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milla-frenchy · 1 month

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Glory O

2k1 | Javier Peña x fem reader x Steve Murphy | ao3 Summary: you work in a brothel, and two guys want to try something new Warnings: 18+ mdni. pwp. Glory hole, sex work, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering, jacking off, spitting, piv, cumplay, creampies, gun threat (not against reader) No age specified. a/n: thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta reading 💕 and @toxicanonymity for the spanish translation🖤

Masterlist

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“Let’s try this one” was the first thing you heard when they came in. You were lying on your back, the upper part of your body was hidden behind a thin wall, leaving your pussy and legs exposed.

A hand rested on your thigh and you shivered. Even though you had been working there for several months, the first contact always made your heart rate accelerate. Hand pressure was often characteristic of how you were going to be fucked. Often, but not always. A gentle caress like the one at that moment, could lead to a rough or painful fucking. Or a boring one.

The hand brushed against your skin, thumb facing your inner thigh.

“What do you think?”, you heard a man with a Chilean accent.

“Yeah, sure. You go first”, a voice with an American accent replied.

“You really like to jerk off while I fuck them, right?”

The other man chuckled, not denying it. The client next to you unzipped his jeans, then you heard the friction of clothes sliding slightly. He probably had his pants pulled down just below his balls. He put his hands on you, and when he positioned himself between your thighs, you felt a warm, hard cock pressed against your pussy. You held your breath, ready to take his cock like this, without preparation. Like you always had to do.

But he hesitated, staying there for a few seconds, his shaft against your folds. Then you heard him tuck his cock in his pants without zipping them up. His thumb spread your folds and you heard “mmmm…gorgeous. Steve, look at that.”

Footsteps came closer, and a low whistle echoed through the room.

“Yep, can’t wait to fill her up.”

You swallowed, waiting for what was going to happen.

You suddenly heard the noises coming from the nearby partitions. For a moment, you forgot that you weren't alone. Other women were being fucked, and you easily recognized the noises feigning pleasure. You always did the same, wanting the fucking to end quickly.

When you felt a warm breath against your pussy and a mustache brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs, you snapped out of your thoughts and whimpered. The man grabbed the back of your knees and moved you towards him as far as the opening would allow, before resting one of your legs on his shoulder. His thumb brushed up and down your folds and you heard him inhale. When his tongue licked between your folds in one stroke, you moaned.

“Already wet”, he murmured.

Two men in the brothel together to fuck you could be intimidating, or degrading, but this time you were slightly less guarded than usual. He was still brushing your folds with his thumb, and you got even wetter. His finger was as sensual as his hand on your thigh, he was good at it. He brushed his finger over your clit, twirling it delicately under his skin.

“Fuck,” you muttered. That was new. They rarely took the time to make you come, and his touch was truly perfect.

“You like that, Cariño (honey)? Gonna come for me?”

His thumbs spread your folds again, then his tongue ran over them, in long strokes from bottom to top, several times.

“Oh my god”, you whimpered in your breath.

He buried his tongue in your pussy, as far as he could, his hands holding your thighs. You felt like in less than two minutes you were going to come and you covered your mouth with your hand of surprise.

“Want a taste, Steve?”

“Not yet.”

The man put your other knee on his shoulder, still fucking you with his tongue, grunting between your thighs. You heard “Steve” unzip his pants, then spit.

The man between your thighs moved up to your clit with his tongue, and he circled it with his lips, sucking gently. His middle finger brushed against your entrance, covering it with your wetness. When he pushed it in gently, the tip of his tongue swirled over your clit. Quickly, he pushed in a second finger, slowly pumping your pussy with his digits. You grabbed one of your breasts as you were already coming. Quickly, so quickly, that you didn’t really understand that it was going to happen. You wondered if the other men fucking the women heard the difference in tone between your moans and theirs.

“That’s good, bebé (baby). I’m gonna fuck you now.” You heard his hand rubbing against his mustache, probably to wipe it. You wondered what he looked like. What they looked like.

He stood up and placed his hand on your hip. His cock in the other one, he rubbed himself against your folds, covering the entire length of his shaft with your wetness, and bringing it up to rub against your clit. Your sensitivity made you gasp every time he touched it. Finally, he placed his tip to your entrance and pushed, making you moan. When the crown of his cock plunged through your entrance, you heard him growl. His dick was thick and you felt your folds part as it passed through them. Both of his hands were now on your hips, he pulled back before hitting the bottom, then thrusted again, all the way in, and you gasped.

“How is she?” asked Steve.

“Good. Fucking good. Chose the perfect one.”

His hands dug into your flesh, his body slamming against yours at a perfect pace.

“Come see this. How her pussy is taking my cock.”

You heard his footsteps, and his proximity allowed you to hear his wrist fucking his cock, too.

“You’re doin’ great, baby. Sucking his cock right in.”

He jerked off faster.

“Shit, all that cream around your cock Javi…you’re giving it to her good.”

You imagined them, their eyes fixed on your dripping pussy. When you felt another hand on your body, you thought you were wavering. Steve caressed your skin, while Javi was still fucking you. Steve slid his hand up to your clit, brushing it gently, and you moaned.

“Shh, you’re ok baby. I’m gonna touch you gently, ain’t gonna hurt you. Ok?”

“Ok”, you murmured, finally giving yourself the right to talk to them.

“Don’t want you to come yet. Can you hold back for me?”, asked Steve.

“I’m…I’m gonna try.”

“Good girl.”

The double stimulation made you clench on Javi’s cock.

“Fuck”, he grumbled. “She’s squeezing my dick. Mierda…(shit).”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna shoot your load already? Her pussy’s that good?”

“Oh, fuck you! Yeah, she’s that good. You’ll see when you are inside her, smartass.”

He kept thrusting in, his cock was hitting your G-spot. Steve leaned down and placed his lips on your clit and this time you thought you were going to faint. His tongue was applying a perfect pressure and they both were driving you crazy. You felt your pussy clench desperately.

“Fuck, fuck…” Still thrusting in, you heard Javi groan louder and louder.

“Then it’ll be Steve’s turn, you’re gonna take both of our cocks, right? Gonna fill that pussy with our cum.”

“Yes, yes please…”

Your pussy was clenching and you couldn’t stop it. You felt Javi’s cock twitch inside you, he grumbled “I’m gonna fill you up” and finally he froze, sending spurts of cum deep inside your walls. The sounds of other men's moving bodies, their grunts, were filling the room.

Once he emptied his balls, he withdrew and spread the cum that was flowing out along your folds with his cock. Then he pulled away, and Steve’s hands were on you. He surprised you too, when he leaned down towards you and twirled his tongue around your clit again. You wondered if Javi had smeared his cum on it, if Steve was tasting him on you. He spread your folds with his thumbs, and you felt some cum leaking down. He stood aside to look. Since they had entered the room, they had behaved differently from all the men who had fucked you so far. The way they were touching you, fucking you, made you tremble.

Steve slid his middle finger over your folds, spreading more of Javi’s cum, making you hold your breath. Then he stood up, and grabbed his cock.

“Look at that Javi. You’re right, her cunt is gorgeous. And even more beautiful covered with cum.”

He ran his cock along your entrance, soaking it with your wetness and Javi’s cum. You were used to multiple creampies, when several men fucked you in a row. But this sensuality, their playful attitude, was new to you. Steve pushed in, and its girth made you gasp.

“Mmmm, it's good, baby. My cock’s covered by both of you. How hot is that…”

You thought you were going to come just from hearing him, and your pussy tightened around his cock.

“Fuck…don't make me come too quickly. Wanna fuck this pussy properly.”

“Sorry”, you murmured.

“Don't be sorry. Love hearing your little moans. Very different from those of your friends, mmm?”

“Yeah…yeah, fuck.”

“We’re fucking you good, you don't need to fake it…is that right?”

“Yeah, you’re fucking me good. Love your cocks.”

He chuckled, “Yeah, I bet you do.”

You heard another voice, neither Steve nor Javi.

“Andale, cabrón. Toman demasiado tiempo. Queremos cogerla también.” (Come on, man. You guys are taking too long. We wanna fuck her too.)

Steve froze, and asked Javi “What did he say?”, who translated to him.

“We’re not done, man. Pick another girl, move!” He raised his hand, to tell them to fuck off. But it didn’t stop the man:

“Voy a llamar al jefe y él va a sacarlos. Nosotros ya pagamos para cogerla. No pueden tenerla solo para ustedes.” (I'm gonna call the boss, he’s gonna throw you out. We already paid to fuck her. You can't keep her to yourself like that!)

This time, you translated for him. He pulled out of you, and tucked his cock in his pants. You heard a loud noise, and guessed that Steve pinned the other man against the wall. He had difficulty breathing, Steve was probably holding him by the throat. You heard a click of a gun: the security was removed.

“Yo soy tu patrón. ¿Sí?” (I am your boss, yes?)

“¡Está bien! Está bien! ¡Yo hago lo que ustedes digan!” (It’s ok, it’s ok! I’ll do whatever you say)

“¿Sí?” (yeah?)

Steve threw the man to the ground, then put the gun back in his shoulder holster before coming back to you.

Javi pointed his finger to the other men who were waiting, and said “Cállanse, todos. Ahora ella es nuestra. Entienden?” (Fuck off, all of you. She’s ours, for now. Understand?)

There were a few murmurs, then footsteps receded.

“Sorry ‘bout that, baby. Fucking animals.”

Steve thrusted into you after pulling out his cock. He was still hard as steel, as if he enjoyed the adrenaline of the fight. Knowing that he had a gun on him while he was fucking you turned you on, even if you couldn’t see it.

He was fucking you harder, faster. Sometimes slowing down to look at his cock digging into you. Covered in Javi's cum. He leaned forward slightly and let his saliva flow onto your clit, before twirling it under his thumb.

“You’re gonna come for me too, baby? Can’t fill you up if I didn’t make you come. That ain’t good southern manners.”

You felt he was close but he didn’t slow down his pace. Thrusting his thick cock in you, his body slamming against yours, his balls slapping against your ass. He spat on your clit this time, and you felt another orgasm building.

“You’re doing great, Cariño. So good for our cocks. Bet you’d like us to fuck you again. Maybe you’d suck our cocks next time.”

He heard you moaning, and chuckled.

“Yeah? You’d like that, one of our cocks in your mouth and the other one in your cunt? Stuffing you from behind, making you choke on that dick?”

“Javi, what the hell…I’m tryin’ to hold on here!”

The last thing you heard before you came was Javi tapping on Steve’s shoulder. Your pussy squeezed his shaft, and that's all he was waiting for to come deep inside your core, mixing his cum with Javi's, as your spasms were milking his cock.

“You didn’t do better than me, smartass.”

They both chuckled, until Steve pulled out, breathing loudly, and the two stood in front of your open, exposed, dripping pussy. Javi spread your folds, and their cum flowed out.

“Fuck, that’s hot, man.”

“Yeah, we fucked her good.”

***********

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soapskneebrace · 1 year

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gravity

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: General audiences Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: none Author's Notes: LIKE CHILEAN MINERS (iykyk). I want to express a tidal wave of thanks to everyone for waiting so, so patiently for this chapter. Life got hard and is remaining so, but the kindness I have received has been so incredibly comforting. Please enjoy the longest chapter of Neighbors I have written to date. Also a HUGE shoutout to Lev @yeyinde as ALWAYS for her advice, the pub is a direct result of her guidance. MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.

“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.

You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.

Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.

What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?

Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.

It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.

“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.

“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.

“W-what about tonight?”

He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”

You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”

He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”

You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.

You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.

John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.

He never presses for anything, ever.

“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.

The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.

John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.

You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.

He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.

You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.

“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.

“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.

“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”

He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”

You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.

Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?

You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.

Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”

That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”

His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.

“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”

He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”

He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.

“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.

“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”

You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.

You find John watching you when you open your eyes.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.

It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.

“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.

He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.

You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”

He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”

As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.

When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.

“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”

John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”

The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.

“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.

You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.

John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.

“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”

“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”

“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”

He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”

You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”

“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”

You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”

John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.

No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.

“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”

You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”

“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”

You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”

John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”

You drink. “That is so.”

“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”

“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.

“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”

And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.

You just weren’t happy.

“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.

“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, John.”

“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”

You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.

“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.

John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”

“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”

One dark brow lifts.

“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”

The smile remains.

You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.

“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”

You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.

Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.

“I just need a minute,” you whisper.

John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.

“All right, John,” you say.

As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.

It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”

John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”

You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.

His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”

“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.

Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.

His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.

You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.

“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”

“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah—we’re almost there.”

“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.

You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.

“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.

“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”

Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.

John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.

“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”

Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.

“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”

So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.

It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.

He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.

