. A voice to lull you into a fitful sleep when the nightmares bare themselves. 

Your voice is husky, low, a smile tugging at your lips, a thrill coiling around your spine.

“Of course.��� 

You take the hand he offers you, guided up the steps into the jet’s cabin like something delicate. 

The crew greets you, all knowing smiles and quick bows beneath the sepia-toned cabin lights. Sylus’ hand falls to the small of your back, searing through the heavy fibers of his jacket, possessive yet respectful, burning down to bone as he leads you down the aisle.

“Wait a sec,” you muse, a quizzical glance cast over your shoulder, aimed at him. “I didn’t pack anything.”

He quirks a brow. Smirks. “Well, it’s a good thing I know your measurements.”

You try not to linger on what that means. On the tight coil in your stomach, the way he looked at you as if only you exist in his world.

—

He’s as cryptic as ever. Then again, you haven’t pressured him for answers. Figure he’s keeping to himself for a reason, the blue light of the tablet in his hand ominously shadowing his face. 

Another mission, perhaps? An undercover gig where you play a glittering, docile doll on his arm until he gets what he’s after? He’ll fill you in on the intricacies later, you’re sure. You trust him so much, it’s sickening. 

It’s been a while since you’ve been on a night fight. You’ve long since traded the distant gleam of the city below for the dark brew of clouds outside the window. And despite the luxury flanking you, you grow antsy. 

You’d slipped off your heels. Fidgeted with the buckles of his jacket in the face of his silence before tearing yourself from the seat to grab something to drink. Something to take the edge off. To dispel the slew of questions in your mind, the curl of your tongue, the gnarl in your stomach, a voice far-off telling you something was amiss.

Your hips sway something dangerous as you near your seat. Two crisp glasses of bubbly fizzle in your palms, a sly little smile on your face. He doesn’t look up when you plop down, still thoroughly engrossed in whatever’s on his screen until you thrust a champagne flute towards him. He accepts it with a quirk of lips, fingers purposeful in their excursion over yours on the stem, eyes drinking you in.

You shudder, feeling like he’s stripping you down to the marrow with that devastating gaze. Clearing your throat, you take a sip. Hide your anxiety behind the rim, opting for cool, calm, collected. It’s a good burn. A good fizz, loosening the restraints of your inhibitions. Maybe you can badger him now.

“Are you kidnapping me?” you joke, crossing your legs. Innocently drag your toes up his tibia for added effect, luring a chuckle that bleeds sin from his throat.

He sets the tablet down on the side table with his champagne flute. Leans slightly forward, fingers wrapping around your foot to drag it into his lap. “Would you like me to?”

A thrill shoots through you. Spools hot in your stomach. You’re insane, because you think being kidnapped by him wouldn’t be so bad. 

His fingers are magical. Give you a glimpse of a night two months back. You still taste him. Still feel him, the texture of his shirt between your fingers burned into your mind. The sounds he poured into your mouth, the dangerous press of his body against yours…

Shifting gears, you swipe a finger over your bottom lip in contemplation. His digits knead through tension and pressure. You bite back a sound. Swallow. Don that playful mask.

“Dunno. Think I’d be fine with it if it were you holding me hostage.”

His smirk deepens, a dimple cratering his cheek, lashes dancing as he watches his hands at work. You want to ask why—why he’s being so attentive, so disarming, so god damn irresistible when he smiles like that. When he laughs like that. When he does that, that thing where he makes you feel like he could throw it all away for you. 

But, you settle for letting the steady hum of the jet engines saturate the air between you. Don’t want to disrupt the moment, the spell falling like a gauzy shawl over your shoulders. The burn of his gaze on your cheek as you peer out the window.

He’s an enigma and could put back up that aloof front at the snap of your fingers. And you might just remember that you’re dropping your defenses too low. Growing too close with a man who couldn’t be farther away. 

—

You land somewhere remote. 

Somewhere off-grid where the sun always shines and tropical birds sing in the trees overhead. Someplace where the ocean glitters a clear blue, and sand gets stuck between your toes, gritty, trapped against the soles of your feet by your sandals. 

It’s humid, the kind of damp that pastes your blouse—yes, you finally had time to change, to freshen up—to your torso like snakeskin. But you bear with the mild discomfort because you don’t think you’ve ever been somewhere so beautiful. 

It’s like a best kept secret. A treasure Sylus has hoarded from you like a crow’s nest, though you can understand why. 

It’s an island untainted by city life. Sleepy, save for the calming crash of waves along the shoreline. The air smells of sea salt and greenery. Of memories of a distant youth, all splotchy in your mind. You can’t recall much of your past up to a certain age—brainwashing—but it conjures something deep-rooted and nostalgic. Something that makes you all warm and fuzzy inside, and your lips ache with a smile.

You were greeted by locals upon your arrival. Men in linen shirts, skin kissed by the sun. Women with pretty freckles, wavy hair, and hugs as welcoming as a summer’s day. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Sylus so at ease—or as calm as someone like him can appear. He was boyish in a way. Infectious, gazing at you with eyes that glittered like the sun refracted off the ocean in the distance.

You pretended your voice wasn’t lodged in your throat at the sight. Like your body wasn’t humming with a pleasant sensation when he laced your fingers together, tugging you down the shore. Confusing you more than the jet lag, than the dizzying weight of the sun.

Dirt roads branch and twist through this tropical oasis. You take a Jeep to a tucked-away bungalow, sunlight dappling your bodies through the leaves as you ease out of the SUV. It’s so very him, isolated and distant. And despite how modest and unassuming it looks outside, the bungalow’s inside is something to whistle at. 

It’s luxurious. Two stories. Hardwood floors, ceiling-high windows, posh furniture, beach motifs, elegant coastal decor. Of course, you don’t expect anything less from your enigma of a boss. He’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?

“I take it you’re enjoying the view,” he asks from behind as you study the beach not too far from the veranda. The lazy back and forth crawl of the waves. Seabirds pecking at the sand. Palm trees scraping a sky so blue. 

“It’s gorgeous,” you say, awestruck. Not really thinking, leaning into your hands pressed against the glass. You’re childlike. It’s magical. You feel like you’re witnessing something intimate. Somewhere you have no business being, territory that’s off-limits.

You turn suspicious eyes on him, crossing your arms, drumming your fingers against your bicep. “What are we doing here?” Straight to the point. You’d been burning to get to it. 

You didn’t prod him much during the jet ride. Assume that you’re here to uncover some elusive protocores. Here to take out a big baddie and end his nefarious dealings. Maybe negotiate with the local military for some state-of-the-art weaponry. Not to let your guard down like the atmosphere suggests. 

Sylus grabs a peach from the fruit bowl settled on the kitchen island’s center. Tosses it up before catching it with practiced ease, and his fingers swallow the damn thing whole. You watch with bated breath as he brings it to his mouth. His eyes narrow behind it, unreadable half-moons, a sly smile stretching past it. 

“House-sitting,” he replies before taking a bite. The sound is juicy, overwhelming, pristine teeth tearing through peachy pink skin. Your mouth waters. You’re hungry, stomach flipping, but you don’t think it’s food you crave. 

“House-sitting,” you parrot, testing the weight of those words in your mouth, distracting yourself. You round the island to stand across from him. “For who?”

“An old colleague,” he answers as if it’s as easy as night’s transition into day. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, looking off to the side. Sylus associating himself with anyone long-term is a foreign concept. Anyone other than you, the twins, Mephisto, Ms. Hunter…

But, you’ll bite. 

“Then why’d you bring me here?”

You stiffen when he moves. When he props his hands on either edge of the granite countertop after setting his peach down, and the span of his arms is so ridiculously wide. He pitches himself forward, spilling like liquid fire over the island, and the heat of his body is tangible. So close, static builds, his breath stirring the baby hairs matted to your skin by sweat.

A veil drops. Anticipation wells in your chest. His gaze flicks from between your eyes down to your lips that part and quiver with the effort of breathing. With an attempt to form words. 

His jaw slackens in kind, contemplative. Like he’s at odds with himself, mulling over something deep in his mind. For a moment, you think he’ll kiss you. Selfishly hope he kisses you. 

Instead, he crooks a finger beneath your chin. Tilts your head slightly back, and you’re watching his eyes gleam like gems held to the sun from down the bridge of your nose. 

His fingers curl around your neck. Tangle in the fine hairs at your nape. Grip loose enough for you to pull back if you deem the pressure too intense, but firm enough to anchor you to the spot. Your pulse thrums something frenetic beneath his fingers. He swipes a worn thumb pad over the corner of your mouth, and you widen it without realizing. 

You unconsciously lean into his palm. Eyes shroud with something dark and unmistakable.  A quiet yearning to mirror his. An unspoken plea, your defenses slowly burying themselves beneath the wooden panels of the floor. 

You’re closing both your hands around his wrist, tender. Cautious. Holding his hand to your cheek like you’ll fall if he lets go. You turn your face towards his thumb, its roughened callus easing over your bottom lip, lightly pulling it down, delightful tingles echoing through your body as you absently nuzzle into his palm. 

“So you can’t run away from me this time,” he rasps, entranced by your mouth. By the suppleness of your skin, the warmth bleeding from your face into his palm. 

Run away? Why would you—

Who would want to—

You’re out of your mind. So deliciously delirious. Whether from the jungle heat or the molten pressure of his presence, you’re unsure. You just want to live in this moment forever. Preserve it like a snapshot from an old, disposable film camera. Your inhibitions don’t live here, your conscience. Only you and this man who pilfers the air from your lungs, who stirs the earth beneath your feet.

You blink drunkenly, your stare dropping to his mouth. Back to those eyes leaking a mysterious shade of ruby. Pupils blown wide. “What do you mean?”

“Is it so wrong to want you all to myself?” he husks, voice abrasive. Disarming. You feel it in your toes. Feel it embedding itself into your psyche. “No distractions, no misunderstandings?”

You laugh. Swallow against the grit of your throat. Lick your lips. “What do you mean by that?” 

You know what he means. The weight his words carry. Yet you play coy. It’s easier to deflect. Easier to deny than to call it what it is—a weekend getaway. A chance to pick up where things left off. An opportunity to stir whatever mess swells between you. Some time to play until his precious little hunter is back in his arms.

He draws you closer. So close, your foreheads touch. You’re standing on tippy-toe, palms flat against the granite, watching his lashes flutter as he studies your mouth. Breaths hot and dizzying against your skin. He’s massive. Could cover you like a blanket, swallow you whole like a riptide dragging you out to sea. 

“Still playing oblivious.” He sounds forlorn. Voice cracks as it peters, and it simmers in your stomach. “No matter. You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, trading his despondent smile for a smirk.

His thumb cruises along your cheek. And for a moment, it looks like he’ll kiss you. Steal the taste of your lips. But he’s a conniving little shit. He releases you from his spell, hand falling from your neck, fingers grazing your shoulder. He draws back, snatching up his peach for another bite.

You blink away the bleariness. Tamp down a pout. Watch as he moves towards the door, a hand stuffed in his pocket.

“Where are you off to?” you call at his back. Chew your lip, brows knit. Only he could make you this petulant—this lovesick. 

“To visit an old friend. Try to enjoy yourself while I’m away. Take a load off. Enjoy the sights.”

He disappears through the desk-speckled doorframe before you can get another word out, swallowed by the sun. Leaves you to nurse the violent thrum of your heart. To bask in the heady scent he leaves—the molten ache spooling between your legs.

You cross your arms. Huff like a bratty child. He’s doing this on purpose, you’re sure. Punishment for you leaving him hanging, much like you did him that night. 

Hard to relax when you want to throw yourself against the floor. Kick and scream. When you want him to kiss you like the world will end tomorrow. 

You’ll pay him back when he returns.

—

And you do. 

In the form of a red, floral dress that clings to the devastation of your body. 

