#he's just incredibly shady

[frogchiro]

Hi! I love your blog! Your neighbor!Ghost AU is so good! How about neighbor!Nikolai? Imagine living next to that large Russian man who def loves to fluster the reader when he catches them in the hallway.

Oohhh my goood nonnie :((

Big big russian man who you almost always see with a cigarette handing from his smirking mouth as he greets you and looks you up and down and tells you a 'Good morning solnyshko~' in that thick russian accent and lazy drawl :((

Nikolai is very much a mystery to you. You basically never see him leave his apartment in the mornings when people usually leave for work and when he does it's either in the evening or late in the night and when that happens he's usually gone for a week or so. Sometimes weird men are going in and out of his apartment; big, mean looking men who are the epitome of shady looking but whenever you encounter them you just keep your head down and scuttle as quick as possible to your apartment without looking suspicious :(

You also saw him attend those poker nights hosted at Simon's apartment, some even hosted in his own home. He's always very open and welcoming and very loud, especially after downing a few glasses of whiskey or cheap beer.

Due to that, the fact that he's literally living next door and the walls are paper thin, whenever poker night is hosted in Nik's apartment you get to hear the loud voices of the men next door, sometimes hooting loudly, making very crude and inappropariate jokes that make your eyes widen and blush with how nasty they are ://

But, on the rare occasion, when you strain your ears well, you can hear them talking about you. Deep, low, growled manly voices of these huge men (particularly Nik and Si) talking about the pretty young thing next door, how much of a knock out you are, 'those nice soft tits and broad hips were fuckin' made for grabbing and squeezin' :((

Sometimes Nik in particular doesn't hold back and, much to the grunted displeasure of Simon, rumbles about making you into a nice, hot, younger housewife to come home to, always ready with a nice hearty meal and a wet pussy to fuck and spurt all his seed into :((

Nasty!!

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #thank you for this ask nonnie!! #he's just incredibly shady #and incredibly nasty :(( #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #sleazy neighbour au #sleazy neighbour!nikolai #nikolai x reader #nikolai call of duty #cod nikolai #nikolai mw2

[brasiliangp]

some of the chelsea fans on the internet doing a really good job at ignoring how there are multiple sources saying that mason was TOLD to leave. to try and paint him as the bad guy here instead of admitting your club doesn’t care about their own is insane.

#and that reece post was shady and incredibly unnecessary #like if you put your club bias aside you’ll see that chelsea was the one dragging out contract negotiations and making things difficult #they literally did not want him #and yet he’s the one is the wrong for doing what they wanted?? #fuck off #mason mount #ps I don’t think reece was being shady chelsea’s admin was #just to clarify #chelsea fc #football

[suenitos]

Dream loveposting opportunity! Whats one thing you love about Dream?

only ONE THING?? ok kind of cheating bc its technically 2 but they go hand in hand. i think something underrated about dream is how down to earth and aware of his position he is. i rewatched a vod yesterday of him just chatting where he responded to a question if he experiences derealization knowing so many people have eyes on him. he answered that hes just a guy just like anyone else so it doesnt really affect him and i think that really shows in how he interacts with fans and antis and other ccs. its like he doesnt have a mental hierarchy of who is more important or valuable or profitable which i think is genuinely incredible for someone in his position where itd be so easy to have a huge ego and be overly cocky about everything as a famous person.

he also said in that vod that thinks about how other ppl are affected by what he does and whether his actions are positive to himself and others which to me shows a maturity that not a ton of people have touched in this space (ie giving other people platforms and the charity stream and the taking friends with you and not streaming when other people are and especially interacting with fans and clarifying shit just two days ago). his approach to fame and content creation is so communal which is so rare but really smart and makes me think his career will have much more longevity in comparison to "hit it and quit it" types due to his awareness of others and down to earth nature, bringing everyone up and not just himself

#tldr: hes just a guy not a god and he brings that mindset to EVERYTHING he does and hes never lost that. hes a PEOPLE person he loves PEOPLE #i had to think about it for a little bit reading this back sounds incredibly shady lol but the “types” im talking about are across the boar #anon.txt #ask.txt

[kirby-the-gorb]

#kirby #tangled #rapunzel #daily kirby #my art #digital #hal laboratory #nintendo #rapunzel and I actually have a lot in common even though I keep my hair short these days lol #but like that scene in the shady bar with the ruffians? basically my life. #(also some of the less fun parts but yknow whatever) #anyway I got interrupted while drawing this by a skunk on the porch #he was tapping at the sliding door like a dog asking to be let inside #the place I grew up in had skunks too you could smell them all the time #but I only ever saw one alive once and that was from a moving car #so to just see him bonk his little head against the glass was exciting #(he ran off when I sat up so I couldn't get a picture TnT ) #(I think skunks are so cute. they're actually related to ferrets.) #(they've just got the sweetest little snoots.) #(and a defense mechanism that is both essentially harmless and incredibly effective! good for them.) #(the cat was very excited about the ruckus. she also had a bug visitor earlier tonight she had a very exciting evening overall.) #favorites

[calamitydaze]

okay i’m gonna go to sleep cause it’s late iiiiii hope i don’t wake up to nuclear bombs dropped on us

#tag ramble to try and unpack my feelings don’t take this too srs i’m just saying words: #i’m so so incredibly sad and disappointed #i never went into much detail on my feelings on the drama before this but my stance was that from q’s perspective he has a right to #be pissed (at least initially) and i don’t think he Had to say anything supportive of u.smp itself although it would’ve been nice #but once his fanbase started getting out of control (and now knowing to the extent it got) man that’s on you that’s your responsibility #ESPECIALLY if they had just previously been friends behind the scenes and dream was still under the impression that they were #i can’t fathom leaving a friend to the wolves like that #and when dream talked about things like trying desperately to reach out and getting nothing + the confusion of being friends one day and #ignored the next #and when he did things like alternating between cracking jokes about the ‘feud’ and being kinda shady— that all hit home for me personally #and if being in a similar situation hurt Me i can’t even imagine what he was feeling with his and his family’s safety in danger #and through it all he’s still being more gracious than i think i could be. i’m so so sad for him he’s always treated with such vitriol #and people don’t even think about it because it’s okay because it’s dream #and more than anything i guess i’m thinking about how it didn’t have to be this way #from dream’s perspective at least it seems like he was doing everything in his power to smooth it over and help both of them #(and he still is by changing his concept. which he shouldn’t have to do) #and one party wasn’t willing to cooperate. and i can’t wrap my head around that #if it was just dream not getting a response i could say Oh well maybe it was just a mistake maybe another horrible coincidence #but if what he says is true nobody was getting any feedback except to say they couldn’t be on both servers #and like i said i always want to hear both sides and i really hope q is willing to give his (to dream personally if nothing else) #but as someone who cares a lot for both of them and thinks they’re both great creators it just breaks my heart a bit #i’m trying to avoid being negative from the jump but i can’t pretend i haven’t lost respect for q over this #anyway. christ i wrote war and peace over here goodnignt i hope it all looks better in the morning #much love to you all #bella talks

[discranola]

i feel the deep need to talk about the utano comics more but also the need to not make it clear im talking about a parody comedy au for the joke because i want to see a normal persons reaction to me saying "jonathan joestars phone has grindr and a list of political opponents to assassinate"

#that man has ABSOLUTELY assassinated a politician in his time hes 120+ years old #i think he has some degree of governmental control but hes not a member of government hes just incredibly rich and shady #so you know. just like a normal government person i suppose. hm #whatever its ok i love him i forgive him #utanoverse #jjba #robin.txt

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt.4

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3][Pt.5][Pt.6][Pt.7]

Danny was sitting in the back, his backpack obnoxiously taking up the seat next to him, when the door to the lecture hall creaked open near silently.

