#filthybookworm
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hi liv!! this is cris aka filthybookworm on my new blog!! 💛
No wayyy cris hiiiii
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Pedro Pascal in Prospect
You’re a killer.
I am, indeed. But, are you?
Ezra’s eyes as requested by @filthybookworm
#mine#Pedro Pascal#Prospect#uuuhshiny's gifs#Pascal gifs#bbelcher#USERTOPH#filthybookworm#redoing my own gifs now...#he pretty#1000 plus#Prospect gifs
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waterfall inquiry: chapter five {javier peña x reader}
pairing: javier peña x fem!reader
summary: a party, a kiss, a kitchen -- and lots of questions.
warning: intimacy, reader is described as being shorter than Javi + having dimples, allusions to period-typical sexism toward women
gif credit: @javi-gutierrez
a/n: *mulan gif* I LIVE!!!!!! thank you all for your patience as i have been dealing with fandom burnout and some serious irl things. as it’s been so long, feedback and reblogs are especially appreciated/encouraged. hugs <3
series masterlist | cross posted to AO3 (link in bio)
The two of you, in a place like this.
How strange, and yet not so.
No, he thinks, taking another sip of too-sweet champagne. It’s always been like this, for him, both within and without. Bubbles fizz on his tongue — rowdy incandescence. Always too much of something to be anything else, and yet labels stick to him like the bloodstains, invisible, that grace the palms of his hands. He cannot wash them off.
Hero. Asshole. Son. Life-taker. Savior. Forgotten.
Javier’s dark eyes seek you and find you — he that seeks shall find — and a rivulet of warmth seeps through him at the sight. The shoulders do not loosen, nor does his jaw lose its tense set, but something breaks through. A softness in his gaze, or perhaps even something more hidden (that of his heart).
It is now that the rabble of the crowd — carouses of politicians, military folk, they’re all the same, aren’t they? rolling dice with other people’s lives for their own petty livings — pierces him. Javi has forgotten until now how much he has grown to treasure the silence of your understanding. How quiet it is between you two; how unforced.
Someone, something brushes his shoulder and he turns, the glass leaving imprints into the delicate skin on his fingers. he’s more used to paper bullets these days. The sharpness, the noise, the lingering taste of fermented wine on his lips and the flash of fabric that he knows belongs to you from somewhere across the room is overwhelming in a grounded sort of way. It is enough, for now. The pounding in his head that for once has nothing to do with alcohol reminds Javier that he is still alive.
And maybe, he thinks as he hears your laugh ring out a tone above the rest, something for which to stay.
********************
two days earlier
Today — tonight? — the two of you are exploring somewhere new, temporarily disposing of the known in order to wade further out, to a solid sandbar in the midst of the uneasy slosh of routine.
It was Javier’s idea, presented for your consideration via post-it note taped to the inside of your desk drawer when you returned from a meeting.
Dinner at your place tonight? Walk by my office if yes.
P.S. I miss you.
It’s extraordinary, you think, the amount of missing one can cram into the hours between sunrise and noon.
The post-its themselves had started based on one your impulses, a residual effect of a reckless American youth that had been so denied to you (no mistakes permitted in the library, no spontaneity in the arms of a necessary lover).
There was so much wrapped up in your fingers the day you had penned the first neon-tinged note. Your fingers were shaking, trembling from the aching release of adrenaline and the wealth of knowledge that his kisses imparted to your lips.
Just hours earlier (but could it have been minutes) you had woken up in his bed for the second time, stirring awake to find his cock hard against your ass and his hand on your breast. Javier had taken you apart and put you back together again with methodical precision, filling you from behind with heavy strokes that made your thighs tremble, his steady palm (the calluses burned against your sweat-slicked skin) prying your legs open to keep the waves of pleasure at bay until he saw fit to release them.
And so it was with shaking hands and the taste of the two of you mixed together on your lips that you had scribbled a note, something silly about his tie, or his suit, or about the way he sounds when he says your name when he’s buried deep inside.
Discreetly fastened to the midsection of a report, you had dropped it off at his desk with a sly smile, ignoring Fiestl’s puzzled glance when you reminded Javier to read the entire thing, Agent Peña.