Spaghetti straps barely cling to your shoulders. Loose knot tied against your naked back at the swell of your rear. The chiffon hem brushes your ankles, but a dangerous slit reveals enough skin to draw the attention of the bar’s other patrons. Locals. Middle-aged men with sweat beading on their temples and mustaches, drunken smiles on their faces, their tongues swiping over their lips. 

You had enough Spanish in your mouth to stumble through ordering drinks. 

Tequila. Not your go-to, but it’s a good burn. A burn that loosens your reservations, your arms in the air. It’s enough to make your hips sway seductively to match that smile on your face as you move through the hazy film of smoke adorning the bar, guided by the croon of the Reggaeton thumping in the floor. 

The attention’s nice. The staring, the lust coloring the air—you’re good at this, remember? But you’re centered on one man in particular. Dancing just for him. Just to fuck with him. Feel his eyes drilling down to your very being as if only you exist, and it makes your body hum pleasantly alongside the sting of the alcohol. 

He can’t keep his eyes off you, perched at the bar’s counter on a stool, swirling the contents of his whiskey glass. Whether he’s watching you out of a habit of concern—he’s stared down every man who came within an inch of you, trying to guide you into a dance by the hips, by your arm, or a hand at the small of your back, and if looks could kill, everyone here would’ve been burned to cinders—or genuine intrigue, you’re unsure. But you play on your delusions anyway, figuring he’s just as enamored by the swivel of your hips as much as everyone else here.

He bought this dress just for you. Had it tailored to the shape of your body, down to the cinch of your waist, the span of your shoulders. You discovered it when he left you to your own devices earlier, boredom and curiosity leading you to scavenge through the luggage he packed for you after you walked the surf. 

When Sylus returned to the bungalow as the sun crested over the sky, you begged him to take you out. You wanted to dance. Wanted to explore this peaceful, tucked away island he whisked you off to, to have you all to himself. Wanted to make him pine for you as much as you yearned for him. Retribution for how he’d left you mentally reeling. Left your body burning. 

Besides, you couldn’t let such a pretty dress go to waste. 

Your gazes interlock every so often. His lips quirk seductively. He raises a glass to you, brows lifting slightly. He chose to hang back while you took to the dance floor. You’re enjoying yourself. He’s enjoying you, too. And the music’s nice. The atmosphere’s soothing. Sure, the bar’s a little run-down, a hole-in-the wall, half of it opening up into an impromptu patio outside. But it has its charm. 

You’ve never seen your boss dance before, but you figure a man like him has some rhythm. He’s cultured. Clearly been here before if the way the natives acknowledge him is anything to go by. Like someone to be respected or feared. 

You contemplate sidling over to him. Grabbing his hand, pushing your breasts up against his bicep, that pretty little beseeching smile crooking your lips. Think about dragging him out for a dance. Having that calamitous body pushing against yours, his hands at your waist, lips imprinting themselves on the hollow of your neck, voice murky in his throat.

But before you can bring the thought to life, someone plops on the barstool beside him. A man who looks like he could be Sylus’ age, though his stubble ages him. Dark hair, bushy brows, ill-fitting suit. He’s clearly inebriated by the slouch of his body. A carefree contrast to the regal set of Sylus’ shoulders. He knows him. Sylus looks annoyed when said man claps him on his back, his raucous laughter cutting through the music. His glass poised at his mouth, he leans closer to Sylus, murmuring something near his ear. 

Something esoteric by the looks of it. Something that you can’t catch, but it probably concerns you. Because when you turn in the midst of your dancing, you don’t miss both sets of eyes tuned to you—one set playful and knowing and adorned with crow’s feet, the other somber and far-off beneath furrowed brows, above tight lips.

You wonder what they’re on about. You’re about to sashay over before a stoutly, older man draws you close to salsa, pulling a laugh from your throat. And you’re so pretty and carefree as you move, your eyes occasionally flitting back to your boss and his company as they talk.

— 

The rain doesn’t detract from the island’s mugginess. In fact, it becomes even more humid, with bodies huddled together beneath the bar’s half-roof, trying to keep from getting wet. It’s fruitless, the rain puddling at your feet, making the concrete floors nothing short of slippery.

You don’t contest, laughing something unhindered when Sylus takes your hand, drawing out of the crowd. He flashes a smile over his shoulder before you jog after him, engulfed by the downpour and the gray haze cast by the heavy clouds overhead. You’re surprisingly fast for the towering heels you wear, strapped to your feet. And you’re both acting like two mischievous youths by the time Sylus pulls you under the awning of a nearby cafe, figuring the weather’s too tumultuous to make for your bungalow on foot.

It is there where your mirth simmers. Where you realize you’re soaked to the bone, your dress molded to you like a second skin. You’re incredibly close. So close, his overpowering warmth permeates through layers of flesh, and you’re spinning. Your nipples knot beneath the drag of the fabric. Sylus takes the opportunity to lure you closer, his back colliding with the stone wall behind him when you careen into his chest.

He’s so very handsome, white locks pasted to his sculpted face. So pleasantly solid against your palms pressed against his chest. His hands burn something fierce through your skin, fastened to your back. Time slows to a crawl, the rain an afterthought as you slowly look up, lost in the heady, love-drunk stir of his eyes. It wouldn’t take much to stand on tippy-toe to kiss him, to taste the rain intermingled with the saccharine flavor of his mouth.

So, you do.

Your fingers clasp around his biceps. And he doesn’t fight you, instead urging you forward, leaning down to meet you halfway. You come together like the moon drawn to the earth, and twin, relieved sounds leave your chests when your mouths collide. 

He takes your breath away, sucking it into his lungs like it’s his own. Cups your cheek in his palm, greedy, greedy as he anchors you to him. Your arms intuitively snake around his shoulders, wrists cross behind his neck. It’s like kissing fire, and the sounds he pours into you make your toes tingle, your center pulse.

Without warning, his fingers mold around your thighs, the thick flesh cratering between them before he rucks you up to encircle his waist with your legs.

You’re a mess of gnashing teeth and hair and desire as he turns your body, walking you into an alcove devoid of light, hidden from the street. And as your alarm bells sound in your mind—wait, stop, no—as your spine crashes into a textured, brick wall, you allow him to ravage you. To flood your body with every bit of emotion he’s held back for God knows how long via his mouth. Via his hands bunching your dress around your hips. His teeth scrawling down your neck before seeking refuge in your shoulder. 

You throw your head back, sighing hot and wanton, mouth curved into a smile. He’s hard and thick pressed to the apex of your thighs. All for you. Just for you.

This isn’t right. Isn’t how you envisioned things culminating between you, but you think, fuck it.

What happens here can stay here, the echo of your voices painting every crevice of the alleyway.  

— tags: @melonssoup, @dana-nite, @allura-miss, @l1ttlebabyapple, @asakiyu, @loliesaregreat, @theloveofnagiseishiroslife, @mentaltrouble2201, @jupitersays, @animecrazy76, @wowunreal, @jaeminsbuckethat, @darkeskye, @lookingforlia, @aishasylus, @t4naiis, @everywherenothere, @unknown-ends, @blessdunrest, @lunebulous, @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake, @ceronnica, @sillyfreakfanparty, @midiplier, @abbylee0710, @hanaluxx, @nicohii, @beewilko, @viqlume, @snowfall-jess (sorry if i missed anyone).

falling action | masterlist

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Hangovers and Hickeys

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: no idea rn lmao probably like 700

A/N: some Spence content before the new year (on the western calendar). Hope you all get to enjoy the day!

“Good morning sunshine.”

You winced at the sheer volume of his voice. “If I could, id shove you off of the roof Derek Morgan.”

“Fun night?”

You snorted and finally lifted your head off of the desk. “You should be a profiler.”

That caused Derek to laugh, which made you wince and close your eyes. The sunglasses perched on your nose were supposed to be helping. They weren’t.

“That’s a nice hickey you got there.”

You grunted in response and tried to adjust your sweater collar so it would cover the hickey you missed this morning when you didn’t look in the mirror. You had basically rolled out of bed, and into your car to make sure you got to work on time.

“Who gave it to you?” “Why don’t you use your super duper profiling skills to deduce it or whatever Sherlock shit you wanna do.”

Derek snorted and shook his head. ”or you could just….tell me.”

“Don’t worry about it Derek.” You grumbled.

When Derek realized he wasn’t going to get any answers out of you about it, he decided he was going to change tactics.

“Moving on from Boy Wonder?” It was no secret that you had a crush on a certain nerdy doctor. And so Derek tried to use this knowledge to his advantage.

You crossed your arms and just raised your eyebrows. “I’m not dignifying that with a response,”

“Pretty sure that was my answer.” He chuckled, sitting down in his chair and swiveling to look at you.

When you decided to just ignore Derek, and face your desk, he piped up again. “Where is he anyways?” “No idea.”

It was like he was waiting for his cue from you. Spencer pushed open the doors to the bull pen and strolled in. He had his purple scarf around his neck, over his new coat that Henry (JJ) had gotten him for Christmas. It was a beautiful grey pea coat that kept him warm during these freezing winter months. Spender was carrying a tray with two coffees on it and what seemed like a bag from McDonalds, which seemed to be for you, since he was headed in your direction.

The smell of the food caused you to groan with joy and smile at the man walking towards you.

“My knight in shining armor.” You muttered as he placed the whole tray in front of you. You placed a kiss on his cheek hasilty, causing him to blush a little.

“I got hashbrowns from both McDonald’s and Dunkin’, a little smorgasbord of grease for your pallet.” He whispered before taking one of the cups out of the tray.

“I’m going to marry you Doctor Spencer Reid.” You muttered, digging into the bag and pulling out one of the McDonald’s hash browns and biting into it. The groan you let out leaned a little on the pornographic side, which made Derek raise his eyebrows at the sound you let out, and then at tinge of pink on Spencer’s cheeks.

You continued eating, clueless about the silent interrogation happening to your left, enjoying every single bite and sip of your hangover cure.

“Derek I can hear you thinking and it’s making my head throb.”

Derek’s eyes snapped back to you, as your figure swiveled in the chair to face him, casually munching on some of the fries, in a completely different mood then from two minutes ago before Spencer had walked in the room.

“Sorry your highness. I’m just curious as to why Boy Genius here is bringing you hangover cures.”

“Well it’s his fault I’m this fucked up so he owes me.” You grumbled, swiveling around in your chair to face your desk. You pulled your lap top out of your canvas bag and started to set up for your work day.

“Wha-how is it his fault.”

That’s when Spencer turned bright red and tried to change the conversation, or at least get out of it. “I—well it’s not…I….hotch is…”

Spencer basically ran across the bullpen and up the stairs to Hotch’s office, avoiding the conversation he almost just had.

“I don’t think you wanna know.” You smirked and bit into the muffin from Dunks that Spencer had got you, not looking at the man behind you.

“I’m starting to think that too.” His eyes narrowed and he looked between where Spencer had run off to, and you.

Something was going on between the two of you, and Derek Morgan was going to figure it out.

[mashtatosworld]

hopelessly devoted

summary: it's girl's night! and GD is left alone with the baby for the first time

The BMW rolls up to the curb, sleek and gleaming under the streetlights, but the man behind the wheel doesn’t look quite so polished.

Jiyong’s in his usual Prada pyjamas - covered in baby spit up and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. His hair is a mess, flat on one side like he’d fallen asleep for twenty minutes before being summoned by your friends’ chaotic messages.

He barely pulls the handbrake up before you stumble toward the backseat, cooing in delight when you see your baby girl strapped into her car seat, her head tilted slightly to the side in sleep.

“My beautiful, beautiful angel,” you sing, voice high and syrupy with alcohol, planting a kiss on her chubby cheek. “You’re so so cute, I love you, my little- ”

“You gonna sit down or serenade her all night?” Jiyong mutters, though his voice lacks any real bite. He’s too tired for sarcasm, too relieved to have found you in one piece - even if you were clinging to a street sign like a koala when your friends texted him for help.

You fall into the backseat beside Diva, your knee bumping the car seat as you settle in. Immediately, your arms rest protectively around the handle like someone might swoop in and take her away.