“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”

You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”

His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.

You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.

“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.

You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.

When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.

“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.

You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”

His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.

The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.

It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.

Unable to hide how much it wanted.

“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”

“Key hook,” you say.

His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.

Bonus A/N: Some housekeeping. First, if you see your username on this list and it's struck through, it means you did not come up when I tried to @ you. I will try one more time, but if it doesn't work I'm taking your name off the list. Get right with the tumblr gods if you can. Second, a few people have told me that they did not get the tag notification on the last update, so let me know if that's the case for you and I will see about trying a different format. And third, I've been editing the format for neighbors across all chapters, so sorry in advance if you get notified twice. Tumblr knows even less about coding a website than I do.

Taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriiii @aduckingpain @jaimiespn @aconstructofamind @trashy-panda777 @lich1 @smoggyfogbottom @cielobgers @antigonusyuki @bubble-dream-inc @monsterhighsblog @so-scarlet–it-was-maroon @itsthetiredstudent @misshoneypaper @wasteland-babe @jxvipike @deadbranch @mildlyhopelesss @yes-music-is-my-religion @shuttlelauncher81 @xback1021 @zero-ice @hailstrum18 @ramadiiiisme @glassgulls @simonea27 @kitty-satan1 @tianotfound @solarslushee @mmmothballz @wiserebelpartypie @randomchick546 @stripeycatt @shurikan17 @staymetalmacie @capt-soaps-bbg @cold-blooded-girls @rdeville

The taglist is closed. Thank you everyone for your interest.

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mariamariquinha · 6 months

Text

Chilean, Camembert (Jonathan Levy x f!reader) - one shot

Summary: He was pathetic. Hot, but pathetic.

Word count: 8.1k

Warnings: Mentions about divorce, bad words, a few academic terms, alcohol (it's wine), p in v sex, rough sex, a little bit of angst, Jonathan is quite toxic but for the optimists he is trying, oral sex (female receiving) and... Yeah, guess that's it.

Author’s Note: I finished writing this and thought 'I should be taking care of two long fanfics I'm writing here', but this shit had been in my head for MONTHS and, just like Dave's, I had to write it just now because that's when I felt fit. It's my way. I love writing for characters that almost no one gives a shit about.

Enjoy!

(If there are any grammar mistakes, I'm sorry, but I'm lazy, tired and needed to post it).

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

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

He still had her scent on his neck and chest and face. It was an obvious realization, but one he didn't make until he was standing in front of that restaurant looking at your seated figure, one hand supporting your visibly tired face. He was late. Very late. And in a way, Jonathan could make an excuse over the phone and feel bad about it, but he still went there because he thought he could just be honest.

But her fucking scent was there. Probing, making explicit what had happened.

He stood motionless beside the car, coat tight between his fingers and a lump in his throat. You had asked the waiter for the bill, for the only glass of wine you must have sipped all night because you weren't a big fan of the drink. He knew that, but not because he asked - you said. You always said everything and did everything. You were the one who also asked him out for the first time, who kissed him for the first time, who led the whole exchange between you two. And the two of you weren't in a relationship, it hadn't even gone beyond an expected kiss after the third date, because you were patient and understood the moment he was going through. Still, Jonathan knew it was the last straw.

With more of that bitter feeling, he also saw you picking up your things and heading towards the exit. His cell phone vibrated at the same time you put yours to your ear, trying to talk to him for the fifth or sixth time. Jonathan didn't answer.

It was like a slap in the face, the way you lost the polite smile you'd given the hostess when you walked out the door and saw him there, in front of you, a street away. Your face wore a frown, a colder, more rational look, as you measured him from head to toe with a reticent step in that direction. It felt like you were figuring out where he'd been, what every detail of him meant; it scared him a little.

“Are you-”

There, after a few firmer, closer steps, Jonathan instinctively dodged your proximity, raising his hand just high enough for you to understand his reaction. Then, with a breeze, you became aware of the sweet aroma, the strange perfume that had an owner. From cold and rational, your eyes turned sad. You blinked a few times, swallowed hard. He kept that hand up and you stared at it, as if a wave of brutal realization had coursed through you. Jonathan was left to watch the scene in silence, relishing that bad feeling of having hurt you.

“I-”

“Nn-nn,” You interrupted, closing your eyes for a second and raising a single finger to stop him. He obliged. And then you opened them again, wet from tears you were holding back, looking right at him in a moment of braveness - one he could admire if it wasn’t for the circumstances. “Don't take it away from me. Don’t take… You don't have the right to reject me twice.”

There wasn’t a single part of him that felt strong enough to fight it, to say he could make it better, that Mira was a person from his past, that she hurted him enough for him to leave. But he couldn’t. He… couldn’t do it.

You recovered with a sigh and avoided looking at him as much as possible.

“I’ll go home. Forget my number, I don’t wanna be your friend, yada, yada, yada. You know, the usual.”

“We could talk about it.”

“We could? We could, Jonathan?”

Jonathan shut his mouth again.

“Just… Leave me alone, okay? For good.”

He didn't react when he saw you walking, steps slow as you kicked off your heels and walked the rest of the way to your car in bare feet. You looked back, just to watch the traffic on the street, and in that movement the two of you exchanged glances. You cried. Far from him, with distance, like stubborn tears that insisted on coming out. Tears Mira hadn't cried for him.

And he let it be.

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

The problem was in the details. He had the same gray hairs, the messily organized curls, the sweaters, the briefcase and the glasses, as if the last two years hadn't passed him by. There was Christmas, New Years, holidays; the same. You didn't hear if he was really divorced, if he was still with Mira, what Ava's custody rules were. Like before everything, you had fragments of him. That was a problem because these fragments made you fall in love before.

You had a boyfriend after him, a real one, who didn't have problems with an ex. His name was Charles. Honestly speaking, maybe Charles would have been a comfortable blanket and a hot cup of tea during a rainstorm, which is what you had with Jonathan. And he was good. Indeed, a nice guy. He made you forget Jonathan, put a stone on what had happened and move on with your life.

But you were far away from that mess geographically and emotionally when it happened. In London, more precisely, participating in an important research group for your academic career, and Charles happened at that time. It was an incredible six months. When you came back, he just said that it wouldn't be ideal to maintain a long-distance relationship, and you broke up. You had a good opportunity in Boston as a substitute teacher, a place on the Anthropological research team at Suffolk University and you stayed there without missing Charles much.

A year and a few months later, a friend from Columbia said they were putting together a new research team on Ancient Latin American communities, which was your area of expertise, and he had a good letter of recommendation if you were interested. Rahul was a very good friend. And that, precisely, took you to that exact moment.

First, you discovered that you were a very young person in relation to the other members of the group, who must have been at least 50 years old. At 27, you were an exception who would need to prove yourself a lot. Then, during a campus tour, someone asked you where you came from (which meant where you studied) and when you said you graduated from a public university, Rahul commented that it was better to say you were from Yale until they found out it was a lie.

“It's better to be called a liar than poor around here.”

And then you arrived at the moment that, curiously enough, was the least worst of the day: finding Jonathan leaving the library, with his head lowered and eyes focused on a book. There was a possibility that you would go unnoticed, that you could process the discovery that he was in Columbia calmly, but it was at that moment that you also discovered that Rahul knew Jonathan well enough to make a point of 'introducing' you.

Among other qualities, he was always polite and cordial enough with anyone, no matter who they were. So when Jonathan looked up with a friendly smile, ready for a simple handshake and saw you, he retracted his hand a little, because damn, he really didn't even wait for Rahul to say your name before doing so.

“Good to see you, Professor Levy,” You said, professional as ever, searching for his hand for a normal handshake. No explosions, no butterflies in your stomach. It was just Jonathan.

“Do you… know each other?” Rahul asked, obnoxious by the interaction and pointing between you two.

“Professor Levy was my mentor when I was working on my doctorate,” You explained. “He helped me to get that scholarship.”

“Oh. Small world, eh?”

He didn’t say a thing for a long moment, even after you smiled at Rahul and nodded, going along with his comment to throw the ball to Jonathan. Nothing. He frowned, lips pulled in thin line, and then, just then, when you cleared your throat and averted your gaze, that he blinked a few times, finally engaging.

“... I thought you were in Boston.”

Wow. It sounded like another rejection, from the tone of his voice and the way he watched your face. You felt your neck burning, your cheeks tickling in embarrassment. Good for you, Rahul did all the explanation, gaining Jonathan’s interest really fast and really naturally. From time to time, while your friend would come and go to extend that story more than necessary, you could see him giving you glances from time to time, as if to make sure you were still there.

By the time that whole lecture ended, full of an adventure you didn’t really live in real life, Jonathan turned to you.

“I hope we can have the opportunity to catch up now that you're here,” He said with a small smile, head tilted to the side. “You’re living nearby?”

“She-”

“I didn’t find a place yet,” You interrupted Rahul before he could say anything stupid. “And I don’t want to interrupt your work hours, professor. It’s Columbia, I would be really naive to think you’re not busy.”

“I could always find time to talk with an old friend,” You both smiled falsely, clearly with different intentions. You wanted that conversation to end, Jonathan wanted to pretend something.

“Sure thing,” With a sigh, you raised your eyebrows and looked back at the library doors, pointing at it. “Can we go now?”

Finally - finally - Rahul noticed that you wanted to leave, opening his mouth like a dead fish before nodding, all the while smiling exaggeratedly.

“Yep. Library. Library! Sure, we should-” He pointed at the doors as well, already pushing you to keep walking. “See ya later, Levy?”

“Mm-hm.” Jonathan nodded, another glance in your direction. “Good to see you again.”

“Same.”

Which wasn’t true, but you couldn’t tell exactly what you felt at the idea of coming back to that… interaction. He seemed nonchalant, a little taken aback but relaxed enough or mature enough to not make it a big deal, which was good. Fine. Cool. Of course you didn’t feel anything, whatever happened in the past was in the past. If you looked back and saw him doing the same (and had that feeling on the pit of your stomach), you both were just shocked by the surprise.

Right?

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

The mirror of the bathroom was fogged when you left the shower, making you clean it a little to avert your blurry reflection. Beside the mirror, big enough to see more than just your face, you saw a pair of boxers and a dirty shaver. Rahul wasn't the best of the hosts. You really would need to find that apartment soon.

For some reason, this made you instantly think of Jonathan, which consequently made you frown. No. No, no Jonathan. You shouldn't-

“You two fucked, right?”

Rahul didn’t even wait for you to enter the bedroom, throwing himself on your bed and looking at you suspiciously.

“Rahul…”

“Na-ah, don’t come with that shit. It’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”

You sighed, scratching the back of your neck and sitting beside him, feeling his body adjust on the mattress to be side by side. That made you think, think, think…

“Remember that guy I was seeing before flying to London?”

“Yep. The one with the ex and-" He stopped himself. "Shit."

"Mm-hm."

"He never sold himself as an asshole."

"I don't think he is a natural asshole," You pointed out, even if you already explained that to Rahul way before that conversation, before he could even guess who was the guy from two years ago. The reaction was the same: he tsked, shaking his head in disbelief, saying you were stupid for thinking like that, that you were 'too good with everyone'.

"He may be quite a catch, honey, but he's still an asshole. A jerk, at least."

"Mm…" You hummed, shrugging a little.

"And since he's the guy from before, you two didn't go to the finals then, right?"

"No, we didn't," For some reason, that made you scoff. "Why? Trying to push your luck?"

"... He's still hot."

That made you laugh - for the first time since the topic flowed between you two. A relief, at best, since Rahul just reserved this type of behavior with you, being so shy when the topic was his love life.

You had the impression that Jonathan wouldn't be just something to make jokes about.

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

Rahul lived close to the campus, close enough to walk everyday to work. You just noticed it was a great privilege when you moved from his apartment not even two weeks later, because suddenly what seemed like 'just a few blocks' turned into a bunch of whining from you.

The price of your new place was quite high because, damn, it was New York, so you did what you were doing in Boston: particular classes. All of this brought a routine for you. In the morning, gym, then work. Then lunch. Then work again. Then avert Jonathan every chance you got. Then go to Mr. Hastings house (where he has this weird nerdy son called Dylan) and give the young boy History and Sociology lessons. Then, finally, go back home, shower, scroll through your phone during dinner and avert that notification from Facebook suggesting that you should be friends with Jonathan because he was a mutual friend with Rahul. And at least half of the Researching Department.

It started to bother you. Jonathan wasn't chasing, not like in a stalker way, but the comfort idea that Columbia was a big university (big enough to make him less of a problem) started to fade and you knew that, if it really started to poke, like a petulant child, like Dylan Hastings, you should think of a better way of dealing with the situation. Given the circumstances, it seemed like those two years, from Europe to Charles, were all a big run from the fact that you're still hurt from what happened.