He hadn’t mentioned it in the days following, and anxiety, wet and clammy, had stolen over you. The fear — once so resoundingly set aside by the unavoidable occurrence of his lips against yours at every opportunity — doused you, trickling icy-hot doubt from the back of your neck to the small of your back.
What if he was what all of the replacements told you he could be? What if he was just the same, same, same as all the rest — and you were destined to be nothing more than their blip, a singular bright spot in rearview mirror as they went on with life without you? The wanting may have been sincere, but how can wanting be real when they never crave to stay?
The next day: another useless translation, another angry call from someone grumbling about the peace deal. As though you could do anything about it, you thought with a roll of your eyes. Pressing the phone between your ear and your neck, you nodded absently, assuring the person on the other side that you’re taking down their every word to pass along to the Ambassador.
That’s another joke, and not for the first time you wondered why they were calling you — you haven’t met with the Ambassador personally since you first arrived in this country without a savior.
A gentle chorus of mmhmms and of courses fled from your lips and you picked at an imaginary spot on the desk beneath you, fingers drawing a pattern vaguely reminiscent of some fabric you had seen a local wearing when you had stopped at the market on your way home from work the previous day.
It had been there when you hung up the phone: a post-it in a shade of faded yellow, words written by a distinctly male hand scribbled across the slim paper. It was a lucky risk that the words didn’t run off (blanching the tiny square) and mix with unwrit phrases of your own.
The sticky had adhered to the inside of your finger when you picked it up, realizing with a chenille thrill that although this was not the first time you had seen his handwriting, this was the first time his hand had moved the pen for you, and for you alone.
Your thumb rubbed the barely-dry ink, a small smile forming on your face as you imagined him bending over his desk, jotting down the first thing that came to mind before striding down the hallway to sneak the forbidden communiqué on your desk while you were unawares.
There's something sweet about that. something precious about how Javier had taken part in the little game, about how his handwriting was messy, as though he was compelled to take action before his rational soul outsmarted his heart.
(Javier’s heart, you know, is more than the sum of his losses).
But that he is here — now what? Here, in your heart, in the spot that takes up so much space. No one had warned you about that, but if they had, you would not have listened anyway. You don’t know this, but you and him color in the same lines. Is this why you are both so good at what you do? Two listeners who make no promises. It’s almost voyeurisitc, your jobs, and the self-conditioned selfish mind vaguely wonders if that’s something Javier would be into.
Javier. Post-it. Office. Dinner.
Oh, the things your mother would say if she could see you now.
You walk by his office, waltzing with one hand in fear’s clutches and the other on pride’s waist.
__________
“In another life, I live in New York, and I have this 1950s style kitchen. You know, checked cloth and white and chrome.”
“That’s ugly.”
You shrug. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s not about that. It’s the social commentary of it all — repurposing the housewife aesthetic into one for a working woman living alone.”
Dark curls fringe around the nape of his neck and his hair’s still damp from the shower. He likes to shower right after work, he told you tonight. Get the smell of the Embassy off of him.
The Embassy doesn’t smell, you’d teased. Maybe that’s just you. I’ll have to start addressing my reports to Agent Stinky.
It was a childish joke, one brimming with affectionate attention, but he’d still laughed. You like that about Javier. You feel young and old and precisely as you are with him.
In this moment, he leans against the counter. Lithe fingers fiddle with the glass in his hands, but only just.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. Dark brown eyes dart between your face and the slightly undone buttons on your blouse. Weight shifts from toe to heel and back again.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
The hum of discord or assent perishes in the vinegar ether of your linoleum kitchen as he turns away from you and back to his — your — stove, stirring whatever’s in the pot.
A sip of lukewarm beer and then — “do you always sit on the counter?”
“Why is it any business of yours?” you ask. You & him both are surprised by the impetuousness bursting at the seams of your painted lips; the wooden spoon stutters in its steady clockwise rotations.