One of your equally drunk friends clambers into the front passenger seat, giggling as they press every button they can find - seat warmers flicker on and off, hazard lights flash, and the radio sputters between static and some 2000s Britney.

“Don’t touch anything,” Jiyong says, voice low and dangerously calm.

“Sorry, Oppa!” they chirp, utterly unbothered, then lean across the console to squint at his phone mounted on the dash. “Awww, what’s your home screen? Let me see!”

Jiyong’s hand slaps over his phone before they can see it, shooting you a betrayed look through the rearview mirror. You just smile at him, eyes glassy and glittering with tipsy affection.

“It’s just y/n, isn’t it?” one of your friends sat beside you teases.

“Yeah,” you say proudly, sitting up straighter and beaming, “But in the photo I'm -"

“It's a private photo.” Jiyong interrupts, putting the handbrake down as he pulls the car away.

“Sorry girls, he's shy.” you say sweetly.

Your friends find this hysterical, the entire car vibrating with drunk laughter, but Jiyong only has eyes for you in the rearview. You’re fussing with Diva’s tiny socks, fixing the blanket over her legs, smoothing down her fuzzy hair even though she’s fast asleep - totally oblivious to the chaos.

It hits him again - that strange, overwhelming mix of love, exhaustion, and disbelief that this is his life now. That you’re his wife, you share a daughter, and his car is currently full of your wasted friends and the scent of someone’s spilled soju. And somehow, despite it all, he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

“Thank you for coming to get us, Gdaddy,” you murmur, slumping sideways so your head rests against Diva’s car seat.

He softens, even cracks a smile. “Anything for you, Jagi.”

“Can we get fries?” your friend asks, suddenly leaning into his personal space.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You, half-asleep and still holding onto Diva’s car seat, mumble, “Ji, let’s get fries.”

He sighs, flipping on the indicator. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You blow him a kiss through the mirror, and even though your lipstick is smeared, your hair is a mess, and you reek of alcohol, he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i loved this request!

also thank u to those lovely people that helped me figure out the how to do the text format! i might do more of these in the future but props to those that do it - this took me AGES

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy

[vervepain]

Supercorp head canon: Lena Luthor hates kale. It’s the literal worst. She just…hates heart disease and high cholesterol more. Which run in her family on both sides. And Lionel was diabetic. Lex was pre-diabetic but wouldn’t do anything about it. So Lena just eats super clean, gets her steps in, does three sessions of zone three cardio a week, and resistance trains.

Initially, Kara thinks these are all attributes of her CEO type-A lovable neuroses. Until Lena is waiting for her annual bloodwork…and has a panic attack. And makes a kale smoothie.

And that night Lena explains that Kara is actually correct, kale is vile but it’s a good source of fiber. And she went through a phase where she ate an unhealthy amount of raw spinach. Lena explains that her family has bad metabolic genetics. And Kara is just like:

So the kale will help you live longer?

And Lena half shrugs, nods, hopefully?

Suddenly, a change occurs. Kara Danvers cannot get enough kale. Have you ever had an air fried pot sticker? Kara just ate fifteen. And she had a side of bok choy.

Lena kind of can’t belive it. Because sure eating super healthy is something she prioritizes, but it’s a downer when no one else around her is doing it? Like Alex and Kelly eat healthy…but it’s not extreme. Nia sometimes makes questionable choices in energy drinks but generally Lena thinks she has a balanced diet. Kara eats as though she auditioning for the role of human dumpster in Dumpster Fire the Musical.

Until suddenly, Kara doesn’t. Suddenly when the super friends go out to eat and Lena gets a goat cheese salad, Kara gets one too. Kara always sees if they can add chicken though. Kara likes to make soups and that winter they eat hearty stews and delicious curries. And one day it just—Lena has to ask.

“Kara why are you eating like—?”

“Like you?” Kara says setting down the last plate she was drying. She walks over and lifts Lena onto the counter. So she can stand between her legs. “Because I like you?” She pecks Lena’s cheek. “I want you around forever. And if eating this way is going to help, you bet your bucket, I’m eating kale with every meal.”

Lena blushes.

“Not every meal.”

“No.” Kara says crinkling up her nose. “I also read in one of those books? About like marriage and family life.” Lena’s eyebrows go up. “You know books about how to be married and like raise kids?” Lena did know..:but not that Kara was reading that. “I just figure it will be easier to teach good nutrition habits to our children if you and I are on the same page about nutrition values now.”

Which is , great, but Lena is surprised to know Kara Danvers is planning to raise apparently multiple children with her, when last time she checked they were still platonic best friends.

“Kara, are we dating?” Lena asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Not yet. Soon though,” and then the Kryptonian turns around to finish putting away silverware.

“Would you want to go out on a date?”

“Yeah. I’m not picky. I mean,” here Kara gestures to Lena’s penthouse where Kara does basically live. “On Krypton…like we’d be considered married already. So um, I’m good with whatever. Dating first? Just straight to a wedding. Or even just filing a marriage certificate.” Lena is still on the counter, and it feels like the whole world has vanished from under her perch.

“You would marry me tomorrow?”

“Culturally, Lena, I married you ages ago. And I should have said something. It’s okay if you don’t want this. I will get my stuff out of here tonight, but—“ Lena leapt into Kara’s surprised arms. They kissed, twirling in the kitchen.

[animamii]

Angels Get Their [Chicken] Wings | Toji Fushiguro

another au origin story of lockedup!toji x sweetheart!reader

︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡

The air is thick with smoke and cheap perfume, the low hum of music vibrating through the dimly lit club. Toji slouches in a worn leather chair, one arm draped over the back, the other nursing a glass of bourbon. Swirling it absentmindedly. His dark eyes flick lazily over the girls twirling on stage, their slow, sultry movements barely holding his attention. He’s seen it all before.

Then he notices her.

Perched on one of the high chairs near the bar, she sticks out like a sore thumb—like a goddamn angel who took a wrong turn and ended up in hell. A cute little outfit hugs her figure, sweet but entirely out of place. She’s not here for the show; she’s not vying for attention or throwing cash. No, she’s eating. Picking at a plate of food like she’s sitting at a cozy diner instead of a dingy strip club.

Toji furrows his brows, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "The hell is a girl like that doin’ in a place like this?"

Curiosity burns through the haze of bourbon, and before he even registers it, he’s on his feet. Moving like a predator with no real prey, he saunters over, his heavy boots making little noise against the sticky floor. He leans against the table she's sat at, tilting his head as he takes her in up close.

"You lost, sweetheart?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone eat a damn meal in a place like this."

She looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes, lips still wrapped around a forkful of food, and Toji suddenly wonders if he just found the most interesting thing in this whole damn club. She blinks up at him, chewing slowly, as if genuinely processing his words. Toji watches as she swallows, then dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin before answering.

“Well,” she starts, her voice light and sweet—too sweet for a place like this. “The food here is actually really good.”

Toji’s brows lift. He wasn’t expecting that. He expected nervousness, maybe even fear. But this girl? She just smiles at him, unbothered, like he’s not some imposing stranger who’s way too interested in her presence.

“You eat at strip clubs often?” he asks, leaning a little closer, forearm resting on the table. The scene is oh so contrasting, Toji facing the shadows, face barely visible in the dimness. Whereas her face seemed to glow under the slowly strobing-colored lights that shined towards her. Toji swears he can see a halo floating above her head.

She shrugs, taking another bite. “Not all of them. But this place? Their wings are top tier. Plus, the make the best fried pickles in town.” A dimply smile appears on her face as she pops a fried pickle chip into her mouth.

Toji lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Cute.” He watches her, amused by the way she swings her legs absentmindedly, so damn comfortable in a setting that should have chewed her up and spit her out.

“You come here alone?” he asks, scanning the room out of habit. He doesn’t see anyone watching her, no jealous boyfriend or overprotective friend lurking in the shadows.

She nods, cheeks full from another bite of food. “Mhm.”

He scoffs amusedly, lip tugging to one side with a smirk. “You got a death wish or somethin’?”

She tilts her head, expression still impossibly sweet. “Why? You gonna kill me?”

Toji grins, sharp and wolfish. “Nah, sweetheart. But not everyone in a place like this is as nice as me.” She giggles at that, and Toji swears it’s the most out-of-place sound he’s ever heard in this dingy club. Like a damn bell ringing in a haunted house.

“Nice?” she teases. “That’s not the vibe you give off.”

Toji smirks, amused by her boldness. Most people knew better than to poke at him like that. But here she was, all soft edges and sweet smiles, like she had no idea who she was talking to. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care.

“That so?” he muses, swirling the bourbon in his glass. “Then what kinda vibe do I give off, sweetheart?”

She hums in thought, tapping a finger against her chin. “Hmm… dangerous.”

Toji grins. Smart girl.

“And yet, here you are, sittin’ all nice and comfy next to me.”

She shrugs again, unfazed. “I dunno. You don’t scare me.” Something dark and intrigued flickers in Toji’s eyes. She doesn’t scare easy, huh?

“You probably should be,” he murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear.

She just smiles, takes another bite of her food, and looks at him with those wide, innocent eyes. “But then we wouldn’t be having this fun conversation, would we?” Toji huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. Yeah, this girl? She’s trouble. Trouble wrapped up with a pretty pink bow.

Toji watches her, lips curling around the rim of his glass as he takes a slow sip of bourbon. She doesn’t squirm under his gaze. Doesn’t shy away like most would. Instead, she just keeps eating, twirling a fry between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. The damn audacity.

He sets his drink down with a heavy clink. “You always this bold, sweetheart?”

She grins, tilting her head slightly. “Only when I meet someone who piques my interest. There's something inter”

Toji chuckles, low and deep. Interesting. That’s a new one. He’s been called a lot of things—dangerous, terrifying, a goddamn nightmare—but never interesting.

“You got a name?” he asks, drumming his fingers against the bar.

She hums, lifting her drink to her lips, it's not even alcoholic, just a shirley temple with too much syrup. “Maybe.”

His smirk widens. Oh, she’s playing with him now.

“You’re a little tease, huh?” He leans in, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore. She smells sweet—like strawberries and something warm, maybe sugar or dulce de leche. It’s all wrong for a place like this, too soft, too damn inviting.

She doesn’t move away. Just meets his gaze with those wide, curious eyes. “Would it kill you to be a gentleman and introduce yourself first?” Her pink lips turn into a small, almost teasing smile.

Toji lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, sweetheart. Name’s Toji.”

She perks up, finally setting her fork down. “Toji… That’s a cool name.” For a second she looks him over, repeating his name in her mind. Toji, Toji, Toji... It has a nice ring to it.

“I know,” he drawls, a little cocky. “And you?”

She presses her lips together, as if debating whether to answer. Then, finally, she sighs dramatically. “I guess it’s only fair. I’m—”

A crash echoes from the back of the club, cutting her off.

Toji’s body tenses on instinct. He doesn’t even think—his hand goes to his waistband, brushing against the familiar weight of his weapon. Old habits die hard. With vigilant eyes he glances toward the noise, spotting some idiot getting shoved against a table, drinks spilling everywhere.

Just a bar fight. Nothing he needs to worry about.

But when Toji turns back, sweetheart is watching him with an unreadable expression. Not scared, not startled. Just… observing. Like she caught something interesting in that split second.

“You always this jumpy?” she asks, resting her chin on her hand.

Toji snorts, letting his shoulders relax. “Tch. Habit.”

She hums like she’s not fully convinced but doesn’t push. Instead, she picks up her plate again, casually continuing her meal.

Toji leans back, eyeing her with something akin to amusement and curiosity. “You’re real calm for a girl sittin’ next to a guy like me.”

She giggles. That sound again. Soft, light, so fucking out of place. “Maybe I just trust my gut,” she says simply, the prettiest smile on her face.