Jonathan didn't move a finger to get closer or force a conversation. Still, you knew that if you hesitated for even half a second, he would be there with his air of intelligence, strong aroma of coffee and a masculine lotion that he certainly used on his beard or on the days he decided to make his hair tidier. You noticed, there was no way not to. He walked more confidently than when all this happened, but Jonathan was never smug or showy, so it was just like he walked around without sulking. That was new to you. When you two met, he certainly didn’t show anything but remorse and a small sense of… comfort? Of fucking trying?

By the end of your second month at Columbia, Jonathan was just someone to look away from. Nothing else.

“I don't know if you'll find what you're looking for there.”

You turned abruptly to the side, seeing him standing in the middle of that corridor, both hands on his pockets and a small smile on his face. It wasn’t suffocating, the way he stood there in a safe distance with his shoulders relaxed and that New Balance dad’s shoes, but with two high shelves of books surrounding you, you just felt a little out of breath.

“It says British Literature,” You pointed at the entry of that corridor, where you saw the sign clearly stating which section the library was in.

“I didn't know this would be in your search grid.”

“And you’re right,” A nod, then your eyes went back to the books. “What I'm looking for isn’t for me.”

“Oh.”

“It’s for Dylan.”

“Dylan.”

“Dylan Hastings.”

He went quiet for a moment, but you didn’t give in to the curious desire to see what the expression on his face was.

“... Private classes, then?” Was what Jonathan asked after a beat, to which you nodded again. “For you to leave Boston and come here, I imagined that the offer at the Research Department would be more tempting.”

Indiscriminately, his comment made you a little annoyed, but you tried not to let it show. He wasn't usually mean, it's just that maybe you always had the wrong dose of sarcasm and even indiscretion. Whether it was his intention or not, you seemed to try a little too hard not to be rude.

“You really seem bothered that I came here.”

“To the library?”

“To Columbia.”

You sensed him taking a small step closer, which made you retrieve in your spot. Jonathan sighed.

“I’m not.”

“Mm.”

“You deserve to be here. With your background and such.”

“I know.”

“Can you please look at me?”

It was your turn to sigh, defeated by a simple task of being polite even when you didn’t have any obligation to do so. When you gave in, turning your eyes to the man, you saw that he was serious, but not angry, as if just waiting to test what should be his side in the conversation.

He didn’t say anything for a moment or two, measuring your face while brushing his fingers on his bearded chin.

“... We can talk about what happened. I know this-”

“We can’t,” Not a question, not a small broken voice of sadness. You said it with an almost expressionless tone, arms crossed over your chest. Jonathan was surprised by the sudden interruption, blinking a few times.

Again, silence. And when he didn’t give any indication to fill it, to say something, you turned your eyes and body back to the shelf, arms dropping to your sides again.

“You always wanted to teach here,” He said surprisingly, this time not even needing to ask you to look at him. You did it right away, snapping your head in his direction.

Took you some seconds to understand what he meant.

“I honestly didn't expect you to think I don't want to talk about this because I don't want to talk to you.”

Harsh, of course, but enough to keep him away. The sarcasm, the venom dripping from your voice, it should be more than a reason for Jonathan to put himself on his place, to be away from you, to just fucking forget it. He was doing just fine for two whole months, no one needed that drama again.

With that, he left, and you cursed yourself with closed eyes for feeling bad about it too.

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

“You know that's not the answer.”

“I would know if you told me.”

“If I told you, you would still not know and we would still be here.”

Dylan narrowed his sharp blue eyes at you, pursing his lips before looking back at the copy of Not Much Ado About Nothing.

“When I'm older, I'm going to pay people to give me answers.”

You looked around, seeing a Renoir on the left wall and a solid wood china cabinet right next to it.

“I'm sure you will.”

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

You thought about it a lot and knew that if you were thinking, it was because you had to decide what to do, which could include… nothing. You could let the matter drop, make Jonathan forget everything and just carry on as if nothing had happened, which seemed prudent. Maybe 'doing nothing', maybe continuing to live and work your dream would be ideal. You loved being an ordinary person, who did ordinary things and didn't live within the limits of drama; you loved peace. But the problem was that, to 'do nothing', it was also necessary to do something, take a step, make a decision, and these were actions, even if they were silent withdrawals.

The research fund had increased circumstantially that semester. Your articles were doing very well and, at that time, you could hope, even from a distance, for a chance at leadership in your own line of research. Like good nerdy academics, the Department didn’t throw celebration parties, but directed the money towards purchasing new printers, updating books in the library and investing in publications in the university magazine or field research trips. They commented that it could frustrate you, being young and not being able to have coworkers with whom you would drink in questionable bars, but you always smiled and replied that it was okay, that you had already booked the clubs and drunk Uber rides for a past time.

And for some reason, this moment of good news, of positive points, made you stop there, with a cup of coffee in your hand and right in front of Jonathan's office.

He had to double-check that it was you who was standing there after you entered, closing his mouth before he could use the condescending tone of a teacher toward a student, lowering his expectations of meeting a desperate oil heir from his Dostoevsky classes for… you. And what would be you, standing there with an unreadable expression?

“... Good morning?” He asked, unsure, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, well, yes. Good morning.” You said. “I’m not gonna do a lot of small talk, that’s probably not the right place to do so, I just…”

Jonathan was blinking at you as if you had a second head, confused by your appearance and probably by your rambling.

“I want to apologize for how I treated you the other day. At the library,” You words had a small effect on him, almost imperceptible. “It wasn't my right to act so harshly even if I disagreed with you.”

“I still think you were polite. I don't remember anyone telling me to fuck off in such a controlled manner.”

“Jonathan…” You scolded him with a sigh, averting your gaze from him with a head shake.

“No, please, I’m being serious. I deserved it.”

“That’s not the point,” You pressed. “It is, probably, but what I’m trying to say is that we could… put a rock on the whole situation and move on. We’re both adults, we can do that.”

He stared at you for another long moment, licking his lips and considering something inside his head. Then, calmly, he nodded, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. With small steps, you sat there, eyeing the papers splayed all over and then the way he leaned against his own chair, relaxed.

“How was your search for the book in the British Literature session?” Jonathan asked casually, even grinning at the mention of your trip to the library.

“Good. I spent a lot of time looking for the damn book and then discovered that Dylan had an exclusive copy,” You rolled your eyes at the memory, crossing your legs to get comfortable. “But it was worth it. It's been a while since I read Not Much Ado About Nothing.”

“Oh, Shakespeare.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I thought you always found him quite boring.”

“I still do,” The comment made him smile more openly.

All of that calm atmosphere brought some sort of comfort, but you were still sitting on the edge of the chair, circling the elephant in the room while sipping on your coffee. After a moment, when he just sighed and clearly left the ball in your room, you stared at your pants for a moment, thinking of a better way to start the topic.

“I won't ask what happened that night,” You started, having quite bitter flashes of the restaurant, the stares, even the pity from the waiter.

“You should.”

“Maybe, but I still prefer not to. What happened in your life isn’t my problem.”

He nodded. You knew that because when you raised your head, he was observing you quietly.

“I'm not with her anymore.”

It was strange that, for Jonathan, this was the most convenient thing to say, as if he had to give you an explanation of that, specifically. You took in the information with tight lips, brushing your fingertips on the coffee cup in your lap.

“... Mm.”

“But I shouldn't have been with her at that time,” He confessed. “I still loved her or thought I did, I don't know. There was just a lot going on at once and so we… That was the last time. With her.”

Again, you took the information, letting it flow in your insides. In fact, you were right to listen to any argument from him in the past. If he told you that back then, that night, the story would be more than something to forget.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because it may not seem like it, but two years can give someone a lot of maturity,” A pause. “And you were always very firm in knowing what you wanted to deal with and what you didn't. When you decided you didn't want to hear about my shit, I realized that I didn't care about you as much as I should have. This was something you didn't deserve and I know that if you still have your reluctance towards me, I shouldn't force it.”

It didn't seem rehearsed, but thought out - there was a difference. It was thought of as a class he was teaching, as a subject he was aware of and just said, in an automatic, reflected thought. You used to have mixed feelings when he spoke to you like that before, and this time you realized it was no different. He wasn't patronizing you, but he wasn't being completely emotional either, which could be slightly incoherent for someone who was speaking his mind. You accepted anyway, because before you didn't have something very solid, not enough for such expectations, and this time the relationship was even less close.

“... Makes sense,” You all but nodded, taking another sip on your coffee. “Quite relieved that you gave it some thought.”

“I did. I care about that now.”

Whatever he meant, whatever his ‘care’ should mean at the moment, you waved off with rationality. Jonathan just didn’t want to feel even more bad about what happened, if he had hurt you - a young, naive woman. It could do things to him, a father, who wouldn’t want his daughter to face what you might've faced. Like fixing his early mistakes to have a word on the future, if necessary.

“Better late than never, right?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?”

“Nn-nn. I didn’t come here expecting you to put the same meaning on it as me.”

“And what was your meaning?”

The question made you squirm in your seat, just a little, just enough to notice that he knew you would react somehow. Still, you played it cool: shrugged, looked around.

“You were the hot professor coming off a messy divorce, Jonathan,” You said with a scoff. “That's basically the ideal guy recipe for any frustrated girl.”

“I never thought you were frustrated.”

“But you saw something,” With raised eyebrows, you said it for sure, a truth he would try to hide with kind words and a sense of regret. “You loved Mira and I never asked you to stop doing that. And you remember, don't you? When we kissed for the first time? I told you that you should only keep going if you were sure and you did it. You still smiled and said you wanted to do it the right way, take me to dinner and be a gentleman. The impression I got was that you needed more time to fuck your ex one last time and make sure we weren't going to work out.”

It came out so naturally, tho, like you just organized all of the thoughts and insecurities and expectations you always had when it happened, that Jonathan just stared at you without a reaction, as if it was all new to him. Maybe it was. You labored such a huge crush on him back in the day, he was always more smart, more charming, more polite, more pretty - no one could even come close to what you created of him. And when he came to that restaurant smelling like a woman, smelling like Mira, you knew that Jonathan, the sexy professor with kind smiles and a toe curling kiss, was just a pathetic immature projection of a good man for you, one that you could invest in.

He just considered it as if he were giving something a bain-marie, calmly melting it so that it was right, warm but not hot. You stared back at him, expressionless and calm.

“This sounds more like frustration,” His voice came out, low and ashamed.

“Wouldn’t you say.”

Jonathan nodded, looking around his desk as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“... I'm only here because I knew what I was getting myself into. My naivety was to trust that you, at that moment, could lead to a fruitful relationship. It was the wrong time and yeah, okay, it happens. Everyone has one of these.”

“You still didn't want to talk to me about it.”

“Because the first thing you said when you saw me here was that I should be in Boston, like I was a fucking plague.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But implied. You looked like you just saw a ghost.”

“I was surprised.”

“... Really?” You sighed, brows raised in disbelief. He rolled his eyes at the teasing, but complied anyway.

“Shocked.”

“Yeah, that makes more sense.”

“Still.”

“Mm.”

“You’re just as pretty as you were two years ago,” The sudden comment made you stop mid-sip, staring blankly at him at the admission.

“I know,” You said casually, taking a full sip then and seeing him smile.

“One of these days we can have a coffee together. You still haven't told me what it was like in London,” He changed the subject subtly.

“I can tell you what it was like right now.”

“Can you.”

“It was nice.”

“Cold.”

“So cold,” You nodded. “Lots of smart people.”

“I could have guessed.”

“And good pubs with good beers.”

“Mm.”

“Simple like that.”

“I'm sure you have more details that you won't remember now.”

“Is it like a test? I have to study and say what satisfies you?”

“You're not my student anymore, I wouldn't do that. If it can make you say yes, though…”

“Oh no, it would make me say a huge no.”

“So tell me what would change your mind. I can work something out.”

He wasn't serious, was he? You literally said he was toxic towards you and there he was, inviting you to coffee as if none of the conversation had happened. This made you shake your head negatively with an incredulous smile, looking around once again as if the answer was there, among the bookshelves and other things in his office.

“Well, if I remember correctly, you owe me a bottle of wine,” You said with nonchalance, getting up from your seat and groaning a little in the process. “Chilean. Camembert.”

He didn't respond to that either, perhaps because he knew it wasn't an invitation, but the opposite: a reminder that despite your willingness to set the record straight, it didn't mean you wanted to be friends. Because defining and being friends were different things and you were always very diligent in implying things in a confusing way. That wasn't in your words, nor in your tone; it was in the way you stood up and dismissed any chance that he might use the time as an opening for charm, a chance for reconciliation that probably had to do with your connections at Columbia and the effects that circumstance might have on his position.

