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devilmademewriteit · 1 year

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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

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read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

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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

3K notes · View notes

fyorina · 2 months

Text

ᡣ𐭩 IN PAPER RINGS AND PICTURE FRAMES!

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai has never been a true believer of murphy’s law, not until today at least. he swears the world is out to get him, all he wanted was to give you a nice valentine’s day... and maybe something a little extra special. (wordcount: 6.7k; sfw; very brief mentions of dazai's attempts, fem!reader)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: valentine's day fic for my sweetest boy

“What do you mean I can’t have the day off?” Dazai cries out, staring down at his phone in abject horror. A pillow is flung at his head and Dazai sputters out an apology to you before lifting his phone back to his ear, making a point to lower his voice as he says, “Kunikida-kun, it’s Valentine’s Day. Not even you can be this heartless.”

“Dazai!” Kunikida says, voice stern and sharp, and Dazai knows that the man is serious because he’s not spitting out insults about Dazai’s laziness and lack of drive to do anything but lounge around and avoid work. “Trust me. It brings me no joy to make you come in today—not for your sake, but for her’s. But we have to finish up the final preparations for Tanizaki and Atsushi’s upcoming mission before they leave for Kyoto tomorrow morning. Get to the office now.”

“Kunikida-kun,” Dazai complains, feeling a bit more panicked, “but I-”

“Maybe if you had actually done your work the past few days, I could’ve covered for you,” Kunikida spits out angrily. “But we have double the workload to finish by tonight because you’ve been slacking off the past week. Anyway, you shouldn’t be calling the day of asking for a day off. Be to the office asap.”

Kunikida doesn’t even wait for Dazai’s response, hanging up the phone and leaving Dazai standing in your apartment staring at his phone with parted lips and wide eyes, unable to comprehend what just happened. A noise escapes his lips, something caught between a scoff and a whimper, and Dazai thinks he might cry. He feels like a wounded puppy as he turns his attention over to where you’re still curled up in bed, eyes barely cracked open as you watch him with furrowed brows.

“Bella…” he pouts, making his way over to you so he can sit next to you on the bed. “They’re making me go into the office.”

You only roll toward him, eyes heavy with sleep, barely able to hold them open, and Dazai’s chest feels tight and warm with a lovely feeling that he’s only ever experienced with you. He reaches out to cup your cheek, fingertips grazing your skin—your lashes flutter as your eyes droop back shut, and Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of someone seeking out his touch, trusting his hands as if they aren’t rotted and blood-stained.

“Then go,” you say with a yawn, leaning into his touch and pulling the dark comforter back up around your shoulders from where it had slipped down your body.

Dazai pushes his lip out even more. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I wanted to spend the day with you. You took off today too.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him and Dazai wants to tell you that it is decidedly not okay but he can’t tell you that because you’ll ask why and he can’t tell you without ruining everything. “I’m tired anyway. Someone decided to keep me up half the night.”

Dazai can hardly even muster the vulgar smile and dirty joke that should have come to him with ease, and evidently, that’s proof enough to you that something must be seriously wrong because you crack your eyes back open and peer up at him, concern slowly eclipsing the tiredness. Another thing he’ll never be used to: having someone genuinely worry over him even over the smallest things.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him softly, yawning again as you reach up to run your fingers through his hair. The comforter slides down from around your shoulders again, revealing the smooth skin of your bare shoulders and collarbone, and Dazai wishes for nothing more than to slip beneath the sheets with you, wrap his arms around you and bury his face into your chest.

Instead, he lets himself lean into your touch for a moment, eyes falling shut as he basks in the feeling of your fingers carding through his dark locks, nails gently scraping his scalp. He thinks he could stay in this moment forever, but alas, the serenity is utterly shattered when his phone starts buzzing again.

Dazai lets out a heavy exhale, dark eyes dragging from you to where his phone is laying on the bed next to him, seeing Atsushi’s name flash on the screen—surely having been told by Kunikida to follow up and make sure that Dazai is actually going to show up at the office.

“I just wanted to spend the day with you,” he says, a bit of a white lie, but he can’t tell you the real reason why he’s so disappointed. “He’s had it out for me ever since we got together. He’s jealous. This is his way of getting one over me.”

You smile lightly at him, pulling his face down a bit so that you can press your lips against his. Dazai sighs into your mouth, eyes sliding shut again as he kisses you, hand coming up again to cup your cheek as his lips move against yours. The kiss is slow and intimate, but far too short for his liking. You pull your lips away from his and Dazai gives you a wounded look when he tries to chase your lips only for you to dodge with a giggle.

“Go, Osamu,” you tell him and Dazai lets out a groan, letting his head drop to your chest. You toy with his hair and Dazai wants to tell you that doing that is only going to make him want to stay even more but he also doesn’t want you to stop so he decides against it. “The faster you get there and get your work done, the quicker you can come home.”

Home. Another word he might never get used to, his chest feels warm and fluttery as he tilts his head to the side so he can peer up at you. “Or I can just not go in at all and deal with Kunikida’s righteous fury tomorrow.”

“No,” you say firmly, tugging at his ear and making him yelp. “Go, Osamu. Don’t be ridiculous. Let me sleep.”

Dazai sighs, rising to his feet and letting you curl back beneath the covers. He wants to tell you that it’s not that simple and that he has a whole plan and he needs to follow it strictly otherwise he’s scared that everything will go wrong, but there’s no way of explaining that to you without having to tell you why which would ruin everything. Lamenting to himself, he shrugs his coat onto his shoulders and leans down to press his lips between your brows as you start to doze off again, brushing your hair behind your ear and letting his eyes linger on your face, skin glowing gently beneath the early morning sun.

It takes all of his willpower to step away from you and make his way out of your apartment, the ring in his pocket weighing more heavily with every step he takes.

•••

Dazai is really trying his best not to let his frustration spoil the night. The sun has already long set. What should have been a short day at the office finishing up paperwork ended up with him working overtime because of an emergency mission on the far side of the city concerning an ability user who could mimic appearances. Everybody else is still at the office trying to finish up preparations for Tanizaki and Atsushi’s upcoming mission in Kyoto but the President had taken one look at Dazai’s abysmal expression and told him to go home and be with you.

And Dazai should appreciate that, honestly, otherwise he’d be stuck at the office until god knows when, leaving you at home alone all day and all night on the one day he was planning to spend the whole day with you, but he’s so bitter that he can’t even summon the appreciation he should feel. You’re taking it in stride, of course, telling him that it’s okay and you’re not mad even though Dazai insists that you definitely should be. He called you while on the train with Kunikida, curled up in a seat pouting as he shot his partner dirty looks and mourned his shitty luck because of course this would happen on the day he was planning to make the biggest decision of his life, and yours.

Not that he could tell you that part, obviously.

Kunikida had been rightfully guilty, apologizing to Dazai for the day taking as long as it did and continuously shooting him ashamed looks, but Dazai couldn’t even bask in the knowledge that Kunikida is actually apologizing to him for making him work because he’s so frustrated about how the day has gone compared to what he had planned.

It’s still salvageable, he reminds himself, glancing down at his phone. The reservations he placed for the restaurant aren’t for another hour and a half. He has plenty of time to walk back to your apartment and change so he can take you out for the night, and the thought of taking you out for the night makes all of the frustration he’s feeling absolutely disappear, entirely overshadowed by the giddiness tingling through his limbs and the nerves that tighten his chest.

Tonight.

He twists his hands in front of his body, eyes catching on a convenience store at the corner of the block, a wide range of chocolates and flowers on display at the main window. With only a moment’s hesitation, he speeds up his pace, flinging open the door to the convenience store and beelining right to the dwindling Valentine’s Day display, weathered down by other frantic partners who were late to get their beloved gifts.

He lets out a relieved puff of air when he sees that your favorite flowers and chocolates are still available, although he’s a bit irate because the flowers aren’t as healthy as they should be, but he supposes it’s his own fault. Of course they're not going to be in perfect shape after being on display all day—if he wanted perfect flowers, he should’ve bought and brought them to you first thing in the morning.

Which he could have done if it weren’t for Kunikida, he thinks bitterly, deciding to place all of the blame on his coworker instead.

He drops the flowers and chocolates at the cash register, where an older man is working, and Dazai pulls out his wallet, flipping through to grab a few yen and place them on the counter.

The older man lets out a bit of a chuckle as he scans the chocolates and the flowers. “You’re a bit late, aren’t you, boy?” he notes. “Can’t have a happy lady at home, I know mine is angry as a bull. Hope you have more than this to appease the girl.”

Dazai winces and then mutters, “She’s not angry, I got pulled into work. She understands.”

It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. The man finds it amusing, evidently, from how he has to smother another laugh as he gets Dazai his change.

“Mine said she was fine with it too,” he says, “but I know I’m coming home to the cold shoulder. They never say what they mean, son.”

Dazai’s mood falters again, the giddiness and nerves slipping away into something colder because he’s feared since he left this morning that you would be bitter over him having to go into work today. And he knows deep down that you’re not like that, that if you say it’s fine, it really is fine most of the time, but a part of him can’t help but wonder if you’re only saying it because you don’t want to stress him out even more, because he’d made it abundantly clear this morning that he wasn’t happy.

“There you go,” the older man passes over his change and the flowers and chocolates. “Good luck.”

Dazai can barely even bring himself to give the man a proper thank you, making his way back out of the convenience stores with the flowers and chocolates in hand. His eyes flicker down to his phone again, catching the time before he continues down the street—the pit stop had only taken a few minutes, but Dazai is doubly anxious to get back home to you now. Not just because he’s worried that you’re not quite as okay with it as you’ve made yourself out to be, but also because he misses you and just wants to get back home to you, this day has been too long and it’s been especially hellish and jarring because he woke up this morning thinking he’d get to spend the entire day with you.

He’s ready to get home to you. He’s ready to take you out to dinner. He’s ready to take you down to the gardens and he’s ready to-

God, he’s ready to propose. After all of these damn years, he’s finally ready and he will not let a shitty day at work ruin that for him. He still has the whole night, and that’s what’s important because…

He stares at his hand, where a droplet of water had splashed against his skin. A dreadful feeling arises, dark and slithering as it spreads through him. He turns his gaze up to the dark sky—dark because the sun has set, yes, but he realizes now, with a pit in his gut, that it’s also because storm clouds seem to be gathering above the city. He hadn’t even noticed them in his pitiful spiral, nor had he noticed the way the wind had picked up.

He hardly has time to react before the rain comes down. Hard. Torrential. He stands on the sidewalk, too riddled with shock and disbelief to even move for cover. He stares ahead, wondering just how much more terrible this day can get. He’s never been a believer of Murphy’s Law or any of those other dubious, paranoia-induced “laws of nature,” but he’s severely starting to question his standing on it because of all days, of course it’s today where it seems that the entire universe must be against him.

He stares at the drenched flowers he had just bought you, crumpled and ruined from the force of the rain—he can’t even bring himself to feel frustrated, if anything he’s starting to feel a bit numb with exhaustion, half-certain that there’s a god up there sabotaging him. He tosses the flowers in a nearby garbage can along with the soggy box of chocolates in his other hand, and almost robotically, he makes his way to stand under an overhang, pulling out his phone to call you.

You pick up after the first ring, you always do.

“Osamu?”

“Can you pick me up?” Dazai asks, voice hoarse and empty.

“... Of course. Where are you?”

•••

The car ride has been damningly silent and Dazai feels bad because you’ve tried to make conversation with him but he can’t bring himself to speak. You’ve given up by now though, resorting to just focusing on the road, occasionally sparing him concerned glances. His head is starting to hurt and he fears that if he says something his voice might crack, so instead he just leans his head against the passenger seat window, letting the cool glass spread through his brain and ease the pain as you intertwine your fingers with his.

“We’re never going to make the reservation,” Dazai finally decides to speak up, voice sounding cold and distant even to his own ears. He nearly flinches—he would’ve preferred it to crack than sound so frigid and aloof.

The rain pouring down is torrential, lightning webbing across the dark sky and wind howling outside. Already, there’s been road closures, the twenty minute drive from the Agency to your apartment has taken twice as long as it usually takes and you’re still stuck in bumper to bumper traffic trying to take the long way around to the complex. The reservation is set for forty minutes from now, and it’ll take nearly as long to get to your apartment at this rate, and then Dazai still has to dry off and change from work, and then you have to drive to the restaurant which would've taken another twenty minutes without traffic.