Toji raises a brow. “And what’s it tellin’ you?” In all honesty he's so confused by her. The soft, seemingly innocent way she looks, she's sweet and tender but isn't fazed by any of the maliciousness that radiates off of him. It freaks him out a bit.

She pops another fry into her mouth, then smiles at him like she’s got him all figured out. “That you’re dangerous, but not to me.”

Toji stares at her, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. Then, after a beat, he lets out a low, rumbling laugh. “Sweetheart, you got no idea what kinda trouble you’re askin’ for.”

"Ohhh I think I know exactly what kind of trouble you are, Toji." Her voice is like sugar to him, and he's waiting for the next time he gets to hear his name roll of her tongue in that candied drawl.

Toji watches her, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. This girl is something else. Most people—smart people—would have taken one look at him and kept their distance. But here she is, sipping her sugary drink like she’s not sitting next to a man who could snap her in half without breaking a sweat.

He leans in just slightly, elbows resting on the bar, voice dropping into something lower, something meant to dig under her skin.

“You got a thing for danger, sweetheart?” She must have if she's in a shady place like this, even if it's for their damn good lemon pepper and parmesan wings.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink back. Instead, she taps her fingers against her glass, girly acrylics making soft sounds against the cup. Long lashes fluttering, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Maybe,” she muses. “Or maybe I’m just good at knowing who’s worth being scared of.”

Toji huffs out a laugh. Cocky little thing. “And you decided I ain’t?”

"Yup, my intuition is telling me that I'm safe. Don't gotta thing to worry about when it comes to ya, I feel it in my heart," she places her dainty hand over her chest.

"That so?" Something inside of Toji softens as she says that.

She nods, completely sure of herself.

Toji leans back, his smirk slowly fading into a more genuine, intrigued expression. Her confidence in trusting him—of all people—was both surprising and... refreshing. It was rare for anyone, especially someone like her, to feel that way in his presence. Most people would’ve sensed the danger, the raw unpredictability that lingered around him. But not her. She was too calm, too sure of herself, and he couldn't quite figure out if that was a foolish move or the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

His gaze softens ever so slightly as he watches her, the flickering lights casting a warm glow on her face, making her seem almost untouchable. The contrast between them—the dangerous aura he exuded, and the sweetness she carried—was something he couldn't look away from.

"You sure about that?" he asks quietly, eyes locking onto hers.

She smiles that little, too-sweet smile of hers, the one that seems to carry a secret she’s not sharing, and nods again. “I trust my gut. It’s never wrong.”

Before he can press her further, the bartender swings by, wiping down the counter. “You botherin’ my best customer, Fushiguro?”

Toji barely spares the guy a glance, eyes still fixated on her. “Tch. She don’t seem too bothered.”

The bartender shakes his head, chuckling. “She’s here every week. Sits right there, eats her food, minds her business.” He glances at her, amused. “But looks like she made a friend tonight.”

Toji hums, rolling his glass between his fingers. “That right?”

She just smiles, unfazed. “Maybe.”

The bartender chortles, moving away, and Toji lets the silence stretch between them for a moment. Then he rests his chin in his palm, watching her with something between curiosity and amusement.

“You really come here for the food, huh?” Toji looks down to see her little feast, a bunch of appetizers. Wings and fried pickles, mozzarella sticks and fries.

She nods. “Mhm.”

He chuckles. “Not the entertainment?”

She glances toward the stage, where a girl is languidly spinning around the pole. “That too,” she admits, shrugging. “They work hard. It’s kinda nice to just sit and watch.”

"I don't think I've ever heard someone admire strippers in that kind of way," Toji chuckles again, shaking his head as he takes another sip of his drink. He’s starting to see her in a new light. Most people came to places like this to get lost in the chaos, to escape. But her? She seemed like she was here for the simplicity of it all, for the food and the show, without all the mess that came with it.

"It takes a lot of skill and strength to do something like pole dancing and stripping. Both physical and mental. Plus they dress really pretty," a small, admiring smile sits on her lips and she watches the girls dance on stage.

“You got a good head on your shoulders,” he remarks, watching her with a newfound softness. “You're too kind. Not many people like you would last long in a place like this, especially not alone. You don't seem like you belong here.” Toji's eyes flicker over her again. She looks fresh as a daisy, perfect in this place full of weeds.

She meets his gaze, her expression soft but unwavering. “Maybe I don’t,” she agrees. “But I like to think everyone belongs somewhere, even if it’s somewhere unexpected.”

Toji tilts his head, intrigued by her answer. Most people would be rattled by the place, maybe even scared, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t scared of him either. That was... new. “You really not worried about me?” he asks, leaning in just slightly.

She just smiles, a little mischievous now. “You don’t scare me, Toji. I told you. I trust my gut.” Something stirs in him at her words. A strange warmth mixed with a flicker of respect. Her confidence—it wasn’t arrogance, it wasn’t naive—there was something genuine about it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He leans back again, eyes never leaving her. “You're somethin' else, sweetheart.”

She grins, dipping a fried pickle into ranch, “Guess we both are.”

The night drags on, the club’s atmosphere shifting into something hazier, maybe even a little shadier. The lights dim further, the music slows, and the crowd thins to the usual stragglers—lonely men nursing cheap drinks, exhausted dancers collecting tips, sniffers going to do lines in the bathroom, and the occasional drunk stumbling toward the exit.

But she is still here. Sweetheart. Sitting pretty, sipping her drink, looking like she belongs in a cozy café rather than this rundown joint.

And Toji? He’s still watching her.

He isn’t sure why he hasn’t walked away yet. Maybe it’s the way she’s completely unbothered by him. Maybe it’s the way her voice lingers in the air, light and teasing, a stark contrast to everything he’s used to. Or maybe he just likes the idea of something soft sitting so close to something dangerous.

“So,” he muses, resting his forearm on the tabletop as he angles himself toward her. “What’s a sweetheart like you do when you’re not sittin’ in a place like this?” Toji had never cared to get to know people—hated it honestly—but he was oh so curious about what this pretty little thing does when she's not in an ugly place like this.

She hums, tapping her nails against her glass. “You mean, when I’m not eating overpriced wings in a strip club?”

Toji smirks. “Somethin’ like that.”

Leaning back slightly, her doe eyes flicker to the stage where one of the last dancers of the night is finishing up. “I work, go to school. I read. I go out sometimes.” She glances at him, lips quirking. “Nothing as exciting as whatever you do though.”

Toji's eyes widen for a split second before he chuckles, low and deep. “You say that like you know what I do.”

She tilts her head, playful but observant. “I have a pretty good guess.” Plump, pink lips wrap around her straw as she takes a long sip of the drink that's just as sweet as her.

“Oh yeah?” Shifting closer, Toji rests his chin in his palm. “Let’s hear it, then.”

A slow exhale leaves her lungs, watching him like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “You carry yourself like someone who’s always watching his back. You sit where you can see the whole room. You don’t like people sneakin’ up on you.” She twirls the straw in her drink. “You’re dangerous but controlled. Not reckless. So… I’d say you’re either in some very shady business, or you used to be.”

Toji just stares at her for a moment. Then, a slow grin stretches across his lips.

“Well, shit,” he mutters, letting out a short laugh. “Ain’t you a sharp little thing?”

She returns his grin, taking another sip of her drink. “So I was right?”

Leaning in, Toji's voice dips low. “Maybe.”

A satisfied hum vibrates through her chest. “Figured.”

The bartender passes by again, wiping down the counter, and Toji takes the opportunity to order another drink—for her this time. She blinks when the fresh glass is slid in front of her, tilting her head in question. It looks just like the shirley temple she was sipping on earlier, but lingers with the scent of vodka.

Toji just smirks. “On me, sweetheart.”

She raises a brow, but there’s amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh? And what do I owe you in return?”

Toji taps his fingers against the wooden table, watching her with something unreadable. “Just keep talkin’ to me.” Her lips curl, and Toji swears it’s the most dangerous thing he’s seen all night.

“Deal.”

The drink sits between her fingers, untouched for a moment as she studies him. The club hums around them, but Toji barely notices anymore. The distant bass, the murmured conversations, the occasional clink of glass—it all fades into the background. All he sees is her.

“So,” she starts, picking the vodka-soaked maraschino cherry out of the glass. “You gonna tell me one of those stories now?” Dangling it a bit, she takes a bite, the syrup and vodka dripping from her lip, which she quickly licks with a swipe of her tongue.

Toji smirks, resting his chin in his palm. It almost looks adoring, really. “That eager to know my business, sweetheart?”

Leaning in slightly, she mirrors his posture, her expression playful but steady. “You offered.”

Damn. She got him there.

He exhales through his nose, debating how much he wants to give away. He could make something up, spin a little tale, see if she’d buy it. But for some damn reason, he doesn’t feel like lying to her.

“Hm.” He rolls his glass between his fingers. “Alright. I’ll give you somethin’ light.”

She perks up, smiling as she props her elbow on the bar. “I’m listening.”

Toji lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he swirls the remaining bourbon in his glass. The amber liquid catches the dim light of the club, casting warm reflections against his fingers. “There was this job once,” he starts, his voice slow and unhurried, like he’s savoring the memory. “Some rich asshole wanted a guy handled. Nothing fancy, just in and out. Easy money.”

She hums, propping her elbow on the table as she watches him with interest. “And?”

Toji lifts his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a deliberate clink. His eyes gleam with amusement. “And it was easy… until the guy’s wife walked in.”

Chin resting in her palms, her brows lift, interest sparking in her expression. “Oh?”

Toji huffs out another chuckle, rubbing his jaw as if he can still feel the impact of what happened next. “Yeah. She was holdin’ a fuckin’ frying pan. Came swingin’ at me like she was in a damn action movie.”

Her reaction is instant—she gasps, covering her mouth with her fingers, but it does nothing to muffle the laughter spilling out. “No way.”

“Toji’s honor,” he says with a lazy smirk, lifting a hand like he’s swearing on it. “Damn near cracked my skull open. Had to duck real quick.”

She’s still laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous.”

He shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, love makes people do crazy shit.”

She tilts her head, resting her chin against her palm, still grinning. “And what happened after that?”

Toji snickers, rubbing a hand over his jaw before reaching for his drink again. “Left the guy tied up, made my exit, and let the missus deal with him.” He takes another sip, savoring the heat before adding, “Never took a job on a married man again. Too much trouble.”

She’s still grinning, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s actually kinda funny. You know, that kinda reminds me of this movie.”

"You talkin' bout Tangled, sweetheart?"

She blinks, caught completely off guard. “Wait—you’ve seen Tangled?” There’s a tinge of surprise in her voice, like she can’t quite picture him—a towering, scarred, broad-shouldered hitman—sitting through a Disney movie.

Toji shrugs like it’s no big deal. “’Course I did.” He glances down at his drink before muttering, “Really like that green fella, the lizard.”

Her lips part before a laugh bubbles up. “The chameleon?”

“Yeah, whatever the fuck he is.” He waves a hand dismissively before taking another drink. “I like ‘em.”

She shakes her head, still giggling. “I just… I can’t believe you sat through an entire Disney movie.”

Toji smirks, looking her over with a lazy kind of amusement. “What, big bad Toji can’t enjoy a damn cartoon?”

She grins, tilting her head playfully. “I dunno. Just figured you’d be more of a Godfather or Scarface kinda guy.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, even a guy like me needs somethin’ lighthearted every now and then.” He gives her a pointed look. “Not like I got a lotta folks sittin’ me down for movie night.”

Her smile softens just a little, something unreadable flickering in her expression. Then, she perks up, grinning again. “Well, since we’re already on Disney movies, I’m dying to know—what’s your opinion on The Lion King?”

Toji exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Ain’t even gonna start with that one. That movie’s got more family trauma than me.”

She bursts out laughing again, and for a second, Toji just watches her, something warm curling in his chest. He likes the way she laughs—soft but full, like she’s not just being polite. Most people look at him and see something to fear. Something sharp and dangerous. But her? She's over here talking Disney movies with him.