You went there to reaffirm that and only that. That you wouldn't be an obstacle, that he shouldn't be an obstacle, and that you had a bottle of Chilean wine from two years ago that hadn't been paid for from the right person.

Because the least he could have done when he showed up on a date he invited you to with another woman's perfume, smelling like another woman's sex, was pay for the damn bottle of wine.

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

The bottle of wine appeared on your desk in a discreet brown package, with no indication of its contents. There was no note, or anything written, just the glass, the label and the drink itself. You didn't smile at that. If anything, you took the bottle to a dinner you had at Rahul's house later that day, and when he asked, you just said you couldn't drink it all alone at home.

None of your friends drank alcohol that night. The empty bottle was in Rahul's recycling bin the next morning.

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

The truth, raw and honest, was that Jonathan was a visibly pathetic but attractive man. It was notable, whether in classes or at conferences, that even though he hid himself in department store-looking clothes, with a very disheveled look, Jonathan caught the attention of students, colleagues and people in general. This look probably only increased others' interest in him.

He walked with the confidence of any university professor in that age group, hiding in the personality of a father, an academic, who aroused curiosity, which whether or not it was a full plate for women with daddy issues or a sense of salvation.

Yes, then, he was fucking attractive.

You were never alone in the same place, at least not after the conversation in his office. What you had of Jonathan were these little pieces, fragments of his figure walking around campus and hallways, almost always distracted by something or just determined to get somewhere. He wasn't stupid, nor foolish, because he was aware that that effect made him gain some admirers, but maybe that was enough for you to hold on to these brief moments of Jonathan in your daily life.

He always looked back, in these halls and around campus. Briefly, just like you, with a succinct exchange of glances and a polite nod. Sometimes he would say 'good morning' to you and Rahul, or whoever was with him, and he would always look at you again when no one else was paying attention to him. Little by little, this made you feel that tingling again, the anxious heat of being under the watchful eye of someone for whom you had, even if unconsciously, a growing attraction.

One time he went to the research room because he knew one of your colleagues and, in the middle of a healthy discussion about a research method you were applying, he touched your forearm to get your attention, accompanied by a nod of the head and a 'do you remember when we did this?'.Afterwards, one of the Human Sciences professors invited you to follow a Socratic debate in the class and Jonathan was there, watching you so intently that he hardly turned his face to follow the next person speaking, and soon you started talking looking at him.

He didn't approach, as you suggested, but remained in your orbit.

Rahul was along with you when a peculiar interaction took place. The two were mentioning a new methodology for computing grades in the university system and you casually made notes on the subject. Jonathan turned to you and listened to each word with a look that wandered between your mouth, your gesturing hands and your eyes, which always had a roll, a squint or a widening. When he spoke again, you found yourself noticing his serene expression, the fingers that touched the beard just below his lips and how he scratched the right side of his neck every now and then, perhaps because the beard was growing in that area.

It was clear that Rahul had something to say as soon as you dispersed.

“I get it now.”

“Mm?”

“You and Jonathan,” He said with a calm tone, watching you go from confusion to shyness in a second. “This isn’t a judgment.”

“I know.”

“Because it's natural to have unconscious sexual tension between you.”

You looked at him with raised eyebrows, stopping in your tracks to gather what he just said.

“... Sexual tension?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes at your lack of realization.

“Let's be honest, in these two years, despite what happened, you never imagined what it would be like with him?”

Rahul should have never opened his mouth to talk about this, because suddenly this hypothetical situation turned into a plague. In the shower, on a boring day, when the Facebook request caught your attention: you caught a glimpse of Jonathan. It wasn't that graphic and you didn't have hot dreams about it, but you knew what it felt like to be touched by him, what the weight and feel of his hands was like, his kiss, and sometimes you found yourself thinking about it.

When you saw him in person, walking around the university, you noticed how he ran his fingers through his hair, how the movement of his legs gave glimpses of the shape of his thighs, how his t-shirts and blouses sometimes missed a detail about his chest and stomach. This got worse when you started having some casual encounters with other guys. You went out with a bartender and when it was all over you realized that he looked a lot like Jonathan and that you spent the whole time in an imaginative world thinking it was him.

Damn, you thought. You couldn't keep your word for even a second.

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

When the inevitable happened, the two of you were alone - thank God. It was like a perfect, clichéd scenario: late at night, you were alone in the research room and he showed up looking for someone who wasn't you.

“I thought you were already home,” He said, looking around before landing his eyes at you, who were standing on the small ladder to return a folder to the filing cabinet.

It was a bad day to wear a skirt. You were sure that your tension at being attracted again, added to the lack of cloth on your legs, made you even more aware of the shiver you felt when you went down the steps and saw him close.

“I wanted to finish an article. I can think better when I'm alone, you know.”

“I know.”

The two of you looked at each other for a few moments and there it was, the tension palpable, the heat rising in your stomach and leaving you a little disconcerted. He got it. He took a step closer and it made you blink, looking away at the desk.

“Everyone left an hour ago, I think. If you're looking for Mr. Jones, he won't be back until Monday,” You said, fidgeting with the papers splayed out on the desk, trying to tidy it all into their respective places.

His body was there, next to you, almost touching your arm but not quite. You knew he was very close by the heat and the scent, not having the courage to turn your face to see him.

“Is that so?” Jonathan asked, voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay.”

You organized the last stack of papers, took a breath and turned to him in time to see him measure the curvature of your ass against the skirt, as it was slightly inclined. He didn't hide it. In fact, he didn't even hide his observations as he glanced up at the discreet opening of the two buttons on your blouse before stopping at your face.

His kiss was the same as the one you remembered, but this one had more certainty and heat. When your mouths met, sharing a wet kiss, Jonathan didn't hesitate to grab both of your ass cheeks, grunting when he felt them and squeezing them firmly. A chair was dragged as you let his tongue invade your mouth and soon you felt the edge of the table pressing you, which you understood immediately.

It was fast, almost desperate. You grabbed his hair when you heard the clasp on his belt come undone and you almost broke his glasses when you felt him roughly lift the fabric of your skirt. He didn't even care and you didn't apologize. Jonathan didn't prepare you either because he didn't need to - you were ridiculously wet. It was a firm penetration, which made you gasp against his mouth, without waiting, and soon the two of you were a mess of kisses and moans and whimpers with each aggressive thrust.

The table creaked with the force of his hips and, fortunately, it resisted when Jonathan lifted one of your legs to go even deeper, even firmer. You moaned softly, restrainedly, and felt a bite at the junction of your neck and shoulder when he heard you moan his name. Jonathan was big, well endowed. You would feel all that the next day, but at that moment none of it mattered. It was a meeting of unresolved frustrations and aggressive, improvised, urgent sex.

He came inside after making you cum twice; he was hugging you when he did it. You were both panting, his face pressing against your neck as you held his head and hips, staring at the ceiling as you tried to regain your decency.

You organized yourself in silence, without saying a word. Your panties were sticking, his spent dripping out of your pussy, but if he noticed, he didn't comment. The table hadn't been disorganized, at least, and you had to pull up the sleeves of your shirt with how hot you were feeling.

“Sorry about it,” You were the first to say something, seeing him eyeing the crooked leg of the glasses carefully.

“It was already like this before, don't worry.”

“... Okay.”

You didn't know what to do with yourself, nor did he. For a moment, you just ran your hands over your skirt, then your mouth, then your hair, unsure whether you should say something or just let him go.

“Are you finished with your work?” Jonathan asked then, making you shake your head.

“I’m done.”

“I’ll take you home then.”

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

You didn't tell Rahul, but you suspected he knew something as soon as you met on Monday. He didn't say anything, didn't even hint, and you were sure that if he really wanted to know, you would tell him. What you imagined, of course, was that maybe it was just a one-time, unexpected and certainly necessary thing that wouldn't happen again. And that you haven't stopped thinking about it.

God, you wished you could forget, but it was Jonathan and it happened. So, best case scenario, you've moved on, gotten back into the routine.

All the energy this began to drain from you, all this… vivid memory of the sighs of pleasure he let out in your ear, the mark he left on your neck and the grunts he made that night, that you wanted so much before and suddenly happened in an unusual way, you took it out on things in your life. Gym, morning runs, a little yoga, an extra half hour in Dylan's classes to watch him practice fencing, another extracurricular activity that Mr. Hastings made him do. Distractions, in fact, because you didn't want to poke at whatever that intense moment with Jonathan would trigger, even if it was poking you again.

“I get the impression you're trying to avoid me.”

He found you in the middle of an Architecture student exhibition on campus, scaring you while looking at a 3D project of a hospital or something like that. You glared at him, saw that he was focused on the students' table, and when you looked around, no one was paying attention to the two of you.

“I’m not.” Pfft. Of course. “What gave you that impression?

“After what happened, it's natural for you to avoid me if the sex was bad or if I was an asshole or if, I don't know, any other reason people avoid people after something like that.”

“I don't know if you really want to know my answer.”

“I do. Tell me.”

You stared at him for a moment, then sighed when he showed no intention to run away from the topic.

“It wasn't supposed to happen.”

“So you regret it.”

“No, not regret, I just… Does this sound even remotely healthy to you? The two of us suddenly fucking inside a room at this university?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time it ever happened here.”

“I’m serious, Jonathan.”

“Well, I am too. People here are traditional, not puritan. And we are both single people who are evidently attracted to each other,” He reasoned, that same stance of having two hands inside his pants pockets and a neutral expression on his face.

You considered it with silence, then turned back to the project you weren’t even paying attention to begin with, working more as a way to move on from the topic.

“The first time you really wanted to take me to dinner,” You mumbled.

“The difference is that the first time I didn't know what I wanted. I know now.”

“And that do you want now?”

Jonathan approached discreetly, arm lightly touching yours as he also pretended to look at the architectural work in front of you.

“I want to fuck you without rushing.”

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

Because that was it, just fucking. That's how things went, without the anxiety of seeing him every day, without the passionate hallucinations of what it would be like to have a 'relationship' with him. Jonathan went to your apartment most of the time because of Ava, but in the weeks she spent with Mira, you fucked all over his house: sofa, bed, bathroom, kitchen.

Mira wasn't an issue either because you didn't talk about it. You only asked once and demanded honesty, at least in this regard, and he said that the divorce had been consummated shortly after you went to London. You only knew about the times he spent with Ava because, after a while, the times he came to you were seasonal enough to form a pattern.

He asked about Europe again, with a more curious and attentive look. You said it was cool, actually, and surprising. When you mentioned Charles, he didn't react or make any comment on the matter.

“I heard you're going to try out for a substitute job after spring break.”

You were leaning against the headboard of his bed when you heard him ask. Jonathan had come out of the bathroom after discarding the condom and was sitting next to you when he appeared with this curiosity.

“From Rahul?”

“Mm-hm.”

That made you shrug.

“It’s not much.”

“It’s something.”

“Yeah,” You nodded, fidgeting with the sheet covering your legs. “But it's still not much. I will be paid per class and Columbia is very traditional in having consistent professors.”

He didn't answer that, which gave you comfort and relief. You didn't want to talk about work there, at that moment, where any objective had to do with everything except Columbia, except the rich students or the next semester's curriculum.

“Are you going to have to give up Dylan?” That was what he asked, starting to place gentle kisses on your shoulder, up to your neck. You gave him space, hand holding the back of his hair, buring your fingers into his messy curls.

“Perhaps…” He bit your earlobe, making you sigh. “Why are we talking about it?”

“Mr. Hastings said a lot of nice things about you at that fundraiser.”

“The one you didn't want to go to?”

“Mm-hm…” Jonathan pulled the sheets away from your body, sliding between your now open legs and pressing more kisses on your belly, going lower to give some attention to your thighs. “Did you talk about this? About you leaving Dylan?”

“Vaguely,” You adjusted yourself, already expecting him to go just a little more bold with that closeness of his.

“He looked quite upset.”

“Jealous?”

It was the first time that someone reached this criterion, which was trivial. You were even smiling when you said that. Well, Jonathan didn't smile. He stuck his head between your legs, made you cum with his mouth and nibbled on your lip as he penetrated your pussy with a long but deep movement.

Of all the meetings, that one was the most full of passion and desire. You left his house completely sweaty and sore. Two days later, when you met again, Jonathan invited you to dinner. You looked at him with an amused expression, not understanding where that was coming from.

“I was a scoundrel, that's all. I want to be able to have the right to be jealous of you without being a complete asshole.”

That made you smile. Really smile.

“You know you're going to need more than dinner for this, right?”

“What I know is that I can start with a bottle of wine,” He smirked. “Chilean, Camembert, yeah?”

