God I Love This Show.

i wanna take a bite out of him

ℙ𝕆𝕍: 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕥 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝔹𝕠𝕪𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕠𝕓 𝕀𝕤😫

This.

JAIME REYES MY BELOVED I LOVE HIM SO MUCH GUYS YOU DONT UNDERSTANDD

When y’all start writing those sinners fics, make sure y’all don’t forget Bo Chow’s fine ass 🙂‍↕️

ANGEL’S NAVIGATION STATION

　☆ Angel

☆ she/her, 19

　☆ (n)sfw + (multifandom × reader writer) // 18+ MDNI (Please i beg)

　☆ links - rules / masterlist / tags

* ┉ˏ͛ ༝̩̩̥͙ ⑅͚˚　　 ҉　　⑅͚˚ ͛༝̩̩̥͙ ˎ┉

•requests : open

•asks : open

• thirsts: open

* ┉ˏ͛ ༝̩̩̥͙ ⑅͚˚. 🌊　　 🌺 🐚　　⑅͚˚ ͛༝̩̩̥͙ ˎ┉

Imagine hating on me but i spend my free time maladaptive daydreaming about getting raw dogged by fictional men

Light On

summary: when you reach out to joaquin waving the white flag, you realize how broken he's been.

pairing: touch starved!joaquin torres x ex!f!reader

contents: exes to lovers, food and alcohol mention, angst, canon typical trauma/trauma responses, get back together fic, kissing

wc: 1,988

an: i combined my idea for touched starved!joaquin with this request about yearning. sorry it took so long anon and i hope you like it <3

danny ramirez characters masterlist

He’s late to the housewarming. Not by much, but enough that he has to squeeze through a half-shut gate and slip past a crowd already buzzing with drinks and music. His shoulders still feel tight from the last mission—three cities, too many close calls, and not enough sleep. He almost didn’t come.

But when he saw your name at the top of the invite sent only to him, group chat, no passive-aggressive message he could say no to you. 

It read simple and gave him a glimmer of hope:

I hope you can come. it’s not a trap. peace offering. 

He doesn’t deserve the invite or your kindness, not after how he’d withdrawn so abruptly 8 months ago. He thought ending things before he could truly disappoint you or worse— scare you with one of his missions was the right thing to do. But now he can’t convince himself that this invite isn’t some sort of chance to at least make things right. Better.

Inside, the lights are warm, soft, glowing off glasses and muted green walls. There’s someone laughing in the kitchen, someone singing too loud on the patio. He catches a glimpse of you through the open door—perched on the porch bench, the setting sun’s rays on your cheeks, telling a story with your hands. 

Joaquin’s heart stutters.

 Just the sight of you makes him feel like it’s been an eternity. He hadn’t forgotten how beautiful you are but clearly he had let the weight of it slip away to protect himself. 

You look up, like you feel him before you even see him. And when your eyes meet, something in his chest aches. That’s all it takes for everything he’s been trying to outrun to come flooding back. 

How safe and understood he felt when the two of you did nothing but lay under the clouds. How warm his heart got at the sound of your laughter. How easy it was until he got into his head about being right for you. 

You smile at him. 

It’s not the same smile as before, but it’s not cold either. Cautious and familiar, but no less warm. Because you’re happy to see Joaquin, but now in the face of him you’re afraid everything you’ve worked for will come crumbling down. 

“Hey,” you say softly, walking inside from the deck toward him with a drink in hand. Your voice is light but not performative as you try to play it cool. “Llegaste.”

He nods. “Yeah. I couldn’t—yeah.”

You don’t hesitate. You step right up to him and wrap up your arms around his middle. It’s causal, natural and despite your past, you don’t even think about the possible impacts. 

The simplicity of it all hits him like a wave.

He stiffens for just a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. Like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched gently, without purpose or urgency. Or violence. Then his arms come up slowly, almost uncertainly, and he lets himself hold you—just enough so that it’s not awkward. Not enough for everything he wants.

One of your hands slides up his back once, rubbing tenderly. It’s a tiny gesture but he swears he could cry.

“Estas bien?” you ask, pulling back just enough to look at him.

He nods again, softer this time. “Ahora sí.”

You try not to show that his words affect you, simply giving him the best smile you can before untangling yourself from him. Gesturing for him to follow you, you make your way into the kitchen fishing out a beer and handing it to him. “Here.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours, and his grip tightens on the bottle like it’s an anchor. “Thanks.”

Later, after a few brief hellos and introductions, you sit beside each other on the porch. He’s barely touched his beer but neither of you have noticed. 

There’s easy conversation on your part, starting with how you found the house and decided it was the one you wanted. You tell him about the chaos in the kitchen earlier tonight, a spilled pitcher of sangria. About the neighbor who brought way too many folding chairs.

He barely says anything, he simply listens. Listens like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he blinks, like he’ll wake up from a dream. 