“So,” he finally drawls, stretching his long legs out. “My turn.”

Her laughter fades into a curious hum as she blinks, tilting her head slightly. “Your turn?”

Toji straightens just a bit, his elbows still resting on the table as his scarred lip curls up. “Yeah. Told you a story. Now you owe me one.”

She hesitates for the first time all night, lips parting slightly before pressing together. Toji catches it—the flicker of uncertainty, like she’s debating whether she should play along.

Then, after a beat, she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I don’t have any stories about frying pans and hit jobs.”

Toji chuckles, low and rough, shifting slightly in his seat. “I’ll take what I can get, sweetheart.”

She hums in thought, tapping her nails lightly against her glass before her gaze flicks back to his. There’s something playful there, something challenging. Then, after a moment, she leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to tell him a secret. “Okay… how about this?” Her lips quirk. “Once, I walked into a bar, and this really dangerous man bought me a drink.”

Toji snorts, shaking his head. “Real funny.”

She grins, clearly pleased with herself. “It’s still happening, so I haven’t figured out how it ends yet.”

There’s something about the way she says it—something light, teasing, but with just enough truth underneath to make him pause. He watches her carefully, studying the way she tilts her head, the way her fingers absentmindedly trace the condensation on her glass. There’s no fear in her eyes, no hesitation, just that same quiet curiosity that’s been there since the moment he first spotted her in this place.

“That so?” he murmurs amused, voice dipping lower.

She nods, slow and deliberate, lifting her glass slightly in a silent toast. “Guess I’ll just have to stick around and see.”

Toji huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his seat. Trouble. This girl is pure trouble.

The club is quieter now, the air thick with the lingering scent of alcohol and now faded perfume. The neon lights overhead flicker intermittently, casting an uneven glow over the bar. Most of the patrons have trickled out, leaving only the stragglers—some finishing their drinks, others too lost in inebriated conversations to notice the late hour.

Toji stretches, rolling his shoulders before settling back into his seat. He’s still watching her, the pretty little thing sitting across from him, grinning like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Like she isn’t sitting next to someone most people would cross the street to avoid.

He taps his empty glass against the counter once before looking at her. “Guess it’s gettin’ late, huh?”

Following his gaze to the clock on the far wall, her doe eyes slightly widen as she makes a soft noise of surprise. “Damn. I didn’t even notice.”

“Too busy enjoyin’ my company, sweetheart?” Toji can't help but smirk for the umpteenth time that night.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “You’re entertaining, I’ll give you that.”

He chuckles, running a hand through his dark hair. “Flatter me any more, and I might start thinkin’ you like me.”

Tilting her head, she watches him with that same mischievous glint she’s had all night. “And if I did?”

Toji holds her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He could play it off, tease her right back, but for some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the moment settle, the air between them thick with something unspoken.

Then, finally, he exhales, grabbing a few bills from his pocket and tossing them onto the counter. “C’mon. I’ll walk you out.”

She raises a brow. “What, afraid I can’t make it to the door on my own?”

“Nah,” Toji says, standing up and stretching lazily. “Just wanna make sure no one else tries to scoop up my company before I’m done with ‘em.”

An airy laugh leaves her lips as she shakes her head, but she slides off the stool anyway. As they make their way toward the exit, Toji’s hand naturally finds its place at the small of her back—not pushing, not pulling, just there. A quiet kind of possessiveness, the kind that says he’s keeping an eye on her, whether she needs it or not.

Outside, the night air is cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the club. The street is nearly empty, the distant hum of traffic the only real sound cutting through the quiet.

She takes a deep breath, looking up at the sky. “You know,” she muses, “I don’t usually stay out this late.”

Toji hums, lighting up a cigarette and taking a slow drag. “Yeah? What made tonight different?” He finally gets a good look at her. How tiny she looks compared to him, her arms wrapping around herself as she shields herself from the soft breeze of the late night.

She glances at him, something playful yet sincere in her expression. “Guess I just wanted to see how this story ends.”

Toji exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “And?”

She smiles. “Still figuring it out.”

Toji shakes his head, smirking as he flicks ash from the end of his cigarette. “You’re trouble, sweetheart.”

She grins, and Toji finds it fucking adorable. “Yeah, well… I think you like trouble.”

He chuckles, low and rough, before nudging her forward. “Go on, get home before you really start testing that theory.”

She takes a step back, watching him like she’s committing him to memory. Then, with a playful little salute, she turns on her heel and walks off into the night.

Toji watches her go, taking one last slow drag of his cigarette before huffing out a laugh. He realizes he didn't get her name, but he knew he wanted to get into just a little more trouble with his little sweetheart.

︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡

another meet cute but I triedddd to make reader more softer. keyword 'tried' bc I always love when she keeps up with Toji. oh whaleeee!

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 | Javier Pena x reader

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summary | Authority looks good on him, but you think he'd look ever better on his knees.

author's note | written for @wannab-urs’s DMAMC 2025. forever and always a special thank you to @murder-wife for the beta.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, sub!javier, dom!reader (but lbr, they’re both switch) obviously. reader has vague backstory (related to work), enemies to fwb, they fuck a lot oops, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), restraints, brat!javi as god intended, choking, coming untouched, edging for the greater good, amen.

word count — 6k

Javier Peña dominated every facet of his life.

Work. Home. It was no surprise with how easily he authoritates a room.

You’ve learned to mind your business at work, keeping to the file and lunch room. There, back, never anything less or more. It was a security net, a secondary salary unless your primary fell through—it hardly did, considering there was always dirt to dig up, but it was nice to have the additional income. One less stressor among the many. The road here had been long, sinuous and complicated and you were thankful for this overdue regularity in your life.

The one thing Javier hadn’t figured out about you was that you and him had more in common than he expected. Different sides of the same coin, you yearned for the control and command in whatever situation you found yourself in, liked the idea of you having power over the outcome. 

It was a high that you craved like nothing else.

“Morning,” He greets casually—you’ve known him for a distance for weeks now, only trading files in and out, turning in his paperwork, signing off on certain things without looking like a robot. Assess, find, file, repeat. It was monotonous, but it was easy, “what are we up to today, cups?”

That stupid fucking nickname. 

It was a running joke amongst your co-workers—he’d only caught on recently—watching how you plowed through a pot of coffee on your own, never re-using the same flimsy cup, always grabbing a fresh one. Your stack was only about six inches tall today, but you were running on mostly fumes.

“Fuck off,” You sneer, a lighthearted roll of your eyes, “this it?”

You yank the file from his grip as he spots the watch on your wrist—he analyzes, squints, grabbing your arm without acknowledgement as he speaks his mind.

“Pretty nice for a file clerk salary,” He frowns in consideration, “Cartier?”

He’s been prying recently. 

Javier didn’t have any evidence, but there was a deep suspicion. 

One, you were a mole—working for Escobar, infiltrating the DEA from the inside.

Or two, you were just a liar. 

Your story has never changed. You transferred from the states a few months ago. You were living at a small apartment in town that most of the staff seemed to hole up in during their transfers and long-term stays. Javier would occasionally catch you in the hallway, but he never talked. He was always pensive, stiff, odd.

You worked as a file clerk, did your job, and went home. That was it.

Except it wasn’t.

He’d figure it out. It would eat away at him until it did.

“It was a gift,” You retort, pulling your wrist from his grip as you sign on the paperwork inside the file and place it aside, fiddling with the jewelry on your wrist as you fit the watch back into place.

Also, not a lie. It was a gift…from a client.

You side eye him as he continues to stare before you finally get annoyed enough to bark at him.

“Are you lost, Peña?” You ask, “You’re holding up the line,” He peers over his shoulder at the few men that have gathered behind him, cigarettes perched on their lips and an expectation for him to hurry it up, “Keep it moving,” You tease with a nod of your chin.

He flicks at the stack of cups and sends them tumbling to the floor with a triumphant grin, watching as your mouth gaped, trying and failing to hold back the chuckle that rises in your chest.

It was a harmful back and forth—not quite enemies, not friends either.

Eventually, he finds himself with a dilemma. 

Weeks and weeks of nothing on the trail to take down Escobar and he’s grasping at straws, on edge, and you’re the easiest target for him to attack.

–

It was a simple trading of evidence for payment as you were gearing to make the drive home, helping out a co-worker under very specific terms that he wouldn’t approach you during work hours—he was almost positive his wife was cheating on him, begging you to dig up information on the supposed suspect. 

She was going on extended vacations for work, a traveling nurse with a bad habit of leaving evidence behind—though, with her, it seemed like less of a mistake than her poor husband thought it to be. Either way, you got the information and he handed the money over. 

It was one of the easier sides of your other job, less of a risk than running surveillance or being asked to break the law by government officials who were either corrupt or just desperate for information or a helpful break in a case.

Javier was being nosey, unfortunately. And you knew he was watching, turning your head to him as he approached when the coast was clear, cornering you at your door with a mere centimeter of distance between you both.

“Insubordination, really?” Javier bites, eyebrow raised in skepticism as he looks you over, not even a twitch of intimidation in your expression. “Carrillo would have your ass over this.”

You shake your head in amusement, pressing a gentle hand against his chest to shove him backwards, patting as if to console a child, “Javier, I don’t know what you think you saw, but you might need to take a break on these late nights at the office. They’ll drive you crazy.”

“Crazy?” Javier echoes, “Estás loca,”

There’s a certain jeer to his tone, stress collecting in his furrowed brow that helps you figure out where to attack, “Are you okay?” You ask with a serious tone, “Do I need to report you to Carrillo?”

“Traidora,” He remarks, “You think I can’t tell?”

You tilt your head in question, ignoring his own.

“I haven’t had a break in this shit in weeks, chasing a fuckin’ ghost—do you work for him?”

There it was, the lapse in judgment you were waiting for.

“Who is it?” You ask, “What are you after?”

He gives you a name, a subtle amusement to his tone like you should already know. It doesn’t immediately ring a bell and it shouldn’t, considering what he was accusing you of was the furthest thing from the truth.

“Carrillo knows what I do,” You tell him honestly, “So, go ahead. Tell him. I dare you.”

You knew it was a mix of work stress and whatever demons Javier was harboring in the backseat of his mind, a job that riddles you with guilt and what-ifs, it tends to boil over.

Whatever—you’d do him this one favor.

“Te verás estúpido.” 

It shuts him up, thankfully. 

–

You’ve got the file on his desk by eight o’clock the next morning—a long night of extensive research that led you toward a full file of usual information, whereabouts, alias, anything that could help out, even just a little. You’re pouring up a fresh cup of coffee when he spots it, dropping his bag into his chair and picking up the file like it was a spectacle, peering around all sides before he flips it open, a pink sticky note pressed into the first page.

His nose twitches, like a sniffle as he crumples up the note and shoves it into his back pocket, his eyes peering up to lock with yours from across the room, like he sensed your gaze. A smile gracing your face as you stirred your coffee, nothing out of the ordinary.

He approaches you near lunch, the file room emptying as people are heading toward the break room, but Javier catches you at the perfect time, back turned and he’s slapping the file on the desk behind you with a distinct clearing of his throat. 

“You wanna explain this?” Javier inquires, fingertips spread across the file as he slides it toward you.

You stare him down, a silent challenge as his hands settle against his hips.

You push the file back, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He digs the pink note from his pocket and flattens it out, turning over a closed file to match up the messy cursive handwriting, “Is that not your handwriting?”

You quickly snap the file closed and pick it up, shoving it into his chest. 

“Take the damn file, Peña,” You order him, a sheer darkness to your gaze that glosses over, compelling Javier to take the file without another word, “I’m not a traitor, okay?”

Javier chews at his bottom lip in thought, taking a quick glimpse through the file once more, impressed by the collection of information that has had him stalled for weeks, handed to him on a silver platter.

“You wanna grab lunch?” He asks casually, peering up at you from the file, a smile curling under his thick mustache, “My treat.”

“It fucking better be,” You remark.