He walks with an uneven gait: Javier takes the interruption of your youth in his perpetually off-balance stride. He does not run his hands through his hair (you wish he did). Javier rests his hip on the counter, a lopsided smile matching the rest of him in awkwardly beautiful symmetry (you want him to always gaze at you like you are the one who feeds him).
“Well, just wondering if this is okay.”
The kiss steals your breath not because your ankles hook behind his back and his hands are on your bare thighs and his tongue sweeps across your lip but because you are too conscious of reality for reality itself to be real. Javier is a child with a soda pop: he shakes you up until you’re fizzing fit to shatter from the pressure. You don’t believe in fate, but maybe you do when you whisper his name like you were born to do — like his name and your breath are all the same, both sign and symbol of your destiny.
And maybe Javier is really only a man in your kitchen, kissing you like a rom com lover. Any minute now, the ardor of shared desire will begin to burn,1 and he’ll pull away with sheepish shoulders and swollen lips. He’ll not stay the night, not wishing to tempt the lady beyond her exertion, and because he’s a gentlemen.
But rom com men don’t carry guns in the back waistband of their jeans. Rom com men don’t drown tumblrs of whiskey, seco. Rom com men don’t grind against women twelve years their junior in a film-covered kitchen counter government-issued apartment.
Javier Peña’s not a rom com man. So maybe he’ll stay the night instead, and take you right here on the kitchen counter until the neighbors — your officemates — make jokes about your very loud lover in the office tomorrow.
Maybe .
But what is real?
Is this okay? as his fingers trail the soft skin of your belly
Is this okay? as his lips claim your five sense with a kiss
Is this okay? as his weight pushes you further back on the counter
Everything is okay when you don’t know what’s real.
****
He’s eating the leftovers at his desk.
The intimacy of it all should be illegal.
Your tupperware, your stove, his desk. A triad of lessons learned in the method of loving a man. What can hold the nature of your love (questions of a child who loved too much for her body). Now you know that is the smallest containers, the throw-away things of post-its and plastic and behind-the-ear kisses that makes the tension in shoulders abate by just the slightest bit.
Where did he learn to love a woman? A lecherous part of your brain supplies an easy answer — it’s the all the prostitutes, of course. His body count is comparable to…oh, you don’t know whose, but you’re sure it’s anything but modest.
Of course, you try to to tell yourself as you listlessly add sugar to your already over-sweet coffee, not that it matters. He can have fucked the president of the United States and you wouldn’t care. He can do whatever he wants. It would be weird if he hadn’t, right? You should expect these things, when loving a man.
And then you remember. Leftovers. Tucking you into bed. Sending you home with one of his shirts after a weekend in his bed.
No, this is a man who earned a woman’s love.
He’s never mentioned a mother, a sister, an aunt or two. Not even a past girlfriend, although, you admit with a self-deprecating secret smile, he must have been quite the heartbreaker in high school.
You know nothing about him.
(You know nothing about him except the fact that he likes to shower when he gets home from work and owns an impressive collection of white t-shirts and feels guilty about not being able to quit cigarettes and not saving more lives and not going home when he should and works best in the midmorning hours and likes to kiss before saying good night).
Maybe, just maybe, you can be okay with that. How does one measure the making of a man? In years, in moments, in chronological order? Who gets to say what composes his tender, wrecked heart?
Fiestel’s sharp cough interrupts your thoughts. “Sorry,” he mumbles, hands stuffed awkwardly in suit pockets. “You’re uh - you’re blocking the coffee.”
Profuse apologies and sibilant expressions of embarrassment: you move aside to let the man gain access to the shitty coffee no one in your office can live without. You like Fiestel; he’s one of the one who still cares and someone never loses a softly acerbic wit. He’s a few years older than you, but not so old you can’t both commiserate about the dearth of promotions and trade idealisms.
“You going to that party in a few days?” he asks as he fills up a chipped navy blue mug. “Supposed to be quite the event.”
You raise one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Not sure yet.”
“You should,” he encourages, turning back around and leaning against the counter. “Get out and about a little bit. If you like,” he adds, gesturing with his mug, “you can come with me. My wife’s back in the States and I could use a friendly face with me to get through it.”