“What are you in here for?” Danny asked the guy who crept into class. He sympathetically took his backpack off the Seat of Shame and allowed the guy to sit down. Funnily enough, they had the same hair and eye color.

“Gen Ed. Undecided. You?” The guy grunted quietly back.

“Environmental studies. I’m Danny.”

“Tim.”

With the implicit understanding of two people in a required class they could not give less than two fucks about, Tim and Danny tuned back into the lecture. When the class was assigned group work, Danny looked over to see Tim softly snoring, head slammed down on the table.

“Tim. Wake up, dude.” Danny poked his shoulder.

“Huh? Class over?”

“Nah, we got group work. Discussion board.”

“Oh shit, thanks for waking me up. Wanna team up?”

Danny shrugged. “Sure. We should aim to post it in the middle so the professor doesn’t read our answers to the class.”

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea. Any idea what we’re talking about?”

“Kind of?”

“Good enough for me.”

——

Tim Drake kept seeing Danny Fenton around on campus.

“Danny! Dude, what are you doing?”

Danny turned, gloved hands full of crumpled trash. “Picking up after the student population, apparently.”

“Didn’t think environmental studies was that serious.”

“Global warming is very serious, you jerk,” Danny smirked at him, crossing the grass to put the trash into the trash can. “Reduce, reuse, oil shouldn’t be spilled in water and all that.”

“Basic stuff,” Tim grinned. Nice, he basically had a friend past Bernard now!

They were friends, right?

“And yet humanity fails to comprehend it. Incredible. Incredibly stupid that is.”

“They get it. Major corporations just don’t care.”

Danny sighed. “True that. You on your way to your next class?” He took off his biodegradable gloves off (nitrile and nylon, baby!) and chucked them into the trash.

“I’ve got free time, actually. Prof cancelled for his daughter’s surgery.”

“Oh, shit, that’s rough! You wanna go downtown and join the strike?”

“A strike? What for?” Even as he asked, Tim hiked his bag higher onto his shoulder, ready to go. They fell into step as the two left campus.

“Apparently, Quillan Pharma was doing some shady shit at their manufacturing plants. I think it’s like killing kids, and pouring toxins into the ground.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Oh! Poison Ivy’s gonna be there!”

Tim blinked. He casted a sideways look at Danny. Sure he’s been here long enough to know… but it couldn’t hurt to check. “You know she’s an eco-terrorist, right?”

“Okay, but like… people suck sometimes. And all she’s asking for is like don’t kill the planet. And she doesn’t do that whole mind control thing too much anymore! The Sirens are so cool. Plus, one of my best friends at home might actually kill me if I don’t try to get her autograph. Poison Ivy is like, Sam’s personal hero.”

Tim snickered. “Yeah, okay. Mind if one of my friends join? His name’s Bernard.”

“The more the merrier,” Danny nodded. “Ooo! Hot chocolate. Want some?”

Danny bought three drinks as Tim trailed behind, texting Bernard.

“He said yes.”

“Cool! We should meet up somewhere before the drinks get cold.”

Well, Danny got the autograph. Tim got a new friend, and Bernard got a drink from his crush.

——

“Oh, you’re the glowing dude that Batman always talks about!”

Danny blinked, eyes scanning the wing-like cape and the yellow emblem on the hero’s suit. Danny was indeed glowing, stars and nebulas freckling across neon green skin, and glowing hair the color of a white dwarf star, tinged with the blue from his ice core.

“I… have absolutely no idea who you are,” Danny lied, like a liar. He’s found a surprising niche of entertainment in messing with the local vigilantes and he’ll be damned if he missed this opportunity.

He heard a snicker from the comm lines as Red Robin visibly brushes it off.

“I’m Red Robin. Why are you picking up trash?”

“Picking up after you humans, apparently.”

The both of them blink, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu. A moment of awkward silence passed before they both shook it off.

“Are you here to help? No offense, but the track record for you people is terrible.” Danny strode over and grabbed a bag. He opened it, and shook it at Red Robin’s face. “See? Batarangs, these odd bird looking ones, the R’s. Seriously, pick up after yourselves!”

“Oh, woah, can we have these back?”

Danny yanked the bag back before Red Robin could get close. “Pay me. These were incredibly tedious to pick up. Especially the batarangs. I mean, I even found a whole bunch of old rusted ones in the middle of the bay. What did you do, dump an entire bag in there from the air?”

Red Robin sighed and took out a wad of cash, with tracking fluid all over it. Danny grimaced, smelling the odd scent on the money. “That’s not real cash. It smells off. Are you trying to give me counterfeits because you’re broke?”

Red Robin gaped, oddly offended. “No! They’re real!”

“Doesn’t smell like it. It’s stinkier than the trash. Go get the one with the money, the litterer. Tell him I’ll be back the next full moon. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Danny grumbled, disappearing on the spot to watch Red Robin flounder with the stack of cash and the piles of dead bodies on the shore.

“What the fuck even is my life these days?” Red Robin wondered out loud, stuffing the cash back into his pocket. He looked over the plastic wrapped bodies and slumped, sighing.

Oddly enough, Danny felt a sense of sympathy. Well, he’s not getting paid for sympathy. He’s not getting paid at all tonight, actually. Danny flew off, plunging once more into the depths of the significantly cleaner waters, and used his ice to scoop out oil stains.

Danny glanced around and sighed. He had a lot of work to do.

——

“So you’re saying he’s like a werewolf mermaid fae child immortal god thing, right?”

Bruce grunted.

“B, what the hell are you smoking these days? You know drugs are bad, right? Do we need Superman to give you that PSA?” Jason snickered.

Tim, massaging his arms from having to haul an ungodly amount of dead bodies, grunted. He’s so similar to Bruce that it gave the people currently in the cave hives.

“He said full moon. I don’t think we can track him with regular stuff. The bugs kept shorting out.”

“Oh boy,” Dick sighed. “Don’t fall off the spiral cliff, Tim. You’ve got midterms to think about so no stalking the guy.”

“Yet,” Tim shot back, changing out of his suit.

Bruce grunted, setting aside a huge stack of cash.

#let Tim Drake go to college you cowards #he got his GED in this one boys #let Tim fucking age #danny phantom #batman #tim drake #dc x dp #dcxdp #dpxdc #danny the tired college student #bamf danny phantom #siren au??? #sea cryptic Danny #bro I had war flashbacks to discussion board group work #terrible why do I do this to myself #the batarangs in the middle of the bay was from when Bruce tried to kill the joker and himself #Danny: people just can’t clean up after themselves these days #sea cryptic! danny au

[cremedensada]

Yandere Online Friend who you always talk to after you come home. Talking to him always takes away the burden and stress after socializing with the people around you.