Not that it matters anyway, the storm has already destroyed his plans for after dinner, which was the whole point of the dinner anyway, but still, he would have at least liked to bring you to a nice dinner for Valentine’s Day.

He wonders if this is all meant to be a sign, and the thought makes his chest ache because of course when he finally thinks he’s ready to take the next step in his relationship with you—one that he knows you’ve been waiting patiently for four years now but his own hangups about himself have stopped him from ever doing anything about it—this happens. And you’ve never pressured him about it, you’ve never even brought it up to him because you know the topic makes him uncomfortable, but he’s seen the way you look at all of the happily married couples who come into the cafe when you meet him there for his lunch break and he’s seen the way you sometimes glance down at your own empty finger and Dazai thinks he’s ready.

Against all odds, he thinks he’s ready—he bought you a ring, he planned out the whole proposal. Anxiety has been eating him alive all week as the days led up to this and now that the day is here, everything just goes wrong. He was going to bring you to the aquarium, because he knows you love to watch the dolphins and the penguins but that was ruined because of work. He was going to take you out to dinner at Le Normandie in Naka, because he’d seen you looking at the menu all longingly a few weeks ago, but that was ruined because of the road closures and traffic. And then he was going to bring you down into Yamashita Park, over to the flower gardens where there was supposed to be a band playing, because they always do on Valentine’s Day, and he wrote up everything, a long and flowery speech about how you’ve shown him what it’s like to really live, what it’s like to be human, but that was ruined by the storm.

All the preparations he made, all of the plans he had, all of it gone to ruin. Just like that.

And now he’s doubting how ready he actually is.

He really does wonder if this is a sign, a warning, even—higher powers telling him not to condemn you to a life with him because what sort of sane person would want a future with someone who’s spent most of his life trying to kill himself? Dazai has more issues than he’s worth and he’s still half-convinced that you don’t know what you’re getting into even though you’ve been with him for four years and have seen some of his most egregious lows. You’ve had to cut him down from the noose, fight him for the blade he held against his skin, and Dazai doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to fully free himself of the dark thoughts tearing apart his brain.

And you deserve better than a future with someone who’s fickle about living and unable to effectively combat the dark thoughts that plague his mind. This is the world’s attempt at reminding him of that before he makes a mistake.

You draw him from his spiraling thoughts as you squeeze his hand gently, lifting his hand to press your lips against his knuckles and Dazai feels even worse because why are you comforting him when he’s the one who ruined your Valentine’s Day.

“Let’s order takeout then,” you say easily, giving him a warm smile that should have made him feel more at ease but instead it only makes him feel worse because you shouldn’t have to settle for takeout on Valentine’s Day, especially when he planned such a nice day out. “I’m craving pizza. We can curl up on the couch and watch a movie instead.”

Dazai is unconvinced.

“Don’t give me that look,” you complain, but you’re still smiling and Dazai is finding it hard to keep up his sullen attitude with you looking at him like that. “There’s a new horror movie I wanted to watch, it’s available for streaming now.”

“This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go,” Dazai murmurs, finally intertwining his fingers with yours, rubbing a circle with his thumb over the back of your hand.

“Let’s make the most of it anyway,” you tell him, giving him another radiant smile, and Dazai feels a bit like a fool—he’s never listened to the warnings from higher powers before, so why the hell should he now? When you give him another reassuring squeeze as you rest your joined hands back down on the console, turning your attention back onto the road, his chests lighten and the creeping doubts start to trickle away.

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’ll all work out anyway.

•••

It takes less than an hour for his slim hopes to be crushed yet again.

Dazai stares at the food in front of him, too numb to even think to go chase after the delivery driver and tell him that he got the order wrong. You’re standing somewhere to the side, looking even more concerned—not because of the food, because of him, and Dazai knows that he should reassure you and tell you that everything is fine but he can’t even muster the strength to speak the words.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, reaching out to grab his hand. He doesn’t even intertwine his fingers with yours, but you’re undeterred, clutching his hand tightly, and he knows he’s being unfair to you but he just doesn’t even know what else to do. “Osamu, it’s fine, really. It’s just some food.”

“You don’t even eat any of this food,” Dazai says, voice tight and more than a bit frustrated. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take, the morning had started off so nice waking up to you fast asleep on his chest and every passing second since then has just gone further and further downhill. “Not one thing has gone right today, and they can’t even get one order done correctly. It’s not fine, I-”

Dazai’s eyes flutter shut when you reach up to cup his cheeks between your hands, squishing his face gently before leaning in to press your lips against his. He sighs against your lips, the frustration slowly starting to dissipate as you rest your forehead against his, stealing one, two, three more kisses before finally pulling back a bit to speak.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him again, and Dazai thinks he should be the one reassuring you because it’s your Valentine’s Day that has been utterly ruined but he only relaxes into your touch, soaking up all of the comfort you offer him. “I have pizza bagels in the freezer, we can throw them in the oven. Honestly, I’ve been tempted to make them all day, anyway, but I wanted to wait for you. It’s not a big deal.”

“... Yeah?” Dazai asks quietly, and you give him that soft, soothing smile that always puts his nerves at ease. He lets out another puff of air, nodding. “Okay, I’ll put them in.”

He steals another kiss from you, and then another, and the tension in his shoulders finally begins to melt when he feels you giggling against his lips, shooing him away to go put the pizza bagels in the oven.

Just as the thought crosses his mind, that maybe the night is still salvageable, he reaches for the door to your freezer and as his fingers curl around the handle, the power goes out. Thunder shakes your apartment complex, lightning webs the sky outside, and the wind outside becomes even more treacherous. And with it, the ability to use the oven to make the pizza rolls you want disappears.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. Dazai thinks it should be comical at this point but he can find no humor in it, his throat tight and clogged with a million unwelcome emotions. He swears there must be someone up in the heavens laughing at him, finding entertainment in his misfortune and misery, and maybe he deserves it for all of the sins he’s committed in the past but he wishes that they wouldn’t drag you into this.

He casts a miserable look in your direction, unsure if you even notice because you’re already at work trying to fumble to light a few candles, and Dazai is so tired that he thinks he might die. All he had wanted was to take you on a nice day out, ending the night with dinner and a stroll through the gardens at Yamashita before finally gathering the nerve to get down on one knee in front of you, showing you the ring he’d been so nervous buying and-

And then he pauses.

Where is the ring?

The thought dawns on him so damningly that he feels physically ill, realizing that he hadn’t felt the familiar weight in his pocket earlier when walking home from the Agency, nor had he noticed it when he slipped his jacket off and laid it on one of the kitchen chairs. He rushes over to where he had left his jacket, panic spreading through him so intensely that he can hardly think straight, ignoring how you call his name, worried.

His chest tightens, blood running cold as he fumbles through the pockets of his jacket trying to figure out which one he left it in only to realize that it’s not snugged safely in any of them. Dazai thinks he might throw up, wondering if it had fallen out when he took his jacket off at the office, or if it had fallen out while he was walking to work, or when he stopped at the convenience store and pulled out his wallet, or when he was walking home. If it was the latter three, the ring is gone and he’ll probably never see it again, and he probably should take that as a sign from god to not condemn you to a life with him.

“Osamu?” you ask, voice soft and cautious as you make your way over to him, obviously sensing his distress.

Dazai wants to cry. Or maybe he wants to laugh. He can’t tell. He leans his elbows onto the counter, hiding his face in his hands, and then he decides to laugh, or maybe he’s crying, he’s not sure honestly, but his shoulders are shaking and you’re wrapping your arms around his waist. Dazai wants to melt into you and he wants to tell you just how abysmally terrible this day has been but he can’t without telling you what he had planned and that only makes him more miserable.

You coax his face out from where it’s hiding against his hands as you stroke his hair, pressing your lips to his shoulder, and then his temple, and as soon as he turns his face to you, you’re cupping his cheeks in your hands, thumbs wiping away the wetness streaming down his cheeks, and he realizes distantly that he must’ve been crying. God, when was the last time he cried before this? He doesn’t even remember.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, keeping your voice soft as if to not startle him.

He doesn’t want to answer, so he doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself from view again. As always, you take it in stride, wrapping your arms around him, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head and hold him close, lips pressing against the top of his hair. And Dazai is still so frustrated—he’s so frustrated and upset with himself and upset with the world, but as soon as he’s wrapped tight in your arms, it becomes increasingly hard to remain focused on all of the negative thoughts.

“I’m so tired,” is all he can say, voice hoarse and cracking, blunt nails digging crescents into your back as he clings to you desperately.

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. He’s so tired. He just wanted this to be a nice day, and he wanted to finally push himself into giving himself to you entirely, because it’s what he wants. It’s what he wanted. He wanted to be yours and he wanted you to be his. Officially. But if the world really is trying to warn him against it, he’s thinking that maybe he should heed its warnings for once—for your sake, because he’s sure that anyone tied to him must be cursed.

“Let’s go lay down,” you tell him softly, carding your fingers through his hair gently. The motion is so soothing that it nearly makes his eyes droop shut, exhaustion seeping deep through his bones. “Os-”

There’s a harsh knock at your door.

Dazai’s eyes slide shut again, frustration coming back tenfold because he can’t even have a single moment with you without it going horribly wrong. You sigh as you break yourself free from him and Dazai longs to be back in your arms instantly, the weight of the day bearing down on him twice as heavily without you there to share the burden with him.

“I’ll go get the door,” you tell him, leaning up on your toes to press your lips to the corner of his. “Go lay down, I’ll join you in a second.”

“No,” Dazai says, capturing your lips in a real kiss briefly before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll get the door. You go change into your pajamas.”

“You sure?” you ask him, concern clear in your eyes as you look up at him.

Dazai only nods, pressing his lips to your forehead before ushering you off into the bedroom. You cast him one more worried look but Dazai shoos you away pointedly before making his way over to the door, frowning a bit because who the hell is showing up at your door this late? He thinks that if it’s the restaurant that sent the wrong food, then Dazai might just slam the door in the delivery man's face because the damage has already been done and Dazai is feeling petty.

But no. It’s not the delivery man standing outside your apartment with the right food this time. Rather, it’s an anxious looking Atsushi and a stressed Kunikida. Dazai’s eye twitches a bit—as if his day hadn’t been ruined enough with work, he swears to god that if they're about to bring even more to him on top of dragging him away from you all day, someone might die.

“Dazai-san,” Atsushi sounds absurdly relieved at the sight of the man but Dazai’s expression doesn’t budge, waiting for them to explain why they were interrupting his night with you. “We were just leaving work and-I wish I’d seen it sooner, I’m sorry-I would’ve come sooner but-I mean we tried to call and text but-”

Dazai has no idea what Atsushi is talking about, so he drags his eyes from the anxious boy up to Kunikida, waiting for a proper explanation. Kunikida’s lips twist when Dazai looks at him and Dazai thinks the man has no right to look at him that way after being the root cause of how awful his day.

Suddenly, Dazai catches sight of the familiar velvet box sitting in Kunikida’s hand, and he’s not sure what amalgamation of emotions rocks his body—fear, relief, apprehension—but he doesn’t like it, reaching out to snatch the box from Kunikida and cradle it to his chest, watching the two of them uneasily.

“You moron,” Kunikida snaps, careful to keep his voice low, but not low enough because horror shoots through Dazai when Kunikida continues with, “why didn’t you say you were-”

“Lower your voice,” Dazai says, panicking, casting a glance back toward where you’re still getting changed in the bedroom.

“Why didn’t you say you were proposing?” Kunikida finishes in a whisper, voice still a sharp hiss. “If you’d mentioned that I would’ve-”

Dazai feels flustered, and he does not want to answer and admit that he hadn’t thought it would make a difference. Luckily—or maybe unluckily, he concedes—he doesn’t have to answer because he hears you making your way out of the bedroom.

“Osamu?” you call curiously, “Is that Kunikida-kun and Atsushi-kun?”

