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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

4K notes · View notes

sorrowfulrosebud · 1 year

Note

Hi! I have a request.

Okay so 1-A bakugou end’s up to the future. Where he sees that he has a family with reader and sees what a simp he will become🫣

And how would future bakugou and reader (+ the kids) react to meeting him.

(You can choose if past bakugou knows reader or not)

I’m sorry if it’s confusing,

It was safe to say that Katsuki was beyond pissed. He was certain that at this point he was never going to fully get your attention, not with that damned Todoroki always swooping in before he can even look your way.

==================================

The cacophony of grunts from the students plundered against the walls of Gym Gamma. It was self-improvement day and Aizawa was NOT letting anyone rest.

“Keep it up class. Those who fail to break some sort of barrier today will receive double homework for a week. I’m looking at you, Kaminari,” Aizawa grinned evilly. You let out a giggle at Kaminari’s audible gulp before Aizawa shot you a glare.

Katsuki was busy increasing the flow of his AP shot; he thought that if he could increase his sweat, he could increase the speed of which the blasts sped out. The poor rock he was blasting was finally on its last legs, all before that IDIOT Kaminari accidentally bumped into him and caused a rockslide, directly above the platform that you were training on.

“Hey, watch!-” he yelled in a panic. He saw fear flash through your eyes as he willed his body to move. Thankfully for you and begrudgingly for him, a smooth glacier of ice barricaded you from being concussed with Bakugou’s debris.

Todoroki hopped his way from his platform to you and placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Are you alright? You aren’t hurt are you?” Todoroki asked, examining your head for injuries. You shook him off you with a nervous smile.

“Thank you for stopping the debris Todo, but I’m fine. It was shock, I’m not hurt,” you reassured him gently. Todoroki gave you another once over before seeing where the damage came had arrived from.

“I would recommend being more careful next time, Bakugou. Someone could have gotten really hurt,” Todoroki gave him a meaningful glare as Katsuki fought every vein pop in his neck at his implications. Kaminari let out a guffaw, before he let out a squeak of terror at the animalistic look on Katsuki’s face.

“Laugh. Again. I. Freakin’. Dare. You,” he strained angrily through gritted teeth.

“O-okay Kaachan!” Kaminari speedily ran away from the threat as Katsuki stared at the back of your head. Well, now he was in a bad mood.

==================================

Katsuki was the first one in the changing room, and the first one out. He trudged his way to the UA dorms so he could shower and forget the whole day. He couldn’t stand the idea of being teased right now, not when he was so careless to the point that you nearly got concussed. Well, that never would have happened if Dunce Face watched where he was going…

Katsuki was torn from his thoughts as he barged past another student.

“Hey, watch where you’re fucking!-”

And just like that, Katsuki fell to the ground.

==================================

It took Katsuki a long time to start stirring from his sleep. It was a gradual process, but somehow he managed to tear the sleep from his body as he was poked and shaken incessantly by someone. Katsuki jumped up immediately in surprise, throwing a blast at his assailant. His assailant was no match for him though, springing back and using their quirk to restrain him.

Katsuki wiggled in his restraints like a wild animal, snapping and snarling.

“What the hell do you want with me you bastards! Let me the hell go or I’ll fucking kill you!” He snarled with purpose. A soft giggle filled his ears. A familiar giggle.

Soft (S/C) skin filtered through his still blurry vision until he saw… you.

You were at least a good 20 years older, some laughter lines he didn’t remember seeing (not that he definitely doesn’t scan you every time you’re close to him), as well as new scars.

Your eyes had aged too, the bags slightly more prominent but you were still you. You had four small children gathered around the bed gawking at the teen. The smallest was in your lap, seemingly frightened of Katsuki.

“Easy there tiger, you just woke up. I found you in the street asleep, so I took you to a hospital to see if you’re okay,” you offered an explanation that only answered some of his questions.

“Who the damned hell are you?? Why the hell am I here?? Argh, damnit! Let me out of these shitty restraints!” He demanded. Your face hardened in an instant as you glared at him.

“Hey, no fucking swearing in front of my children! If you’re going to talk and ask questions, you need to be respectful. You’re frightening my son with your endless shouts, so what’s your name and we can call your parents to come collect you.”

Katsuki let himself be still for a moment, glowering at you before relaxing his pose.

“My name is Katsuki Bakugou. I was hit by a quirk on my way to the UA’s dorms, I fell asleep I think, and the next thing I know is I’m in a hospital bed surrounded by someone who looks like a classmate of mine,” Katsuki growled. Your face grew a look of puzzlement.

“D-did you say… Katsuki Bakugou? As in, explosion quirk, super goal oriented, current number 2 hero?” You questioned him worriedly.

Katsuki gave you a strange look. How the hell would you know about that stuff??