–

It starts that way, a gradual comradery shared over lunch and late nights, moving from twenty-four hour dine-in spots to the comforts of your own apartments, trading off in a discombobulated schedule.

A big break in the case called for celebration, having finally caught the one member of Escobar’s entourage that they had been after for months, having been helping Javier behind the scenes with no expectation of credit, thankful that it didn’t intersect with much of your other work.

“So, is it usually cheating couples?” Javier asks curiously, shooting him a look of warning, “C’mon, chiquita, I’m curious.”

You shrug, closing the file as you tossed it aside, stretching back on the couch with your open beer in hand, enjoying the soft, plushiness of Javier’s couch.

“Family, sometimes,” You add, “And strangers, more often than you think.”

Javier makes a small hmph sound through closed lips, scratching as his cheek as his thumb circles the lip of the bottle, oddly reminiscent of something far too dangerous to allow your mind to wander towards this late at night, three bottles in, and sleep deprivation on the rise.

“Do you want me to walk you back?” Javier asks after a long period of silence, still repeating the same subconscious motion to the bottle as it sits between his thighs, legs outstretched and his left knee knocking against your own that were curled underneath you know.

“Give me a minute,” You murmur, eyes falling closed as down the rest of you beer and place it on the floor, your hand failing to support you as it slips from the cushion, sending you tumbling to the floor at Javier’s feet, laughing immediately at your drunken clumsiness as he leans forward in concern, placing the beer bottle on the table as he reached for you.

“Shit, you’re a sloppy drunk,” He jokes, subtly pushing your hair back to check for injury, a sudden charge to the air as you kneel between his legs, his chest hovering above, his tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip, “is it always that bad?”

You laugh again, a soft snort through your nose as you shake your head.

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” You remark, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he chuckles, the faint smell of barley on his breath as you’ve come to realization that not only had his hand stayed on your face, but the other had joined—it was a silent yearning that Javier couldn’t find the balls to act on, so you do it for him, “—are you gonna ask to fuck me yet or not?”

“Is that what you want?” Javier counters, “You want me to fuck you?”

“I mean,” His thumb grazed along your bottom lip, a subtle pull that has you rising to press the palms of your hands against his thigh, willing to crawl into his lap if he pulled you further into him, but instead you hovering back, a challenging gaze and smirk only our lips, “unless you want me to fuck you?”

Javier’s face pinches together in confusion, amused but still wholeheartedly confused.

“You didn’t say no,” You tease, another beat of silence as he remains undecided before you’re answering him, “yes—I want you to fuck me, Javi.”

And, god, does he.

It’s messy—sweaty, hot, sticky, and nothing near graceful.

Javier fucks like you expected he would—because, despite your best efforts, it had been a thought to cross your mind.

He ravishes, controls, demands. He’s insatiable and greedy, never enough. One orgasm, a second, a third before you’re begging, pleading for relief. He likes to work himself up—he gets you first with his fingers, then his mouth, eventually sliding the head of his cock against the seam of your soaked, oversensitive folds and catching against your entrance before he slides in with a deep, guttural groan. 

But, he can’t have all the fun. 

You eventually wrestle him into the cushions, on his back as he grips at your thighs, both of your hands clutched against the arm of the couch and the back, Javier entranced with you, his eyes showing as much amongst his needy, wandering hands. And he tries to hold off—he does, but his climax hits him with gusto, leaning up to levy the dominance between you both as he fucks up into you, his foot sliding to the ground to steady him, face buried in your chest as he comes inside of you, something you two hadn’t discussed beforehand and comes as an immediately apology from Javier, his cheek pressed against your breasts as you slump back into the couch, leaving Javier to catch his breath as he leaned against you.

“Don’t worry,” You assure him with a tired laugh, “I would have let you know if I wasn’t okay with it before you did it.”

Exhausted, Javier chuckles too.

It was the first of many late night meetings—some work, mostly play. Javier finds himself a little more emboldened as time goes on, interrogating you like a suspect after a long, eventful day.

“Javi,” You sigh, “your dick is still inside of me and you want to talk about work?”

Javier shrugs impishly from his position beneath you, sitting in his lap as he leaned against his headboard. 

He leans forward, pressing a wet kiss against the column of your throat before his kisses trail, teeth dragging against your neck followed by another wet, sloppy kiss. 

Well, now you were curious.

You grip his hair, a gentle tug to pull his head back to look at you, a profound glint in his eyes at the action.

Speak, you command silently.

“I’m just saying—if the FBI knew what you could do, they’d be killing each other to get to you,” He explains, “but you wanted to be a file clerk?”

“I like the ease of it,” You speak through the gentle caress of his hands over your ass, rocking your hips to a slow rhythm, “simple, uncomplicated—fuck, that,” You sigh, head falling into his waiting hand as he cradles your face, watching you through a half-lidded gaze as you start to succumb to the throes of pleasure, “feels so good—I just,” You blink through the haze, a little breathless as you speak, “working freelance, you know, off the books…it’s easier.”

“And risky,” He warns, “without protection—“

“Who said I wasn’t protected?” You smile, releasing your grip on his hair as he slowly flips you underneath him, pulling out briefly to adjust the duvet , kicking it down the bed as he slid into you, knees pulled high over his hips as he gripped the sheets beside your head, thrusting his hips at an impossible to focus pace.

“Be—besides,” You begin weakly and Javier offers a mocking laugh, low and full of pure adoration, even if he’d never admit it, “I’d get too pricey for you.”

“Oh, should I be paying you?”

You stop, a gawking look on your face as you steady him at his shoulders, pausing his movements, “Did you think fucking me was payment? Oh, bebé, no.”

Javier balks for a moment, in disbelief that his sexual expertise and suave looks suddenly weren’t as valuable as he thought.

“I’m fucking with you,” You tell him through gritted teeth, your hand curling around the back of his neck, eyes locked on his as you offered him a sultry smirk, a subtle twitch of your lips, “but, you do owe me.”

And he’d pay up, eventually.

—

Javier’s things start to take shape in your apartment without a word—a spare toothbrush for the nights he was too tired to leave, a spare set of clothes—maybe two. You also always had his favorite beer in your fridge and a spare pack of cigarettes sitting on top of your microwave. It was little touches, ignored and unaddressed but he was like a constant presence in your space.

You were more secluded, careful—but Javier didn’t mind.

He just gets comfortable, though you both had clear boundaries, a strict line that neither of you crossed.

Feelings, out of the question. 

And honestly? Not a problem.

Javier was a good friend and even greater fuck, but he would make a terrible partner, you both knew it.

And you can feel that urge, he wants that effortless, full submission that he won’t explicitly ask for—it’s what he used to, women falling so easily to their knees and begging for him, it, whatever he had to offer.

But, you see both sides of his personality. He could be commanding and in full control of a situation, but also had a tendency to let his guard down…just a bit, enough for you to pry your way in and settle there.

It was two battling personalities, one you’ve learned to subdue with a valiant effort, meld yourself to any situation, whatever was required.

Javier follows you back that day, disregarding his own apartment for yours, in a constant fog of distraction all day. Between the news, the ramping up of Escobar’s antics, and the pressures of the higher ups weighing on his and many others shoulders, he just can’t seem to find a way to relax. 

Even as you lay in bed, slung over him in your near nakedness, your white button up still covering your frame as he squeezes at the soft flesh of your hips, grinding you down against his cock, half-hard for the last fifteen minutes. He’s frustrated, evidently so.

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes, pulling away from your lips with closed eyes, rolling onto his back as he rubs his thumb and middle finger against his temples.

You’ve gotta pull his mind away, leaning up on your palms to follow him, raising your leg over his lap to straddle him.

He chuckles, reaching for his nearly empty pack of cigarettes, plucking one out lazily before he’s tossing the box aside, but you’re quickly snatching the cigarette away and tossing aside, pressing your hands against his chest with an expectant look.

“What the fuck?” He gawks, looking you up and down and toward the floor, watching you shrug in response. 

He moves to push up, but you push back, the distribution of weight giving you the upper hand as he falls back against the sheets, “Alright, real funny.”

“Close your eyes,” You urge him gently, obvious skepticism on his face but eventually he succumbs, throwing his hands up in defeat as he closes his eyes, suspicious to the various shuffling noises as you lean to the side, digging in drawer of your bedside table until you find the item you’re looking for, a distinct clink of metal that Javier recognizes too late, the metal tightening around his wrists and tangled through the loop of the bed frame slats.

“The fuck are these—” He shakes his fists, pointless, “did you sneak my cuffs out of the office?”

You shake your head, slowly unbuttoning your shirt, a clear distraction that Javier tries to fight.

“They’re mine,” You tell him, simultaneously enjoying the slow rock of your hips as it seems to have found a somewhat solution to his issue, wiggling underneath you at the movements, almost urging you to quicken your pace, insistent.

Javier cocks his head in both a show of question and defiance, pressing for more.

“What?” You feign innocence, peeling the fabric over the last button as you lean forward, cradling his face with your hands as you give him a slow, explorative kiss, your tongue slipping into his open mouth, chasing you as you pull away, “Citizen’s arrests are just as legal here as they are in the states, Peńa.”

“So, this is an arrest,” He counters, licking at his lips, tugging once more at the chains.

“Do you want it to be?” You tease, hands pressed against your thighs now, finding amusement at his obvious frustration, knowing that he was completely helpless in this situation.

“Tell me you have the key.”

Your eyes widen at the sudden realization, “Oh, fuck—”

Panic rises, but you quickly quell his worries, “Just kidding,” You reply with a chipper tone, picking the key up from the table while dangling it in front of his face, “you want it?”

Javier nods, yanking against the cuffs weakly.

You contemplate, face scrunching up as you think. 

“Are you sure?” You question, glancing down at the hard line of his cock defined in his jeans, rubbing your palm against the bulge in the denim, gently pulling at the button to pop them open, “I think you enjoy it.”

You place the key at the center of his bare chest, nodding toward it.

“Beg,” You tell him, voice steady and completely serious, the eerily void of emotion that has Javier thinking you might be joking, attempting to get a rise out of him, he laughs.

“You can’t be serious,” He says, but doesn’t explicitly ask.

Your eyebrows raise expectantly.

A battle of silence.

“Oh, I had that file I forgot the other day,” You switch topics, climbing off of him as you slip your unbuttoned shirt down your shoulders, revealing the bold colors and thin lace, material that hugged every curve of your body, a dark crimson red, sheer material leaving little to imagine—though, Javier had enough familiarity that he didn’t need to guess.

“Wait,” He interrupts, his hands balled into fists as you turn to him, one knee settling into the edge of the bed with the file in hand, looking at him….waiting, “come here,” He beckons, perking up as you toss the file aside and walk toward the head of the bed, fingers hovering over the key, “no—no,” He quickly interjects, “like—up here,” He explains vaguely, a weak attempt at asking you to sit on his face—he could come like that, he thinks. Eventually break you down enough. But, you remain ignorant to his demands, waiting for those specific words.

In the entirety of your midnight hook-ups with Javier he had never said please. It was a forbidden word in his vocabulary, far too confident and expectant, deserving to be knocked down a peg.

Besides, it was clearly working, the visible flush in his skin as you began to back away, his writhing against the sheets having shift his jeans further and further down his hips—never having been so thankful that Javier Peńa was a strict believer in going commando, silently helping the aid of his jeans down his legs with your bottom lip between your teeth, a predatory gaze and teasing touch at the inside of his thighs as you toss his jeans away, completely naked and at your control.

“Are you serious?” Javier asks, not an ounce of shyness when it came to his body, cock hard and leaking from the tip as he watched you turn, ignoring him as you grabbed the file and began to flip through, reading out the information as if he wasn’t even there, “Is this me owing you one?”

If there was one thing you knew about Javier, ignoring him was not the path to take.

Beg, your eyes demand.

Not a fuckin’ chance, his grimace retorts. 