Dazai’s eyes widen when he realizes that he has nowhere to hide the ring as you come around the corner from the hall. He promptly slams the door in both of his coworkers’ faces without even the sparest thank you, ignoring their surprised yelps as panic begins to spread through him, doing his best to hide his hands behind his back when he turns around to face you.

And then-

Then he hesitates.

The excuse on his lips about last minute mission briefing or Dazai having to sign off on a time-sensitive report dies when his eyes fall upon where you’re standing, dressed in your fuzzy pajamas with your arms wrapped around your waist and a confused expression painted on your face. The only lighting in the room is the few dim candles that you set up once the power went out, and the soft ambience casts an ethereal glow over your face. He thinks, not for the first time, that you might be heavenly, an angel sent to guide him on the path of good because how could he ever allow himself to fall back into his old, tainted habits without tarnishing you as well, and tarnishing you is simply unacceptable.

All of the doubts that have risen throughout the day wash away as he looks at you, and he wonders, briefly, how he could’ve ever had any doubts? Dazai, for all of his insecurity and fears of commitment, wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He does. He knows it so thoroughly that he can feel it in his bones; he doesn’t want anyone else, he doesn’t want to be alone, he wants you. He wants to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night, he wants to lounge around on the weekends because you’re both too lazy to get out of bed and do something productive, he wants to be there for your lows when you’re so overwhelmed with work that you can hardly think straight much less properly take care of yourself and god, against all odds, he wants you there for his too, when he feels like he’s being consumed by his own thoughts, spiraling down a dark and never-ending train that might not be as dark and never-ending with you there as a light to guide him out of it.

“Marry me,” he says, breathless, voice laced with desperation.

You stare at him, eyes wide. He stares back, frozen, unsure of what to do because this was not how this was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be extravagant, romantic, like you deserve, not some half-assed spur of the moment proposal. The words hang heavily in the air between the two of you, but he forces himself to push forward, too far in deep to back out now.

He fumbles as he tries to shift the velvet box into one hand to bring it in front of him and show you. He drops it. Of course he does. Everything else has gone wrong today so why not this too? But still, he pushes forward, kneeling down to scoop up the ring box and prop himself up on one knee in front of you, throat swollen and tight as he opens up the box to show you the ring inside of it. He’s holding it backwards. Of course he is. So he fixes it promptly, swiveling it around with trembling fingers, waiting anxiously for you to respond. Or even just react.

You haven’t budged from where you’re standing a few feet away.

What if you say no? God, the thought hadn’t even crossed his head but now his heart starts to sink from his chest down to his feet because you’re not moving and you’re not saying anything and he doesn’t know if you’re just processing his words or if you’re trying to figure out the best way to reject him.

He starts to fumble out words. “This was not how this was supposed to happen,” he admits, speaking so quickly that he can barely understand himself. “It was supposed to be a nice day, we were gonna go to the aquarium to see the dolphins and penguins, dinner at Le Normandie and then go down to the gardens at the park, and there was supposed to be a band and flowers and I had a whole speech ready and it definitely was not supposed to be like this but everything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong, but I want to marry you and I don’t want to wait anymore, and I’m sorry that this is a shitty proposal, you deserve better than this. And I’m probably making it worse, I should have just waited for another day, but-”

But please say yes, he wants to say, but he can’t force the words out; he can only stare at you, expression more open and vulnerable than he thinks he’s been in his entire life. And he realizes, a bit horrified, that you could ruin him right now—he’s laid his heart out on a platter and it’ll only take one swift motion for you to crush it in hand and he thinks he’s terrified but-

All of the air is ripped from his lungs with a harsh oof. In an instant, his back is to the floor and you’re on top of him and Dazai is staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, trying to figure out what exactly happened.

“You’re so stupid, Osamu,” you cry out and to Dazai’s horror, he realizes that you’re crying, hands propped up on his chest to brace yourself up, tears pooling in your eyes and streaming over your cheeks and dripping onto his own face. “Is this what you’ve been so upset about all day? I don’t need any of that, all I need is you.”

Oh. Dazai can’t breathe, and it’s not because you’re on top of him it’s because your words are processing and he’s realizing that-are you saying that-

“Of course, I’ll marry you, you idiot.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, a puff of air that he does not have in his lungs, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling—elation, relief, exhilaration, all of the above—but he does know that he’s never felt anything like it before and he doesn’t want it to go away. Ever. Dazai swears he sees a flash of a camera from the window, and he swears doubly that he hears Yosano let out a hoot of a cheer and Kunikida hushing her, dragging her away, but he can’t even bring himself to care.

Yeah, Dazai thinks to himself, eyes sliding shut as he rests his head back against the floor, the first genuine smile of the day tugging to the edge of his lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, clutching at his shirt, sniffling and hiccuping over each breath. He wraps an arm around your waist, using his free hand to slip the ring out of the box and slide it onto your finger. You cry harder. He kisses the top of your head, wondering how he could ever have any doubts or hesitations.

He could definitely spend the rest of his life like this.

#ᡣ𐭩 carina’s archives #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai fluff #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu fluff #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd fluff #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs fluff #bungo stray dogs x reader

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mysaintkitten · 6 months

Note

Choking Cillian Murphy 😩

(He's still dominating 😏)

Between Shoots | Cillian Murphy x fem!reader

prompt: you and cillian have a bit of fun in his trailer (NSFW!! NO MINORS!! + in this fic cillian is single and it does not reflect him as an actual person, it’s all for the sake of the fic)

WARNINGS: reader is implied to be an actress, unprotected sex (p in v), choking, implied age gap (everyone’s legal), brief use of the term “little girl”, slight dumbification (my weakness im sorry), slight praise/degradation, creampie

word count: 1.5k

cillian was meant to be your costar. that’s all. you had to work with him on a few scenes, but you had no idea that you’d end up in his trailer riding him.

“that’s it, god, gripping me so nicely.” cillian moans into your ear, smacking you harshly on the ass.

you hide your face in his neck and whimper, riding him at a rough and desperate pace.

his hands move from your ass to your hips, keeping you in place as he pounds up unto you, making you mewl loudly.

“how’s it feel, sweetheart?” he groans, his voice low but sweet, it almost felt taunting. he knows how good it feels, he knows you’re speechless from his thrusts, he just wants to hear you struggle.

“i-its, ah!” you stammer, digging your nails into cillian’s shoulder, “good-d, hmm, ‘s good ..”

you hear him chuckle breathily, “i know, can feel you dripping down my cock, darling. that cunt of yours is gonna ruin this sofa.”

he wasn’t lying. your slick had coated his cock, spilled onto his balls, and formed a small damp patch between his legs. you knew you weren’t going to be drying up anytime soon, so you feel a small wave of humiliation.

“sorry .. m sorry ..” you whimper, “been so l-long since .. since i felt this g-good ..”

he slows his pounding, slowly rocking your hips to allow you to resume riding him, you quickly pick up on his hints and he clicks his tongue,

“aw, such a sweet girl. it’s alright, doll. you know how you can make it up to me?”

cillian really didn’t mind that your arousal spilled onto the sofa, he had the money to get it deep cleaned. he could buy a brand new sofa if he wanted to, but he had something else in mind.

“hm?” you whine from inside his neck

“look at me, or i won’t let you come.” he purrs, you pull your head out from his neck to stare into his icy blue eyes.

his eyes scan you, as he brushes some stray hairs from out of your face, “pretty girl, if you want to make it up to me, you can choke me.” he hums, running his thumb along your cheek and bottom lip.

your hips movements slowly come to a stop as you catch your breath, “you want me to .. what?” you question

“no, no,” cillian tuts, “i didn’t tell you to stop.”

you pick up your hip movements again, whimpering quietly at the delicious fullness he was providing you with.

“choke me.” he raises his brows at you. you’re still a bit confused, despite him being very clear on what he wants.

“cillian, i-“ you start, before he sighs, “sweetheart, have you been fucked stupid already? what’s so hard to get?”

you whimper at his sudden change in tone, but you kind of enjoy the degrading nature of his words. in all honesty, his cock was making your mind a bit laggy.

“i’ve just .. never done it before ..” you mumble, feeling your cheeks burn a bit more than they already were.

“do i need to show you, baby? dumb it down for you to understand?” his voice lingering with feigned pity, as if his words itself didn’t make that apparent enough. you can’t respond, every nerve ending on your body felt sensitive and overwhelmed. having to ride him while listening to his degrading words and requests was becoming embarrassingly difficult for you.

he smacks your ass again to get your attention, “watch.”

you whine loudly at the strike, bringing your focus back to him.

“i’m going to make this really simple for you, sweetheart,” he hums, “place your hand here,” he brings your hand from his shoulder to his neck, “now, grip the sides, and ride me. easy enough, darling?”

you nod and grip his neck, continuing to ride him.

a fucked out grin spreads across his lips, “that’s it, good little girl,” he praises, “such a good listener.”

you blush at cillian’s approval, your thighs shaking from being sore and from your approaching orgasm.

you continue to choke him and whine, watching how his eyes switch from your face to down to your pussy, seeing himself disappear inside of you. his eyes are half-lidded as they make their way back up to your face slowly, “prettiest cunt i’ve ever seen ..” he moans, placing both of his hands into your ass to grip the flesh.

“cillian ..” you whine, your thighs are vigorously shaking at this point, “keep your hand on m’neck, baby ..” he groans before thrusting up into you again while holding you in place.

his harsh thrusts allow you to not only feel your arousal dripping around him, but you hear how wet you are, he chuckles lowly.

“hear that, hm?” cillian purrs, “hear how messy that pussy is?”

despite your hand being on his neck, continuing to choke him, he’s still dominant. you never knew how much you’d enjoy this combination.

“y-yes, mmh, ye-s!” you whine, unconsciously gripping his neck harder as you try and find some grounding during his pounding.

he moans and this thrust start to become more jagged, “good, gonna come in this pretty little cunt.”

in the moment, you had completely forgotten that he wasn’t wearing a condom. your mind too fixated on pleasing cillian while simultaneously being extremely pleased by him, it must’ve just slipped your mind.

so, you beg. you beg for him to come inside you, not worrying about the potential consequences.

“yes, please, pl-ease!” you cry, “come-e inside me, clai-m me!”, your desperation is pathetic, but it fuels cillian like nothing else.

“yeah? want me to claim this pussy? come by and ruin it whenever i like?” he growls, his mind becoming fuzzy from the lack of blood flow and the intoxicating grip of your cunt.

you whine at the thought, the idea of being a little fuck toy for cillian. his own personal fleshlight to use whenever he needed a warm and wet hole.

“yes! god, yes!” you moan loudly, anyone passing by his trailer would’ve heard. but you didn’t care, and cillian certianly didn’t care either.

your orgasm sneaks closer and closer, your pussy involuntarily clenching around him irregularly, he’s pushed over the edge, breathing heavily and groaning loudly as he shoots his hot load inside of you.

when you realize he’s come, you shakily remove your hand from his neck.

you huff and remain on his lap with his cock still inside you, running your hands along his pecs.

he brings his wrist up to his forehead and swipes some sweat off, “did y’come?” he breathes,

you shake your head no, “it’s okay, though, i can get my-“ before you can finish he’s snuck his fingers down between your legs, rubbing your neglected clit.

you whimper and clench around him again, the overstimulation making him growl.

you were already so so close, it won’t take much to make you come at this point.

“did so good .. sweet little girl, even sweeter cunt ..” he hums, smiling weakly at you while his free hand runs along your waist and thighs, rubbing your body in a calming manner.

“cillian .. cillian i’m close-“ you whimper, screwing your eyes shut as your body begins to twitch from his touches.

“i can feel it, darling, come for me.” he responds, and after a few more rubs you’re coming on his cock, covering your mouth to try and stifle the loud moans you knew would be escaping your lips.

although he wishes he could’ve heard you shout as you came, he knows it was probably the better bet to keep you quiet. people had certainly heard you two, maybe nows the time to have the slightest bit of decency.

he allows you to ride your orgasm out on his cock, gritting his teeth through the sensitivity.

once you’re done, he pats your thigh, “off, sweetheart, i’d love to keep this going, but i’m too sensitive and we’ve got another scene to shoot.”

you scoot off his lap and you’re brought back to reality. you just slept with your costar, who you’re going to have to continue to film with as if nothing happened.

he stands up and grabs a damp face cloth to clean himself off with, handing you a separate cloth to do the same.

as cillian stands there, sliding on a clean pair of boxers, you look down at the sofa beneath you and feel yourself blush at the undeniable wet stain you’ve left.