“I’m only a high school student so I can’t be the number two hero yet, but everything else is true. Look, here’s my quirk,” he said as he let off a few sparks. The small children around the bed looked on in awe at the sight as you chewed your nails.

Katsuki looked back up to you and saw your expression.

“Why?” He asked.

You gulped.

“Because I’m married to Katsuki Bakugou.”

==================================

“Baby, I need you to come to the hospital in Kyoto, it’s an emergency! What? No, me and the kids are fine, we-. Hey, I told you we’re okay, but you have to be here as soon as you can. I’ll send you the details. I love you, see you in a bit.” You hung up the phone with an ashen face as you made your way back to your chair. Your children were bombarding Katsuki with questions, all too weird for Katsuki to answer.

“Papa, why are there two of you?”

“Daddy, why don’t you remember us? Did we do something bad?”

“Dad, why do you look so young? Where are all of your cool scars?”

“Alright kids, give the kid some space. We obviously need to get this fixed somehow. How we’re gonna do that is beyond me though,” you massaged your temples with a sigh. You glanced back up to young Katsuki.

“You’re definitely not a clone or something? Not some sort of fanboy who cosplays in his spare time?” You asked him, half joking.

Katsuki snorted.

“No, I don’t cosplay heroes. I beat them in the hero ranks to show them that I’m the best!” He exclaims.

“God, you even sound like my husband. I’m getting more and more convinced that this is some sort of weird time shift,” you stopped speaking as soon as a muscular figure pulls himself through the door. Katsuki physically stills.

It was him, but older.

At first, older Katsuki didn’t give him a look in. He scrambled over to you, kissing you deeply before checking you over for injuries.

“Where are you hurt?? Are you alright?? Speak to me??” He demanded. You carefully push him off you and rub your thumb on his cheek.

“Sweetie, I told you I’m fine. See, even the quadruplets are fine. We have a major problem though, and I don’t know how we’re going to solve it,” you gestured to younger Katsuki. Older Katsuki glares at younger Katsuki before a look for confusion befalls his face.

Katsuki looked… older. His face was more structured, yet still maintained some of his puppy fat. Scars littered his face, the most noticeable a large triangle that went from the middle of his cheek to the underside of his neck. His hair was shorter too, buzzed at the side. He towered over you easily and his pecs looked even bigger than before. Taunt muscles flexed at the threat to his wife and children.

“Can someone explain what the fuck happened?”

“Katsuki, stop fucking swearing!”

==================================

Until he was back to his current time, you had pleaded with your husband to let him stay. Older Katsuki agreed when his babies started pleading too, chubby cheeks wobbling with unshed tears at the idea of their older daddy throwing out their younger daddy.

And for the last few days, he had lived with you and his (?) children. Older Katsuki was mostly at work when he woke up, and he wouldn’t see him unless he stayed up past his bedtime (he could never compromise his sleep).

He spent some time babysitting your children, the quads. The eldest, Akira, was a total carbon copy of him, apart from his hair texture and colour. He was so bold when facing younger Katsuki, asking him questions and hiding his siblings behind him when they properly met.

The second eldest daughter, Aika, was more like you; shy and reserved but very playful all the same. She was a more balanced mixed of the two of you (?).

Your third daughter, Kokoro, was a pain in his ass. She constantly played tricks on Katsuki, taunting him and making mean jokes (all before she was shut down with your stare).

And finally, your littlest quadruplet Keiko, was honestly kinda his favourite in the strangest way; he was so different to his siblings it was unreal. He was the smallest, most sensitive of the bunch. In a way, he reminded him of Deku when they were kids, but with his colour hair.

The morning of the third day, you sat him down with your children at the breakfast table and grilled him a fry up. Each of your children were giggling happily in their high chairs, scrambled eggs and ketchup smeared around each mouth. Katsuki let out a small smile when Keiko offered him a piece of toast from his plate before denying it with a “no thanks squirt, your ma is making me some”.

“Well, good news! I found the person who you described and asked them how long the quirk should last. You should be back to your own time by next week, maybe even earlier if you’re lucky,” you smiled as you flipped the sizzling bacon in the pan.

Katsuki was scarfing the breakfast like there was no tomorrow, up until you said that he should be home sometime by next week.

That’s good, he thought. I really want to know something though, I might as well take advantage of the situation.

He looked up at you, one burning question on his mind.

“I bet you’re wondering how me and … well, I suppose you got together, huh?” You grinned at him.

“How could you tell that’s what I was thinking?” He demanded. You let out a laugh.

“Katsuki hun, I’ve been married to you, er, him for over 15 years. I know all of your little tricks and tells, so don’t even try hiding them,” you offered more bacon to him. He accepted, before you turned your attention to the kids in their high chairs.

“Let me clean up my mucky little pups up first and we’ll talk after I’ve dropped them off at daycare.”