You twirl in the spinning desk chair, skimming silently through the papers now as Javier startle to unravel, eventually leaving you to get antsy, wandering around your room to fix the curtains, fold and tuck away a few loose pieces of clothing, only acknowledgement the small grunt he makes as you turn your backside to him, ass in the air as you picked up the discarded cigarette from earlier—he’s never needed one so bad in his entire life.

You reach for his lighter, placing it between your lips as you ignite the flame and press it to the end, awaiting the amber glow before you toss the lighter aside.

“You don’t even smoke,” He gripes, “You want me to say please? Is that it?”

You pull the cigarette from your lips and listen, approaching him so your stomach was at eye level, flicking the cigarette in the ashtray you had purchased specifically for him and cigarette after sex ritual, and he sighs, “Please,” It’s deadpan and lackluster at best, but you appreciate the effort, “baby, seriously.”

You shake your head in dismay, stubbing out the cigarette as Javier frowned.

“I’m helping,” You remind him, “I mean, I got your mind away from work, didn’t I?”

It was a slow but eventual realization that, yeah, you had. A hard task for even him.

You slowly climb over him on the mattress, dragging your hand along his chest and down his stomach, fingertips gazing against his pelvic bone, resting against his thigh.

“So, you’re going to beg,” You explain, leaning close enough to his lips that he can taste the remnants of smoke on your breath, “and I want you to, really, really mean it.”

He feels vulnerable, he is—but, he’s just desperate enough that he’ll let it slide.

For you.

He’s quiet for a stretch of time, watching as you toyed with the idea of touching his cock, watching it twitch with the slightest of touch, feeling like one tug would have him coming in your hand, a pathetic whine to follow. But, he focuses, lips parting as you finally wrap your hand around his cock, velvety soft skin as you caressed the girth of him, neatly trimmed hair at the base the peeked up toward his stomach, his tan skin almost glowing under the soft yellow light of the room, knowing you were throbbing just as bad as he was, feeling the needy pulse under your palm as you jerk your hand slow, from base to tip and back, rubbing your thumb over the slit at the head of his cock, so tantalizing you could take him in your mouth right now and take the load of him down your throat.

“Baby,” His voice relaxed but his body telling you otherwise, “Oh, fuck—you gotta go a little faster, tighter,” He directs, and you apply a minuscule amount of pressure to tease, “like that, like that,” he chants, his chest rising and falling as his brow furrowed, yanking roughly against the chain, your eyes catching at the movement. They were loose enough to avoid any discomfort, you were careful. It was mostly mind games, if Javier wanted out he could probably slip his hands through with enough concentration, but he wasn’t focused on that. He was focused on you.

He’s getting closer, the staggered breaths and soft whimpers that were like melodies, desiring nothing more than to give into your own temptation and sink down onto his cock, riding him until he was mindless. 

You let go, much to his dismay, “Fuck,” He groans, eyes peeling open to look at you, “you enjoy this, don’t you?”

“A little,” You shrug, giving him a fair chance out, “do you want me to stop?”

“Where does that leave me?”

What are the consequences, he means.

“I’ll uncuff you, we’ll get dressed. I give you your file and you go home.” 

You reach for his face, rubbing your thumb along his bottom lip, the unavoidable twitch of his tongue as he instinctively licks, your own lips parting in desire, the enveloping heat of his both pulling the digit in.

“Or, you beg for it hard enough and I’ll let you fuck me.”

A real, authentic plea. That’s what you wanted. One derived from desperation and primal need.

You straddle his hips slowly, pulling at the tied bows at your hip keeping your underwear in place, pulling at the thin ribbon until they loosen and fall, balling up the fabric in one hand while you hook your hand in the strap of your bra, unfastening it with ease, tossing the garment aside completely.

You position your cunt along the shaft of his cock, silently tapping at his chin until he opens his mouth expectantly, shoving the discarded fabric of your panties into his mouth without a word, an obvious smirk on his face at the action as you try to stifle the short giggle at his eagerness to accept.

“I think you really underestimate me, Peña,” You taunt, canting your hips as it drags along his cock, coating it in the sticky slick that has gathered between your thighs at your own neediness, suffering in silence and wishing for him to break, nearly caving in yourself, “Stop being so fucking stubborn all the time.”

His eyes roll back as the bulbous head of his cock catches at your entrance, nearly slipping in at how easily you slide against him, raising his foot to the mattress in an attempt to do so, his remark muffled behind the fabric, that heady taste of you on his tongue.

He’d come if he wasn’t so frustrated, but he’s there—right fucking there, the pace of your grinding quickening as you grip the balled up fabric in his mouth, using it as leverage as his eyes squeeze shut, the familiar coiling in his gut that you recognize too, slowing down considerably as you rip the fabric from his mouth.

“Say it,” You demand, slightly breathless, “just say it, Javi.”

Fuck it, he can’t do this anymore.

“Please, bebé. Please,” He begs, “this is fucking torture.”

That was the tone you were looking for, the shakiness to his voice that oozed desperation.

You nod and he’s almost expectant that you’ll undo his cuffs and let him have his way with you, but that wasn’t the plan.

Instead, you sink down onto his cock without another word, a long drawn-out groan from Javier followed by your soft moan of satisfaction, riding him almost desperately, the sound of skin and against, the sticky heat and humidity of Colombia seeping through the open window of your apartments, you both nearly delirious with overdue release. 

His lip is pulled tight between his teeth, eagerly trying to match your hurried, erratic bounce of your hips as you claw at his chest, marks he’d admire for days to follow.

“Be realistic, baby,” He moans, “even like this you know that pussy belongs to me,” Your eyes flick up, greeted by the raise of his brows, tongue peeking between his lips with confidence.

Even now, he still has the nerve.

“Yeah,” You agree, egging him on with that salacious, vexatious tone, “Does it?”

He admires the slick mess at the base of his cock, angling your hips to grind down against him, cursing at his inability to grab and touch, flip you over and coax you into your climax with a twitch of his thumb, an easy fix.

Javier, unfortunately, was not a man to be tamed. 

He was yours, but he’s never been solely yours.

You were special, though. He knew that.

He just needed a refresher.

“Seems a little unfair,” You shrug, his impatience growing and evident, “don’t you think?”

Your finger drags up his chest, inch by inch until the full expanse of your palm encircles his throat, his chin lifting in silent permission.

“Say it,” You counter, “come on, Peña.”

He chuckles, the sly fucker.

“Tell me this cock belongs to me,” You whisper low, close to his ear as your teeth drag along his jaw, “—that no one can make you come like I do,” You squeeze at his throat, a weak noise falling from his lips as his eyes roll back, “ and how pathetic and needy you look when I let you come inside of me.”

You squeeze once more, gentle but demanding.

He squeaks quietly, yanking weakly at the chains, “It’s all yours, bebé—fuck, it’s—right there, it’s—”

“Beg,” You urge, his mouth parts, breathing increasing more rapidly as you echo yourself, his head nodding instinctively in a desperation for relief, “beg and you can come, Peña.”

He does, a plethora of please—baby, please falling from his lips as you slide off of him, allowing him to come untouched, watching his dick twitch wildly, come coating his stomach in thick spurts as he groans, throaty and wet, eventually falling slack on the bed beneath you as you undo the cuffs without a word, a soft whine releasing from his chest as he arms fall to his side.

It takes a while, several minutes, eyes closed with a gentle and repressive touch of your thumb against his forehead, brushing away a loose strand of his hair, waiting for the haze to wear off.

“How do you do that?” Javier asks, returning the touch as his hand wraps around your wrist.

“What?” You counter with a playful smile, his tired one spreading across his features.

“You’re like…some kind of bruja,” He jokes lightheartedly, “No one’s ever—I’ve never let someone take control like that.”

“You look really pitiful when you beg,” You tease, “it drives me insane.”

You soothe his ego with a kiss, leaning over him to reach for his pack of cigarettes, squealing as his arms pull you back, swatting the contents out of your hands, wrestling you back down into the sheets with ease, your own body fighting a similar exhaustion.

“I wasn’t wrong,” Javier remarks, “estás loca.”

He sinks between your legs without a word, reminding you that he wasn’t a man to be bested, fingers stuffed inside of you as he pumped with an expertise that came with familiarity, learning what made your body tick—Peña was goddamn expert.

He’d rendered you speechless, fingers gripping the sheets, wriggling and whining without a tangible thought on your mind, words lost.

“Pobrecita,” He mocks, “come on—use your words.”

You hum weakly, wistful but hard-headed, “Make me,”

Fortunately, like you, Peña was always up for a challenge.

-

dividers: @/saradika-graphics

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Lissamphibia - Urodela

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Order: Urodela

Common Name: “salamanders”

Families: 9 - Cryptobranchidae (“giant salamanders”), Hynobiidae (“Asiatic salamanders”), Ambystomatidae (“mole salamanders” and “Pacific giant salamanders”), Amphiumidae (“amphiumas”), Plethodontidae (“lungless salamanders”), Proteidae (“mudpuppies” and “Olm”), Rhyacotritonidae (“torrent salamanders”), Salamandridae (“true salamanders” and “newts”), and Sirenidae (“sirens”).

Anatomy: larval stage with gills, some aquatic species retain the gills as adults; basal tetrapod body form with a cylindrical trunk, four limbs, and a long tail; some aquatic species have reduced or absent hind limbs (image 3); moist smooth, velvety, or “warty” skin which is permeable to water and used in respiration; no claws; no ears or eardrums, but have an opercularis system allowing them to detect airborne sound

Diet: invertebrates and small vertebrates

Habitat/Range: only in the Holarctic and Neotropical regions; 1/3 of the known salamander species are found in North America, with the highest concentration found in the Appalachian Mountains region

Evolved in: Middle Jurassic; the oldest known stem-salamander (part of the clade Caudata) is Triassurus from the Triassic of Kyrgyzstan

Propaganda under the cut:

Salamanders are capable of regenerating lost limbs as well as other damaged parts of their bodies, including vital organs such as their heart, jaw, and parts of the spinal cord.

Due to their popularity in the pet trade, the Axolotl (Ambystoma mexicanum) is perhaps the most famous salamander. They are paedomorphic, maturing without undergoing metamorphosis into a terrestrial adult form, instead remaining fully aquatic with obvious external gills. They resemble larvae of the occasionally paedomorphic Tiger Salamander (Ambystoma tigrinum). Critically endangered in the wild, they originally inhabited a large lake in the Mexican highlands known as Lake Texcoco, along with a number of smaller, interconnected lakes such as Lake Xochimilco and Lake Chalco, and were abundant enough to form a staple in the Aztec diet. These lakes were mostly drained by Spanish colonists after the conquest of the Aztec Empire, leading to the destruction of most of the Axolotl's natural habitat, which is now largely occupied by Mexico City. Due to continued urbanization in Mexico City, which causes water pollution in the remaining waterways, as well as the introduction of invasive species such as tilapia and perch, the Axolotl is nearly extinct. Six adult Axolotls (including a leucistic specimen) were shipped from Mexico City to Paris in 1863, where French scientists began studying them. They were found to be able to regenerate body parts, could be artificially induced to metamorphosize, and were hybridized with Tiger Salamanders. Their success in scientific research has also led to them being prolific in the pet trade, and one restaurant in Japan even sells fried Axolotls as a menu item. Despite their large population in captivity, these Axolotls are inbred and often contain Tiger Salamander genes, and can not contribute to the tiny population of pure wild Axolotls. Lake Texcoco and Lake Chalco no longer exist, so they are native only to the freshwater lake Xochimilco, which remains a remnant of its former self, existing mainly as canals. Only 2 wild Axolotls were spotted in 2013, after months of searching. Currently, the Lake Texcoco Ecological Park is being established to restore natural spaces to Mexico City, and hopefully provide a home for the Axolotl and other Mexican biodiversity.

The similarly critically endangered Anderson's Salamander (Ambystoma andersoni), from Zacapu Lagoon in the Mexican state of Michoacán, is one of the few species of living amphibians to occur in brackish or salt water.