“want fresh panties?” he asks, tugging his jeans back up.

your eyes shoot back up to him, prior to the sex cillian had done an extensive amount of foreplay. you had only a skirt on, so a thin layer of fabric separated your warm core and his touches. you were soaking through your panties before he gave in and finally fucked you, so you reply “yes, please.”

he searches around the trailer briefly before clicking his tongue, “sorry, love. i haven’t gotten any. guess you’re gonna have to go without.”

your eyes go wide, “i can’t! i have to wear a skirt, cillian!”

he just grins while slipping your old panties into his bag, “you’re shooting with me, it’s nothing i haven’t already seen.”

your thighs clench at his words,

“maybe i’ll even get a glance of my come spilling out of you,” he coos, “do you think you’re professional enough to continue acting while you feel my seed dripping out of you?”

—

happy halloween (eve) to y’all who celebrate hehe !!

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #hope y’all like this #:)#request

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cameronspecial · 3 months

Text

I Will Try Something, Rafe

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Suggestive

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.7K

Summary: Y/N just finished a romance book and now she wants to recreate a scene from it.

A/N: This is inspired by A Million Kisses In Your Lifetime by Monica Murphy.

Masterlist

Rafe loves it when Y/N reads romance books. It always gives her and him ideas to incorporate into their own love lives. He has fallen victim to scrolling through BookTok and Bookstagram looking for new reads for his angel. Y/N even started using sticky tabs in her books to mark certain places during her readings for Rafe to look at later. Once she leaves the book on his side of the bed, he’ll flip through the pages and take note of everything she wants him to be aware of that she likes. Y/N’s recently read A Million Kisses In Your Lifetime and she wishes to bring one of the scenes to life. While Rafe is at work, she gets everything set up for what she has planned. The room is lit only by the candles she bought for this occasion. She looks down at the white button-up shirt of Rafe’s that she threw on and smoothes it down. The rose petals on the bed are arranged perfectly. She has all of her lipsticks on his nightstand and she can’t wait for her fiancé to come home.

The front door yawns and his strong steps reverberate around the house. “Angel, I’m home. Where are you?” he screams out into the seemingly empty house. She calls out to them, “I’m in our bedroom, Rafe.” She fluffs her hair up and her eyes widen, noticing that she forgot makeup wipes. She swears up a storm, running into the bathroom to get them. Panic fills her as Rafe’s footsteps approach their room. She scrambles to get back to her bed but slips as she crosses the bathroom threshold and flops onto the solid wood floor with an oomph. Rafe’s gaze is first on the decoration of their room, which is a little more romantic than when he left this morning. His eyes land on his angel on the floor and immediately rushes to her side. “What happened? Are you okay?” he worries, helping her up. She pouts a little, “I’m fine, I just slipped. I am disappointed that I ruined the surprise.”

He chuckles and kisses her forehead, “Don’t worry, you could never ruin anything. I love all this. Whatever it is.” She relaxes against the feel of her lips. “I finished my book. I want to replicate something,” she whispers to him. Rafe nods, “Of course, what do you want me to do?” She doesn’t reply with words as she guides him to stand with her. He observes as she silently unbuttons his shirt. His feet shuffle against the floor and she pushes him onto the bed. They scoot up so he is sitting against the headboard and she pulls his shirt off his shoulders with a kiss to his collarbone. “Pick a colour. I will try something, Rafe” she instructs him, holding out her hand to display all of her lipsticks on the bedside table.

He smirks and dangles his hand over the selection before choosing one. He uncaps the lid and brings her closer by her chin. The waxy material of the makeup glides against her lips. Once he is done, he tries to lean in to give her a kiss, but she stops him. It is his turn to frown and he watches as she leans down to leave a lips-shaped stain on his pale skin. The vibrant red he picked out stands out like a gaping wound. She leans back and uses a wipe to rid the colour of her lips, gesturing for him to pick another colour. He does so and they repeat the action over again. They spend the rest of the afternoon painting his skin with her lip prints of different colours until he has a heart over his left pectoral muscle. She looks at it with satisfaction and takes out the Polaroid camera he bought for her. She brings it to her eyes, pressing down on the button. The shutter tells them that she is successful in taking the picture and they both watch it print out. Rafe takes it in his hands and brings her down to lie on his right shoulder. The photo develops to reveal her hard work. “This is my new bookmark,” she announces to him. She sets the picture on her nightstand and he flips so he is hovering over her. He uses one hand to unbutton the shirt of his that she is wearing. “Now, it’s my turn to this skin red for my own bookmark, Angel,” he informs, diving into a passionate kiss.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @queen-shadow22 @victory-in-the-llama @drewsmusee @starkowswife

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undercoverpena · 10 months

Text

iv. before the gold and glimmer

javier peña x f!reader | chapter four of late night texts

summary: It's the year 2000. Javi is minding his own business on the porch of his pop's ranch when a text from an unknown number vibrates his phone. The only problem is, no one knows he has a phone and no one has his number.

chapter warnings: fluff. flirting. continuous romcom vibes. an: i adore each of you who are coming along this weird and wonderful journey, we're getting closer, i promise. wordcount: 2.5k.

text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi

I’ll be home in an hour.

I’ll be ready

Are we going to do the crossword tonight or are you going to spend an hour flirting?

too early to comment

I’m bringing my A game.

to flirt with me? baby you flatter me

No. Crosswords, you fucking flirt.

hermosa did you just swear at me

I did. Now I have to concentrate, stop distracting me.

Javi is aware that his pop is thinking things.

Has been since the phone conversations began. The ones initially having slotted in when the house was empty. Quiet. Just him and his thoughts banging around, occasionally punctured by him pressing the keys on his phone until the phone rang.

Now, the phone calls have bled out into quick chats on other nights (Javi’s hand over his mouth, trying to muffle a laugh). He’s caught sight of his pop’s smirk more than once.

He’s very aware that he hasn’t helped things by dropping your name into conversations.

Accidentally, at first.

Then just accepting his fate and embracing it. Talking about you as if you’re this fully fleshed thing in front of him—mentioning the news thing you’d heard, something funny you’d said.

He even mentioned you to Murphy. Again, not on purpose.

Steve was quick. Picking up on it immediately in their latest monthly catch-up where usually Javi listens to how amazing, disruptive and yet tiring kids are—how Miami would be good for him, and that Connie misses him. This time it segwayed suddenly into, and who might she be then, Jav?

It had crossed his mind to play it down. To conceal you—because a part of him suspects he should hate all of it.

Before, he had always preferred secrecy. Kept the women he had been seeing behind lock and key. Partially due to the nature, the risk—now, though, he thinks he just doesn’t want to share.

Doesn’t want to taint it. Selfishly wanting to keep you all to himself, his slice of happiness that no one can dull.

It also aids in holding himself back from falling over the cliff, tumbling into ruin because he let himself get ahead of himself.

Feel too much, too quick, because Javi didn’t even know what you looked like. Hadn’t eyed you up across a bar, hadn’t spotted you in the aisle of the store.

You’d stumbled into his life.

No reason, no real cause or explanation, and now he’s not entirely sure as to why he feels the amount he does. That he cares, that he likes you. How that when he talks to you, he feels only happy, content and joy—like he could do and be anything.

You provide the key to the semblance of normalcy he’s been longing for. Liking what others would think is mundane, like about your day. Now he longs for it all face to face, where he can read your face instead of dissecting your voice.

She’s just someone I’ve been talking to. Don’t—don’t even know her, really. You knew all the others well before? Fuck off, Murphy. Just sayin’, sometimes, shit just don’t make sense, Jav.

Steve says it as though it answers all his problems.

Like he thinks the words will make all the pieces click into place, suddenly cemented and real—all understood and no longer complex.

But it’s all still very much messy—a tangling of feelings that ready exist and more which threaten to come.

In truth, he doesn’t mind the complications of it all. He just thinks it’s best to protest it a little. Pretend he hasn’t abandoned all logic just because someone made him smile and feel a little less broken.

Because he knew, just like those around him, that he was done for.

It all perfectly evidenced by the fact he doesn’t mind when his pop begins giving him one of those smirks more often than not—the ones surrounded by wiry white hair, partnered with a knowing look on his face. The same conversation circling, the one that’s been going on for days now—

“When the two of you meeting?” “I don’t know, pop.” “You made plans to see her yet?” “No, pop.” “You should go see her. You need a break.” “Pop.”

At some stage, his pop stops beginning it—challenging him. Now he just signals the words with a look. One he assumes parents are given when their child enters the world—the one that is part knowing and part ‘you know you’re going to do what I’m saying, anyway’.

Javi hates that more than he hates the rest of the situation.

Because his pop isn’t wrong. He wants to see you, watch your expressions instead of imagining them.

Not just to see what you look like, but so that he can see how you react when he says certain things. Whether you scrunch your nose or your lips curl before you smile; whether you hide your face when he embarrasses you, or whether you fold your arms and pout.

Each time the two of you text or call, he thinks it—wants to bring it up and ask.

A need in him growing, in the same way his feelings do. Multiplying, quivering in his bones when you laugh, and it travels straight to his heart—making it swell and bloom. Filling the expanse of his chest until he isn’t sure he can feel any more happiness.

Picking up the phone on the first ring, he hears your usual chirpy hey, which he follows with his now usual: “Hey baby.”

“¿Cómo estás, Javi?”

“Ay, you’ve been practising.”

Hearing you laugh makes him smile. Unknots the stresses of the day from him as he pulls the chair over—sitting on it as his head rests against the wall.

“I purchased a Spanish for kids book, so that’s my skill level.”

Smirking, he rolls his lips. “You trying for me?”

“Sí.”

Snorting, he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Eres tan linda, querida.”

“I know the last word means darling.”

“I said you are very cute.”

You pause, a shuffling sound coming from your side of the phone before the softest of sighs. “You’re making me blush, again.”

“You make it too easy.”

“Stop,” you say, all fake warning and all likely accompanied by a cute smile, “How’s your day been—tell me you got a splinter in your ass?”

Smirking, he slumps further into the chair, legs spread, spare hand resting on his thigh. “Starting to think you only talk to me for my body.”

The laugh you let out is closer to a howl, and his cheeks hurt from hearing it—his grin so large, it doesn’t fade for hours.

apprehensive feeling, 5

Come on, Javi.

I think it may be angst

If I were there I’d kiss your cheek.

I know you mean that in a nice way but it feels demeaning

Oh no I meant it as the latter.

is that how we’re being

You tell me.

paris divider, 5

Seine. You ever been to Paris?

no have you

Not yet.

not yet?

Well there’s always time. Heard it’s a romantic place to go.

maybe if you were nicer someone would take you

You make a good point.

things go ok this morning

Not like I wanted but not the worst. I can apply but they’re playing the experience card again.

bullshit, you ok

I will be. Thank you for checking in on me.

you can tell me if youre not yknow

I just need to destress is all. It’s like talking to a fucking wall sometimes.

fuck I love it when you swear

Javi, stop.

do you really want me to

No. But you’re making my face burn.

bet you look real pretty getting embarrassed

I actually do not, so you should stop so you don’t inflict the face on others.

I don’t believe you

Maybe one day you’ll see it for yourself so you can believe me

wish one day was today

Why would you destress me?

baby I’d make sure you couldn’t even think the word stress never mind feel it

You confident in that?

youll have to find out

Something was different in the air the moment he woke up.

Things went far easier than they normally would. No one tried to bowl him over during feeding. The fence he went to check on didn’t look all that bad—and there wasn’t even a queue when he visited the homeware store for pop.

There also wasn’t a rain cloud in the sky.

And it put him on edge.

His gut—the one he had relied on to take down the narcos—flared back to life. It could be a good day, a once-in-a-blue moon, a blessing in a sea of disguise.

But rationality didn’t stop him from checking over his shoulder, do a final sweep of the land.

It had been like that when he’d first gotten back. All on edge, finding it difficult to settle. He had smoked back then, worse than he had done when he’d been over in Colombia. It’s why he’d chosen to quit.