==================================

It was a pleasant day, Katsuki noted. After dropping off the children at the daycare and added cuddles from the babies, you did as you promised and hurried Katsuki to the couch with a photo book.

“See here, this is a photo I took of us at our first date. You were so nervous, your hand kept popping and you had to keep wiping your hand,” you laughed fondly at the memory. Katsuki peered at the photos with a strange feeling lying in his tummy. Is this why he felt so nervous around younger you all of the time?

“Oh! And here, this was our trip with the class to France! I had said something about the croissants being delicious, and you took that as a challenge. I was eating the croissants you made for days,” you let out another laugh as you recounted tales of your relationship.

Katsuki stared at you for a solid 5 seconds. You stared at him back until his face hardened and he turned himself away. You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Is something the matter hun?” You pried carefully. Damnit, you even knew the right nicknames to make him feel all weak inside.

“Just… why the hell would you go out with someone like me, hah? I’m loud, I’m obnoxious, I can be pretty freakin’ mean, so why? Why would you ever let me have a home with you?! Why would you ever let me grow a family with you?!? Why do you seem so happy, even though there’s a chance I may never come back?!?” He was borderline yelling at the end of his lament, tears threatening to plop onto the pages of the photo album.

You hugged Katsuki tightly, fingers playing with the baby hairs on the nape of his neck, all soft and gentle.

“Katsuki… I have no idea how far you’re into the relationship with younger me, but I’m going to let you in on a secret. I had a crush on you since our first day. I thought you were so strong and handsome, although you had some angst problems. Even after that, I always admired you from afar.

It hasn’t always been easy with you, as I’m sure you’re aware of. You can be loud and mean, and that has caused some rifts in our relationship, but,” you lifted his head up and cleared some tears.

“You’re also dedicated. You found ways to make up for your mistakes, and I always forgave you for them. I wanted a family with you because I love you, er, older Katsuki. We’re so blessed to have the quadruplets, even if they’re little pains sometimes. And yeah, there isn’t a day that goes by when I’m not panicked beyond all belief when you’re at work, but I wouldn’t stop you because it’s your dream.”

Katsuki looked at you. Your eyes held nothing but sincerity as he smoothed his breathing.

“Now come on, let’s go make some spicy noodles. My husband will be back soon.”

==================================

Katsuki helped you diligently in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with renewed vigour. Older Katsuki trudged through the door with a loud grunt, you immediately dropping the pan on the hob to give him a welcome home hug.

“Welcome back baby, how was work? It was nice that Kiri offered to cover your shift,” you rambled happily into his neck. Katsuki let out a barking laugh at your clinginess as he picked you up and kissed you, making you squeal in surprise.

Younger Katsuki stared at your display; is this how you’re going to be in the future? Allowing him to kiss your neck when he comes home from work, cooking his favourite meals, keeping your home in tact?

“Oi, quit starin at my wife you pervert,” older Katsuki barked before you slapped his chest playfully.

“Leave him be, he’s literally you, you big dumb dumb. I’ve been letting him in on some of our dates and stuff so he can seduce younger me into wanting you,” you teased. Both Katsuki’s huffed simultaneously, earning a laugh from you. You wriggled yourself out of his grip and led him to the dining room where the meal you and younger Katsuki created.

You kissed his cheek as you went to fetch him a drink, leaving both Katsuki’s by themselves.

Older Katsuki stared menacingly at his younger self before clearing his throat.

“Listen brat, we need to fuckin’ talk,” he starts, rearranging himself on the chair and nudging the other chair adjacent to him. Younger Katsuki did so with hesitation.

“I’m fuckin’ tellin’ ya now, if you do anything that wrecks what I have now, I’m gonna come back in time to kick your ass,” he growls lowly.

“I love that damned woman more than anything in this godforesaken planet, as well as my little pack of brats. I would do anything for them, and I’ll be damned if you do anything that fucks that up for me,” he glares at him. Younger Katsuki slowly put two and two together and looked pointedly at the scar on his cheek. Older Katsuki knew where he was looking immediately.

“I, we, got this scar during a villain attack. (Y/N) took the brats to the park after a stupid fucking fight we had, and a villain attacked them out of nowhere. Luckily, I was patrolling there and stopped them from hurting them, so I took the blow in her place. I would do it a million times over for her,” his voice audibly softens whilst talking about you, eyes downcast to the large scar on his cheek.

He touches it almost fondly, as if he was proud of the scare. Knowing Katsuki, he probably was. He looked back up at younger Katsuki, who had a contemplating look.

“So…. Please. Don’t hurt her younger self in any way. I wouldn’t be able to survive without her. If you argue, hold your tongue even if you’re right. Treasure her. Make her feel like she’s the most incredible woman in the damned world, cos she fuckin is,” he finished with a doleful look in his eyes.