Yandere Online Friend who's incredibly dedicated to your friendship that he always remembers every single detail that you've mentioned during your chats. Even the ones you don't remember talking about. And the ones you've never mentioned before. Odd.

Yandere Online Friend who scoured the internet looking for your private accounts, your location, your real identity just by looking at the details from the pictures you've sent him.

Yandere Online Friend who, after goading you to click on a very shady link, has access to your laptop camera. He can see you clearly now, and you look so beautiful even from through the screen.

He seems to know when you're in a bad mood and need to be cheered up. He claims it's totally because he has a sixth sense of how you feel from all across the globe. It's not like you'd know he's lying anyway.

Yandere Online Friend who has been tempting to book a flight to see you for real, mouse hovering over the 'book flight' icon, gnawing on his fingernails. Wouldn't it be quite the surprise? You'll get to see and talk to each other - face to face!

Yandere Online Friend who is absolutely the happiest whenever you're talking to each other. He's satisfied with just looking at you through his screen.

For now.

#sub yandere #sub character #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #tw yandere #yandere scenarios #gn reader #gender neutral reader

[mikichko]

just waking up delirious from a nap but cant get rid of the idea of price being interrogated by your friends.

night after your housewarming party, he steps out of your room bare chested and sweatpants low on his hips and finds your friends waiting for him.

they’ve never seen or heard of this man before. you only introduced him last night as john. the only indication of anything between the two of you was a constant point of contact between you two all night.

the questions start right away. name, age, occupation, how you met, what his intentions are. it’s all very entertaining to him, being on the other side of an incredibly juvenile interrogation attempt.

he takes it in stride though, not faltering for a moment as he starts to make himself a cup of coffee. price. ignores the age question, honestly kids these days lack decency and decorum. government worker. met at a bar. just trying to be a good man.

they don’t miss the way he doesn’t fumble through your kitchen. instead, moving through it with precision, knowing where every single item is.

and then finally, “what are you to them?” asked by the one in the back with curls, broad shoulders, and anger in his eyes that warms price all throughout. he doesn’t know he’s already lost.

he takes a sip of his coffee, mulling over the question and the last few months. shared drinks in the dark corner of an already shady pub. carrying your groceries in after you nearly tripped over yourself walking out of the store. books traded back and forth on park benches adorning a pond. stories repeated over a hot plate of dinner, the warmth softening john just a little more. your nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped around him, his mouth peppering kisses against your neck and mouthing words he can’t say out loud just yet.

he smiles against the rim of the cup, taking another swig.

“i’m, their caretaker.”

#.txt #.cod #.price #.mine #.nsfw #.mdni #not proof read at all i literally woke up just to write this #and now i’m going back to sleep #hoepfully to dream about a john price that found me once day and dediced to take care of me #captain price #john price #captain john price #captain johnathan price #price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #price x you #price cod #price call of duty #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #john price x gender neutral reader

[devilmademewriteit]

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

~

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request. 

She hadn't. 

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out. 

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue. 

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment,  you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw. 

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch. 

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other. 

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you. 

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—“You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone. 

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

~

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before. 

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.” 

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes. 

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips. 

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin’ ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee. 

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly  softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause. 

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours  tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes… softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

#Javier Peña #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena fic #javier peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #narcos #Pedro pascal #Pedro Pascal x reader #Pedro Pascal smut #javier peña x y/n #javier peña narcos #javier pena narcos

[cybrsan]

Light It Up! — K.HJ, P.SH

STORY SUMMARY: The year is 2077, and the world is a lawless dystopia where tech giants and major corporations hold all the power. Kim Hongjoong and Park Seonghwa are an infamous criminal duo who have made names for themselves fighting against the "techno brainwashing" of society. Discovering they're on the brink of getting caught, they decide to go out with a bang—and who better to help them than their favorite plaything?

PAIRING: Kim Hongjoong x F!Reader x Park Seonghwa

RATING/GENRE: M ; smut ; criminal / cyberpunk / dystopian AU

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

WARNINGS: Arson, breaking and entering, clubbing, alcohol + drug use, pet names (doll, precious), rioting, violence

NSFW WARNINGS: Choking, creampie, cum stuffing, cunnilingis, deep throating, exhibitionism, fire play, fingering, free use, hair-pulling, knife play (light), multiple orgasms, play party, public sex, spitroasting, sub drop, threesome, overstimulation

A/N: Don't blame me, blame the MATZ m/v.

LINKS: Masterlist, cross-posted on AO3.

“And… there!” 

After days of meticulous planning, organizing, and making shady, back-alley deals, it’s finally done. The last camera is in position—everything is ready for the big event. All that’s left for you to do is step back and admire your work.  

Switching on your illegally procured holodeck, you press a few buttons and watch as the space around you completely transforms. What was once an abandoned warehouse is now a club that could rival any in the city center. Neon lights pulse to heavy synth, serving bots whiz from place to place,  and the makeshift bar looks inviting enough with rows of expensive bottles on display. Whether or not the liquor in the bottles is worth the price, well… Hopefully people will be too distracted to notice. 

The focal point, the one thing you are most proud of, is the transparent stage that extends at least 15 feet above the dance floor. Taking in the grandeur of it all is more than enough to get you excited for what's to come. You're certain that Hongjoong and Seonghwa will put on the performance of the century. 

Today is incredibly important for both of them, and the fact that they have trusted you enough to include you more than makes up for the long hours and strenuous work. They’re currently out setting up their "grand finale," which they have been painstakingly cryptic about. You have your suspicions, not that you need or even want to know the specifics. 

A low whistle pierces the air. "You really outdid yourself this time, doll." 

You turn to look at Seonghwa as he enters, and your heart practically skips a beat when you take in his appearance—he must have changed in preparation for the big event. His hair, pulled away from his face, lets you focus on his features; dark eyes, full lips, all beautifully accented by his smoky makeup. His outfit is one you haven't seen on him before, but it suits him perfectly, from the gold chains hanging around his neck to the deep cut of his silk shirt.  

"Thanks, Hwa," you reply bashfully, dusting off your hands on your jeans. "Just trying to do my part." 

He approaches you, a smirk tugging at his lips. The way he stares at you, drinks you in… it makes you feel like a prey animal who has found itself in the sights of a predator. You blush and cast your gaze to the floor, suddenly fascinated by the specks of dirt at your feet. 

"And you have done it spectacularly." He lifts your chin with his pointer finger, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "I think you deserve a reward." 

Seonghwa drops his gaze to your lips for just a moment before he leans in, closing the space between you with an almost agonizing slowness. The kiss is gentle and commanding all at once and you shiver, immediately pulling him closer. The fatigue, the stress—all of it melts away.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling on it with just enough force to make you gasp. His tongue slides expertly against yours, the taste of him something sweet and darkly rich, like cherry liquor. It’s addictive. But the moment ends too soon for your liking, leaving you breathless and yearning for more.

Seonghwa doesn’t pull away entirely, resting his forehead against yours as he lifts a hand to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. He lets his touch linger as he traces a path down your neck, lithe fingers playing with the necklace dangling above your chest. Three dainty, silver hearts. One for you, one for Seonghwa, and one for—

The rev of a motorcycle engine cuts through the air, and your head snaps toward the sound just in time to see Hongjoong park his bike at the door. He takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair which you’re surprised to see is freshly dyed. It almost makes you laugh; of course even as he’s out running errands for his coup de grâce, he finds time for fashion.