Salamanders of the family Plethontidae have tongues that reach up to 80% of their body length, are attached to their skeleton, and fire ballistically at prey in less than 20 milliseconds.

Slimy Salamanders (Plethodon glutinosis) do not lay their eggs in water, so they stay near them to keep them from drying out, as well as to defend them from predators.

The largest living lissamphibian is the South China Giant Salamander (Andrias sligoi) (image 2), with the largest known individual having been 1.8 m (5.9 ft) long. It is critically endangered due to habitat loss, pollution, and overcollection, and its use in traditional medicine and status as a delicacy has led to it being farmed for meat. It is hoped that this will take the heat off the wild salamanders, though wild salamanders are still often caught to bolster breeding populations in meat farms. It is unknown if any South China Giant Salamanders still exist in the wild, and those on farms are likely hybridized, as Andrias species are often caught indiscriminately and are able to interbreed. Of the known individuals that survive in zoos, all are males, and are nearing the end of their natural lifespans.

The Eastern Newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) is perhaps best known for its striking, land-dwelling juvenile stage which is colloquially called a Red Eft. Eastern Newts have three stages of life: the aquatic larva/tadpole, the terrestrial Red Eft, and the aquatic adult. Having a terrestrial juvenile stage allows young Eastern Newts to disperse to new ponds. They will spend 2-3 years in the Red Eft stage before choosing a pond and transforming into an adult.

The Olm, or Proteus (Proteus anguinus) (see gif above), is an paedomorphic cave-dwelling salamander, and the only exclusively cave-dwelling chordate found in Europe. It is entirely aquatic, eating, sleeping, and breeding underwater, as well as adapted for life underground in complete darkness. The Olm's eyes are undeveloped, leaving it blind, while its other senses, particularly those of smell and hearing, are more acutely developed. They can also sense both electric and magnetic fields. They have unpigmented skin, but will develop color if exposed to weak light for a few hours a day. They can live to be 100 years old, and go for years without food. This slow metabolism allowed one tracked Olm to stay in same spot for over 7 years! In the 1600s, Olms washed up from the underground waters were believed by local people to be the offspring of a cave dragon. The Olm is a symbol of Slovenian natural heritage, and was depicted on the Slovenian tolar coin, as well as being the namesake of the oldest Slovenian popular science magazine, Proteus, first published in 1933.

[vivid-dreamscapes]

Can I make a request please? KiriBaku or just Bakugo (if your not a fan of poly 🙈) noticing y/n hasn't been eating, suffering from ED since she was young but something triggered it again. I read one fairly recently and as someone struggling with the same issue, it just hit me in all the right places. I totally understand if you give this a hard pass since it can be triggering for others. Thank you

Yes, ofc! Ty for the request, and I’m happy to write this! I hope it can help bring comfort to people struggling with eating disorders. ❤️‍🩹

Kiribaku x Gn!Reader

Tw: Eating disorder, angst, cursing

Bakugou wanted to kill Mineta. He wanted to put a palm in his face and let out the biggest fucking explosion he could even muster. The only reason he hadn’t yet was because Kirishima reminded him that you probably didn’t want attention brought to you. And because, you know, potentially killing a classmate was a horrible idea.

It had all started two weeks ago, on a Wednesday. It had been your turn to make dinner for the class that night, and after a lot of studying, you were too tired to prepare a full-on meal. So, making a quick stop to the convenience store at the base of the hill UA was perched on, you made a bowl of instant ramen for every member in class 1-A.

Sure, you added certain vegetables, spices, eggs, or other ingredients to certain people’s bowls to make them a little fancier. But it was low effort, and honestly? Instant ramen didn’t sound too bad to 1-A either. Who wouldn’t want something so simple after one of the most hardcore week of training this semester?

Once you had set out everyone’s bowls, you sat down to eat your own. You had just been happily talking with Eijirou about some new move of his, when Mineta finally came and joined the group dinner.

“…wow [name]. Instant ramen? Is this what you eat regularly, cause that would explain why Mina looks skinned next to you.”

Instantly, Mina threw her fried egg at his face, shouting at him about how wrong he was, and how he’d really crossed a line. Everyone actually started yelling at him and defending you. But honestly…you didn’t even notice. You just stared at the food in front of you, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite.

And following that night, you’d slipped into an unfortunately all too familiar pattern. Checking the food labels. Eating the bare minimum. Checking the weight scale. Skipping out on meals.

The worst part? Nobody noticed. Not one person. You pushed it off as anxiety. Blamed it on the protein bar you told everyone you ate at the school gym earlier. That protein bar was never actually there. You said the meds you were taking came with loss of appetite as a side effect. You said you were fine.

It wasn’t until a couple nights ago, when it was Katsuki’s night to make dinner, that he finally took notice. The thing about your boyfriend…he’s a good fucking cook. And he damn well knows it. So he usually doesn’t give a shit about whether or not people like it.

But you and Eijirou are different. You’re his partners, his significant others. He wants you to like his food, craves your validation. So when he sees you barely ever touch his Horumonyaki, he’s kinda pissed.

“Oi.” He said, and you looked up form the napkin you had been fidgeting with. “Don’t like it or somethin’?”

“Oh no, Katsuki, it’s really good.” You said quickly, flashing him a nervous smile, which you disguised to be sheepish. “It’s just a bit spicy for me.”

Bullshit. He didn’t add any spice tonight because stupid Racoom Eyes kept complaining about how he always made his dinners, ‘too damn spicy’.

But he didn’t press anymore. He just told Eijirou. And for the next few days, they watched. They watched you eat lunch. They watched you eat snacks. They watched you eat breakfast, and they watched you eat dinner.

They watched you eat.

Or rather…

They watched you…not.

Until today. They decided they needed to do something about this. So they waited for the elevator to reach the floor your dorm was on. Katsuki had his fists clenched at his side, foot tapping impatiently. Eijirou looked at him in concern, placing a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

Once the entire door opened with a Bing, Katsuki stormed over to your dorm, Eijirou jogging in surprise to catch up.

“Oi!” Your angrier boyfriend of the two shouted, pounding on your door. “Open up idiot!”

“Katsuki, maybe they don’t want to be approached so aggressively.” Eijirou said, trying to reason with his explosive partner.

Regardless, you opened the door with a tired sigh. Your eyes were a little red rimmed, form being tired or having been crying, they couldn’t tell.

Originally, Katsuki had planned on giving you a very loud lecture and telling you that Mineta was fucking blind, and was spewing shit from his mouth. But seeing you so low, so out of energy, so…sad. It made him pause. And before he knew it, he was stepping forward, embracing you tightly.

You stumbled back a little in surprise, eyes wide before hugging him back. Eijirou quickly joined in on the hug, shutting the door to your dorm so nobody could spy on this personal, private moment.

So, after some gentle persuasion, you told them everything. How you’d struggled like this before. How you’d even trapped in this dark place for years, and had only been able to leave it a few months before coming to UA.

“I thought I was done with this.” You said through your tears, fists clenched on your knees. “I thought I was past this. God, it’s so stupid, and childish, and-“

“Hey, hey, hey.” Eijirou quickly cut you off, putting a hand on one of your trembling fists. He gently rubbed a calloused finger over your knuckles, giving you a soft look. “Nothing about this is childish. People having eating disorders though all ages in life, and not one of them is any more or less valid then the other.”

“Yeah, and not one of them is necessary.” Katsuki scoffed, and Eijirou threw him a look. “What?” The blonde asked gruffly, taking your other shaking fist in his two larger hands. “I mean that there’s no need to be so worried. Every body is beautiful. Just because one person says someone body looks one way, doesn’t mean the next person is going to see it the same way. And maybe they do. But maybe they find it attractive.”

You wiped a stray tear, trying to keep yourself from breaking down again. “B-But Mineta said-“

“Oh, Mineta said this?” Katsuki said, voice suddenly dark and angry. “Ohoho, I’m gonna fucking murder that little shit.”

Eijirou shot his boyfriend another warning look before rubbing your arms gently. “Listen, what Mineta said was out of line, and untrue. Remember when he called Jirou ugly? She’s not ugly, is she?”

You looked at him before shaking your head, wiping your eyes as your bottom lip grumbled a bit. “No. She’s really really pretty.”

“Exactly.” The redhead said with a smile, tilting his head. “So we already know Mineta’s judgment is pretty clouded.” He smiled, his words eliciting a laugh from you. He held up his hand, hardening it with his quirk. “Here. Squeeze it as hard as you need too, it won’t hurt.”

So you took his hand and squeezed the shit out of it, letting off some tension you hadn’t even noticed was in your shoulders. Smiling, you pulled back.

“Better?” Eijirou asked, and you nodded. Smiling, he and Katsuki scooted closer to you from both sides, wrapping their arms around you.

“We’re here for you every step of the way, [name].” Katsuki said gruffly, wiping a tear away with a rare smile.

Eijirou smiled and nodded, hugging you tighter. “We’re going to help you get through this. You’re not alone.”

!Not proofread!

Requests welcome and wanted! :)

[lazysoulwriter]

how i met your wifey ── pedro pascal .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff / wife!reader / bestie!Sarah Paulson / chaotic IG live / marriage origin story / soft teasing + drive-thru shenanigans

Sarah’s phone is angled just right, catching the golden late-afternoon sun slicing through the car windows.

Pedro’s driving. You’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses perched on your nose, humming softly to the radio. And Sarah’s in the backseat, legs curled up, sunglasses on, Live flashing in the corner of her screen.

“Okay, so listen,” she says, already giggling. “Everyone’s always like, ‘How did Pedro and his wife meet?’ and technically I introduced them—so I’m taking credit for this marriage until the day I die.”

Pedro glances at her in the rearview. “We’ve talked about this. You're not allowed to say that unless you also take credit for the arguments.”

“I will, gladly,” Sarah grins. “I’m part of the origin story.”

“She really is,” you say, glancing at your husband with a teasing smirk. “Go on, tell them. The whole story.”

Sarah leans in like she’s about to drop the greatest tale ever told.

“Okay. So. I had a party—casual, low-key, some wine, some fancy cheeses Pedro refused to pronounce���”

“They were French!” he defends, drumming the steering wheel.

“—and then this goddess walks in,” Sarah says, pointing the camera dramatically at you. “Looking all effortlessly hot. And Pedro just—froze. Like, full statue mode.”

“He didn’t talk to me the whole night,” you add, turning to smile at him.

“I panicked!” he cries. “You were so pretty and cool and I was sweating through my damn flannel!”

Sarah cackles. “So I had to do the work. The next day, I texted her like, ‘Hey, my friend Pedro thought you were cute but he forgot how to speak. Can I give him your number?’ And the rest is history.”

“And now I’m married to him,” you say, holding out your hand to show off your ring to the camera. “Because Sarah Paulson plays cupid when she’s drunk off rosé.”

Sarah flips the camera to show herself, grinning. “I am, in fact, the love witch of Los Angeles. You’re welcome.”

As if on cue, the car rolls into a drive-thru.

“Babe, you want anything?” Pedro asks you as he leans toward the speaker.

You rattle off your order, then Pedro tilts his head back toward Sarah. “You want something?”

“Yes!” she yells. “Uh, fries, large, and a vanilla shake please. And maybe a little burger if you’re feeling generous?”

“You're worse than my niece,” Pedro mutters, reaching for his wallet.

“I feel like your kid right now,” Sarah announces to the live. “Riding in the backseat, playing on my phone like a damn iPad kid, and getting drive-thru food from Mom and Dad.”

You laugh so hard you nearly drop your phone.

Pedro just grins. “That makes us the hot divorced parents everyone still ships.”

Sarah snorts. “I hate how true that sounds.”

And in that warm little car, with the smell of fries already filling the space and three lives tangled in love and laughter, the comments roll in:

the holy trinity of chaotic love, I want this life, Sarah Paulson IS the blueprint, Pedro and his wife being that couple makes so much sense now, can I be your other kid pls

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✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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