“…okay. I’ll, I’ll try,” younger Katsuki promised. Older Katsuki nodded and cleared his throat as you walked into the room. You presented the bottle of beer with a happy grin and a kiss on the cheek and a ruffle of the hair for younger Katsuki.

Fuck, he was smitten.

==================================

“Daddies, watch me!” Aika grunted loudly as she successfully tiptoed from one end of the couch to another. Older Katsuki clapped and whooped in adoration whilst younger Katsuki looked on in pride.

“That’s my little ballerina! You’re gonna be the most graceful dancer ever, pumpkin!” Older Katsuki cheered, sweeping her up on his shoulder and making her squeal.

Kokoro looked on in jealousy with a pout on her face before a brilliant idea struck her. She toddled back to the couch and attempted the exact same feat as her sister, except on the back of the couch.

Keiko sat below her and watched her with a fearful expression.

“Papas, watch me! I can do it better than Aik-AAAAA!” She shrieked as she went to fall on the cushions of the couch, and subsequently Keiko. Keiko let out a scared cry as younger Katsuki swooped in to save him, carrying him in his left arm and catching Kokoro diligently in his right.

Keiko sobbed loudly into Katsuki’s broad shoulder, clinging to him with impressive strength. He nestled in as close as he could, passing Kokoro to his older self as he tried shushing Keiko.

“There there brat, you’re okay. Shhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured softly into his ear. He tried rocking him softly in his arms the same way you did and he was slowly left with a hiccuping, sleepy toddler.

“Damnit Kokoro, this is why I tell you to be careful! Every time you try to show Aika up, you end up hurting someone and yourself. Are you hurt, Keiko?” Older Katsuki asked Keiko. Keiko shook his little head into younger Katsuki’s neck.

Kokoro started tearing up at older Katsuki’s tone and looked down in shame. He visibly softened at his daughter’s tears and wiped them away with his fingers.

“Just be more careful, okay pumpkin?” He said firmly. Kokoro nodded and offered Keiko an apology.

==================================

The next time Katsuki woke up, it was in a hospital bed. Specifically, Recovery Girl’s clinic. The light filtered through the blinds, hitting Katsuki in the face and making him stir.

IV wires and tubes fed into him and made it hell to try to sit up, before he saw a sleeping figure near his knees.

It was younger you.

He nudged you with his knee in order to wake you up. You looked dreadful; massive eye bags, lips nibbled red raw, sniffly pink nose like you hadn’t stopped crying.

“Oh my god, you’re awake! I’ll go get Recovery Girl!” As you moved to get her, Katsuki grabbed your hand.

“W-what…,” his voice felt strange, like it wasn’t his.

“What the damned hell happened?” He croaked out.

Your face saddens as you looked away.

“You seemed really upset after our last training session, so I went after you to find you. You had collapsed just outside of the Height’s Alliance building and you wouldn’t wake up whatsoever,” your voice cracks. Katsuki let out an “oh”.

You gained your composure before looking at Katsuki again.

“So, how do you feel? Is anything hurt? What happened?” You interrogated him. Katsuki rolled his eyes at your pestering before a sly grin crossed his face.

“Why, were ya worried about me?” He teased and watched as your face turned a bright pink. You flapped your hands around in a panic.

“It’s just because you’re my classmate is all! You wouldn’t wake up, and I didn’t want you to stay like this for ages!” You rambled in a worried state. Katsuki let out a gruff laugh before wincing at his voice.

Well, better shoot my shot, he thought.

“Well, I’ll tell ya what. Go out with me this Saturday and I’ll tell ya everything,” he promised.

The pink in your face told him everything that he needed to know.

#bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou x reader fluff #bakugou #kinda angsty? idk #bakuboy is whipped for you #domestic bakugou is one of the best bakugous #domestic bakugou #time travel is a cool but weird concept #hope this makes sense 😭

6K notes · View notes

scorpioracha · 3 months

Text

Dating Yoongi

We've finally got the dating Yoongi headcanons!! I'm sorry it took so long but boy is it lengthy so strap in. this is not proofread and im fucking exhausted so edits to be done eventually. if you enjoy reblog, like and leave a comment. cw: does contain smut and one kys moment

Your meet cute with Yoongi ended up being more of a meet awkward than anything. It was 3am at one of the many random convenience stores in Gangnam and you were exhausted, exhausted and hungry. You were doing a year in Seoul for your major and the timezones were really fucking you up. Puffy sleepy eyes,glasses on and a sleep mask resting on your forehead made quite the picture.

It was also quite the picture when you ran into a rack of honey butter chips and wiped out on the floor.

Full wipeout.

Legs up,gravity turned on its head wiped out.

Thankfully the only thing wounded was your pride, but you kinda wished you knocked yourself out so you couldn’t see the handsome man towering over laughing so hard his eyes practically disappeared and a gummy smile on his face. He had a cup of ice and one of those americano packets balanced in one hand and a helmet dangling in his other.