Frown lines carve a path between your brows. “Won’t she mind? You taking another woman, I mean?”
Fiestel smiles into his cup. “Nah. She’ll probably be happy she doesn’t have to do it herself, honestly. Hates these things.”
You take another sip, ignoring the assault of bitter coffee and acrid sugar on your tongue as you consider. It’s not like you could go with Javier, and you learned early on that it as always better to appear attached when attending these sorts of events. Even better that Fiestel has a wedding band, you mused.
“Yeah, okay,” you agree, matching his own expression of sagging relief. “Thanks, Fiestel.”
“Call me Chris,” he urges, pushing himself away from the counter. “And really, thank you. You’re doing me a favor.” He gives you another, more rueful smile. “I’ll catch you later, okay? Peña’ll have my ass if I don’t finish going through the latest Cali files by the end of the day.”
Peña.
Oh god. Javier. You had almost — but never fully — forgotten.
He’ll understand, you reason.
Won’t he?.
—-
The two of you are always interrupting each other:
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask first —“
“— it’s okay, baby, I promise —“
“ — but he needed to know and —“
“ — don’t want you by yourself anyway —“
“ — hope you’re not angry —“
“ — too many dirty old men at these things —“
“Dirty old men like you?”
Javier risks a kiss to your temple and presses his lips together in barely-contained mirth. “Very funny.”
You look up at him, a dimple appearing in your cheeks despite the tension gutting your stomach. “Thanks. I thought so.”
(The two of you, always interrupting each other in ways that make perfect sense).
He takes a step back you can regard each other properly. You miss the scent of him immediately: cigarettes and aftershave and starched shirts. You miss him when he is right in front of you; what kind of love is that?
You don’t know.
You don’t have time to be scared of that right now, though. You’ve only got a few minutes to steal in the storage basement before someone else bustles in and Javier’s already talking about how it’s fine and of course he’s not angry.
(He does not say he could take you in Fiestel’s stead, but his hands find yours and grasp them instead. What kind of man is this?)
“I have to go,” he finishes, taking a deep breath and sighing heavily. “Another useless fucking meeting — no, no don’t laugh,” he says, humor tiptoeing through the rough frustration in his voice, his shoulders, the leaden weight of the tie around his neck. “I’m busy with work the next few nights” he continues. “But I’ll see in at the party, okay?”
And then he does something bold: he kisses you, full and sweet, like a rom com lover. Like a rom com lover with nothing else on the line except the girl in his arms.
Like a liar, because Javier Peña is not a rom com lover and you both know it.
You wouldn’t want him if he was.
#javier peña x reader#javier peña x f!reader#javier peña x fem!reader#javier peña#pedro pascal#narcos#narcos fanfiction#highsviolets#filthybookworm#waterfall inquiry#fic: watefall#my writing#userastrid#tuserdaniela#pedrostories
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my beloved Dani...can I please ask for “Oh, such a pretty mess” with Pedro from across the street or Whiskey?
Cris, my beloved, anything for you 💙 Thank you for sending this one in! I'm afraid I wasn't able to keep to my 500 word limit (more like...doubled it. Oops!) but I hope it's to your liking regardless.
Pairing: Pedro Across the Street / f!reader
Rating: Explicit
This plays out in the Good Things Take Time universe, but it can be read as a stand alone!
Miss your pussy.
You stare at the message, cheeks burning at today’s blunt conversation opener. It’s not that his texts never lead to this subject, it’s more that he usually takes a little more time to arrive here.
This whole thing between you two started about a month ago, when you let him fuck you with his fingers on your own kitchen counter. He made you come harder than you ever had. And after, it made you sick, the vile licks of guilt simmering low in your belly... and then your husband Patrick arrived home. You were sure it was written all over your face, that the scent of it lingered in your house, but Patrick noticed nothing. In fact, he didn’t ask about your day at all, immediately rambling about the progress he’d made on the second chapter of his novel.
The next day, you were splayed out on your bed - your marital bed - with your neighbour lapping at your cunt.
You could count the times you fucked him since that day on one hand, but he was hard to resist, especially when he sent messages like this.