He watches the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way your knee bounces when you’re excited. The way you don’t flinch being this close to him, how you lean closer. You aren’t afraid to touch him, a nudge of shoulders here, a brush of his knee there when you say something funny.

 It seems like it comes easy to you and god, has he  missed this.

“I miss this,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the beer bottle in his hands. Then, after a breath: “I miss… you.”

There’s several beats of silence. He doesn’t have the heart to look up at you, to see the surprise on your face.

You look at him, cheeks warm, stomach twisting with anticipation. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that when he was the one that ended things the way he did. 

When you speak again your voice is quiet but firm. “Not here.”

Even then, you touch his knee—just a brush of your fingers—but it feels like a jolt. He follows you without thinking.

You lead him down the back steps, past string lights and potted herbs, to the edge of the backyard. There’s a small pond there, still and starting to glow under the emerging moon. 

You’re a ways away from everyone else. It feels like you're a world away, a veil falling between you and Joaquin and the world. Everything else is muffled, distorted. It’s just the two of you. 

You turn to face him, your eyes guarded. “I miss you too,” you say. “I never stopped wanting this. You were the one that…”

His chest tightens, but before he can reach for you, you add—gentle, but unwavering:

“But, I’m not doing that again. I’m not getting close just to watch you disappear when things get hard. If you want me—really want me—then you have to stay. You have to try.”

He swallows hard, the words sitting heavy between you.

You can see, nearly hear the gears turning in his head. There’s conflict, something soft and something so scared in his eyes as he lets your words sink in. You step forward then, and when your arms wrap around his shoulders, he goes completely still. There’s a breath he doesn’t take. A flicker of disbelief in his eyes. Like your touch might vanish if he moves too fast.

This time you notice.

“Què te pasa? Hmm, baby bird?” You ask tenderly and it breaks something open in him. 

Slowly, shakily, he lets go of the tension. He leans in—into you—and his arms finally wrap around your waist. His hold isn’t tight, but you can feel the starved urgency in his fingertips. 

His face presses into your shoulder, and the sound he makes is quiet, but wrecked. A broken exhale like it’s the first breath he’s taken in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I thought I was doing right by you. Letting you go. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You hold him tighter, and his grip flinches like he’s not used to being held back.

“I know,” you say softly, your hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders under your touch and your heart squeezes again. “I know, baby,” you assure him gently.

You brush your lips against his temple, and he tenses just slightly at the contact—like it overwhelms him. His breath hitches, grip tightening around your hips like he’s afraid to let go now that he’s here in your arms.

“Next time,” you murmur, fingers sliding further into his hair, “you just talk to me.”

He nods into you, arms wrapping so tight around you, holding on like this might all slip away.

You stay like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other, warm and quiet. Until the party noise fades into background hum and there’s only moonlight and the hush of the pond.

Eventually, you both sit in the grass, your shoulders brushing. He finally starts to talk to you, to tell you everything he’s endured. Why he pulled away and what plagues him now; months apart and they’re still the same thing.  

He talked about the missions. The pressure. The exhaustion.

About how he didn’t know the full effect of what it was doing to him until he stepped back into your orbit and felt seen again.

Your fingers drift over his hand as he speaks. When he falters, you gently trace one of the faint scars on his knuckles. He goes completely still at the contact—like even that touch is more kindness than he’s used to.

“You have to take better care of yourself,” you say with a half-smile, nudging him gently. “Or I’m calling Sam.”

That finally earns a real laugh—small, tired, but real.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” you tease. “I’d guilt him into dragging your ass back here for a proper nap and a shower.”

He nudges your knee with his, smiling. You both fall quiet; it’s comfortable.The pond glows beside them. The world slows down.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s on borrowed time.

He just feels… held. Seen and understood. Like he’s home, in a way that matters.

—

Later that night, after most of the guests have left and the house is dim and quiet, he helps you carry in the empty bottles and leftover snacks. The porch lights hum low behind them, and the kitchen smells faintly like lime and basil and whatever candle someone brought as a gift.

You’re both barefoot now, toes brushing the tile. He hands you the last bowl and leans against the counter like he doesn’t want to leave.

You sense it immediately, glancing over at him. “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just… don’t want this to end.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. You step closer, fingers brushing his wrist, and this time he leans into the touch like he needs it to breathe.

“So don’t let it,” you murmur. “Don’t push me away again.”

He swallows. “Would it be too fast if I said I want to see you tomorrow?”

You smile deepens. “Are you asking me on a date, Lieutenant?”

Joaquin grins, soft and sheepish. He finally looks like himself. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well then,” you say, stepping in and tilting your chin up, “you better kiss me goodnight properly.”

You don’t give him time to overthink it. You press your lips to his—soft and warm, lingering just enough to make his breath catch. He kisses you back like he’s still afraid he’ll mess this up, but you thread your fingers through his and holds him close.

When you pull back, he exhales shakily.