“Not starting the party without me, I hope?”

Hongjoong’s heeled boots click pleasantly atop the concrete flooring as he walks over to the two of you. His synthetic fur coat is a bright orange, the complete opposite of what one might expect a criminal on the run to wear. But both he and Seonghwa have never been ones for hiding.

“Never,” Seonghwa replies, clapping a hand on the back of the younger’s neck. “Did you get it done?”

Hongjoong scoffs in a teasing manner. “Did you doubt I would?”

“Of course not.” Seonghwa squeezes Hongjoong’s neck once before letting go and clapping his hands together. “Looks like it’s time for the show.”

A few hours later, the party is in full swing. The once-empty warehouse is now filled to the brim with people dressed in cloaks and masks for the sake of anonymity. Some are on the dance floor, grinding against each other, while others have drifted toward the bar, downing shots and laughing.

Toward the back of the room, there's a group huddled around a table, huffing glitter, black lace, and who knows what other kinds of drugs. Meanwhile, others are tangled together on couches, lost in the throes of ecstasy. The air is so thick with the smell of smoke and sweat that it almost makes you dizzy.

A hand wraps around your neck from behind, pulling you against a warm body, and you gasp. “That’ll be us later, precious,” Hongjoong whispers, hot breath fanning against your ear. Your nervousness ebbs away, immediately replaced by eagerness.  “Do you like watching them? Or maybe you’d prefer to be the one being watched?”

You lean back against him, the hand around your neck a welcome pressure. “Both,” you breathe.

You feel his chest rumble with laughter. “Good.” 

He separates from you, and you turn to face him. He seems so confident, so excited, that it’s hard to believe he and Seonghwa are about to paint targets on both of their backs. Hit by a wave of anxiety, you lean forward and kiss him. He immediately reciprocates, nipping at your bottom lip and eagerly exploring your mouth with his tongue. 

Kissing him is always different than kissing Seonghwa. Seonghwa’s kisses are controlled, with a hidden power brewing behind them. There’s always a promise of more, a hint at what is to come when he finally lets go. On the other hand, Hongjoong kisses with reckless abandon. He is uninhibited, always ready to devour you whole. When he pulls back, a string of spit hangs between you before snapping.

“You nervous?” You nod, and he gently tweaks your chin between two fingers. “Don’t be. Those tech bastards have no idea what we have in store.”

“I just want the two of you to be safe.”

“And we will be,” he assures you. "After everything goes up in flames. Trust me, precious. Trust us.”

“I do.” And it’s true. You trust them with everything that you have.

“That’s our girl.” He kisses you again. “It’s time to go live.”

You take out your holodeck, and with the click of a button, all the cameras you set up switch on. You hurriedly switch channels through all the local stations, thrilled to see that it worked and the entire club is being streamed live to every device in the city. 

You stop the music and make the lights go out, causing a hush to fall over the crowd. You shine one beam of light directly onto the stage and you watch as Seonghwa steps out to address the throng of people below. He is captivating and has no problem commanding all of the power in the room. 

“Welcome one and all,” Seonghwa begins, voice booming over the speakers. “If you’re here, it means you are brave enough to fight against the corporations that enslave our society!”  

Hongjoong steps up next to him, and while he’s smaller in stature, he exudes no less power. However, he stays silent as Seonghwa continues, “We will not be silenced any longer. Tonight, we raise our voices in defiance; we will no longer bow down to those who seek to control us!” 

The crowd explodes into thunderous applause but immediately falls silent when Hongjoong raises a hand. "But tonight isn’t just about the revolution—it is also a celebration of our freedom, our individuality, and our unity. So let loose because everyone in the city is watching and we all know that, deep down, they wish they were us!” 

Cheers and shouts fill the room once again as everyone raises their glasses in solidarity. Your heart swells with pride as you take it all in. You have become a part of something far greater than yourself and, just like your boys, you are willing to do whatever it takes to see it through to victory.

You switch the music and lights back on and the party resumes in full force. People seem to go even harder than they were before, playing up their hedonism for the cameras. Seonghwa and Hongjoong have disappeared into the crowd, likely to mingle and spread their message one-on-one. 

Seonghwa favors the dance floor, hypnotizing those around him as he moves. A contented smile tugs at the corner of his lips as his hips sway to the beat, as beautiful as he is provocative. He flits from person to person, holding them close as he whispers into their ears. He occasionally catches you watching him, always making sure to tease you with a wink. 

On the other hand, Hongjoong stalks the perimeter of the room, moving from group to group. His skill lies in charming people with his words, and tonight is no different. Everyone who speaks to him smiles and laughs, completely enamored with everything he says. He shakes hands, claps shoulders, and you have no doubt that if people weren’t loyal before, they will be when he’s through.

You stick to one of the quieter corners of the room in order to keep an eye on the cameras. You need to make sure that everything is running smoothly both in and out of the club; the last thing you need is for someone to reveal your location or try to hack into your network and ruin everything. You also keep a close eye on your boys, making sure they stay safe.

It’s past midnight by the time they come and find you. Hongjoong sits on your left, placing a hand on your thigh as he leans toward you and kisses your cheek. His lips linger a moment longer than necessary, and as he pulls back, he purrs, “You should be out there, dancing, having fun.”

“I am having fun,” you say, taking the champagne glass offered to you by Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa sits on your right, throwing his arm around your shoulders and pulling you against his side. “You would be having even more fun if you put down the holodeck.” 

“But—”

Hongjoong takes it from you, throwing it haphazardly onto the cushion beside him. “Don’t argue.” 

He leans forward again, this time lightly nibbling your earlobe with his teeth. You gasp, knuckles turning white as you tighten your grip on your glass out of instinct. Seonghwa watches the two of you with half-lidded eyes, his hand trailing down your side and slipping underneath the hem of your shirt to trace patterns over your flushed skin.

“It’s a night for celebration, doll,” he murmurs. “You have done your job. The only thing we need from you now is… well, you.” He squeezes your hip and you jump slightly. “The badges will be here in a little over an hour according to one of my sources. While not as long as I’d like, it gives us just enough time to have a celebration of our own.”  

Your thighs clench in anticipation—you know exactly what he’s hinting at. 

"Lead the way, then," you say, setting your half-empty glass down.

Seonghwa’s gaze meets Hongjoong’s over your head, an unspoken agreement passing between them. They stand up and pull you toward the dance floor, surrounding you, one at your front and one at your back. You sway between them to a slow, seductive rhythm, closing your eyes as you let yourself enjoy their attention.

Seonghwa’s hands rest on your waist, pulling you against him as he starts to move his hips in tandem with yours, grinding against you. Meanwhile, Hongjoong cups your face, thumb tracing your bottom lip. His eyes are dark and intense as he captures your mouth with his own in a searing kiss. 

Seonghwa’s grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he watches Hongjoong devour you. He keeps one hand on your hip while the other snakes around to cup the back of Hongjoong’s neck, causing the younger to moan into your mouth at the touch. Now with a possessive grip on you both, Seonghwa gets to work nipping and marking the exposed skin of your shoulder. 