“...chana?”

“Huh?”you said in a daze.

“Gwaenchana?”he purred in a low rumble. He looked at your lost expression and sucked in a breath.

“Are you okay?”It was a little clunky and half mumbled but you didn’t want to put this man through any more mental torment so you nodded quickly.

“Ne, na gwaenchana!”you replied and quickly scrambled to your feet, almost falling once again because your ankle decided now was the time to roll. He quickly reached out and steadied you, looking at you with so much bewilderment the whole situation felt comical. He looked at the hand that still rested on your arm and quickly pulled it away, you swear you saw his pale cheeks turn pink.

“Um…”he rumbled, looking at you with weary eyes. “stay”

You nodded with wide eyes as you watched this random man run around the convenience store and come back with a juice box and a random red pouch. He looked at you and held up each one.

“Bae juice”

He held up the red pouch. “Hong sam jelly for sukchwi…one moment”

He pulled out his phone and typed quickly. He held the phone to his ear and hummed.

“For hangover”he said, pointing to the two items again. Your eyes widened and you shook your head rapidly. You weren’t drunk. He definitely misinterpreted the situation and just smiled, giving you a smile and waving goodbye before disappearing into the night.

And what do you do when a pretty man buys you pear juice and ginseng jelly in a foreign country?

You fucking c o n s u m e it.

And the next morning when you woke up late to your 8:00am lecture, you just blamed the crazy night because wow what the fuck happened.

You spent the rest of your classes thinking about that handsome stranger. Maybe you did hit your head because WHY didn’t you ask for his name or his katalk? You could have done the whole ‘oh handsome young man, I need to pay you back’ kinda schtick but your brain decided to cosplay the very first windows computer and blue screen the minute you looked at him. stupid.

“Stupid” you groaned, trudging back to your dorm. You had been blessed—got accommodations—for a single room so it was just you and your twin sized

Oh yeah, and your pining.

Couldn’t forget about your pining.

You needed a drink. A good drink,some good food and some cartoons to get your mind off this random man. Within minutes you had a bottle of soju and a hefty platter of tteokbokki on the way. Maybe you’d go out for bingsu sometime this week with the girls from your lecture. They were sweet and treated you just like anyone else despite the racial and cultural differences, doting on you as their new maknae and always making sure you ate between classes. It was nice to be looked out for so thoroughly, especially when you were so far away from home. You pulled your phone out to text them when you got a notification that your delivery driver was already on the way.

Huh. they were already earning themself a tip. You stood eagerly by the door waiting and even though you were watching the app like a hawk, you jumped when the doorbell rang and scrambled to open it.

“Gamsahab-”you looked up and saw a familiar set of eyes. “...-nida”

“Soju?”he raises his brow in a way that says ‘again?’. You felt your face grow hot and shook your head rapidly. He just smirked and handed over your takeout bags.

Once again you fucked up,blanked and forgot to ask for his name.

Damn pretty boy with his pretty eyes and his stupid smile.

It was months before you had seen him again.

Time heals all wounds and you began to move on. You hung out more with your friends, went to karaoke,saw the sights of Seoul and slowly but surely felt yourself moving on.

It was on a rainy day in May where you found yourself at your usual convenience store. The weather went from sunny skies to torrential downpour within minutes and you had just gotten your hair done. You were looking for an umbrella but found yourself in the snack aisle.

Blame it on the wind.

What you didn’t expect to find in the snack aisle were seven men bickering.

You kinda just stood like 🧍🏾‍♀️ until one of them finally turned and god he was stunning

“Yah, Yoongi-yah!! Move and let this lady through!”

The ‘Yoongi’ in question quickly scooted out of the way, mumbling about how they were all in the way.

That mumble…

“Yoongi..”you whispered before you could even stop yourself. His gaze snapped up and for once you caught him off guard. His eyes flitted over you rapidly and his mouth opened and shut like a nutcracker.

“Soju girl,”he whispered. Then the moment was lost.

"na iroumi aniya(that’s not my name)” you huffed in annoyance. You know there was an honorific you were supposed to use somewhere in that sentence but your point still stood.

“You speak Korean”another boy said and god he was tall.

“Yes I speak Korean”you said, tilting your head up at him.

“Hyung, you said soju girl couldn’t speak Korean!”a voice laughs. You squint your eyes at this Yoongi who seemingly wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He stared at you like he had seen a ghost actually which wasn’t making things much better. The tall boy sighed and took a step forward, bowing even.

“I apologize for my hyung,”he said solemnly. “He’s usually not this dumb. I’m Kim Namjoon and these are my bandmates. What’s your name?”

You smiled and returned the bow, happy to finally have some familiarity, both language and warmth.

“I’m y/n”you said. “I think me and your hyung have some catching up to do”

Yes, to say it was a meet awkward was the nicest way to put it.