Can’t right now. Lunch break in 5 minutes. You send back, and you’ve barely set your phone down before it pings again.
Are you in your office?
Yes.
Good. Don’t make me wait.
You shiver at his implications, you know what he wants and it makes your heart pound, your cunt throb. Your eyes are already on the door to your office to contemplate your options. It doesn’t lock, but it’s shut, and your colleagues are probably well on their way to lunch and... Christ, you can’t believe you’re even considering this. You never do this and it's... exciting.
You take a deep breath, eye the phone icon next to his name, then tap it. Squeezing the phone between your shoulder and your ear, you hike up your skirt and slide your panties down until you’ve got them dangling from one ankle. Your relieved sigh when you touch yourself sails through the receiver just as he picks up.
“You better be touching yourself,” comes his rasped reply. His voice is sharp with warning and it only makes more slick gather between your legs.
“You told me not to make you wait.”
“Don’t get cheeky,” he says. “Are you wet?” His voice sounds so smug, so cocky and sure and you should hate it.
You love it.
“Hmm, yeah,” you confirm, sliding a finger down to your entrance before dragging your slick back up to your clit to circle it. You buck in your chair, already sensitive, already close from just his voice.
He hums approvingly. “You always get so wet so fast,” he says, sounding almost fond. There’s a sound on his end on the line, and then the unmistakable sound of him stroking his cock. “Just like last night, remember? All it took was my fingers and my mouth to your ear and you were soaking my hand.”
You close your eyes, your encounter in his hallway after you’d arrived vivid in your mind. How he pressed you up against the door, your breath fogging up the glass as he slid his hand under your dress and took you apart, the squelching sound of your pussy gripping his fingers louder than the filth he was whispering in your ear until he split you open with three fingers and your cry of his name echoed out every other sound.
“Are you always that way? Does that husband of yours make you drip like I do?”
You bite your lip to stifle a moan when you slide a finger into yourself, then two, your thumb taking over on your clit. “No,” you admit. “Only you.”
“That’s what I thought.” His voice is breathy now, clearly affected as well, the slick sound of his fist passing over his cock becoming more and more audible over the phone. “Need you to make yourself come,” he urges.
There’s another spike of arousal that rushes through your veins at his words. You need more of it. “Talk to me.”
“Three fingers,” he orders immediately, and you oblige without a second thought, driving three fingers into yourself. “Listen to yourself, so desperate for it that you’re touching yourself in your office. I bet you’re soaking the chair, huh? Take a look for me.”
Your eyes fly open to look down between your legs, at your puffy cunt gripping your fingers, your thumb worrying your clit. You crane your neck to get a better look, see the pool of slick on the leather of your chair. “Yes, fuck, I… I wish… F-Fuck, I wish it was you, you always do it b-better,” you say, hips bucking off the chair.
“I know. Next time I see you I’m gonna make you come,” he promises, his voice sounding absolutely wrecked, no doubt close to coming himself. “I’m gonna taste you until you beg me to stop, make you bounce on my cock, fuck you dumb-- Shit-- Come for me, baby.”
“Gonna come for you,” you echo, your steady rhythm faltering as you do, clamping down on your fingers, sparks of pleasure rocketing through your body. You slump back into the leather when you come down, slipping your fingers free and panting until his sharp voice cuts through the silence,
“Show me.”
“What?” you slur.
“Take a picture. And show me,” he growls.
Before you can think any better of it, you pick the phone up from your desk, open the camera app and bring the device down between your legs. Your cheeks burn at the sight, at how dripping wet you are, how swollen. Carefully, you tap the right buttons to send it to him.
“Dios mío, mujer…,” he grunts, his hand speeding up, up, up, and you realize he’s getting off on the picture, that looking at it is gonna tip him over the edge. “Oh, such a pretty mess.”
Hearing him come makes you want him all over again, want him more than before. You clench around nothing at the thought of it, have half the mind to beg him to talk you into another orgasm until the sound of talking in the hallway snaps you from your daydream. A glance at the clock is enough: Lunchtime is over.
“I’ve got to go,” you say apologetically, a little awkward, unsure how to end a phone call like this.