The room seems to disappear around you as they continue to explore you, their mouths and hands feeling like they are everywhere at once. It's intoxicating, even more so than the champagne you were drinking earlier. You feel Seonghwa’s hand trail even lower, disappearing under your waistline, snapping the band of your underwear against your skin.

You gasp and Hongjoong laughs against you, nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back with a satisfied smirk on his face. “Let’s give them a good show, hm?” 

You let the two of them drag you onto the stage, cheeks ablaze as you realize exactly what they’re planning. You’re hyper aware of the fact that you are being watched; even though most of the club-goers are lost in their own pleasure, the viewers that are steaming have nothing better to do than keep their eyes locked on you. 

Seonghwa clicks his tongue, squishing your cheeks between his fingers. “Look at our girl, acting so shy.” His fingers find your heart necklace, tugging at it just hard enough to make you gasp. “As if wearing this doesn’t mean we can do whatever we want to you, whenever and wherever we want.” 

Hongjoong takes a switchblade out of his pocket, flipping it open with a maniacal grin on his face. He uses it to cut away your clothes, exposing your body for everyone to see. Your knees shake and whether it is out of anxiety or anticipation, you can’t tell. 

He traces the tip of it against your skin, the cold metal leaving goosebumps in its wake. “We know you love it, precious,” he says. “Don’t you want everyone to see how good we make you feel? Think of all the viewers out there that will feel oh-so-scandalized but still won’t be able to look away. Not to mention all the greedy whores who will be getting themselves off to us, wishing they were in our places.” 

Seonghwa pulls you against him just like he did on the dance floor, once again letting his fingers tease his way down your stomach. But this time, he lets them travel even lower, dipping into your folds. 

“Look how wet you are just from this,” he remarks, bringing his fingers back up and spreading them so you can see the evidence of your own desire. He then extends them to Hongjoong who greedily laps at them, sucking them clean. 

You whine, trying to keep your legs closed from embarrassment, knowing anyone below the stage can look right up at you and see exactly how aroused you are. But Seonghwa won’t let you, shoving his knee between your thighs. Almost instinctively, you grind down on it, letting another pathetic sound slip past your lips. 

Hongjoong’s eyes glint with wicked delight at your reaction, his own hands reaching out to cup your breasts. “Someone’s eager,” he teases, tweaking a nipple between two fingers.

You hear a few wolf whistles from the crowd, a few lewd comments being thrown your way, but they only make you more excited. 

“I…” You’re panting heavily, making it hard for you to speak. You have to take a deep breath before trying again. “I want you. Please.”

“Anything for you, doll,” Seonghwa coos, returning his attention to your core. He pushes in one finger all the way to his knuckle with no warning and, if it weren’t for his hold on you, your legs would have buckled. 

“Fuck.��� The curse slips from your lips, half whimper, half moan, as he continues pumping his finger inside your wet heat. 

Hongjoong lowers his head, taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he pinches and tugs at the other. You grip his shoulders for purchase as your head lolls back to rest on Seonghwa’s chest, whining at the onslaught of sensation. The feeling of Seonghwa inside of you while Hongjoong lavishes his attention on your breasts is unlike anything you have ever felt. 

As Seonghwa adds another finger, Hongjoong’s lips mark a path from your breasts, to your stomach, and then lower as he sinks to his knees in front of you. He grabs your thighs, fingers digging into your skin, just as his tongue finds your clit. His tongue draws figure eights around it as Seonghwa continues to pump his fingers relentlessly inside of you. 

“T-too much…” you gasp. But neither of them slow down—if anything, feeling how close you are makes them double down on their efforts. Hongjoong sucks your clit into his mouth at the same time Seonghwa adds a third finger, curling them inside of you. 

Seonghwa kisses the back of your ear, his hot breath making you shiver. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs. 

That small bit of praise is all it takes to send you tumbling over the edge, eyes rolling back as your body goes taut with pleasure. Hongjoong eagerly laps up your release, only prolonging your orgasm. Seonghwa gently removes his fingers from you and you hear rather than see when he brings them to his mouth, tasting yourself on his skin. 

Hongjoong pulls back, licking his lips to clean them of your release before his trademark smirk returns. “I think it’s time for you to return the favor, precious. Don’t you think, Hwa?” 

Seonghwa trails a hand down your spine, humming. “I don’t know if she can handle it.”

“I can,” you gasp, eager to please them just as they did you. “I can, I promise. Anything you want.” 

You almost jump from surprise as some spectators in the crowd start yelling their vulgar suggestions as to how exactly they think you should please your partners. You’re sure if you looked at your holodeck, the live chat would be filled with similar comments as well. 

Hongjoong laughs, grabbing your face in his hand. “Don’t worry about them. You can have us however you like.” 

Blushing, you say, “You choose.” 

His eyes light up and he immediately looks behind you to Seonghwa. Just like earlier, some sort of silent communication passes between them, and then you feel Seonghwa’s hand on the small of your back, urging you to bend over. 

“Why don’t you show our Joong what that pretty mouth of yours can do while I fill you up, hm?”

You barely have enough time to nod your agreement before Hongjoong is unbuckling his belt and freeing himself of his constraints. You nearly salivate at the sight of his cock, red and wanting. He grabs your hair and pulls, tugging you forward as much as he can with Seonghwa’s bruising grip on your waist keeping you in place. Tears prick at your eyes but it’s as pleasurable as it is painful, and you take him into your mouth eagerly.

The head of Seonghwa’s cock teases your folds before he finally pushes forward into you. He starts moving at a slow, torturous pace, pulling out of you before slamming right back in. Each thrust propels you forward, forcing you to take Hongjoong deeper into your mouth. You feel so full, so used. It’s incredible.

“Look at her,” Hongjoong coos, staring down at you. “Look at how well she takes us.” 

Seonghwa just groans, grinding into you so deeply that you have to choke back a moan around Hongjoong’s cock. He’s gotten quieter, his thrusts sloppier, a telltale sign that he is losing himself in his own pleasure. Meanwhile, Hongjoong’s grip tightens around your hair, guiding your head back and forth on his length. Each thrust cuts off your air supply, making you see stars.    

Seonghwa’s hand snakes around to your front, fingers finding your swollen clit. You moan again, and Hongjoong echoes you as the vibrations travel up his cock. 

“Shit,” he curses. “So fucking good.” 

Seonghwa’s thrusts grow increasingly erratic and you hear his breath hitch; instinctively, you clench around him, and he spills into you. His release sends you spiraling into your second orgasm of the night, walls fluttering around him as you milk his cock of every drop. 

Hongjoong pulls out of your mouth not long after, squeezing the base of his shaft to prevent himself from following the two of you over the edge. The second Seonghwa steps away from you, he is taking his place, forcing himself inside of you before any of the elder’s cum can drip out. 

“Hongjoong,” you gasp, nearly falling forward from the force of his thrusts. Seonghwa maneuvers himself so that he can support you, holding you in his arms as Hongjoong pounds into you with bruising force. 

“Gonna fill you just like Hwa did,” he growls. “Make you mine. Ours. You’re ours.” 

“Can’t… can’t…” Words escape you, your mind going blank. 

“Yes, you can,” Seonghwa says, stroking your hair. “You can take it. You can come for us one more time.”