It was a fucking train wreck of events if you were being completely honest.

You had exchanged info with Namjoon seeing as he spoke the most English and was the only one who didn’t 👁️👄👁️ at you which was nice and had quickly become good friends with one another.

Seeing that their leader liked you, the rest of the boys quickly followed suit and you suddenly had a much bigger friend group than you could even imagine.

Yoongi had become a lot more reserved in a way that was off putting to say the least. You’d only ever spoken to him twice before but there was something off.

you’d asked Namjoon about it during one of your study/music/kill each other from frustration sections and he just shrugged mumbling something about ‘hyung being busy’

you rolled your eyes and grabbed your stuff to find out yourself. That’s what you get for asking a dumbass.

Yoongi had been exactly where you’d expect him to be, crammed into one of the practice rooms with his headphones and laptop.

“Yoongi,” you said, tapping on his shoulder. He spun around in a startle and looked at you with a relieved sigh.

“Oh god”he breathed out, “I thought you were one of the maknae begging for food”

You couldn’t help but to smile, all the prior annoyance melting out of your pores and back to the depths of hell where they belonged. Talking to Yoongi was easy, that is when he was still talking to you.

“How do you know I'm not begging for food?”you smirked, taking a seat on the lumpy couch.

“Well, are you?”he asked, raising a brow. You shook your head and leaned back into the couch.

“You’re off the hook”you said, “but I do have a question” “Which is?” “Why have you been avoiding me lately?”

The room grew silent enough you could hear a pin drop. Cornered was the only way you could describe Yoongi. His shoulders scrunched up and he seemed to fold in on himself.

“No reason,”he said plainly.

Your eyes narrowed.

“So you have been avoiding me?”

His eyes widened.

“That’s not what I meant-”

“Then what did you mean?”you asked. Your patience was wearing thin and your heart was racing something ugly.

“I was trying to give you space”

“Space for what? I didn’t ask for space!”you snapped.

“Space for you and Namjoon!”he snapped back, folding his arms over his chest.

“Me and Namjoon?”you gagged. “The last thing me and Namjoon need is space, please collect your dongsaeng cause he won’t leave me alone!”

“Well he’s your boyfriend!”Yoongi threw back.

Huh.

“Huh?!”You shrieked.

“It doesn’t take a genius to find out,”Yoongi continued, rolling his eyes. “So you can drop the naive act”

“Naive act—Yoongi, you think I'm dating Namjoon?”you asked. You felt like you were going to be sick. Namjoon wasn’t bad by any means, he was just so older brother coded it was disgusting.

“I don't think, I know,”he said. “You guys spend all your time together,you go on dates,you take naps together; it’s obvious”

“Well since you’re such a genius”You said, “How come you couldn’t tell that i’m in love with you?”

Huh.

“Huh?”he said, spinning around in his chair to fully face you. You ran a hand over your face and honest to god laughed.

“Idiots”you said in disbelief. “You’re all idiots”

“Hey-”

“I've been pining over you for months and this whole time you think i’ve been dating Namjoon”you said, shaking your head.

“You’ve been what?”Yoongi said.

“Crushing on you”you emphasized, “You idiot”

“i..I don’t know what to say,”he said. You sighed and fully leaned back against the chair, feeling all the blood rush to your head from your bold confession. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“You can let me down gently for starters”you chuckled humorlessly.

“Let you down—what are you talking about?”he asked.

“Just reject me already!”You exclaimed, waving your hands frantically. You felt like a madwoman.

“Why would I reject you?”his eyebrows furrowed.

You were going to be sick.

“I’m going to be sick”you laughed, running your hands over your face and god were you crying?

“Why are you crying?”he rumbled softly, leaning in and wiping the tears off your cheeks. You just laughed harder, but that ended up turning into a sob because you were so tired. You weren’t expecting a fairytale but this wasn’t the turn you thought today would take. You felt yourself being pulled closer and you knew you should pull away, you knew better. It was all too much and he would just hurt you, but his hoodie smelled like coffee. His hoodie smelled like coffee and his hands were warm as they wrapped around you. You always wondered if he ran hot or cold, but he was neither; Yoongi was pleasantly warm. His hand had somehow wriggled between the two of you and rested on your cheek, rubbing the streaks where your tears trailed. His breath rose and fell in a steady rhythm and for a moment you felt weighless.

“What a mess, huh?”he mumbled, tracing his thumb over your temple. “I went and made all these assumptions…because I was afraid to say I love you”

“You love me?”you whispered.

“Mm”he rumbled in affirmation. “You didn’t know?”

“No”you said, keeping your voice low, scared if you spoke too loud, the moment would disappear.

“I thought I was being obvious,”he said.

“I thought I was being obvious,”you said. You pulled your head back to look at Yoongi and that gummy smile was on full display.