The man on the other end of the line, however, has no problem figuring that out,
“You’re coming over tonight,” he growls in response, leaving no room for negotiation, “and I’m gonna make that pretty pussy come until it’s dripping all over me.”
Then he hangs up.
#filthybookworm#answers#unbeta'ed because astrid deserves a surprise every once in a while too#(sorry if there's any typos...)#pedro across the street#pedro across the street x reader#pedro across the street x you#dani writing#dani drabbles#good things take time fic#across the street
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Four headers of Javier Peña (Narcos) in beige and sandy tones.
Requested by @filthybookworm.
1000 x 563px.
Please like/reblog if you use or save them and don’t claim as your own, thank you! ♡
Want another colour? Just ask.
This header in other colours and previous headers are available on my headers page (/headers) and in my headers tag (/tagged/*headers).
#narcos#narcosedit#narcos-daily#javier peña#javier pena#javierpenaedit#pedropascaledit#ppascaledit#pedrohub#filthybookworm#*mine#*headers#colour variations#thanks for the request!#i hope these are something like what you were after
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JAVIER PEÑA FUCKS AND HE CARES LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK
narcos really said, "let's give them the ideal man"
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you have so many good WIPS it was so incredibly difficult to pick just one....but can I request some of the Frank bj at the lake?? 🥰
WIP Game Ask:
you have so many good WIPS it was so incredibly difficult to pick just one....but can I request some of the Frank bj at the lake?? 🥰
Cris! I have been absolutely dying over your lovely and hilarious comments on these! 😆
This Frankie fic is what it says on the tin: you and Frankie (and the boys) are up at the lake for the weekend, and you blow him because of reasons. The fic’s not all that long, so there’s not a lot I can give you without giving you like... the whole fic, but here’s a little sneak peak:
(Mostly SFW, but I’m putting it behind a cut because all the other ones were and I don’t want this one to feel left out)
You lean over to get a better look under the back seat of the truck, holding onto Frankie’s knee to help keep your balance.
“See anything?” he asks from above you.
“Nope.” You pop the ‘p’ loudly.
Coming back up onto your knees, you find yourself between Frankie’s spread thighs, and you take a minute to just look at him.
He’s leaning over, checking to see if your phone could have slipped down behind the seat, long lean legs encased in denim stretched out on either side of you. His cute tummy is just barely pooching out over the side of his belt, and the short sleeve t-shirt he’s wearing lets you see the way his biceps stretch and flex as he feels along the back of the seat. He looks good.
He looks so good that you can’t help the way your breath hitches in your chest and then leaves you in a sigh.
Frankie turns at the sound, giving you that tight lipped half-smile. You don’t know what kind of face you make in return, but it makes him stop and sit up straight, eyes never leaving yours. His big, warm hand covers yours where it rests on his knee, squeezing gently, and you can’t help but bite your lip at the intensity of his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and heat flares low in your belly when his own tongue comes out to lick his lips.
“Don’t look at me like that, baby,” he warns, and the low rasp of his voice makes your stomach dip and clench in the best way. “We’re not gonna have much privacy this weekend, and there’s only so many long walks we can go on before it starts to looks suspicious.”
Thanks for ask, love, and the enthusiasm!!! 😘💕
🧡twp
I’m still playing this WIP game. Check it out to read or request more sneak peeks from my current WIPs.
#answered asks#wip game#wips#frankie morales x reader#because who wouldn't want to blow Frankie?#people say nice things about twp's writing#filthybookworm
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hey 🥰
LET ME SAY NICE THINGS ABOUT YOU MOOTS
cris -
your impact on my life is actually quite big and i owe you lots. there was a time when i used this blog just to read fics, and during that i stumbled upon your fantastic and beautifully written waterfall inquiry. that, along with a handful of other fics, really, really inspired me and made me fall in love with all the things that made me enjoy writing to begin with all over again. your writing is poetic and i cannot believe i get to read it for free. i know that as a writer it’s sometimes hard to understand just how good your stuff can be, but sometimes i genuinely get sad at the thought that you might not ever know just how beautiful that story is because you were the one who wrote it. i hope with everything in me that you enjoy it just as much as the rest of us because it is one of the best pieces of fiction i’ve ever read. not only did you inspire me to write again, though - you also read one of the first chapters of scenes and you said very lovely things about it. i admire you so much as a writer, and that meant more to me than you can ever know; it helped me immensely with the negative feelings i had about writing again and made me feel very welcomed in this neat little community.