#jonathan levy #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy smut #jonathan levy fanfiction #oscar isaac #scenes from a marriage #female reader #reader insert #jonathan levy x you

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Text

Take You Home

December 3: Shopping/Snow - Undercover (Horacio Carrillo x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts by the lovely @youvebeenlivingfictional, found here)

CW: Convoluted plot; barely any snow (sorry); slightly angsty; talk of past sexy-times; nothing explicit but 18+ anyway to be safe, I dunno, I’m not the MPAA.

Word Count: 1670

AN: There is a sequel, found here!

AN2: Requested by anon!

It was his idea, so he can’t complain about it now: send two DEA agents undercover to help route out a key distributor linking Escobar to the United States. Cut off the demand, Carrillo thinks, and disrupt the system a bit.

It was his idea, so he has to bite his tongue. One of the DEA agents, a man named Perez, is based out of Miami, unknown to him but vouched for by Murphy. Solid, used to UC work. The second agent, though?

Well, the world of the narcos turns the same as any other rich and powerful sphere, so Perez is paired up with you. You’re young and you can pass for the trophy girlfriend of an ambitious and ruthless dealer who wants to set up a route into the eastern seaboard of the United States. Besides, you’ve been stationed in Colombia for a year now, and you can help while you play out the fantasy of being vapid eye-candy.

It was Colonel Carrillo’s idea, this UC ploy, so he has to swallow down the sick fear that bubbles in his guy when you leave to meet up with Perez.

Carrillo can’t even talk to Javi or Steve about it. His thing with you—undefined, casual—is also unacknowledged, a secret thing. When you wave goodbye to them and leave without a backwards glance, Carrillo has to keep his expression stony to keep up the ploy.

Waiting for you and Perez to make contact and ingratiate yourselves with one of Escobar’s lieutenant…it’s the longest three months of Carrillo’s life.

-----

The next time he sees you, he almost doesn’t recognize you.

Three months with no contact beyond the handful of words from your handler, and Carrillo is practically climbing the walls with worry. But when he finally catches sight of you through the window of the surveillance outpost, he can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s you polished to a high shine: designer dress hugging your curves, designer shoes adding height to you and pushing your ass into a perfect heart shape. Hair and makeup perfectly done as you climb out of the hired car and gather up an armful of glossy shopping bags from the designer boutiques of Buenos Aires.

Carrillo knows he should like you like this. Isn’t this the fantasy, a beautiful woman whose only job is to look perfect, an ornament to adorn the arm of her rich and powerful man?

But he doesn’t like it. There’s something brittle about your beauty like this, something inelastic and ugly under the slick veneer.

Maybe it’s because he’s seen you as the opposite: grimy and sweaty from running across Medellín with your gun drawn.

Maybe it’s because he’s had you as the opposite: not salon-perfect hair but your ponytail gripped in his fist, damp with sweat. No manicured nails but your ragged, gnawed down nails biting into the meat of his shoulders. No expensive perfume but just the scent of you, smoky and bitter gunpowder, the fruity gum you chew, the clean smell of your soap.

It’s only a glimpse of you now. You carry your shopping bags into the rented penthouse where you and Perez are staying, and then you are out of sight.

-----

The bust is planned: a week later in the Chilean Andes at a ski resort that is playing at being a sort of South American Aspen. It’s full of expats and LATAM people alike, the same because they have too much money to know what to do with. For some, like who you and Perez are playing at being, it’s ill-gotten money. Blood money.

Carrillo greases the skids with the Chilean government, works with their local force to help secure the villa where you and Perez are staying. Where Escobar’s lieutenant, the one they call El Toro, is meeting you to finalize plans for a new distribution network.

-----

He knows the DEA gives out awards for bravery, for excellence in the field, but Carrillo thinks they should hand one out for acting—because you fucking nail your role in the third act.

When they bust into the villa, you shriek. You clasp your hands over your ears at the yelling, at the sudden noise. You reach for Perez (a gesture that makes Carrillo’s jealousy flare up, questioning if you’ve grown too close to your UC partner in these months), and when Murphy points his gun at you, you start to cry.

Carrillo’s never seen you cry before. He’s seen you teared up and close to it—bleary-eyed from exhaustion, tears threatening after a civilian gets caught up in the war with the narcos. But never full-on crying, and it makes his protective hackles go up. He fights the urge to go to you. He has to keep up the façade.

“I don’t understand!” you cry at the Spanish flying around you. “What’s happening?”

“You’re under arrest, that’s what’s happening,” Javi helpfully tells you in English, and the fresh torrent of wails is so pitch perfect, so natural that you could win the Oscar if you took your talents to Hollywood.

-----

It’s a long night: they lead the men away first, including Perez. You make a final swan song by calling out to your pretend-boyfriend, telling him you love him. The Chileans take the low level thugs to for their own processing—it was the deal Carrillo cut with them, a boost to their own fight against the narcos, a bit of good publicity to their ongoing success.

El Toro is put on a plane back to Colombia. Perez is put on a plane back to Colombia too, in theory, though he’s really on his way to States for his debriefing and his return to his normal life.

Javi cuffs you to keep of the charade as the men are filed out of the room, and you slump against the couch as you watch them. Your makeup is ruined from your histrionics—sooty black mascara runs down your cheeks, and your coral-colored lipstick is smeared at one corner of your lips. Still, Carrillo can barely get enough of the sight of you. He catches you out of his peripherals, tries not to openly stare and only half-succeeds.

It’s Javi that helps you up off the couch. Still cuffed, still playing along in case anyone is lingering outside and catches a glimpse of the would-be narcos’s girlfriend, he hoists you up by gripping your upper arm. He starts to frog-march you out of the villa, but Carrillo steps in finally. Unable to let another moment pass without touching you, he gives Javi a terse nod and takes your other arm in his. He leads you out of the room and to the waiting Jeep.

There’s a handful of voyeurs, workers and guests alike standing in the parameter. Watching. Some may be taking notes. So Carrillo shoves you forward lightly, mutters sorry from behind his clenched teeth as you stumble in your heels in the crust of snow and cry out—which pulls some jeers and taunts from the assembled crowd, so at least it’s a good show.

-----

He gets you into the backseat and gets down the side of the mountain. Neither of you talk beyond his own low-voiced murmur, asking if you’re okay, and you whispering back that yeah, you are fine.

There’s chatter on the radio, and he keeps his ears tuned into the talk as everyone is sorted out to where they belong: Javi and Steve on the plane with El Toro, Perez on his way back home. And you with Carrillo.

He keeps his eyes on the road only half of the time. When he’s on a straightaway, he glances at you in the rearview mirror. You have your head back against the seat, eyes shut. You look exhausted, but he knows you aren’t sleeping. Your face still holds its usual tension that only disappears when you’re asleep.

Once off the mountain, he pulls off onto the side of the road. He scans the area—there’s no one around. The handful of buildings at the base of the mountain are dark, quiet. He climbs out of the driver’s seat and opens your door.

Your eyes are open now, and you fix him with an unreadable expression. He shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over your shoulders, and when you lean forward to let him, you press your forehead against his chest for the briefest of seconds.

He reaches out and cups your face between his hands. It’s more tender than any touch he’s ever given you before; your coupling always had a rough, fervent edge to it. Pulled hair, scratches, bruises the size of his fingertips mottling your hips and waist.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, and he peers into your eyes to see if you lie to him. See if you pull on your tough-girl act and joke away any pain or fear or discomfort.

Three months away from everything familiar. Three months on edge, waiting to be discovered. Waiting for a bullet to end your life, but you know the narcos all too well—it’s never just a bullet.

“I’m tired,” you whisper back to him and he can see the truth in your words. And he can see the larger truth too: the tears that fill your eyes, how you try to blink them away before they fall in earnest.

“I’ve got you,” he replies, and he does. He pulls you into an awkward hug, gently presses your face back against him. He can feel your hitching breaths, how you’re trying to hide your crying, but he rubs your back. Tells you it’s fine, to let it out. Tells you that you’re safe again.

“Let me take you home,” he says, and that’s what makes you finally break. You shudder against him and start to sob, and he only holds you on the side of a dark road in the Andes and promises that you’re finally safe with him.

#colonel Carrillo #colonel horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo x reader #narcos #tropes-and-tales #winter prompts 2022

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verinarin · 4 months

Note

Veritas... Barritas, barritas de chocolate, barritas de Veritas, ¿serían más caras por ser él?

No, actually, I saw that you make requests for bots and I didn't know, I would like one from Dr. Ratio because your bots are one of the best

Ahem, I'm dissociating horribly and it's 4:24am, I so want to swallow a whole cake or have a Pinterest picnic with Veritas, sniff sniff

These are requests and I know it says I can do them, but feel free to decline.

The scenario is simple, Ratio realizes that one of his students, one of the best and most promising, suddenly lowers her grade on the last exam and attends classes with bandages. I leave it to your discretion if you want to expand for the first message or place something else

And I lied, there were two. This is just because I'm always excited to have a picnic, in this case with Ratio. Idk, just imagine having a nice moment after days of work to eat and enjoy the sun

Anyway, I don't want to leave without saying something random... Once a person legally became the owner of the moon, it was a Chilean. Also, when Apollo 11 returned they gave him a moon rock because it was their territory at that time, the guy gave the rock to a museum and it is still on display there.

I like to talk nonsense, do you have any hyperfixation? I like cardboard boxes, I want to have one that big to sleep in

*gives you a big cardboard box and a bot* here you go

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tylerxm · 3 months

Text

You're All I Want

pair: boyd holbrook • pedro pascal

genre: lgbtq+, fluff

audience / rating: T

contains: soft and fluff, strong language, gay sex mention, narcos© mention, boyd being teasing, pedro being a male-wife, cute teasing platoromantic-queer-boys, rain makes things sadder but softer, cigarettes after sex mention, pedro being soft asf, boyd too, flashbacks.

word count: 1.5k

music is highly recommended to have a full experience of the fic. especially "you're all I want" by cigarettes after sex.

enjoy. ;)

The flashes of the streetlights turned on earlier than normal entered through the window that overlooked the living room of the actors' apartment. The rain was light, and the sky was too crowded and dark for it to be six in the afternoon. It used to get dark at eight.

The cold invaded the apartment abundantly, the heating was on but it was not a flame large and powerful enough to heat all the corners of the place. The rugs had already been taken out, the teapot and coffee pot had been taken out, the hot food was on the table, which was releasing steam indicating that it was probably delicious too.

Pascal cooked, for the first time in a long time. He was not a man who really liked to cook, nor was he a person who would like to do homemade things (it depended on the case), but in this case he motivated himself and made something to eat. But having his nose on the aroma of the food so much had turned off his appetite. Boyd didn't seem very hungry either.

They were both under a large purple blanket, it was made of good fabric and it had cost them an arm and a leg, they were semi-lying on their sofa bed, looking for something on Netflix, to see what they could find. They made an action-comedy movie, one of their favorite genres. Boyd was more of a comedy, Pedro was more of an action guy. They decided to see that one.

***

Half an hour had already passed, the movie was still going and everything was fine. The two ate the food that the Chilean had prepared, which was very typical Chilean food. They were fried pine empanadas. The dough was made with the basics; flour, eggs, milk, white wine. Pine consists of lean meat, onion, spices, etc.

The one with some gray hair had one filled with meat and chopped onion with cut olives, and Boyd had one with beef without olives. His mouth was watering with each bite, enjoying the intense flavor in his mouth with the crunchy dough (filled with spices and a little more white wine than normal, Pedrito's touch).

The oldest smiled as he ate and chewed, he was giving himself credit and rightly so, everything was too good. Holbrook let out a sigh of pleasure at how good he was, placing his food on the plate that was in his lap. The movie was still on, and the shots and screams from the TV sounded in the background among the conversation.

"God, Pedro, this is too good. You deserve a round of applause, I didn't know you cook so well." Boyd commented after swallowing his food, looking at him with a slight gleam in his eyes. Pedro felt his heart become even warmer, which pumped faster.

"I didn't even know I cooked so well. Thanks Boyd, I'm glad you like it." Pedro smiled without showing his teeth, taking another bite of his empanada with filling. He felt his cheeks warm from the praise, but the blush could not be seen on them.

Boyd was paying attention to the movie again, watching as they captured a man who was a bastard. The police officer spat at him and almost jumped on him to hit him, but the officer's partner grabbed him from behind and pushed him away.

Boyd had déjá vù.

"I remembered when we recorded in Narcos. I was very angry that day because of what happened with my wife and I let it out. I remember when Chris scolded me for spitting at Cataño. You stopped me and that wasn't in the script. I'm glad you did it." Boyd said without looking at Pedro, who was looking attentively at the gringo, smiling slightly at having that memory.