“We’re both idiots”

Actually dating Yoongi went much smoother than the confession process.

In the early days, the two of you spent a lot of time in the genius studio doing parallel play, you’d work on your assignments and he would work on music.

Obviously with many interruptions from the maknae line + hoseok, occasionally being prodded by Seokjin and Namjoon to eat,drink and get fresh air

Y’all needed to touch grass and they were sick of it

Being so close to the band in their early days formed an immeasurable bond between you all

But it also lead to a lot of sacrifices on your part that you weren’t prepared to make.

There was the obvious like no posting about the boys on social media,nda’s up the wazoo,etc. This was all expected and you were willing to do so.

What you weren’t prepared for was how cruel the kmedia could truly be. You weren’t from here, you were a foreigner and that already put a target on your back. The fact that you weren’t thin or pale didn’t help one bit either.

Thankfully, the boys and Yoongi reassured you in private. Namjoon did damage control and argued with the company to do more on your behalf, while Jimin and the maknae stood by your side like bodyguards wherever you went in silent solidarity. You were never alone. Jin dropped you off at university in the morning, along with Jungkook. Scolding the two of you to have a good day and to eat something that wasn’t chips. Naturally, Jungkook would bring you back once your classes were done and continued to gripe that even though he was older than you, he was still stuck in highschool.

You still hold this over his head to this date.

So thankfully, you had support. Support that if you didn’t have you weren’t sure where you would be honestly. It really felt like you all had become a little family, and being so far from home that was something you desperately needed.

Once the group got larger and was in a more stable position you better believe they all stopped holding their tongues, especially Yoongi. He could be a little hard to read at times but you were not expecting him to be getting himself into full on twitter wars on a burner account over you 💀

“Yoongi stop telling people to kill themselves”

“No”

Being in love with Yoongi felt easy, it was natural. He continued to take care of you in little ways whether it was packing your lunch,giving you transit fare or rubbing your temples when you were tired and falling asleep on him.

Our mans is definitely about that acts of service life. He loves quietly.

Pda made him want to die just a little inside but he wasn’t opposed to holding your hand. It wasn’t like he had anything to hide anyways, you guys were already public.

He wasn’t the jealous type and although he’d never admit it, he loved how much you and the boys love each other. He’s got a bunch of pictures on his phone of you just in the dorms being domestic. You spent more time there than you did in your own dorm room.

So although he doesn’t say it often, he shows it with every part of his being. The way his eyes sparkle when he sees you in the morning, his proud smile in your graduation photos. It also made his heart flutter that you got his dry humor and you dished it right back to him, smack in the middle of the maknae line teasing him and Jin about being old.

And when you learned Daegu Satoori from Taehyung to surprise him? Namjoon had to hold him back from proposing on the spot. And to think he ever thought you and Namjoon were dating.

Yoongi bits ✨tid bits about you and yoongi ✨

Yes Yoongi genuinely thought you were drunk and he wasn’t flirting(he got that nuerodivergent rizz)

When Yoongi told you the mint hair wasn’t real and washed it out you cried 🧍🏾‍♀️

You guys have two apartments together, one near Hybe and one in Daegu. You both prefer the apartment in Daegu because that means Holly gets to stay with you guys.

Everytime a new design for shooky it mysteriously appears in the apartment.

You guys have two cats per your request(a white one named sugar and a black one named gloss) the things Yoongi does for love

You guys have been happily engaged for the past year and he proposed in the most unromantic way possible

NSFW

Baby, Yoongi is a switch with a capital S

Now I have never met a non kinky neurodivergent person and Yoongi is no exception. He enjoys a good power dynamic and has definitely explored kink in the past with previous partners so he’s experienced.

But Yoongi does occasionally just like to fuck, no rules no dynamics. Just vanilla sex

He’s a lot softer than his image and he honestly likes the separation between the two for his own sanity. The fans think he’s this no nonsense hardass, but he’d much rather praise and reward you than dole out punishments.

He’s a softie at heart and finds a bit of bratty behavior to be cute so you can definitely get away with a lot. Not to say he’s a complete pushover but he definitely will let a good amount of back talk slide before he puts you in your place. It's almost infuriating how calm he is if you’re the type that brats in hopes of a punishment. He’ll just look at you and laugh about how cute you’re being before returning back to whatever he was doing.

It’s pretty hard to tick him off but also not impossible, the easiest way to get him to snap is to mess with him in the studio; especially if he has a deadline coming up. That's how you end up on your knees crammed under his desk not even allowed to suck his dick but just sit there and keep it warm while he works. The condescending mumbles and coos he lets out while stroking your head is enough to send you careening straight into subspace. “Just needed something in your mouth, huh?”he’d purr and gently drag his nails across your scalp

Tongue technology. We all know about it, but you get to experience this first hand at your beck and call. Yoongi is the first one to admit you’re spoiled and when you’re not being a brat, all you have to do is ask and he’ll be in between your legs. He could and has spent hours down there teasing your folds and giving you orgasm after orgasm until you can’t take it anymore.