Now, he rotated the phone between his finger and thumb, feeling it vibrate against his palm, checking if it was you before he allows the smile—the one you pull from him by just texting him—blossom.

So I have good news and I have bad news lead with the bad first I can’t call you on Thursday night

His heart drops, plummets.

A part of him knew something bad was around the corner. Taking in your text, over and over. Checking he understood it as he climbed the stairs up the porch.

Javi rolls his head on his neck, staring up—the flies around the porch light buzzing away as he tries to compose himself.

Somehow always knowing that deep down, this day would come. His mind is too quick to act, abruptly busy with conjuring thoughts. That old analytical part of him whirs back to life as it tries to make heads or tails of the situation in front of him, as though it was a case.

Because he suspects that your good news is that you have a date—someone you’ve seen face to face and has swept you off your feet. A person who will take you away from him because he can’t offer you that.

Plus, you don’t even know him.

Not really.

He’s just this person you text.

This person he feels…

well fuck. The good news best be the best news ever I think it is. Don’t tease me, querida Says you, baby.

Baby?

It takes him a second.

The four letters blowing all the conjured theories well and truly out of the water.

His eyes trace over the letters, even after he’s sent the reply. Javi’s heart suddenly in his throat, pulse in his ear—the blood banging around.

Shut up. Anyway I can’t call you because I’ll be on an early flight in the morning to Houston. Work needs me to check out some odd sales. You’ll be in Texas? Yeah. So the good news is, if you meant what you said, we could meet in person.

He swallows, spine straightening—posture suddenly pristine, making the muscles in his back ache from the day as they flex and tighten under his shirt.

You want to meet him.

Or he thinks.

Not wanting to read between the lines—needing the confirmation, to hear you say it. His shirt begins to cling to his back, hair falling over his forehead as sweat grows, strands of hair being grasped against his skin.

You want to meet me? Of course, I’m the one suggesting it. But if you don’t, that’s fine. I mean, I’ll begin judging how lonely you actually are if you don’t. But it’s fine.

His thumbs aren’t quick enough.

Each text firing in—and he wishes, more than he usually does, that he could be there with you. Clutch your cheek, assure you, make you breathe—

baby breathe. I want to meet you, I do But? but nothing

Even if there is.

There seems like there’s a but

Javi doesn’t mean to, but he laughs.

Somehow, miles away—you can already read him. Know him. His thumb massaging his nose, wrist hiding his smile from the world.

I’m nervous about the fact you could see me and never want to speak to me again You think I’m that shallow? No. It’s just you’ve been the best thing about my day in a long, long time, querida Call me. it’s late isn’t it Javi.

He moves, the chair he had been on almost toppling over as he opens the storm door and then the next. Moving into the kitchen, not even needing to pull your number up. He knows it.

It’s burned into him.

The receiver meets his ear as you answer in record time as your voice greets his ears. Followed by a sigh when he greets you in a low-whisper.

“Javi, I feel the same.”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

Silence greets him before you do a soft laugh. That little one he’s begun noticing you do when you later tell him you’ve just nodded or shrugged—forgetting he can’t see down the phone.

“I wanted you to call so you could hear it. That I want to meet you because I can’t stop thinking about you. And that might be insane, and odd. But… I like you. I feel things.”

“I know,” he says, pressing his forehead against the wall—eyes closing, hand tightening around the phone. “I like you, too.”

Javi hears it. The discernible way you relax.

It comes across in the way you take a breath, in the way he suddenly feels his own shoulders slide from his ears.

“But if it’s too soon, I can use some time off—“

“No, cariño. No. I… I want to. I’ll be there.”

You swallow—loud in the silence. Almost clunky. “I’m scared too.”

Opening his eyes, he stares at the peeling paint. Something running over him, from his head to his feet. It whispers to relax, to breathe—allowing him fully to do both.

“You could… I don’t know, see me and find I don’t match the image of me you’ve created. Or, find me horribly boring. Or that I’m actually the strangest person. It’s scary. I’m scared too.”

He nods, smiling to himself. “I’ll pick you up from the airport.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Baby.” It silences you, and the thought makes him smile. “I’ll pick you up from the airport, okay?”

It takes a beat.

A full ten seconds.

“We’re going to meet,” you say softly, almost wistfully.

And it cracks then, a smile. A real one. His usual one. Turning on the spot, pressing his back against the wall, head meeting it as he lets the grin spread into his cheeks, almost to his eyes if his thumb and finger didn’t begin rubbing them.

“We’re gonna meet,” he replies.

Opening his eyes, seeing the noticeable flicker of the television—its shimmering light flittering through the doorway, illuminating his pop, who is standing smiling at him.

AN: remember, if you wish to see the deleted 18+ scene for the birthday bash, be sure to check back on 8th of July, otherwise see you next Tuesday

next ->

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cillianhead · 3 months

Text

Neil Lewis is a slut <3<3<3<3<3

18+ MINORS DNI || blurb about neil lewis (watching the detectives (cillian murphy)) SMUT (ADULT CONTENT)

"Please just fucking touch me..." Neil groans impatiently, pushing his hips up into the air, pushing his hard cock into the palm of your hand. His cheeks are flushed red as you sit there and smirk at how hot and bothered he is from simply just sitting next to you. He's huffing out like a spoiled brat, he hates it when you tease him like this. "Please... need you to suck my cock so bad..."

"Neil..." You giggle, fingers slipping down his bare chest and over his tummy to slip under the waistband of his shorts. He was rock hard and the feeling of your hand on him was already pushing him over the edge a little. "You're so pathetic." And he'd whine and shale his head but grow harder at your words. And then his eyes would bulge and his lips trembled open as your fingers teased the head of his cock, smearing the leaking precum he had now ruined his shorts with. "Fuck..." He gasped.

"Good boy..." Stroking his cock while he grips the couch, erratically bucking his hips up into your palm as you fisted him nice and fast, using his precum-like lotion for his sweet sweet cock. He'd just lay there and take it, malleable to your touch and you could do whatever you pleased to him as long as it's you who's doing it. Loyal to all ends, madly in love, and so desperately turned on.

"I..." Neil stammered. "I... I'm really fuckin' close... fuck... honey... please..."

"Close already?" You giggled, running the tip of your nose down his stretched-out neck and tantalizingly running your tongue along his throat. "Baby... that's it cum in the palm of my hand..." Smug with the fact you had him like this. Weak.

You grabbed his waistband with your other hand to pull it down, despite the dim lighting of his living room right now since your movie had just ended. He had been rockhard this whole time and you sat there the whole time knowing. Neil's pretty cock popped out with the glory of the sight of your hand jerking him off like his body was yours. You knew him like the back of your hand.

Neil melted in the couch and gasped for air, loving the way you grabbed at his hips and sat on one of his trembling knees. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, lips purred with moans echoing out of his lungs. "Y/Nnnn...." Neil moans pathetically like a pretty boy would. You were using him... playing with him and it was all for your own pleasure as well as his of course. Neil was a sight to see when he got like this. When he was vulnerable and when he was with you. "F-Fuck... gonna cum... baby... gonna cum..."

"Go on, make a mess for me..." You bit your lip as your ground your naked cunt down on his hairy strong thigh. The shaking helped with the pleasure. His dick twitched and his cum shot out and leaked around his cock, covering his entire lower stomach and your hand as you continued to milk him for what's left. His mind went blank at that, truly just a dumb fuck toy. He whines and he sputters out pleas as his eyes roll into the back of his head. You'd gasp at how much there was and how his stomach tensed up, pushing out his chest as he cums.

And you'd force him to lick your hand clean once you gave him a break and he suck on each of your fingers with those tired and sad-pale-blue eyes that were so lustful. And once your hand was clean you'd get down on your knees and lick at his stomach, listening to the way Neil's breath hitches every time you run your tongue flat up his thigh and on his stomach.

"Please... suck me off..." Neil whined, arching his hips back up in the air again. "Y/N...." His cock was hard again, ready for your mouth, he just couldn't help it. Not when you were doing this, and looking at him like that. "I think I've got something better for you..." You mumbled as you kissed up his chest and then captured his mouth in a wet kiss. "Don't you wanna be inside me, baby?" You asked, giving him bedroom eyes as you straddled his hips and grabbed at his cock to rub your sticky folds on back and forth.

It's like his brain gets rewired at the contact of your pussy and he whines louder at the feeling of you rubbing your clit back and forth on his tip... if you only just moved an inch or so lower.... "Need to be inside you, sweetheart... baby..." He pressed his face close to yours, trying to kiss you again. "Fuck me... please... fuck me... please..."

Sinking down on his cock was the best decision you ever made as he held your waist tightly as if he were afraid to let go of you. Neil pressed his flustered face into your neck as he whispered tiny 'thank you's to you. You were too speechless to function as you settled down fully with his dick deep inside you, truly up in your guts.

You were all bark and no bite. You loved teasing Neil and bossing him around but once his cock was inside you, you were too drunk to function. Dumb and full. Neil felt like he could cum again as he held you in place, breath heavy at how fucking tight and wet you were.

"Y/N..." Neil whispered breathily into your neck, mindlessly beginning to rock your hips with his hands... back and forth.... back and forth... over and over again. You shared your breathlessness. You both didn't know how to speak. So as you relearned how to speak together... the same three words were said first.

"I love you." Said in perfect unison, riding him until you both were covered in sweat and cum.

======

:) just a little thing for our boyfriend Neil Lewis idk hope u enjoyed (THIS IS UNEDITED SO IM SO SORRY FOR ANY MISTAKES)

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #neil lewis #neil lewis x reader #neil lewis smut #watching the detectives

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inkdrinkerworld · 10 months

Text

rattled - javier peña

cw: smut, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, oral, fingering, edging, kinda mean!javi, 18+ONLLY MDNI

If Javi didn’t want to be pissed off, he shouldn’t have made it so easy for you to do so.

Even before you were together, Javi got riled when it came to you at the drop of a hat.

An agent spoke with you and put his hand on your arm? Javi was seeing red.

You having to flirt with some of the narcotraficantes you were trying to catch? Javi was almost blue in the face as Murphy held him back from rushing in.

It was too easy and you had fun pissing him off.

Now that you were together, if you only said, “Peña” rather than, “Papí” or “Javi” if you were at work, Javier was pissed and on edge all day.

So this morning, when he woke up already stressed- just like the rest of you were- you figured why not poke around him just enough that he finds a way to relieve stress in ways you both enjoyed.

It started with leaving just barely any coffee in the pot at home.

“Amor, de verdad?” you shrug, as you finish off yours and pass him the empty cup.

“Use my mug.”

You took the last cold water from the fridge and didn’t even drink it, no. You used it to cool the back of your neck after a raid gone wrong.

“Baby, you’re pushing your luck now.”

Then, you’d chosen midday to put on a skirt, the Colombian summer heat finally getting to you.

“Javier Peña, stop looking at me like a gazelle.”

The skirt was made of a light cotton, one that Javi had picked out when you had just started dating. The moment he saw you in it he was on to you- but he let you play your game.

He only shakes his head, a look that’s easy enough for you to decipher on his face.

You’re talking to Murphy when he interrupts and makes a quiet comment about bending you over and to fuck with him you murmur,

“Javier, escuchame. Cállate, por favor.”

Your tone is playful but there’s a seriousness to it that makes Javi lean into you.

His lips brushing your ear, breath warm as it hits the back of your neck making you shiver.

It’s almost like Steve disappears in thin air because he’s not there when Javier whispers in your ear.

“Amor,” his hand holds the small of your back and you can’t help but lean into him. “Cuidate, you’ll get yourself in trouble with that mouth.”

The words fly out of you with ease, “Who am I gonna be in trouble with Peña?”

He shakes his head and leans in to whisper, “Yo amor, con yo.”

He shouldn’t have said a thing because for the rest of the day, you ramp up how much you tease him.

By the end of the day, Javier is hard, tired and pissed off to the extreme with you.

You’re having a cup of coffee at your desk when he comes from the bathroom, eyes dark with lust as he spots your crossed legs and red heels.

“Amor, baño ahora.”

“Qué?” You know exactly why he wants you in there, but what’s a few more buttons to push?

He stoops down, knees bent and hands holding onto your thigh, “Bathroom now, baby. Don’t make me say it again.”