His voice is comforting, but you also hear the command in his tone. You choke out a sob, nodding weakly as Hongjoong guides your hips back against him again and again. You can feel another orgasm coming on already, the coil tightening in your stomach. Seonghwa continues to murmur words of praise, stopping only to pepper kisses along your heated skin. 

The coil snaps and you cry out as you come undone, Hongjoong’s cock still buried deep inside of you. His hips stutter and he curses, his warm release mixing with Seonghwa’s. He slowly pulls out and you can feel as some of their cum trickle down your thighs. You collapse against Seonghwa completely, no longer able to stand on your own two legs. 

You feel light-headed and blood pounds in your ears, muffling the cheers you assume are coming from the crowd. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed, and a lazy smile tugs at your lips—the three of you surely gave them the show of a lifetime. 

Suddenly, you feel heat lick at your skin, and you snap back into yourself fully, cringing away from it. Your eyes focus, and you see Hongjoong flicking a lighter open and closed, open and closed.  

“There’s our girl,” he remarks. He brings the lighter to your skin again, just close enough for you to feel the heat of it without it burning you. “I think we were a bit rough with you, precious. You were totally out of it, shivering and everything.” 

Seonghwa is behind you again, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. You press further against him, squirming as the heat tickles your skin. 

“Back with us?” Seonghwa asks.

You nod. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” 

“Okay. Hongjoong—enough.” 

Hongjoong stops immediately, flipping the lighter closed with a tsk. “Fine. It’s gonna get hotter in a minute anyway.”

Now that you’re focused, you finally hear the shouting and crashing coming from below. The very people who were just watching you on stage are now rioting, destroying the warehouse and everything in it. The cameras, the bar, all of your hard work—now there is just destruction, everywhere you look. 

You shoot up, hurriedly dressing yourself so that you are no longer the only one naked as panic begins to take hold. “What’s going on? Seonghwa, Hongjoong, we need to—”

You waver on your feet, nearly tripping. Luckily, Seonghwa catches you. “Calm down, it’s okay,” he says, hushing you. “This is all part of the plan.”

Hongjoong gestures to the crowd, pointing out some things you missed. “See how some of them are drenching the place with gasoline? We’re gonna light it up.” 

Maybe you’re still delirious from your multiple orgasms, but you are having trouble understanding what the two of them mean. “Why? I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“This was all a distraction,” Seonghwa explains. “The club, the livestream, us putting on a show. We did it so that all eyes would be on us, and all the badges would be wasting their resources trying to find our location.” 

You nod slowly as the pieces begin to come together. “So, while I was setting all of this up…”

“We were out there. Planting bombs at some of the biggest tech headquarters in the city.” Hongjoong smiles, spreading his arms wide. “Our coup de grâce, just like we’ve been saying.” 

Despite all of your suspicions, this is something you never would have been able to guess. Before you can even begin to truly comprehend the magnitude of what they’ve done, sirens pierce the air. Everyone screams and begins to run out of the warehouse. Seonghwa grabs your hand, and nods to Hongjoong. “Now!” 

Hongjoong throws his lighter to the ground below and flames erupt instantly, devouring everything in sight. Luckily, most of the crowd has already escaped, and you feel confident no one should get caught in the aftermath. Still, it’s pandemonium, and smoke fills your lungs as Seonghwa pulls you closer, shielding you with his body as he hurries toward the nearest exit. 

Hongjoong follows after you, but lags behind as he keeps looking over his shoulder at the fire with a sadistic grin on his face. “That’s how we do it,” he yells, voice barely audible over the blaze.

“Get yourself together,” Seonghwa barks. “We need to get out of here before the cops realize what’s going on and find us.” 

Suddenly, Hongjoong trips, his foot catching on some loose debris. Seonghwa reacts instantly, yanking him back to his feet and throwing an arm around his waist. The three of you continue onward as the heat of the fire licks at your back. You crash through one of the exit doors, and stumble away into the night, disappearing into the sea of masked faces. 

All across the nation, devices light up with the same headline: “City in Chaos as Blazing Inferno Distracts from Large-Scale Bombing of Tech Giants.”

“Nation-wide manhunt underway. Suspects Kim Hongjoong and Park Seonghwa believed to be connected to an underground criminal group called The Black Pirates…” 

NETWORKS: @cromernet @kflixnet @pirateeznet

TAGLIST: @yessa-vie @nebulousbrainsoup @ad0rechuu @sanniesbunnie @seonghwaddict @fruitcakebin @kickti @abby-grace @fireseo @yunhofingers @ohflorah @oiminho @baekbao @byuntrash101 @hyukssunflower @thatnerdytomboy @straykidsholicleigh

#cromernet #ateez x reader #seonghwa x reader #hongjoong x reader #ateez smut #seonghwa smut #hongjoong smut #ateez au #ateez fic #park seonghwa x reader #kim hongjoong x reader #seongjoong x reader #seongjoong smut #ateez imagines #kpop smut #ateez hard thoughts #my fic #fic.liu #park seonghwa smut #kim hongjoong smut

[nelkcats]

Hood assistant

Next

Contrary to popular belief, Red Hood wasn't actually a bad boss, Danny could attest to that. After all, thanks to a guy named Bill, he had gotten a job with the Crime Lord, and although he initially feared being assigned to kill or do "shady" activities, his boss actually reassigned him to his assistant.

So yes, Danny now worked directly under Hood's personal assistant, a very attractive man by the name of Jason, but the other goons warned him that it was very likely that he was dating Hood, with the amount of time they spent together so he didn't have to much hope with his crush.

In summary: Danny fell in love with Jason, but he thinks that Jason is dating Red Hood because of comments from the goons and he doesn't want to be "the third wheel" or for Jason to cheat on the crime lord with him, on the other hand Red Hood started flirting with him too and it's getting incredibly frustrating how unfaithful this couple is.

Meanwhile, Jason just wishes the guy would understand his signals, maybe the flowers aren't enough, he doesn't realize he's sending signals like Red Hood too.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #dc x dp #jason todd #Hood assistant Au #Yes I will continue this #This is just the promp #short prompt #red hood #Jason think he is funny being his own assistant #He ruined his love life by accident #Danny is frustrated #Why are both of his bosses flirting with him #He asked Bill if Hood and Jason were searching for a poly couple #Bill laughed and asked if he wanted to die for suggesting that #Jason don't know the rumor about him dating himself #Basically the goons ruined everything without knowing #dead on main #Hood Assistant

[stealingyourbones]

Prompt Idea: Danny has plot armor.

To start off, Danny’s whole family knows he’s Phantom, and they had to run from Amity because of the GIW. They wind up in Gotham because that’s the one place that The Government doesn’t really mess with.

The reason behind Danny’s plot armor is that in this world, Danny became incredibly overprotective of his friends and family in order to make sure he doesn’t wind up as Dan, ironically making the chance of that happening much greater than before.

In order to prevent this, Clockwork gives Danny and his family a blessing. It works like this.

Imagine you rolled a dice. To Clockwork, there are now 6+ possible alternate timelines that can ensue. Clockwork’s blessing allows those possible timelines to be restricted to only one or two, all of them good for the Fenton family.

In effect, it was like plot armor. Scarecrow attacks a library with Jazz inside? Oh, looks like her parents need her to pick up Danny early, or she drank too much water and needs to go to the bathroom, which just so happens to have a window just in reach that she can escape from.