You tap your fingers lightly against his chest. “Pick me up at seven. And wear something that says ‘I’ve stopped being emotionally unavailable.’”

He throws his head back with laughter, then groans like that’s going to be a real task. “That narrows my wardrobe down to, like, one shirt.”

Gripping his shirt playfully, you pull him a little closer. “Then wear it.”

Somewhere between getting home and putting his phone on the charger, Joaquin sees the text from Sam. Seems you had followed up on your threat to tell Sam about tonight. 

Sam: I heard you finally stopped being stupid.

Joaquin stares at it for a second before the typing bubble pops up again.

Sam:Bout damn time. You owe me twenty bucks. And a six-pack.

He shakes his head, smiling down at the screen. His reply is simple:

Worth it.

And when he turns off the light and sinks into bed, his heart is full.

let me know if you'd like to be on sfw joaquin torres taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

i have had THE MOST tiring week of my life ( that may be an exaggerated statement but idgaf) and i don’t even get to rest this weekend..

I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE!!

FUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK i got tomorrow tomorrow

ouhhh that hurt

hey um :3 where do you hold your love?

in your heart

you hold your love in your heart. love is intrinsic, inevitable, love is the beating core of everything; love is also hard to talk about. your love comes out with more rareness, mostly shows up for the big things in a big way- this doesn't mean it doesn't beat for the small stuff, you feel it all, in fact you feel it more intensely than most which is why it's so hard to get out. you hold your love inside you because it matters, it might be the only thing that does.

omg can i request a jacob scipio Imagine where him and reader kinda get into an argument because of the reader being insecure and stuff😀 i want something angst but at the same time fluffy 🥹

A/n : Thanks for the request anon!! i am trash at writing angst but i tried my best 😭 Hope you enjoy !! <3

INSECURE | JACOB SCIPIO

Warning! Poorly written angst with a lil bit of fluff.

She looked down at the tiny bikini that she had bought a few days prior while shopping with her friends. Y/n and Jacob were going on a trip to The Maldives in a week and she was packing her stuff waaay in advance, just to make sure she had everything.

The bikini seemed to taunt her as she thought about the way she looked when she tried it on. She hated it. Her friends said she looked great and she was convinced to buy 5 more. Now she was staring at them as she realised just how much she hated the way they made her look.

“Baby, what do you want for dinner? I was thinking pizza but i’m not so sure.” his voice was gentle coming from the doorway, his focus slowly shifting towards the piles and pules of clothes that littered their bedroom. He had then noticed that Y/n was sat on the edge of the bed, the hot pink bikini she had bought a few days ago held tightly in her hands.

“Babe?” he spoke again, trying to get her attention. she looked up at him trying desperately to fight back the tears that gathered in her eyes.

“Baby, whats wrong.” he panicked as he saw her eyes, so full of tears.

He moved towards her, kneeling and cupping her face in his palms. She bit back as sob as she looked deep into his eyes.

“I can’t do this Jacob.” her voice wavered as her bottom lip began to quiver. He looked down at the bikini top, his head cocking to the side in confusion. “Can’t do what, my love?” he answered softly, his thumb caressing her cheek and catching a stray tear.

“I can’t wear these stupid bikinis. I look awful in them!” she snapped, thinking about how she had looked in the bathroom mirror, after being convinced to buy them.

“I look like a whale in them! My arms look huge and my boobs don’t sit right in the top and don’t even get me started on my stomach. I look horrible, J!” she sobbed uncontrollably, spewing her opinions on how her body looked in the garments. Jacob almost cried with her.

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true!”

“No it isn’t.”

“I look disgusting.”

“Please don’t insult my wife like that.” was the final thing he said before she looked back up at him, seeing the hurt in his face. She couldn’t help the way she thought about herself. Sometimes she was kinder to her body, but times like this she wished it looked different, that she was different.

“Y/n, please look at me. I love you. And before you say anything just listen to me. Can you do that for me?” he asked, lifting her chin so that she could meet his eyes again. She nodded slowly, sniffing and blinking back her tears.

“You are the most beautiful woman i have ever met, and i’ll be damned if i let you talk about MY wife like that. My wife, the woman i chose to be with till death do us part. So what if your arms look huge or your boobs don’t sit right? You’re beautiful to me and always will be.”

“But people will stare at me.” she whispered, her eyebrows furrowing. “Well when you look as gorgeous as you do people are bound to stare. Your body is perfect to me and i hope that one day you’ll see yourself the way that i do.” he concluded, placing a sweet kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you, J. But i still don’t feel comfortable being so exposed.” she mumbled, shuffling a little. He placed his hand on hers and brought it to his lips, kissing the skin in reassurance. “Well then we will buy some new stuff, whatever it takes for my beautiful girl to feel as beautiful and sexy as she looks.” he smiled playfully, the soft glow of the setting sun peeking through the blinds and illuminating his face.

“What did i do to deserve you?” she smiled. their foreheads touching.

i’m tipsy~