Javier really knows exactly what to say to bring out the best in you.

“De qué, papí? De qué.”

You’re lucky Murphy isn’t in the ‘office’ when Javier slams your cup on the desk and all but hauls you off to the bathroom.

“De qué, amorcita?” Javi flicks the lock with ease, pressing your body against the door in one motion. “You spent all day being a little fucking brat. You know that?”

You grin, red lips spreading into a smirk that Javier wants to ruin so bad.

“A brat, Javi?” you play with the collar of his shirt and he chuckles at the way your eyes widen and shine innocently.

“Yeah baby, a brat. But, good news for you, I know how to take care of brats.”

If Javi was going to take easy on you then, you spoiled it when you asked,

“Promise?”

Javi doesn’t waste time, your pants are pulled down and he groans, forehead touching your belly when he sees your red underwear.

“Baby,” you don’t get much more softness from him after that, and a kiss to your stomach before he rips your panties away.

“Hola, bonita.” he whispers before brushing his nose against your clit, making you gasp.

Javier should be giving out lessons to men on how to eat pussy.

There’s something incredibly intimate and carnal about the way he does it. His hands push your thighs apart, hooking one on his shoulder and pressing the other into the door.

His mouth kisses, licks and sucks at your core, your whines only encouraging him further.

“Javi,” you cry when his lips wrap around your clit. He’s unrelenting in his ministrations and when his fingers prod at your entrance before sinking into you, you swear your soul transcends.

It’s something special to have Javi play with your body like this. To have him know every single one of your spots that gets your eyes rolled back and your head swimming with thoughts of just him as he guides you to an orgasm.

It crests quickly as Javi hits that one spot and you have to bite on your fist to muffle the scream that threatens to climb from your throat but it never comes.

Neither do you.

Javier pulls away at the very last second and you whine, trying to force his head back onto you until he bites at your thigh.

“No amor, ha iniciado esto.”

God you’ve never wanted to stomp your foot more than now.

You’re about to when he slaps your cunt making you gasp.

“Para, quiero a mi niña buena.” he says it so softly you would think he isn’t punishing you, but then his fingers slip back into you and crook at just the right angle to have your response dying on your lips.

“Javier Peña, por favor.”

He chuckles at how desperate you sound.

“No.” He says, eyes trained to your face as he fingers you to the brink of another orgasm that gets ripped away.

Your eyebrow and upper lip is pebbled with sweat and as you watch Javi on his knees in front of you, you wonder if you can plead your way out of any more of this torture.

Javier knows you though, and he stands up pulling his pants to his ankles.

“Turn around,” you can have an out here you realise. As Javi waits for you to follow instruction, but you also know if you push just a little more; you’ll get what you both want.

“Do it yourself, Peña.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he grabs your arm, “You can never just do what you’re told can you?”

He turns you around, hand on the back of your head as he presses your face into the door.

“Where’s the fun in that Javi? You remember what that is, sí?”

Javi doesn’t spare you at all, he kicks your legs apart and lines up with your entrance.

“We’ll see how much fun you’re having in a minute, muñeca.”

Your nails scratch at the door as Javi fucks into. He’s so big that the breath you suck in is stuck in your throat.

When he thrusts again he has to use his other hand to cover your mouth.

Your whines are loud even muffled by his hand but that’s not for lack of trying to be quiet. Javi just knows how to fuck you and he’s taking advantage of that fact.

“Baby, callate.” you don’t have to see to know that your boyfriend is smirking as he fucks you.

“Javi,” it’s garbled and muffled against his palm but he hears you clearly.

“Sí mi amor?” you can’t say what it is you want to because his thrusts turn wicked and brush against that spongy part of you that sends your brain fuzzy. “¿Qué necesitas?”

He’s mocking you, you know it but you can’t fight him when he fucks you like this. Like his life depends on it. Like he’s an addict and you’re the fix.

“¿Te gusta cuando te follo así? ¿Cuándo llegó a este punto?”

You feel your knees tremble as he shifts the angle of his hips to continuously hit your cervix.

Your brain is muddled with the sound of him fucking into you and everything he’s whispering in your ear.

“Javi,” you sob into his palm as his hand moves from the back of your head to your clit. “I’m close.” you beg but Javi has other plans.

“No amor,” he pulls out just before you come again and watches rather proudly as your thighs shake. “Querías ser un mocoso, muñeca. Esto es lo que les sucede a los mocosos, ¿o lo olvidaste?”

He waits till your thighs stop shaking to turn you around. Javi hooks one of your legs around his waist as he lines up with you.

“Maybe if you ask nicely, and show me my good girl, I’ll let you come this time.”

You nod as he pushes back into you, hands clawing at his shoulders. “Javi please,” you whine leaning in to kiss him. “Bésame.”

He shakes his head, “No,” he covers your mouth with his palm for a second time as he fucks into you hard and fast.

You’re sure if he was wearing a thinner shirt there’d be half crescent nail marks in his shoulder where your fingernails are digging into him.

“Eso es amor,” he coos as he watches your pussy suck his cock back into you with every thrust. “You’re remembering.” he teases but you don’t care.

Not when your orgasm is hanging in the balance.

“You close baby?”

He is too, his thrusts are sloppy and you can see his thighs shake a little.

“Sí Javi,” you moan, his hand wrapping around your neck as he pulls you away from the door to fuck your harder. “Fuck fuck! Javi right there.” you cry, holding onto the hand on your neck.

“You gonna be a brat again?” he asks, and you shake your head, trying your hardest not to come before he gives you permission.

“Am I gonna get my good girl after this?” you nod, gasping as it becomes harder and harder to withhold your orgasm.

“Come.” he commands and your body listens, a silent scream as Javi chokes you a little harder.

His orgasm isn’t far behind and as he pumps you full, he buries his face in your neck. His teeth nip and bite at the skin on your neck, hiding his groans from anyone else till he’s spent.

“Bésame.” You breathe harshly and he laughs, tipping your chin up with his thumb before brushing his nose against yours.

“That how you ask?”

“Bésame por favor por el amor de dios Javier Peña.”

He laughs even more before pressing his lips against yours and even though sex is something special with him- the kiss feels like more.

It’s soft and sweet and a little messy but that’s Javi.

“Mejor?” he asks and you nod, setting your shaky legs down.

“Gracias papí.” you laugh as he shows you your tattered underwear. “Javi, this is denim.”

He smacks your ass before pulling up your jeans for you.

“Should’ve been my good girl from the jump.” he kisses your belly before buttoning your jeans. “It’s like a fucking second skin.” he groans and you feel your cheeks heat.

“Feeling better?” he asks and you nod, hooking your arms behind his neck.

“Are you?” Javier nods, kissing you one last time.

“You’re always what I need muñeca, siempre.” He watches you fix your hair in the mirror, already preparing for some kind of quip or smartass comment from you when you smirk at him.

“Need me again when we get outta here.”

He smacks your ass as you walk out, not really caring if anyone sees.

#javierpena #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena x black!reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña drabble #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x black!reader #javier peña smut #javier peña x yn #javier peña imagine #javier peña one shot #javier peña x you #javier peña blurb #javier peña

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mystra-midnight · 6 months

Text

Two Tickets to Paradise

summary: you'd fought and given up, then started fighting again. the lighthouse, which had started as a paradise, was turning into hell, and it was breaking you—slowly tearing away your sanity.

warnings: 18+ only. on the darker side. mentions of alcohol consumption. rough sex. dacryphilia. hints of emotional distress. hints of angst and/or mental anguish.

words: here.

notes: honestly wrote this so surprisingly quickly. murphy's always been one of my favs from the show - the arrogance, the vulnerability, the character development? jesus it just does thinks for me. (i don't think i'd ever say no if you send in thots and imagines for him)

The moment the lighthouse door slammed shut, you should have panicked, but you hadn't been able to find it in yourself to be afraid or even upset. After surviving a trek through a seemingly endless desert, then a boat ride across a seemingly endless ocean, a serpent attack, and a night out in the cold with an injured and angry delinquent, the lighthouse was a welcomed surprise—a perfect paradise.

Not even John—fucking—Murphy, with his toxic tongue and perfect eyes, could ruin your good mood. The two of you had never been particularly close, but you got along well enough that the shared space wasn't uncomfortable. For the first few days, you gave each other space, choosing to sit on opposite sides of the room and occupy yourselves.

Occasionally, the two of you would watch and rewatch the videotape that explained what caused the apocalypse on Earth. On the tenth day, you both drank yourselves stupid and spent hours sharing secrets, thoughts, and theories. You discovered you both had a mutual distrust of the adults who'd arrived on Earth and taken over as though they hadn't sent one hundred kids to their deaths until eventually passing out.

That became your routine for the next forty-five days. Or maybe it was fifty-four. You didn't know.

You tried to keep count, but the days had started to run together, turning into a blur of drunken moments that hurt to think about. You had screamed and cried. You had clawed at the doors until your nails bled. You'd fought and given up, then started fighting again. The lighthouse, which had started as a paradise, was turning into hell, and it was breaking you—slowly tearing away your sanity.

Murphy was in a similar predicament. Some days he screamed and raged around the room, breaking what he could. Other days, he sat completely still and stared ahead as though he no longer inhabited his own body. Eventually, you turned to each other for comfort and escape. That was how you'd found yourself bent over the arm of the sofa, his cock buried deep in your slick walls.

Murphy was wild and untamed, lost in a frenzy of emotions. His hand was fisted in your hair, pulling hard as he pounded you. The sound of his pelvis hitting your ass was obscene and loud, as were the moans and gasps forced from your lips. He was rough—rougher than you liked, but you still couldn't find it in yourself to care.

The pain and pleasure blended so beautifully together that it left you speechless and dazzled, only able to moan each time he pushed into the satin clutch of your cunt. Before this moment, you'd felt hopeless, utterly so, and at the end of your rope, your sanity had been stretched so thin and buried so deep in your being that you never thought you'd find it again.

Murphy found it.

And now the pain was starting to feel so good. It made you forget about the emptiness that had been eating away at you—the hopelessness, the desperation. You needed him. You needed him to stop your thoughts from racing and to fuck everything from your mind until all that remained was him, his cock, and the pleasure searing in your veins.

He happily obliged as he needed the distraction as much as you did.

Both of you needed to feel something—anything—instead of that all-consuming disparity. Luckily, the familiar warmth of orgasm was starting to course through your veins, leaving your skin sweat-slicked and your voice ragged as Murphy adjusted his angle, somehow driving his cock deeper into your sweet cunt, the tip of his cock hitting that spot that sent you suddenly careening.

“Murphy!” You sounded panicked, like you were breaking, and perhaps you were. He did it again, feeling your walls tighten around him. He was dripping with your slick; the wiry hair at the base of his shaft matted; your own equally as messy from where he pulled and yanked it. He was in a frenzy, chasing the climax snaking through his veins, relishing in the feeling of it coiling tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach until he could hardly breathe, until all he felt was flames licking at his skin.

He was going to break you—maybe kill you—but you didn’t care because the same feelings were consuming you. It was glorious and all-consuming. You started to shake. Your thighs trembled so violently that only the arm of the couch kept you from collapsing.

He didn't notice—or maybe he did and he didn't care; either way, it didn't matter; you didn't mind.

He could use you; you'd let him. He could break you; you'd thank him.

But the moment his cock slipped from your slick walls, you couldn't forgive him. Tears stung in your eyes as you sobbed, the sound welling up from your chest only to be drowned under the sounds of his grunts and groans. Murphy snapped his hips forward, seemingly spurred onward by the tears that rolled down your cheeks in rivers, his pelvis meeting the reddened skin of your ass with a sinful slap, slap, slap.

The moment you needed and wanted with every beat of your heart faded away, your orgasm sleeping through your fingers like waters as you felt thick, ivory rops of come hit your lower back. Murphy tugged hard at your hair, sending pain blossoming through your scalp as he shadowed over you, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You wanted to be angry. You wanted to fight and rage, as you'd done many times already. But the feel of his other hand moving between your legs, his fingers gathering your slick and bringing it to your own lips to taste, melted such thoughts from your brain.

"Not yet," he hissed, pushing two fingers into your mouth, the taste of your own arousal spreading over your tongue. "Not until you're begging."