Maddy needs to get a job? Well, Jazz’s university needs a new chemistry professor (last one was kidnapped by a rogue) and they’re in a bit of a rush so they’ll skip looking for a teaching certificate. No one cares anyways, it’s Gotham.

Jack needs something to do? Well, besides hunting ghosts, he’d always wanted to open a food truck! With Jazzy making sure nothings contaminated and some (slightly modified) recipes from the Ghost Zone, he can finally chase his dream in a big city with his Phantom Food Vehicle! He wonders what some of those shady men came up to him for, or that odd stout fella in the tux.

(The Phantom Food Truck has become a recent cryptid in Gotham. Except it’s not a cryptid, because everyone’s seen the video of the truck hurtling down the street like it’s chasing down the devil, cop cars and vigilantes alike on its tail. And yet, no one could find it. Not even the Bats. That’s about when everyone gave up. When they learned that you don’t find it, the Phantom Food Truck finds you.)

As for Danny? He’s entirely unaware of this, to focused on keeping his head down. It works, for a while. Before fate came knocking in the form of a wicked smile, as if there solely to ruin his day.

The Joker wasn’t having a good day either. He started out having a jolly old time, joker toxin gassing a small high school, making sure to leave macabre presents for his dear Batsy, and then what happens? This random kid just starts running around, helping students, saving teachers, what’s he gonna do next huh? Save a cat from a tree?

What’s worse, his useless henchmen couldn’t even land a hit on the kid! He swears, Bill doesn’t even seem to be trying.

Whatever, they managed to corner the brat, looked like he was standing in front of some other children. So Joker lines the shot, and he fires.

The gun jams.

Alrighty, he takes one from a random mook, and he shoots again.

The gun jams.

No one’s moving at this point. Where there was once dread and tension in the air, there’s just confusion. So Joker points the gun at a goon, pulls the trigger, the shot goes off.

He turns back to the Robin-ish looking twink, and he pulls the trigger.

The gun jams.

And as he starts walking towards the kid to just kill it himself, he wakes up in the Arkham hospital wing with his last memory of the encounter being him slipping on the glowing green contents of some weird looking thermos that the kid had thrown earlier in the fight. What the FUCK was that.

Clockwork doesn’t even care how pissed the Observers are any more, this is hilarious.

it's to the point of ridiculousness that the Bats have an entire file on Danny and they think he's a meta with a luck ability and nothing else.

#dpxdc #bones replies

[emoangel44]

The thing I've always loved most about aa4 is how much darker the tone is than the rest of the series in a way that isn't just edgy for the sake of it, but subverts your expectations from the original 3 games in a really interesting way. The trilogy was built upon the trust Phoenix had in others, and it was something we as players could almost always feel certain in. AA4 flips this on its head and makes it so Apollo effectively can't trust anyone but himself.

Your mentor, who the in the trilogy was a paragon of wisdom you could always turn to no matter what, gets revealed to be the culprit and sent to jail in the first trial and by the end of the game his list of crimes has stacked high but you still have so few answers on why he did any of it.

Your boss, the goofy protagonist of the trilogy, is now inexplicably a washed-up, disgraced, cheating poker player with an implied drinking problem who seemingly found a new hobby in evidence forgery and jury rigging.

He has a codependent relationship with his daughter, your assistant, who usually is a completely innocent and hapless victim of circumstance. She sees herself as the provider for the house and will help her father cheat at poker, or forge evidence, or guilt trip the poor attorney they knowingly screwed of out of a job into working for them for dirt cheap.

The detective, the only other returning main character, a previous assistant, is completely changed since we last saw her. In the trilogy she was chipper and bright despite the hardships she faced, and now she's unfriendly and burned out, turned bitter by the world. The scene we're first properly introduced to her in Apollo genuinely spends several minutes thinking his boss is making him bribe her with cocaine.

Every single defendant is a criminal guilty of something other than what they're charged for. Each case centers around an underground black-market poker ring, a mafia family and medical malpractice, a smuggling ring, and a family of forgers and an incredibly shady troupe of magicians. The one thing all of these people have in common is that none of them will tell you literally anything about what's happening, half of them clearly reveling in being as big of cryptic assholes as possible.

The only person who doesn't fit this description is, for once, the prosecutor. Usually your biggest obstacle and the most morally corrupt of the main cast, he's the only person who's both 100% on the side of truth and on the same page as you for the entire game. He's just as clueless as you, being used nothing more than a chess piece just like you are.

But the truly masterful thing about AA4 is how morally grey it is. These characters aren't just one note villains. They're not even villains at all. Most of them aren't even malicious.

Your boss, for all the low levels he stoops to, is underneath it all the same guy he's always been, doing everything he can to bring a criminal to justice and protect his family. Your assistant is a sweet girl who truly cares about you, she's just prioritizing herself and her fathers safety before anything else. The detective is the same passionate and kind woman under everything else. The rest of the defendants are genuinely well-meaning young people who got involved in shady stuff they didn't fully understand.

The game is filled with good people trying to make the best of bad circumstances. The game has just as many fun moments as the original trilogy. For all it's rough appearance, the game has a similar heart. For every unanswered question or unrighted wrong, there's a smile or a hope for a better future. For every bad action, there's usually someone trying their best behind it. The game is melancholic and dark, but isn't afraid to let good shine through. It knows there's no shadows without the light.

#ace attorney #ace attorney apollo justice #aa4 #ajaa #post rescued from my drafts

[atopvisenyashill]

Is Lyanna really as terrible as some people portray her as?

no, not even a little bit.

the absolute most important thing about lyanna is that when she dies she is only 16. i am someone who works with kids - i work in a library so i spend most of my days cleaning up after tweens and asking teenagers to please stop doing dumb shit- and the first thing anyone who has ever worked with kids and especially teenagers is that they may look like adults but they are NOT. they don’t understand boundaries, they have next to zero impulse control, and every bad thing that happens feels like the worst thing ever because it very likely IS the worst thing they’ve ever experienced bc they have not been alive that long!

and this goes for every single teen & tween character in this series, not just lyanna! shit, i am someone who feels an immense amount of sympathy for joffrey! on one side he’s got his mother telling him he can do anything he wants with no repercussions and on the other he’s got his father hitting him so hard that stannis thought joffrey was going to die. and then he is given unchecked power and told not to abuse it! EYE cannot even guarantee that i wouldn’t use unchecked power to do shady shit and i am a fully grown adult, not a traumatized, irrationally, and deeply vindictive 13 year old boy.

but honestly the most important thing about lyanna is that we have ZERO CONTEXT for what happens between her and Rhaegar. What we have is

Ned’s sparse & guilt ridden thoughts about Lyanna and one (1) comment about Rhaegar

Robert’s angry, entitled, and grief ridden outbursts about Lyanna and Rhaegar

Barristan’s incredibly romanticized, guilt & grief ridden take on their relationship

Meera’s second hand account of Lyanna, told to her by a father who is likely just as guilt & grief ridden as the others, who likely has his own view of Lyanna

What’s important to note is that our view of her is heavily filtered through the eyes of the men that knew her. Robert loves an idealized version of her that never existed. Barristan never actually knew her. Ned is not only viewing her under 200 layers of guilt and grief, but very obviously does not understand his sister, or why she made the choices she did, and struggles constantly with knowing that he will never know her the way he wishes he could, the way he thought he did. Given the way Meera describes Lyanna, I actually think Howland is our most accurate look at her but even that is buried behind years of grief & a fair amount of hero worship and affection (“that’s my fathers man you’re kicking howled the she-wolf” is a line that makes me WEEP for this exact reason; Howland sees Lyanna as his hero above all else!).