"If you still had the chance, you would hit him and apologize, I understand you. I'm glad I stopped you." The Chilean added, smiling with some euphoria at the memory.

Then, the action scene changed to a sex scene.

It showed what was happening on the other side, while they captured the psychopath they had attacked.

The eyes of both totally heterosexual adults widened, for some reason an uncomfortable feeling settled in their chest when it was nothing new, it was just two people having passionate sex and they were doing it too. Before.

Maybe it was because it was a gay sex scene?

Pedro got nervous for some reason, not knowing what to do. He took the controller at the same time as Boyd, who had his hand on top of his which he was squeezing lightly on the controller. In the end, due to nerves, Pedro ended up releasing the control and Holbrook advanced the scene. They both laughed awkwardly and nervously.

"Sorry, I didn't know what-"

"Don't worry, it's normal for these things to happen..."

"Yes, haha. Sorry."

"Don't worry." The one with glasses spoke for the last time.

For the rest of the movie they were completely silent, the only thing that could be heard was the television, the raindrops and the bites of food, but the voices stopped. The tension rose again.

The bad thing or the good thing, the good thing?, is that Pascal had been thinking about the friction, the electrifying squeeze they had had, the sex scene and everything. Throughout. His stomach churned with so many feelings accumulated, and his chest seemed to become concave for that very reason. He swallowed, now waiting for the movie to end so he could speak.

He even panicked very slightly for a few seconds (although he didn't show it, he knew how to act well) when he heard Boyd speak again, looking at him with open eyes.

"Do you prefer to see another movie? Or some series?" Boyd looked at him with his passive-active eyes, blue like the most beautiful sapphires Pedro had ever seen.

He swallowed, he felt his cheeks blush slightly, just a little. He bit the inside of his cheeks.

"And if better... Shall we listen to some music?"

Boyd smiled at that proposal, leaving his arm on the back of the couch.

"I think it seems like a good idea. Suggestions?" Meanwhile the gringo opened Spotify on his cell phone to connect it to the TV.

Pedro thought for a few seconds, so as to look outside the apartment, at the window and at the semi-starry sky that was covered by storm clouds, and how the raindrops spread across the window glass.

"A friend recommended a band to me. The truth is that I don't dislike it at all, it's not very my style but I like it because it relaxes, it relaxes a lot."

"Name?"

"You're All I Want", by Cigarettes After Sex." Maybe it was a hint, maybe not, who knows.

Boyd listened and connected his cell phone to the television, letting the song play. He got deeper into the blanket, a little closer to Pedro. The one with dimples did the same. He ended up resting his head on Boyd's shoulder, and Boyd rested his cheek on Pedro's head, watching the song's lyrics slide across the screen.

"You would use your songs to say the words you couldn't say

And every word you sang was about you and me

I loved everything you wrote

And when you would sing I felt that my heart was falling. "

" You're all I want

We fucked so hot it left me faded

For all you are

There is no other love, it's only yours

You're all I want, all I love. "

The American chuckled as he listened to the lyrics, still looking at the screen while he slowly caressed the older man's shoulder.

"Are you still in love with your wife as if you were children? God, you're like a fifteen year old teenager." The blonde commented.

The Chilean laughed a little redder on his cheeks, embarrassed by what he had said. It wasn't about his wife though.

"Stop teasing around, that's not it. I just like the song, nothing more." He said in a hoarse tone, he was beginning to feel a little tired in Boyd's arms.

The taller one was just smiling slightly, after the mini conversation he felt hands on his arms. He was now behind Pedro, hugging him while they were both covered by that warm blanket, and Pedro had left his hands on the arms that covered him. He ended up closing his eyes and falling asleep, then Boyd followed him.

The rain had stopped when they both fell asleep, and the melancholic group's songs were still playing in the background.

#cigarretes after sex #stavier #boyd holbrook #pedro pascal #narcos #lgbtqia #fanfic #boydxpedro #javier peña #steve murphy #boyd is soft with pedro omg

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fettesans · 2 years

Photo

Top, photograph by Johan Godoy/Getty Images, from the editorial Giant Sinkhole Swallows Chilean Land Owned By Canadian Mining Company, for the Huffpost, August 3, 2022. Via. Bottom, screen capture from Lady Lazarus, directed by Sandra Lahire, 1991. Via.

(...) the predominance of the visual, and of the discrimination and individualization of form, is particularly foreign to female eroticism. Woman takes pleasure more from touching than from looking, and her entry into a dominant scopic economy signifies, again, her consignment to passivity: she is to be the beautiful object of contemplation. While her body finds itself thus eroticized, and called to a double movement of exhibition and of chaste retreat in order to stimulate the drives the "subject," her sexual organ represents the horror of nothing to see. A defect in this systematics of representation and desire. A "hole" in its scoptophilic lens. It is already evident in Greek statuary that this nothing-to-see has to be excluded, rejected, from such a scene of representation. Woman's genitals are simply absent, masked, sewn back up inside their "crack."

Luce Irigaray, from This Sex Which Is Not One, 1977, translated by Catherine Porter with Carolyn Burke, 1983.

#diptych #the face #Oculolinctus #quotes

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ja-lin · 2 years

Photo

Ranza facial expressions re-draw for Night of Sin. Also, I darkened the colors of my lineart.

What kind of Spanish style do you think Ranza has? I’ve played online games with lots of other gamers from South America and I’ve heard Chilean, Venezuelan, Argentinian styles for Spanish. It’s all a little different! But, all sound very sexy. I have no shame and I told my friends they all have sexy voices. They all thought it was funny lol...

Honestly the first thing I’d say to Ranza would be she had a sexy voice. The next would be “can you bench me?”

Hahahaha...time to let the sidewalk swallow me and sink into the ground like the SWM MC.

I wonder what kind of style Ranza has when she speaks Spanish?

#night of sin #ranza gutierrez

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cursinmajellan · 1 year

Text

Bring Philippine Killer Hero to Court!

By Cursin Måjellån

(First of series)

NEITHER do Ferdinand Magellan's stardom and popularity among Chileans, nor their profound fondness of him, shrink this byline to atom size, but the question over a missing perpetrator does.

Lapulapu, the tribe warrior of the islet of Mactan, was alleged to have hacked to death in 16th century the Portuguese leader of the Spanish conquest-expedition to the archipelago, now Philippines. No one heard of him thereafter.

However irrelevant the crime - as it were technically - to Filipinos may be, but is so to a Chilean, uptight about the centuries-old fleeing criminal!

Whether or not was there any conspiracy of historical disdain that led to deliberate disregard of facts as to the flight of this unsung hero, our silence makes assumptions prompted thereof rather justified, however unfairly.

Nonetheless, I don`t mind pursuing a story swallowed up by antiquities if only to find hope that rewriting history will indeed change the prevailing people's traits that have traces of the relics surrounding, in particular, the hero-warrior`s disappearance.

Let the carrots at the end of the tunnel be for those who succeed changing them. I'll be grateful too!

Useless Killing, Death: Not only was Magellan's death unfortunate but also the killing of an invader by the only resisting group of islet-men anyhow rendered meaningless, no less historically.

After all, the rest of the native populations (maliciously dubbed as "indios") took the bloodless struggle instead, ingesting into themselves the gloom and doom of being _nth class citizens of their own motherland. Political bullying, being looted of resources, slave labor, harassment, rape, man-slaughter had unfortunately become the accepted normalcy.

Was it sleight of magic, or miracle? No!

I don't think Spaniards were of silver tongues mouthing upon their landings love of church and salvation from sins, thus earned overnight pious devotions from various natives around different islands of the archipelago.

Are you kidding me? Natives never understood a thing those smokes spewing bearded dragons were babbling loudly from sea.

Social Misfits Governed: Magellan's navigation exploits of social misfits and hardened criminals were themselves explosive cannonballs to conquer them.

Most of these men, as matter of fact, were just pulled out from Spanish dungeons to be cast away to a colony far beyond point nemo not to see Spain ever again.

This was one among those of the package Portuguese navigator`s expedition agreed to deliver to the Spanish Crown.

Their hungers and thirsts, both spirit and flesh, in the months long journey to uncertainties -- however suppressed for the thoughts of freedoms and promising wealth out of governing for themselves the lands, seas and people found thereof -- could not wait to devour.

With all these urges and tensions also exploding, who would not of course shudder at mere sights of the wild demons personified, of their swords and of their fire powders?

Fear, the most effective instrument for oppression and control, was the primary reason why some of the natives gave in -- baptized, taxed -- and thus lost to assimilation!

Placing their women, their lands and themselves under the rule of these men for 300 years even left Magellan cussing all the way to his eternal rest.

Corpse left to Crabs to Feast on: Poor Magellan. He brought in Christianity but, ironically, never had a Christian burial himself!

Well, who cares? Spaniards got their fill.

Given their contempt following Spain-Portugal fight for the ownership of the world, to leave expedition leader off the Mactan coast no more than a carcass for crabs to feast on was no burden of guilt.

Besides, they didn't know personally any Portuguese as their surrogate boss, except their respective former prison wardens per ship who, this time, were their little governors, or cabesas de los barrios, or jefes de los ejercitos.

By the way, I said "placing" because the Spanish conquestadores did not anymore shed blood taking the entire archipelago to themselves where violence would have been otherwise massively unfolded, told and retold. Let alone Mactan's.

The fact everybody has been prostituting with any existing power (then and now), the Mactan incident was the first and the last skirmish between invaders and the resistance.

Guilty Thieves Hid: Regardless, the Spaniards were always up to hide their skins -- typical of guilty thieves -- from the natives by erecting town citadels and, no less, a colonial government their heirs have later inherited.

That same government, despite altered form, is still run today -- by those who are bred for it or paid into by those who need to bleed -- solely for the fortunes ordained to same particular social class, the true "civil order" or government's rightful beneficiaries.

It is the same system that has nourished itself out of sheepled lapdogs, collaborators, balimbing or sipsip begging favors, the corrupt and cheats. It is also fond of treasonous leaders selling off their neighbors or countrymen for some goodies and kickbacks.

These ruling heirs (los mestizos) later called themselves ``Filipinos`` not only to show off paternalistic loyalty (or pasipsip) to their ancestors` king (Felipe Jr.) back home, but also to establish racial fortress defining their social class from encroaching native assimilation.

Watching the Rise and Fall of New Society: Such unfortunate twist of fate totally reshaped the lives of the rest of the natives who gave up instead their domains (talugan), thus drove deep to the forests their tribes, their cultural structures (bangkaso), customs and traditions. They`re still uphill till today watching over the rise and fall of a new society, amidst their own extinction somehow!

Whether or not this painful epoch of the nation's history brought in common feeling among today's Filipinos against that infamy, it has earned the people an international notoriety as a nation of tolerants.

This is because, for one, we let loose those who benefit from shame to live with it equally as normal people as those who do not.

Fair to the latter or otherwise, they don't care unless, perhaps, such shame brings their own homes ablaze. Much less they partake of the loots!

Perhaps this is one among those that some people desired rewritten in favorable flavor -- either to scrap it or strengthen it -- and better yet to not to exist at all, in my case, before my Latin American confreres!

Missed by Chileans: I was detailed temporarily to Punta Arenas, Chile`s southern city.

But never ask me what this Portuguese explorer has since been to the Chileans. They're not just fond of him. They've missed him!

I don't believe he had more wealth than God but they love the Filipino decapitated navigator hero so much that they named after him the strait where their city lies.

Heard the ``Strait of Magellan`` between the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, yes? You got that right!

Chileans still miss him these days, can't you believe it? We're gonna deal with it in the succeeding issues.

To that effect, they even erected him a memorial monument that has become popular and iconic among Chile`s most southern cities.

You find it towering over the city square, Plaza de Armas.

The site was however one of the stops my colleagues led to during a 2 day round tour to introduce me to the city in one sunny December.

It was too hot then that you can fry an egg on the pavement, but the idea of confronting centuries old historical guilt made me feel it was North Pole out there, all of a sudden!

My nationality was of no secret among them and I presumed they have all information about me and my nation in place before then.

``What happened to Lapulapu after killing Magellan?`` The elder monk asked over a sly smile.

The question was amusing thó.

However, he was so sincere bringing me into a moral dilemma whether or not to answer the question with Philippine barber`s story from the back of my head.

I did not have the correct answer that moment, to be honest. Do you?

If none, just hold on a while... I'll see what I can do for you in the next issue. (36)

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

Cursin Måjellån is a religious missionary based in the Falkland Islands. For reactions, please send email via [email protected]

#history #philippines #filipino #pinoy bl #philippine politics

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theredwritingwitch · 2 years

Text

Scarcity of Thieves- Part Two

Pairing: The thief x OFC, Both characters are based off of Chilean folklore, Thief is named Pedro but this is not RPF

Summary: The thief finally catches up to his little bird as they go for a tiring ride down the city.