on top of your incredible talent as a writer, i just think you’re an incredible human too. you are so, so nice and talking to you is so great. i adore seeing you on my dash, and i’m so happy i happened to find your fic because from that i’ve gotten so, so much. i appreciate you endlessly and i always hope you are thriving, because you deserve nothing but the best.
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What I remember about your writing: reading the Union Suit drabble on a warm fall afternoon when I should have been studying; the previous two chapters of TMTC were sitting in my drafts for me to read when I had time. My first thought was “this is fucking filthy” (I didn’t read much smut then) and “oh my god she’s so talented” and “why am I suddenly attracted to Din in a Union suit??”
What I remember about your writing: the absolute care with which you write your characters, delving into their souls in such creative and wonderful ways — endless hours spent texting over daydream scenarios and editing chapters and flailing over gifsets. Your enthusiasm for the characters shines in everything you write.
What I remember about your writing: The tender filth of Box Set that always makes me think of October/November, writing so much every week (and how box set has become such a hope for me in finding a loving passionate relationship).
What I remember from your writing: the way TMTC pushed all of my boundaries and changed me for the better; see also the text that made us both cry
What I remember from your writing: your long sentences, your expert use of detail, the way everything happens at the right time for the right reasons
What I remember from your writing: that I am so thankful it led me to you ❤️
I can’t even answer this because my vision is blurred
You are sheer perfection — a literal giant brain, bursting with intimidating honest to god talent and overflowing with kindness beyond measure — and I can’t even believe my luck that I get to exist at the same time as you let alone live in a plane of existence in which you would say these things about me.
I still remember crying in Target over that text, staring with utter disbelief that a story about a man falling in love with a prostitute would make you feel the things you felt and yet never in my life being more proud of what I had accomplished because you let me know how you felt about it.
I love that you specifically remember the Union Suit (one of my personal favorites) and the fact that Box Set gives you hope for a relationship like that is the GOAL — because they DO exist and I can’t think of anyone who deserves that more. ❤️
AND LONG SENTENCES —
me: I should write a 4K fic
also me: and let there only be 7 periods 🤡
Cris — I would never have found the courage to do HALF of this stuff without the constant support from you, the insane number of texts we exchange, the Snapchat monologues, the emails, the chats — I am BEYOND WORDS THANKFUL to have met you — the goddess that is YOU, someone who has literally changed my life in so many ways, all for the better.
I LOVE YOU 😍❤️
#and no this isn’t because we love all the same Dave York filth#AND YET IT DOESNT HURT#ask game#filthybookworm
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hey 🥺🥰
Hi Cris!! I'm gonna be honest and say that I adore you but am also very intimidated by you!! Your never cease to amaze me with your writing; you have such an incredible way with words and find ways to make the simplest things feel rich and poetic and meaningful. I love your Javi so. much. In every universe you've created for him you show a side of him that you describe and explore so expertly, and it always feels right. And your Waterfall Inquiry analyst is one of my favourite OFCs I've read (she counts as an OFC in my mind 😌). I also really love how friendly and encouraging you are 🥺 Whenever I scroll through your blog I see you interact with your friends with nothing but kindness and enthusiasm, and it always makes me smile.
#cris when i tell you my heart stopped when opened tumblr this morning and saw you in my writing blog's notifications.....i mean it#thank you for your lovely tags on that it made me smile slash tear up#games!#answers#filthybookworm
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kenna i just wanted to say that watching all of your asks + answers the last few days has been SO FUN (and i'm not even a maul/plo fucker lmao)
AHHHH THIS MAKES ME SO HAPPY! 🥺
i love answering the asks & seeing all these ideas, thots, and headcanons that people come up with! i love the interaction and it just makes me so happy <3
i’m glad that others are enjoying it too. it means so much 😭
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Hi! If requests are still open, could I request a gifset of Ezra’s eyes/facial expressions in Prospect? I know it can be a hard film to gif bc of the lighting so feel free to pass on this one! Thank you for all of your beautiful gifs 💞
hmmm... close-up on his eyes huh? This might be interesting...