#john murphy #john murphy smut #john murphy imagine #john murphy blurb #john murphy fanfiction #john murphy x reader #john murphy x you #john x you

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queenshelby · 1 month

Text

An Illicit Affair

Part 23: Stalker

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

One week on...

Several days had passed since your affair with Cillian came to light and it came much to your surprise when, on Friday morning you saw something strange by the side of your block.

For the past four days now, there had been a black Mercedes lurking in the shadows of wherever you went and, if it wasn't for one part of your mind telling you not to be delusional, you thought that you were being followed.

Thinking about how absurd being followed sounded though you almost shook it off as a figment of your imagination or perhaps your guilty conscience exaggerating, but something about all this felt rather odd and even your best friend Enna agreed.

"The car is there again," you pointed out to Lucy as the two of you walked to the hospital together for your shift. " And I swear, it's been there the entire time. I could see it from the window upstairs."

Lucy raised an eyebrow at you, her curiosity piqued. "Are you sure it's the same car?" she asked, skepticism clear in her voice.

"Yes, I'm sure," you replied firmly. "Look, it's right there," you said, gesturing towards the parking lot. "It was parked outside the hospital yesterday too when I finished up my shift and I have seen it before in front of Cillian's unit,"

Lucy glanced over in the direction you were pointing and noticed the black Mercedes parked a few rows over. "Okay, fine. It does seem strange," Lucy conceded reluctantly. "But maybe it's just a coincidence?" she suggested, the doubt evident in her voice.

You shook your head adamantly. "No way, Em. It even parkes in the same spot every day. I'm telling you, someone is watching me."

Lucy gave you a concerned look, her normally bright and cheerful expression replaced with a more somber one. "Have you reported this to the police?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You sighed heavily, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can't really go to the police with this, Em. I mean, what am I going to tell them?" you asked, sighing deeply. "That I have been having an affair with my ex-boyfriend's father and now I suspect that his crazy ass wife might be stalking me?" you said, feeling utterly ridiculous at the mere prospect of uttering such ridiculous and scandalous words out loud. "Oh, and by the way, he is a famous actor too and she almost leaked a sex-tape of us after hiding a camera in his bedroom," you added sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

Lucy nodded understandingly. "Yeah, maybe not the best approach," she admitted. "But have you tried talking to Cillian about it?"

"No, because he already has enough shit to worry about," you told her, thinking about the turmoil that your affair had caused in his life. From the moment that Max had walked in on the two of you, nearly everything had spiraled out of control. Max had was refusing to speak to his father, and Danielle had threatened to ruin his career by leaking the sex-tapes if he didn't end things with you immediately. In the end, Cillian's attorney filed for an emergency injunction to prevent her from leaking the tape whilst, at the same time, serving her with divorce papers.

"I get that Y/N, but his wife is a nutcase. I read the medical files and whilst I do think that you are a little paranoid right now, you should at least talk to him about your concerns, just to err on the side of caution I mean," Lucy implored, her eyes fixed on yours, searching for understanding.

"I know, Em, but I don't even know where we will go from here," you confided, feeling the tight knot in your throat as you spoke. "We aren't in a relationship or anything and I feel like I need to give him some space right now. I don't want to burden him with my paranoia," you added, the words heavy with resignation.

Lucy nodded sympathetically, her heart going out to you in this moment. She knew how much you cared for Cillian, but she also knew the impact of the situation and the weight of the decisions that now lay before you both.

"I know Y/N, but you are still sleeping with him, are you not?" Lucy asked, concern clouding her features as she looked over at you. "Because his ex could have gotten wind of it and do something stupid now," Lucy worried.

"Yes, we slept with each other once since the incident at his house. He's been in Ireland mostly," you admitted, your voice barely audible. Emotion clogged your throat as you recalled the tenderness in Cillian's touch, the gentle brush of his lips on yours that had made you feel wanted and desired despite the turmoil in your lives. But that one time together had only added fuel to the wildfire of passion that could not be contained anymore. In spite of the chaos, you couldn't resist the temptation, and neither could he.

"And what did his lawyer say? Didn't he make it clear that you should keep your distance from each other at least until the separation hearing was over?" Lucy asked, another wave of concern sweeping over her.

"He did, I know. But we were careful. We met at a hotel, not his apartment," you explained, sighing deeply as you reflected on the intense, passionate encounter. "Cillian was upset and asked if he could see me. I could hear it in his voice that he was struggling so I said yes," you admitted with a shrug, your tone nonchalant and yet, cracking with emotion, evidence that you were still reeling from the gravity of the situation.

Lucy shifted her weight towards you. She hadn't seen you this distraught since your father's death and witnessing your heartbreak now made her feel helpless and frustrated.

"Okay, let me ask you something, Y/N," Lucy stated, searching deep into your eyes as she chose her words carefully. "Do you truly love him? I mean, enough to deal with all this drama and keep seeing him despite the potential backlash to your career if this comes out?" Lucy's voice was soft and sincere, her gaze steady on yours.

You let out a pained sigh, your shoulders slumping with the weight of the question. "I don't know, Em. All I know is that I've never felt this way before, and I can't seem to shake him off. Not that I even want to. I just wish things were different, you know? That we had met under other circumstances, which wouldn't make it so bad," you sighed, your voice trembling as you spoke the words.

"I will always have your back Y/N, but just think about it for a minute," she began, her tone gentle yet firm. "Cillian is over twenty years older than you. His family dynamics are a mess, and he is your ex-boyfriend's father nonetheless which means that, if it was to come out - and it will come out eventually - then the press will have a field day with it. Your life and career will be covered in headlines that will ruin everything you've worked for thus far," Lucy warned, and she was right.

But you struggled to push Cillian out of your mind. He was charming, experienced, passionate, and so unlike Max. The attraction was instant and undeniable.

"I know that, Lucy. I know that it is reckless, but he makes me feel things I can't even describe. He is not just a fling, not just a temporary high, but someone who understands me, someone who fills in the spaces that no one else ever could," you confessed while walking side by side with Lucy, the hospital already in sight.

Lucy nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Then you need to protect yourself and be prepared for whatever comes next," she advised, as she touched your arm comfortingly. "That includes talking with Cillian about your potential stalker," she told you and, just as you approached the hospital entrance, the black Mercedes pulled up as well.

"This is ridiculous. I am going to confront this woman," you declared, breaking away from Lucy to stride towards the parked car but Lucy stopped you.

"No, you won't! It could make things worse," Lucy warned, grabbing your arm to stop you.

You paused, considering her words. "You have a point," you said, taking a deep breath.

"Talk to Cillian about it and let him deal with his crazy ass wife," Lucy told you. She knew how dangerous Danielle could be as well after having read her medical files and knowing about the threats she had made against you and Cillian.

"I will talk to him tonight," you assured Lucy, making up your mind but, just as you walked into the hospital's reception area, you were met with yet another surprise as Max was standing there, seemingly waiting for you.

"Max!" you exclaimed, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach as you saw the cold, hard look in his eyes. "What are you doing here?" you wanted to know, hoping that he wouldn't make a scene as, seemingly, he appeared somewhat intoxicated.

Max simply stared at you for a moment, his blue eyes full of anger and hurt before he blurted out something rather inappropriate to upset you.

"You are such a fucking home wrecker, you know that?" Max spat bitterly, with a drunken slur, causing you to wince at his unforgivable choice of words. "My father is divorcing my mother because of you!" Max snapped, jabbing a finger at you as his anger started to boil over.

"Max, please! Not here!" you told him sternly, looking around at the people in the hospital lobby who were casting curious glances your way. "Let's go somewhere private and talk."

"Oh, of course," he chuckled drunkenly. "You don't want anyone else to hear that you fucked my fucking father," he snarled, the hurt and anger in his voice palpable.

People around you had started to stare as Max's voice had risen. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the discomfort and shame building up in the pit of your stomach.

"Come with me. Now," you hissed firmly under your breath, gripping tight onto Max's forearm as you dragged him away from the prying eyes in the hospital lobby, his words stinging your heart with an unbearable pain.

You had never intended for such chaos to unfurl when you became entangled with Cillian, knowing fully that your actions carried the potential for significant collateral damage. But yet, here you were—plunged into murky waters, powerless to stem the tide of destruction.

In a small consultancy room, a few corners away from the main lobby, you closed the door behind you and spun around to face Max, whom you hadn't seen since the disastrous confrontation in Cillian's apartment.

"Max, listen to me," you began, your voice low and soothing as you tried to reason with him. "I never meant for any of this to happen. Your father and I—we never planned for any of this. We just connected and one thing led to another," you continued before Max interrupted you.

"You slept with my father! Do you know how fucked up that is?" Max said, his words slurring together. "Is that like a thing you are into? Some kind of fetish?" Max sneered, his dark eyes flashing angrily at your words. "Or did you sleep with him because he is famous? Is that it?" Max went on, unable to contain his disgust. " What the hell is wrong with you, Y/N?" Max demanded, his voice shaking with emotion.

You swallowed hard, the lump forming in your throat as you struggled to find the right words to defend yourself but nothing came out.

"This is so disgusting," Max muttered, his anger slowly giving way to sadness as he slumped down into one of the faded leather consulting chairs, staring blankly ahead as he tried to process the turn of events. "God, we used to date and now you are sleeping with my dad. How low can you get?"

You took in a sharp breath at his words, trying to find purchase in the face of his bitterness yet being unable to deny the devastating truth behind it. You couldn't explain to him the intimacy and the connection you shared with Cillian—things that went beyond sex. Things that Max was not privy to. Things that you had never experienced in your previous relationships either.

So, you decided not to divulge too much at that moment.

Instead, you opted to stand there, silent for a while, allowing Max to gather his thoughts. The atmosphere in the room had grown thick and heavy.

Finally, you took a deep breath. "You have every right to feel angry, betrayed, and confused," you began to explain. "I can assure you that what happened between your father and me was never intended. It just... well, it happened and I, uhm, I am in love with him," you admitted softly. You buried your gaze into the carpeted floor, the weight of your guilt and embarrassment making it difficult for you to face him. You could feel the temperature in the room drop significantly, as if it shares the same discomfort he felt.

"Are you fucking serious?" Max suddenly exploded, jumping up from his chair in disbelief and shock. "He's nearly twenty years older than you, for Christ's sake!" he was almost shouting now, his words reverberating off the walls of the small room, causing you to jump in your seat. "Fuck, I know," he then said, chuckling. "You have daddy issues," he asserted before explaining himself. "Your father died and now you are fucking mine. It's like a sick fucking fantasy coming to life, isn't it?" Max said, a mixture of bitterness and disgust in his voice.

You couldn't help but feel as though he had slapped you across the face. The words he had just spoken to you were beyond cruel, and they cut you like a knife. Your whole body trembled with shock and anger, your hands shaking like a leaf.

Standing up to confront you some more, Max approached you. "So, tell me Y/N, seriously, how does it feel to have someone old enough to be your father between your legs? Does it give you a twisted sense of pleasure or fulfillment? Because, Jesus, that is some seriously twisted stuff you have going on there in your head," Max went on. "It's a shame your own father couldn't fulfill those fantasies for you before he died and you had to go after mine instead," he then added with a sarcastic snicker, the cruelty in his voice visibly increasing and, by this point, you couldn't take it anymore and lashed out and slapped him right across the cheek.

"Enough!" you said with great emotion in your voice at the mentioning of your father.

Max had struck a nerve with his insensitive and derogatory words ad you stared at him in disbelief. His cheek was now flushed red from the force of your slap and, for a moment, neither of you spoke, caught up in the stunned silence that hung in the air.

"I never intended to hurt you or your family, Max. I deeply regret what has happened and I am truly sorry for the pain I have caused," you told him, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks.

"Save it Y/N! Just know that you ruined not only mine, but also my mother's life," Max spat bitterly, his words cutting you deeply as he turned around and stormed out the room.

Hot, angry tears trailed down your cheeks as you watched him leave, your heart heavy with guilt, regret, and sadness and when Lucy came to check on you, she found you slumped over the cold steel of the examination table in the consultancy room, your body trembling with sobs, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

You didn't need to tell her what happened, Lucy could read you like an open book. She took you into her arms and held you close as you cried for the hurt you had inflicted and the relationship that could never be salvaged.