Word Count: 5495

Warnings: lots of stealing, nudity, virginal sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (female receiving), stalker (for a bit), exhibitionism, semi public sex (in a cable car at dead of night), one slap to the clit

Ratings: Explicit

Author’s Note: The thief is named Pedro Urdemales, but this is not real person fiction. I don’t write RPF. This characterization and mix of Pedro Urdemales and the thief is slightly based off of Pedro Pascal but is not RPF. I chose to set this in Chile because the folklore fits together so well (and also a small nod to where PP comes from) but again this is not RPF, just based off his character: the thief. The OFC is also a creature from Chilean folklore.

Part One - Part Three

It was the warm Chilean nights that he never got over. They rolled off the ocean and smothered up to the mountains like lazy lovers resting after an afternoon of affectionate and captivating sex. The heavy sea breeze huffed against the mountains like lovers sharing their breaths, unwilling to part and unable to breathe. Nights like those lingered longer. They were the nights people loved to dance away. Nights where people wandered all about the city, languid in their stride and thoughts. Busy nights to unwind and busier nights for those with an inclination to pilfer.

The thief’s hands weren’t itching tonight. He wasn’t in the mood for the conversation that was rolling around him at the garden party at an art dealer’s exhibit. He wasn’t up for the normal plan of break in, take your prize, and get out. He was on the hunt for something he had never caught before, precisely someone he was having trouble catching. His eyes darted around the streets for his golden gal. He had seen her here and there, around corners and across halls, in gilded ballrooms and posh pool parties; yet he was never able to keep up with her. She glowed in her gilded outfits as his own personal beacon, but he was never able to really have a real moment with her. Aurelia never seemed to notice the thief, they danced through alleyways, weaved through crowds of people, and ran in and out of locked doors. But the two never got another chance to be alone together, they had gotten close on occasions, but never close enough. The thief felt engrossed in this long-distance dance, but he was starting to get annoyed.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How she floated and swayed. How she flew in and out of windows and down streets. How she was just illuminated. He had gone over the scene in his mind over and over again, remembering that tiny dazzling diamond crunched and swallowed down her throat. Even the warmth of her brightening light still tingled on his face after her snack. He felt starstruck in a way but not completely frozen then. More so he was interested in getting to know her better. Maybe take her out dancing, see those hips move under his hands. Or perhaps take her to a local jewelry shop for a bite to eat. Maybe she would like to eat emeralds? She didn’t touch the rubies from the necklace from the tycoon’s estate, so maybe she would be interested in some emeralds instead. The thief eyed some sapphire earrings glittering past him as he ran his finger up the golden feather that he had pinned to his suit. He hoped to see some shimmer of light tonight.

Two of the frames were decorated with real gold, many of the others were painted in a fake gold. Aurelia floated between the hedges and flowers, looking over art after art. Well, more accurately, she was looking at the frames around the art. Hunger was eating away at her. Some of the twinkling gems tucked around people’s necks and fingers looked appetizing, yet harder to acquire. She glanced around the exhibit, people were pilfering in and out of the gallery to the garden where more propped-up art were on display amongst the winding bushes and flowers of the garden. Small chatter sifted through the gallery with the night breeze. A light string quartet paired with the chatter. The night was lovely, and people were having a good time, but Aurelia’s stomach was growling.

She was starving for a beautiful antique frame that shone around an equally beautiful painting of the Andes Mountain range. Aurelia was salivating at the thought of making several meals out of the frame; the question was how to get ahold of it without drawing attention. She glanced around the area, eyeing the couple walking to another exhibit. A small group was gathered in a nearby patio area arranged between several art pieces. Many other pairings of people mingled here and there between exhibits. The timing had to be right, it had to be quick and without pause.

A flash of color moving quickly through the gallery caught her eye. She wondered if her friend from many nights ago was around. She had seen him, just briefly, at the playboy’s pool party a week ago and she had felt his presence at other events. There were stolen glances from across rooms. Murmured words were traded as one intimate dance was shared. She even felt the brief touch of her hair being pulled. Small offerings of diamonds, pearls, and garnets were found in her purse and pockets. She ate each one with delight, even if she knew she needed to stay clear of the cunning trickster. But part of her wondered what it would be like to be fed straight from his swift hands. She wondered what stories they could trade that no one else had heard of, what loves they could share that no one remembered anymore, what lives they could part with that would be only theirs. She even wondered if he knew other old souls such as the two of them, or maybe that was a question to never ask a myth man of tricks and cons. As she traveled through parties and about the city, she had looked deep into the shadows, eyeing them with suspicion that some merry thief lurked and observed her from inside. But whenever she sensed eyes on her, she flew faster than he could maneuver. When she felt a whiff of a touch, she glided out of his reach. And when he taunted her, she only glistened brightly at him.

A large crash and shatter was heard from inside the gallery that turned the heads of all the guests in the garden. Several walked past Aurelia to the gallery, curious to the gasps that were circulating the growing crowd. Taking a few steps to observe the distraction only momentarily, she then pounced onto the painting. Holding the art in hand, Aurelia briskly walked through the garden, away from the gallery, and towards the exit. Winding her way through the bushes and planters, she flipped the art over and unhinged the painting from the frame. Throwing the painting off to the side, she licked her lips as she broke off one of the golden fasteners and popped it into her mouth.

Turning the corner and flying out of the garden, her shine illuminated from a dim twinkle to a timid beacon. Only someone with a keen eye and quick steps could find and keep up with her, which was a good thing Pedro had met a top tier fútbol player the other day. He felt a little bad for taking the man’s athletic ability but less so for taking his gold medals. He held the pocketed gold in his breast pocket, keeping it near for a peace offering. He also felt bad for shattering the large glass sculpture inside the gallery, maybe he would give a donation to the gallery later…once he catched a particular birdie.

Currently his pajarito was flying with her latest meal. Pedro followed her metallic gold dress swirl with every twist and turn of her winding exit. The gilded sweetheart dress taunted him to follow. But it was her sweet, small, and serenading light that brought him to starting his undeniable obsession. Of all the trophies, collections, and treasures that the thief had stored at his estate, none thrilled him or enthralled him like this pajarito.

Alerted by the shine of Aurelia’s dress, the thief took off after her. Zipping down the streets and turning into an alleyway, Pedro jogged after her. He kept up his pace as best as he could, keeping his keen eyes on the dim glow ahead of him. Tonight, she was quicker than he had ever seen her. She hardly slowed down her pace as she glided down one of the roughly paced back alleys in her high heels. She jumped from alley to alley, finding her way to a private yard, guarded with an iron fence. Aurelia easily leaped to the top of the fence and swung her body over, hitting the ground with little impact and flying up a staircase. Pedro decided he should steal a pair of new lungs as he climbed the fence himself. Rushing up the stairs and taking a moment to hide behind a wall before his pajarito saw him as she jumped another fence. Mimicking her movement, Pedro followed her up the street, climbing up the city’s elevation. For a moment the thief considered that Aurelia could be leading him to a dead end where he would end up just watching her fly off one of the higher points of the city where there was a station for air line cable cars. He considered his options on how he could learn to fly as he ducked into the shadows as the sight of another dark figure came into view.

The station was empty as Aurelia bounced over the ticket barrier and up the stairs. She paced back and forth, from the window and to the waiting area to step onto a cable car. The night was cooling down and the large open side of the station, where cable cars came in and out, let a big gust of wind into the station. She clutched the gilded frame close to her as she heard the tiny echoes of footfalls. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she paused a millisecond and continued on pacing back and forth in the station waiting for the cable car to arrive.

Swaying slightly with the wind and grinding to the terminal, the cable car moved closer and closer to stopping at the station just as an unnerving feeling crept closer to Aurelia’s shine. A tiny ding of metal hitting metal made Aurelia jump and quickly fly threw the station to the other side. She was no fighter, but she was good with flight. She bounded down the exit stairs as she heard heavy steps chasing after her. Now outside of the station, Aurelia turned and looked for who was following her. Upon seeing not a soul, she relied on her old instinct: lead and then deceive.

Eyeing the cable car, she noted she was short on time and was on the move. Swiftly she took to flying down the block and through an alley. She didn’t have time to go around the whole bloc and lose her stalker, but she was fast enough to make it to the cable car with this shortcut. Without glancing back, but still hearing the heavy footfalls of her follower, Aurelia continued on through the alley back to the station. She caught a glance of the cable car entering the station and picked up her speed, her glimmering glow trailing behind her. Gliding up the stairs again and over the ticket barrier and to the platform. The cable car was already on the far side of the station, close to exiting. Aurelia paused for a few seconds to eat a large chunk of her golden frame. Now letting the metal sink into her stomach, her aurora intensified to a blinding glow. Now that her hunger was sated, and giving her stalker time to catch up, she quickly neared the open side of the platform, waiting to time her jump.

Aurelia looked on to the city of Santiago below her, letting the breeze ruffle her glowing hair and metallic dress. Her eyes roamed the city under her as they fell upon the cable car. Instinctively, her feet instantly carried her over the rails of the cable car to the other side just as a slim and greased looking hand narrowly missed her arm. She leaped over to the far side of the platform and moved around to the cable car’s still open doors where she glided through the doors just before they closed. The cable car lifted up off the ground rails and into the sky as Aurelia took a glimpse out the windows seeing a small rough man tumbling down the hillside. She sighed out and looked down at the golden frame still in her hands, cooing over how the frame gleamed back at her own glow.

“Almost thought you weren’t going to make it, pajarito.” A smooth and husky voice cut Aurelia’s attention away from her meal.

A grin spread over her face, “Worried about me? I was worried about you. It took you long enough to get some alone time with me.” She turned from the doors to see Pedro sitting on a bench. He was leisurely stretched out on the seat, arm hung over the back and his leg propped up on the other. The thief squinted at her blinding light as his free hand extended to the bench opposite of his, an invitation to join him.

“It’s a lovely night to take in the sites, might as well join me,” a small smirk rose on his face. Any other person, Aurelia would be prying the doors open and flying down the city to get away, but this man wasn’t like anyone else. That devilish yet familiar smirk reeled her in, as you took her place across from him.

The cable car swung only slightly with its steady descent down. Clouds blanketed parts of the sky, hiding the moon away for a moment from the lights of the city. Only pockets of stars sung out, weaving their way down. Twinkling like stars, the lights waved and blinked up at the luminous cable car. All the other cable cars swung and glided through the air with dim interiors while one flew in the dark night as a beacon descending to the city. Aurelia radiated to the world all around them, yet there was a slight shadow cast by the thief before her. She pulled herself back into the seat as she raised her arms and rested them on top of her bench seat.

“You know this is always the best time to take in the city. From here, you can see where the land ends.” Pedro looked wistfully out the window, “Feels like we’re on our own little island up here.”

“And with such fine company,” Aurelia cooed.

The thief looked over her, slowly taking in her bare legs that had a light sheen to them. Her dress fell slowly around her thighs as her leg slightly moved to the light beat of the music playing in the cable car. The dress she wore dazzled amongst the darkened interior as the luster of her hair was begging to be touched and caressed. The thief couldn’t even take his dark chocolate eyes off the shimmering eyes of his pajarito. He leaned forward as the desire in him to take his glowing gem in hand simmered in him.

“I’m glad to have such fine company as well. I was wondering when you were going to ditch that fool down the hill.”

“Just decided to give him a run for his money. You didn’t want to help? Isn’t that your normal job? Teach old fools lessons?”

Pedro smiled as his eyes danced over her, “I was certain you would handle it well. Is that what you normally do? An old bait and switch”

“You know me so well, don’t you?” a salacious smile graced her face.

“I know you shine brighter than any gem I’ve collected. You’re more graceful than even myself. Quieter, perhaps.”

“Bigger appetite?”

“Now I would never make a comment on another’s appetite,” Pedro smirked as he brought out the gold medal from his pocket and dangled in the air.

Aurelia’s eyes flared at the site of the pure gold medal. She bit her lip to the thief, “First a beautiful night ride and now a midnight dessert. You’re spoiling me.”

“No, I think you’ll be spoiling me.”

She looked at the thief as his hands went over the engravings of the medal. He leaned back in his seat as she leaned towards him, “But you haven’t followed me to my treasure or my entierrros.” She clutched her antique gold frame closely.

“Pajarito, I don’t need your entierros. I’ve already got quite a treasure trove.”

“Are you going to collect me as well?”