I just got the best quality video ;)
I’ll think about it. Stay tuned
#and by I'll think about it of course I mean I'll do it :D#do you have any preferences on the episode or scene or emotion?#mine#filthybookworm#And sometimes I reply
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waterfall inquiry: masterlist
updated: 10 April 2022
* denotes explicit
M A I N T E X T
chapter one
chapter two*
chapter three*
chapter four
selcouth: oneshot*
chapter five
cross-posted on ao3
D R A B B L E S
buttoning javi’s shirt
javi visting analyst at her desk
javi & laredo
will Javi & analyst ever have kids?
chapter four teaser
post-selcouth
javi & laredo & analyst, part ii
javi & analyst on speakerphone
fixing javier’s tie in the hallway
C R A F T I N G T H E N A R R A T I V E
on favorite quotes from the text
on their relationship post-Colombia
on use of figurative language
on thematic inspiration
on titles and dialogue
on maintaining variety in diction
general tag for inspiration + asks; #fic: waterfall
A R T & E T C.
playlists; by the author
waterfall inquiry
i met a girl; i met a man (waterfall inquiry, part two)
the unbearable weight of massive hope (javier peña character playlist)
gifset; by @javier-pena
art; by @heatherbel
art; by @dindja
art; by @lilhawkeye3
moodboards; by @jura-moon
moodboard + header by @silksaddle
moodboard; by the author
#wooo i have so many things to do and i did this instead :)#fic: waterfall#javier peña x reader#javier peña x f!reader#javier peña x y/n#narcos fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fanfiction#cris writes#userhai#usernobie#userchrisann#this was hell to formatksdjgasd#and it's still not showing up the way it looks in drafts?? oh wellll#userdindja#filthybookworm#highsviolets
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Fati why am I seeing so much h*rny talk about Cars characters on my dash recently did I miss something or???
Ooh is there a Cars horny revolution happening?!
I'm only in it for Mater though.
CRIS LOOK AT THAT CAR-MAN (his personality) AND TELL ME HE ISN'T ATTRACTIVE! If he wasn't a car I would RIDE.
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okay but do you ever get to buy presents for daddy or pick out his clothes? a new chain, or cufflinks, or taking out your favorite relaxed button down and linen pants for a beachside dinner? or maybe even surprising him with a date, like a cooking class? 🥺
javi is not the best when it comes to accepting gifts, he loves to make them, but since he has a lot of money and can buy whatever he wants, he never considers that others might want to make him smile for once, so when you make him a gift (nothing fancy, just a small gift like paying for dinner or buying him that tiepin he's had his eyes on for some time) he doesn't really know how to react, so he doesn't shut up about "repaying" you while his tongue is between your legs (and later, while he gently thrusts into you and you can't stop giggling because it wasn't a big deal, he kisses you until your laughter turns into soft moans); he does get better at accepting gifts over time, but he's always ready to show you how grateful he is
now, picking his outfit is a different topic because that's actually something you already do before you two are ... an item (more soon when i finally write that story) - he loves your taste in fashion, and he loves to let you choose his outfits for him, he loves it when you take him shopping and he loves the smile on your face when you see him in new clothes (almost as much as he loves it that you can't keep your eyes off of him on those occasions)
also sadly, you both get kicked out of the cooking class because you don't stop flirting and flinging flour at the other, so the head chef chases you away (and you don't even get your money back)
#hi ok i actually have to host a training now and instead of preparing for it i wrote this???#anyway hope this answers your questions!!#cris tag#filthybookworm#ravens delivering messages#javi g ask
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my favorite part of the finale was definitely when din got a new ship with a proper bed and cuddled with the child 🥰🥰🥰
this was also my favorite part omg spoilers!!!1
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