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#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy fanfiction

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tieronecrush · 11 months

Note

Hello! Love your work! Can I get a Javier Pena story where this song is the inspo: https://m.soundcloud.com/user-265940464-259651895/i-miss-u ? Basically Y/N is upset because she thinks Javi is cheating on her because he’s being distant but he’s actually just really stressed out? Can there be lots of fluff :) thank you btw!

thank you so much for your lovely compliment and for sending in this request!!! javi p is my husband so i loveeee love love writing for him!! hope this lives up to what you imagined!!!

cold hands

javier peña x f!reader

rating: M

word count: 2.3k

summary: your boyfriend javi has been distant for the past few weeks; canceling dates, staying late at work, leaving early in the morning, and….lacking intimacy. you can't help but wonder if something is going on, or someone.

warnings: insecurity, distant relationship, thoughts about infidelity, past infidelity, established relationship, pet names, it's javi so he's obviously going to allude to sexy times, very poor highschool level spanish please educate me

“Hey, baby! You leaving the embassy now?” You ran across your kitchen to pick up the landline on the second ring, abandoning the dinner cooking on the stove in hopes that it was your boyfriend. When his deep voice on the other end confirmed it, a smile crossed your face and was evident in the excitement in your tone.

A slow sigh comes from the other end, your heart immediately sinking in your chest. You knew what was about to come next. It wasn’t the first time this has happened in the past few weeks. It wasn’t even the first time it has happened this week.

“I’m sorry, cielto. I can’t make it tonight, Messina has Murphy and me pursuing a lead that has to happen tonight…”

These phone calls with Javi have become routine at this point. Always when he’s supposed to come and spend the night or is supposed to pick you up to come to his place; he’s canceled dates and has been leaving early in the mornings to go to work when you two do get to spend the night with each other.

Always something along the lines of “Messina ordered us”, “This has to happen tonight”, or “They need us to go to Medellín”. There was one time two weeks ago when all three of those reasons were used in the same sentence.

“It’s alright, Javi. See you tomorrow night, maybe?”

“I will come by right after I get off work tomorrow to pick you up and bring you over to my place. Lo prometo, mi amor. Estaré ahí para ti. (I promise, my love. I will be there for you).”

That is when you can’t take it anymore. The promise breaks your heart because you know he can’t keep it, that he probably won’t keep it. Tears fall down your cheeks as you bite your lip to stay quiet, all of your hard work ruined when you sniffle without thinking about it.

Javi’s heard the noise and knows that you must be crying, the image of you alone and upset breaking his heart. He shifts to turn to lean against his desk, prepared to stand there and comfort you until you feel better.

Except, the next second, Murphy is standing right next to him with an impatient look on his face. He’s tapping his foot and rushing him along with his hands, gesturing to his watch and then to the door.

Javi’s chest constricts as he listens to your soft sniffles crack over the line, another sigh falling from his lips.

That second sigh sounds much more frustrated. He must be annoyed that you’re this upset over him canceling, probably wondering why you can’t understand that this is his job. He can’t just say no and head out for the night, it’s not a regular nine-to-five.

As you open your mouth to apologize to him and deescalate any annoyance from him, his voice muffles in a whisper over the phone.

“I’m sorry, cielto. I gotta go. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Okay —” is all you can get out before the line cuts dead and the dial tone sounds. You hang the phone on the wall again, freely letting out your cries now that you’re alone again.

It wasn’t always like this. Javi has been an attentive partner since you met him; at first, the two of you casually hooked up, a boot call here or there. But eventually, you or he would stay the night which evolved into making breakfast together before work, and then became the two of you spending nights together simply hanging out with nothing else happening. Finally, after a few months of that, Javi insisted and asked, multiple times, to take you on a “real date, with dinner and drinks or the movies or whatever” (his words). You’d quickly agreed after his ramble, and since that night he asked you for a date, the two of you have been together for just under a year. It’d be closer to a year and a half if you count those months spent hooking up before.

If you had been asked two months ago if the two of you were happy, you would say yes without hesitation. These days, you weren’t so sure that Javi was entirely in it anymore.

He’s been distant, the phone calls and cancellations are major evidence that something is going on. But even when the two of you are together, he falls asleep without so much as a kiss for you, sits on the other end of the couch staring into space while you watch TV, has even jumped away from you touching his shoulder when you stood next to him in your kitchen.

The behavior is all too familiar. You can’t help but connect the dots as you did with your ex — the one you were with for a few years before Javi. He had cheated on you. Avoided you for months by canceling last minute or coming up with excuses about work or family stuff. Didn’t have sex with you, kiss you, or even hold your hand when you were together.

Javi has given you absolutely no reason for you not to trust him. Sure, you’d heard all about his previous reputation from Steve and even from Javi himself, but as far as you know, ever since the two of you had been hooking up, he hasn’t been with anyone else. A devoted, doting boyfriend. Until he became distant.

Insecurity started to fester in the space he created between the two of you. Your past influences your brain to start mulling over if this distance is to make a break up with you easier, or if maybe he’s found someone else, maybe he’s already with that someone else.

The thought seems ludicrous to part of you, but that tiny sliver of doubt is the loudest tonight.

You haven’t talked to him about how these past few weeks have been strange and cold. The thought of saying something, of confronting him, and making it all worse terrifies you. If he isn’t doing anything wrong, if he’s just going through something, you definitely don’t want to give him a reason to break up with you or to think that you don’t trust him.

The way that he whispered to you over the phone before hanging up sticks out in your mind, and it jumps to the conclusion that he must be around someone that he has to keep a secret from, to keep you a secret from.

It’s irrational, but in your current state, you can’t bring yourself out.

Instead, dinner is chucked in the trash, and the rest of your night is spent cycling between sad, broken tears, angry stewing, and insecure spiraling. Eventually, you exhaust yourself with the constant changes of emotions, falling asleep alone.

You eventually fall asleep and wake up to a hand gently shaking your shoulder. Javi stands over you next to your bed dressed in his short-sleeve button-up and jeans that you saw him get dressed in the previous morning.

“Morning, cielito.”

Half awake, the sight of him coming home in yesterday’s clothes makes tears well in your eyes, and his hand suddenly feels cold against your skin. The only reason you think of him standing there in a day-old outfit is that he must have spent the night with someone else.

His brow furrows with concern as he sees your faint tears falling, his hand moving up to pet your hair, the motion nearly comforting you to the point where you want to forget everything that’s happened and take what he’ll give you, even if there might be someone else.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What’s got you so sad, cariño? Did something happen last night?”

You sniffle and shake your head, swiping your tears away and sitting up in bed quickly.

“Nothing, it’s nothing. Must’ve been a bad dream.”

Javi sits next to you on the edge of the bed, hand moving to your thigh and circling his thumb on it through the faded quilt covering you.

“Cielito, please tell me. We both know that you don’t sleep as peacefully as you were when you have a nightmare. I want to help you, please tell me.”

You pull the covers further over you, covering your mouth and muffling out, “I don’t wanna…Just gonna make things worse…”

Javi looks at you with a faint smile and a chuckle, shaking his head.

“As adorable as you look, mi amor, I can’t hear you like that,” he reaches over and gently pulls the quilt from your hands, laying it down again. He takes one of your hands that have fallen to your lap, intertwining your fingers, “Can you say that again for me? Please?”

His softness is making more tears well, your eyes trained on your hands as you let out a shaky exhale, voice meek.

“Are you…Do you still wanna be with me?”

Your gaze flicks up to Javi’s face and his thumb stops brushing against your hand. Thick brows knit together, confusion and hurt mixing in his wide eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak once and then twice, finally holding your hand tighter and matching your volume.

“Of course, I do, cariño. Why would you think I don’t want that? Have I done something to make you feel like that?”

“It’s just — You’ve been so distant the past few weeks. Canceling dates, or telling me you can’t come over, or staying late and leaving early for work. I don’t want you to be upset, but it, um, it's made me feel like maybe you wanna break up or maybe…you’ve found someone else. It’s the same thing that my ex did, and I know you’re not him but my brain just can’t shut up about what it all makes me feel or-or think about.”

“Someone else? Mi amor, you are all I want. I love you. Solo seras tu por el resto de mi vida (It will only be you for the rest of my life),” he peels the covers back from your legs and stands, nudging you over to sit on the bed. His forearm muscles flex as he pulls you across his lap, arms circling around your waist and hand running fingertips up and down your spine methodically.

“There’s been shit after shit piling up at work and Murphy’s been on my ass to stay late and come in early to try to get one step ahead of these sicarios. And then yesterday we got a lead from one of our informants that turned out to be a dead end. I’ve just been stressed, I guess. And not handling it well. I'm sorry…It’s not an excuse for neglecting you, but believe me when I say, all I think about is you. There could never be anyone else ‘cause I can’t shut up about you — you can ask Steve if you don’t believe me, but if we aren’t talking about work, I make one mention of you and he rolls his eyes.”

The thought pulls a subtle smile to your face, hand reaching up to wipe your falling tears. Javi gets there before you, his featherlight touch swiping the moisture away from your cheeks.

“You’ve made me soft, cielito. Lost my reputation as big, bad Agent Peña. Now everyone around the office just says your name and I respond a lot quicker.”

That breaks you, making you laugh genuinely and shake your head. A bright grin on your face pulls your cheeks up and glistens the salty water in your eyes, “You’re definitely lying, but it’s a cute story so I will let it slide.”

“I swear to god, I’m not bluffing. Put me in a polygraph, I’ll pass with flying colors.”

“Oh no, I believe the part about you responding faster to my name and being soft. I don’t believe that anyone at work ever thought of you as ‘big, bad Agent Peña’.”

Your smile slides into an impish grin, Javi’s mouth dropping open and eyes widening in offense. It doesn’t last for long, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth up as he listens to you laugh at his expense. Affection floods his eyes and he looks at you tenderly, leaning in to press a sweet but supple kiss to your lips. His wide smile is still evident on his face when he pulls away, his sincere tone resonating in your chest.

“I missed you, cielto. I miss you every damn day when I go to work and have to come home alone…” his eyes flash with an idea, a definitive request following, “Move in with me. Solves the problem of you needing a new place and I can come home to my beautiful girlfriend every night. What do you say, mi amor?”

“I say, you better be a good roommate.”

Javier wiggles his eyebrows as he leans for a kiss, words coated in his signature charm, “I definitely will be. Gonna be the best you ever had, in more ways than one. Don’t think our neighbors are gonna like us, though. Voy a tenerte gritando mi nombre todas las noches (I’m going to have you screaming my name every night).”

The phrase takes a second to translate in your head, mouth falling open in a gasp and a playful smack hitting his shoulder.

“Don’t make the neighbors hate me!”

A smug grin crosses his face as he moves to lay you down on the bed, crawling over you between your spread legs.“I think you’ll be saying something much different after the first night you’re living with me, mi amor. Estarás rogando por más (You’ll be begging for more).”

Your eyes start to roll and Javi presses his lips to yours in a slow, passionate kiss. He lifts his head away from you, adoration in his eyes.

"Te amo, mi cielito. Seré tuyo para siempre si me tienes (I love you, my heaven. I'll be yours forever if you'll have me)."

tagging some peeps from my other javi fic!

taglist: @swiftispunk @pedrit0-pascalit0 @lil-stark @joelsversion @mrsvedder12 @starsandsaints07 @wild-fauxed @rubyshouse @notes-from-my-journal @mi-place @killervirgosworld @paytonispunk @jakecockley @hydrangaces @jupitercorgi @nic0lodean @creedslove @westeros-needs-me @ikigailereve @the-casual-cat @marysucks-blog @midnightswithdearkatytspb @luamarieta @kaletastrophes @nasanatmfers @storyarcscribe @asirenbyanyothername @frustratedpanda @dieterbravo @theelishad @pascalislove @bigbutchenergee @starkovli @scrambledslut @atinylittlepain @beskarandblasters @johnwatsn @thetriumphantpanda

#javier #javier peña #javier pena #javi p #javier peña fanfic #javier peña angst #javier peña fic #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x you #javier peña x female reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier pena x female reader #javier pena x you #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena fluff #javier pena angst

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