All of that to say - we don't even know what Lyanna did that was so terrible! Even if she was a grown woman capable of making rational decisions, we have no idea what her decisions were. She could have been lied to, misled, kidnapped, threatened, just as surely as she could have walked into the situation with open eyes. Even in the show, with a slightly aged up Lyanna - we get, what, just Sam's opinion on Rhaegar and Lyanna being in love because they got hitched? Completely ignoring the fact that we had several women in this series get married not because they were in love or willing but because someone more powerful decided on it and that was that, so there's still no evidence that Lyanna had enough information about the situation to make any sort of informed, consensual decision.

so no, i do not hold lyanna responsible for anything at all that happened regardless of how it happened because she was not mentally mature enough to understand what the hell was going on. a 15 year old is just not mature enough to think “if i run off with this married man, it’s going to cause a cascade of political issues that could have disastrous consequences.” what she’s probably thinking is “this man says he can help me and i am fucking miserable and no one else will listen.” it’s why we don’t throw 15 year olds who run away to meet up with old dudes they met online in jail when they’re caught (or theoretically why we don’t punish them at any rate). There is one person and one person only who is responsible for the massive fuck up that is the Elia-Rhaenys-Aegon-Lyanna-Jon mess and that is RHAEGAR, the person with the most amount of power who used it in the dumbest way imaginable and got himself, most of his heirs, his wife, and his teenaged mistress killed. The only other people responsible are the Kingsguard who kept Lyanna under lock and key while she lay dying and pleading for her brother to come save her.

#lyanna stark #anti rhaegar targaryen #valyrianscrolls #gender politics in asoiaf #mariages in asoiaf #asks #anons

[necronatural]

The Reigen Arataka Deranged NormalMan Review

Do you ever think about how Reigen has like. A really strange belief in The System and How Things Should Be. Like REALLY strange. Whatever he's got going on is so much weirder than "scammer with a heart of gold".

I think it all comes together if you read the 10th Season 3 omake like, seriously interrogate this:

This is normal, if comedically thoughtful and realistic for a shounen character. This guy talks like a mandatory reporter. What's strange is what immediately follows:

"AS A SPIRITUAL SPECIALIST" DOING A LOT OF HEAVY LIFTING HERE REIGEN

Not only did he hunt down the families of the children bullying his client (insane. where did he get that info), he also contacted the school as if he were representing his own son in order to get justice, and then hunted down a source of complaints when the school fell through.

This is like a genuinely bizarre level of commitment to the bit, and the bit is "the system works, and if it doesn't work, we will find a system that does work, and if we cannot, hell or high water it is my PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY to make the system stop slouching so it works again".

Long thread on the manga with this reading⬇️

Before I start. Reigen adopting Teru is more IC than you think but I don't think it is IC in the way people think it is. I think about this a lot and I think people who do it because they like Reigen aren't understanding how into his bit he is. Guy who talks to social services

So remember the arc that won people over to Reigen despite the fact he's an asshole who takes advantage of Mob and derides him constantly in order to keep him complacent?

He has Mob's phone on his GPS. This makes sense; he's been taking him out and about since he was 11. Very responsible!

Reigen dismisses the "Boss" mistake thinking well, it's a misunderstanding, but it got me in. Yet as soon as he heard they're committing crimes, he VISIBLY puts on his Boss Pants to chastise them. Again, normal so far. I think any scammer with a heart of gold would do this. (And foreshadowing for why he retried reprimanding the Claw Cadres a second time after getting power.)

Again. He's a scumbag. So he leaves Mob to beat their asses using his previous rhetoric. But then!

Reigen's shady morality is more like "people who can take care of things should take care of things". To him, Mob is the Authority on Espers, and can handle conflict like this. Immediately upon becoming aware he can't, Reigen thinks "oh, okay, so the only person who can take care of things is someone who can deescalate". (Pictured: Deescalation)

Okay. Besides the fact this is insufferable as a general concept - YOU just told him to handle it YOU are the source of his stress - his first step in deescalation is to force Mob to back down. Rather than asking him not to fight, he reestablishes "rules" in order to convince Mob he must back down - the same way he tried using what he said to worm his way out of dealing with this shit - and then sets himself up as the authority figure to which the others must obviously defer in matters of His Boy, like a parent accepting criticism at a PTA meeting. This isn't Reigen claiming Mob so much as "in order for them to not attack Mob, they must view me as a representative for Mob".

And like a good authority figure:

Continuing with his phrasing:

If you think about it, this is like...an objectively very strange and incredibly bold approach to this situation. They're homicidal. Reigen is a DERANGED level of Normal Man. He has this image in his head of normalcy, of the world at standard operating procedures, and reinforces it right through an entire conflict. Carceral beliefs don't even factor into this, simply expressing his principles and expecting them to fold.

And they do lol. I keep wondering how Shou must have felt listening to him talk like that

We see a little more of his good side in work; when he was getting so little work it was affecting his grocery bills, this moneygrubbing scammer still asked for like $200 to clear an entire city of hauntings. (His regular exorcisms are around $30). Fair prices are part of his principles of how the business should be. He operates basically at-cost. He mentions he wanted to come out here because he's bored. He's killing time as a career.

Aside:

Just realized he called Mob in last minute so Mob didn't know he accepted crops instead of money. Shigeo didn't like that

So consider that he never got caught here and there was a call on the news to hunt him down at the end of this bit: for the average viewer of the anime, it's just funny, but this is part of the Mogami pre-arc so we've gotten a hold of him by now; he probably holds an inherent belief that the police will intercept him and not Mob. Why wouldn't they? Why would an adult man want to dress up in a highschool girl's uniform? The System will understand.

Not relevant to my point but I like how he realizes what's wrong with Mob way before the final arc, just not why it's happening. Also he doesn't say anything.

With the way his principles are, you really get the feeling that Reigen does his best to avoid culpability specifically because if something happened that was his fault, he'd have to step up to the plate to compensate for that, which is troublesome to him who is a career time-killer. It does not occur to him that an actual bad person and scammer would not step up to the plate as a matter of course. This is his way

What I find really interesting is that this Militant Insane NormalMan does have a sense of wanting something "special", but rather than whip Mob up the way Dimple did Ritsu, he ended up projecting his own values onto Mob, as if he could recreate a special "self" within him. He's always deriding him and baiting him and lying to him in hopes of creating a superb person that a special individual like Mob finds admirable, as if Mob is the authority on his quality of character. Sad! lol

Anyway, it adds a lot more kick to this famous line. Reigen genuinely believes in Authority

Authority works!

And if Mob (the authority on espers) doesn't work, who's the person who MUST step up to the plate [common sense]? You guessed it.

There are other aspects of Reigen's character that everyone and their dog has already picked up on (his self-loathing is the entire reason the way he talked to Mob in Confession arc hit so hard), but this one's my favourite. He's insane

#mp100 #mp100 meta #i like him a normal amount.