“No, I’ll worship you.” He brought his eyes up from the medal and gazed straight into her’s. A gentle yet smug smile enriched his face. His eyes swirled with darkness with small twinkles of Aurelia’s glow. The soft breeze coming into the cable car tousled his hair only slightly. The dark gray suit he wore looked slick and held him tightly, his shoulders looked like they could use a break from the trim suit. His large hands continued rolling the medal over and over again as he didn’t dare break his stare from her.

Aurelia didn’t want it to break either as she slowly stood up and leaned forward. She braced her hands on Pedro’s shoulders and gently pushed him further into the seat. Lifting her legs on either side of his lap, situating herself lower so she straddled him, she continued to keep his overwhelming eyes on her beaming ones. She felt consumed by the thick fog that seemed to swirl in his irises, one she couldn’t see through but wanted to dive in.

Feeling the heat of each other's breaths, Pedro waited to see what she would do next. He wondered if he was the first man to have such a tempting treasure in their lap. His hands settled on her hips and slowly rolled over the curves of her thighs, hooking his thumbs to the inside of her legs. He bunched up the material of her dress as his hands rhythmically went back up to her hips and continued on to her torso, resting just under her heavily rising breasts. He paused his movement; waiting, as their breaths mingled, for her to make the next move.

She raised her eyebrows with a smirk that made him chuckle as it was now finally clear to the both of them what they were wanting now. Without a beat, lips smashed together as hands anchored bodies closer to each other. Aurelia buried one hand in the soft waves of the thief’s hair as her other hand clamped around his shoulders, sloppily tugging his jacket off with little success. Pedro’s large hands roamed her back until one finally found its home holding her butt, lifting her lightly for a need to be closer. The other hand snaked up her back to her neck where he caught her in a firm hold. He craned her neck away from him, lusting as she whined from the loss of heated lips. His own found their way to her shimmering neck, ghosting praises over and over again over her heated pulse.

“You’re as sweet as I thought you would be pajarito.”

Pedro wanted to praise her more but was stopped short when a tug came to his head from his pajarito’s nimble hands. His eyes opened up to a simmering pair of eyes that made him curse.

“Do you think others will see us up here,” Aurelia huffed out when she realized the cable car ride was becoming closer to the station at the bottom of the hill.

“I hope they do, then they’ll know I got the prettiest treasure to myself.”

Aurelia giggled as her teeth slowly scraped against Pedro’s jaw, “If we let them see us, then maybe we should also let them hear us.” She arched an eyebrow at him.

The thief knew an opportunity when one was presented. He surged forward with his pajarito in his arms, and as she squealed to the air, he shifted her down to the floor. Stripping off his jacket, Aurelia ripped open his shirt, leaning forward to kiss the slopes of his body that lovingly match the slopes surrounding their cable car. He didn’t let her kiss him too long before he was starving for her. He pushed her back to the ground with his mouth and teeth capturing hers.

Large hands ran over her thighs, pushing her metallic dress up and over her head, and threw it to a corner of the car. His lips found their way to her bare breasts, kissing and licking at her nipples, pushing out her moans, as his fingers traced the line of her lace underwear. Circling and lingering on the lace until her hips bucked up, Pedro finally pulled the lace off and swept through her heated lips. His patience was far gone now as he ran two large fingers up and down her lips, landing on her flaming clit. He slid the small pearl between his two fingers, stroking her in time with her shifting hips. His rough calloused hands slid over the bundle and down to her soaking hole, where they immediately entered. The thief didn’t wait a heartbeat to hear his pajarito’s moans erupt from within her covered and busy mouth. Pedro’s own tongue was too busy stroking and exploring every crevice of her neck and upper body that it could.

Under Pedro’s constant and relentless attention, it didn’t take long for a harsh heat of eruption to build in Aurelia’s core. Pedro continued to stroke his fingers in and out of her, he was desperate for her moans as she was desperate for his touch. He nipped at her jaw and nuzzled at her ear, whispering praises against her skin.

“Can you cum for me? Can you give me that sweet treat, pajarito?”

She babbled out whimpers as he added a third finger to his plundering. Circling her clit with his thumb and stilling his three fingers inside her core, the blunt and rough tips of his fingers stroked the inside of her walls. She quivered at him as she clutched him further into her.

“Can you let me see at least one, will you let me see you?” he nipped at her pulse point.

“If— I give you— one,” she moaned brokenly as she tucked her head into his neck. “Then you're going to want— more.” Pedro felt her smile against his neck.

“I want everything you have sweet one.” He stated, keeping his thumb pressed firmly against her clit and as his fingers stroked her in the perfect way. She screamed out his name, letting any passers around the area know the going ons of their cable car. Aurelia gasped for air and grasped at his shoulders, just as her cunt grasped at his fingers. Pedro watched her with rapt interest as she flew over the edge, seeing her aurora flicker and twinkle. After this cable car ride, he swore he would never let his beautiful light out of his grasp again. Aurelia swore she never saw the stars as she did then. She had always shone so bright herself, blinding anyone who dared follow her. But tonight, she saw how bright the rest of the world was; how alluring her thief was and how she needed to see those stars again.

“More?” she begged with her face scrunched up as if she was sad to only give one orgasm to the thief. He huffed and slowly slid his fingers out of her. He licked and sucked his fingers one by one with his eyes closed in delight. Aurelia squirmed under him. He popped the last finger out of his mouth and smiled down at her. He was amused that she was the one asking for more when he felt like he should be the one begging for another from her. He decided he would still.

“Pajarito, I’m asking you for more of your sweetness. Can I make you cum again, this time with my mouth?’ his eyes pleaded with her as he slid further down her body, nuzzling his nose to her belly, kissing her crotch and thighs. Leaving a streak on her thigh as he licked a long mark on her with his tongue. He quickly nipped her closely to her wet and wanting heat.

She bucked up to his bite and opened her legs wide for him. Raking her hands through his lush brown waves, she felt the wet flick of his tongue against her reddening clit. He hummed as her nails dug into his curls as she gasped as his lips sucked her pearl. His arms hooked under her shining thighs, lifting her slightly as his own hips bruised against the floor of the cable car.

Aurelia didn’t dare to look down at the man between her legs. She didn’t dare see the movement of the thief who was buried in her wet curls, now taking in her juices. She wouldn’t stare at the shadow that had followed her all over Santiago, who was finally getting what he wanted, who was giving her what she wanted as his hand reached around to her familiar clit again. She cried out as those deft fingers found their rhythm again. Crying out to the moan that reverberated against her folds from the thief drinking her in. Instead, she smiled with her mouth fully open as she looked up through the roof of the cable car. The sides of the car were all windows and so was the ceiling; she observed the stars looking down at her in all her wanton freedom. Aurelia sore they shone brightly at her; it had been so long since the last time she took the stars in. There were so many for her to view, so many to view all of her. She gasped and clutched the thief’s head harder as tongue felt its way into her. She fluttered and sputtered out praises to her thief.

“Please, please, please don’t stop. I need— need more— pícaro.”

Pedro hummed in response as his movement stayed the same, but he opened his eyes to devour her own. He quickly changed his plan, moving his lips back on her swollen clit and his fingers working inside her once again. His pajarito cried in delight, looking down to the thief’s eyes as she was surprised at the change in action and pace.

Aurelia cursed herself for looking down at him. She averted her gaze back to the stars overhead, to the fogging glass closing around them, to the steady bump of her thief's grinding hips. She wondered if he would be bruised by the end of this, if maybe she would be barren on the inside from the thief’s determined thirst, she also wondered what stars tasted like. Maybe she could convince the thief to steal one for her?

She couldn’t help herself. She grinned up at the sky as she mumbled, “I know— the people on the street can hear us— but pícaro— I want the stars to know your name.”

Instantly Aurelia felt an emptiness in her cunt followed by a quick slap to her heated wet lips. She screamed out in pleasure and surprise as her vision of the stars collided with an intense white heat. Everything blurred as she sat up and curled up to Pedro, unknowingly pushing his head into her wet curls. She cried out his name again when he filled her up with his tongue and relentless mouth. He held her to him longer than she could stand, so much so that when he finally released her, they both noticed that they had passed the station at the bottom of the hill and were now leaving to go back to the station they had originally left.

“Well another round of the cable car means another round with you.” Pedro spoke as he ditched the rest of his clothes and crawled on top of her. He watched once again as her splendid light dwindled. Their cable car was still brighter than the rest of the cars, just now glowing with a light smothered by fog.

Aurelia laughed and surged forward to meet his lips with her own. She tasted her own sweetness in him. He grinded his leaking cock against her as she tasted her own salty taste. Pedro had never eaten a gem before, nor had he digested gold, silver, or copper. He wondered if jewels tasted as she did, he might have to change his own diet if that was the case. But he didn’t have time to ponder when his sweet pajarito was pushing him against the walled window and mounted him.

“More again?” she pleaded to Pedro. Her nails racked over his bare shoulders and down his chest, past his perked nipples.

He sucked in a breath and nodded, “I’ll always be greedy for you.” He wrapped and buried a hand in her hair, bringing her to his now plush lips. He patted her ass enough for her to lift up as he grabbed his thick cock and guided it into her waiting heat. They both moaned in unison as he pushed past her lips and further into a tight core. She sank down in a fluid motion, so well taken care of by his past need to drench her. Pedro wrapped his arms around her as she was finally fully seated and fully filled. Her tight walls fluttered around him, making him savor the heat and constraining desire. He bucked up fast and heavy into her with her first rise and fall of her hips. Crying out to the dark night all around the cable car, Aurelia could only hold on as she took in thrust after thrust of Pedro's never-ending need. He chased a new desire of his own release just as he chased the need for her third release.

“Gotta ask— need one more— one more sweet cry from you— can you give me one more?”

“Yes— I’ll give you— whatever you want,” she nodded and huffed out with her eyes closed.

“Want you— want you to cum pajarito.”

He helped lift her up and down on his cock, feeling the cable car shift with each thrust, seeing their breaths cloud the window. Soon outsiders would not be able to see what they were up to. He continued rocking into her, one hand clutched to her ass and the other clutched to her head, buried in her hair. She sobbed out to the blurred city lights below them. Flashes of car lights and glows of buildings waved to Pedro as he pushed and groaned into her delicious heat. Shadows that bounced off buildings and stirred through the alleys below, gaped at their occupied car. He listened to the echoes of the city drown away in the echoes of his own grunts and his pajarito’s cooing. Pedro sucked and bit into the skin of Aurelia’s neck as she quietly cried over the edge again. He didn’t relinquish his hold on her as he chased his own fall off the edge. Closing his eyes and burying his head into her lustrous hair, he released and pulsed inside her. His own moan echoed in the cable car as it neared the station they had first started at.

Pedro continued to hold her as he stirred inside her. Both of the sweaty and tired lovers didn’t even look up when the car rounded through the station and stopped as it usually did. The doors opened, but neither nocturnal creature lifted from their hold of each other. The cold night breeze entered and freed their car of its musky smell. Aurelia shivered causing Pedro to lift his head and look over her. She shone like a child’s night light now, so calm and relaxed in his embrace. The shadows smothered her glow while she encapsulated him as well. She smiled and stroked his cheek, regarding him in fully glossy eyes.

“You’ve been after me for a while now.”

“You’re a hard bird to catch,” the thief stroked her back, causing a hum to emit into the rolling cable car that was again on its way down the slope.

“And now that you’ve got me?”

“Do I? Does it count as a catch when supposed catcher has sex with an alicanto?”

“It could. Maybe I’ll bend the rules for you.” She rubbed her nose against his.

“Well then, maybe we could see about bending those rules back at my estate.”

“Feels like a trap to me,” she giggled.

“No trap, just two old souls connecting.”

“Over gold, gems, and riches?”

Pedro shrugged, “Creatures of habit aren’t we.”

“Only in the right way.”

“Just don’t eat all my riches. I’ve got wine instead.”

“Wine will do but…” Aurelia bit her lip and looked around the car.

Pedro grabbed at his suit jacket and fumbled around. Producing the gold medal from earlier, he brought it forth to Aurelia. An exchange to be made for his pajarito.

“If the wine isn’t good enough, don’t say I’m not a good host,” Pedro quipped as he hung the medal around her neck, leaning in and nuzzling behind her ear as her giggle echoed through the beaming cable car.

Part Three

Pajarito- little bird

Entierro- burrows/buried legendary treasures

Pícaro- rouge

Pedro Urdemales- fictional character in Latin American folklore that typifies the rogue, rascal, or trickster.

Alicanto- mythological nocturnal bird of Chilean mythology. It’s wings shine at night with metallic colors and eyes emit strange lights. It also eats ores and can not fly. If a person can follow the alicanto, they will be lead to an entierro. If they are seen then the alicanto will blind them and run them off a cliff.

#The Thief #The thief x ofc #Casillero del Diablo #fanfiction #SoT

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