Somnophilia. This is a kink that goes both ways for you guys but honestly he finds it really hot when you take what you need from him. Waking up groggy in the middle of the night to you fucking yourself on his cock is one of the quickest ways to get Yoongi whining and gripping the sheets. Bonus points if you tie his hands up or cuff them to the bed posts.

He’s not really a fan of quickies and prefers to take his time, but he’s not opposed to shoving you into a closet and getting you off on his fingers if you’re getting needy. He just wants to take care of his girl.

Speaking of his hands, they end up around your throat and in your mouth quite often. Whether you’re sucking or gagging on them, Yoongi makes good on this little fixation and makes sure you get your fill.

He’s down to being pegged. Somebody had to say it guys,🗣️ Yoongi wants something up his ass ‼️

Whether you have him bent over a table or you’re tied up and he’s riding you, Yoongi does enjoy penetration and he’s not ashamed of it. He likes how dazed and pliant you get when he’s bouncing on your strap all flushed and pink and whining. it’s a rush to his head and sends him over the edge faster than he can get a hand on himself.

He’s a fan of cozy aftercare and pillow talk. After you’ve both cleaned up and the bed is moderately clean, he’s off in the kitchen getting snacks and water so you two can cuddle and recap what you liked and disliked. He gets really affectionate after he cums so it usually dissolves into him mumbling praises and kissing all over your face before falling asleep.

All in all Yoongi is the best boy.

#yoongi headcanons #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fluff #Yoongi smut #bts headcanons #bts hard thoughts #bts hard hours #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi smut #bts min yoongi #bts fanfic #bts yoongi #yoongi drabble #min yoongi

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cultrise · 6 months

Text

MORNING SEX. DAZAI OSAMU

⚝ CONTENTS NSFW, clit rubbing, p in v, some cockwarming in the end ᵎᵎ wc 1.7k

ᵎᵎ check the mlist for kinktober here !

it had been such a long time since you could sleep in your own house, in your own bed. between missions and overnight hours with the ADA, you (and everyone else) felt like a walking zombie.

so the day you all walked into the office and were told “we have no alerts today. go home and rest” you thought fukuzawa was joking. the one who took the news the best out of all the members was, of course, dazai.

“ahh finally! we worked so hard!” and of course that got kunikida worked up, shouting at dazai for 5 minutes before letting him off the hook.

you didn’t bother. even though dazai was your boyfriend, you knew damn well he did everything and anything to escape work. sure, he always had some genius plan nobody could foresee, one that always changed the game and turned the tables, making the ADA victorious. but if there was something dazai loved was getting on everyone’s nerves. so it was no surprise when, after being let go for the day, he decided the best bed to sleep in was yours, not his.

now usually you wouldn’t have minded. you and dazai practically lived together at that point. but he had a habit of not sleeping which resulted in him annoying you about how he wants to do something, anything, just so he can be entertained. you were terrified of the thought of him wanting to keep you up talking about some bullshit gossip from the office because you definitely needed sleep. but really, who could shake off dazai’s intent? before you even opened your mouth he had entered your apartment.

wait. where did he get a key to your apartment from? oh well.

you were too tired to think about anything. which dazai noticed, with the way you ran to the bedroom and slid under the covers without even bothering to slip into your pyjamas “you’re gonna sleep? with such a handsome man in your house?” dazai dramatically asks as he pokes at your cheek “hey. i’m talking to you”

“either get in or get out” you hiss as you slap his hand away, burying your face in your pillow.

“ouch! feisty!” dazai smiles cheekily as you raise an eyebrow at him “well.. if you insist” he grins before unbuttoning his shirt and sliding in next to you. his arm goes to your waist, pulling your back against his chest as he places a kiss on your shoulder.

“you need to change these” you say, half asleep, as your hands fiddle with his bandages.

“mhm. i know” he whispers into your hair as he kisses the back of your ear. he slides the hand you were holding under your shirt and drags it up your bare skin, fingers tapping at the cup of your bra “isn’t this uncomfortable?”

“you just want to fiddle with my boobs, osamu” he chuckles against the back of your neck.

“why do you always downplay my genuine concern?” you roll your eyes.

“you always have an ulterior motive”

“maybe i just care for my girl”

“shut up and let me sleep”

your eyelids shift open slightly as you feel the sun hit them. you yawn. the opened window lets in some much-needed fresh air. there’s some soft snoring behind you. you rub your eyes and blink before turning around to the sight of dazai sleeping soundly on his back, book open on his chest.

you pick up the book, putting a reading mark between its pages so he doesn’t forget the chapter he is on. the movement makes him shift, opening his eyes to meet yours “sorry. was just trying to get your book away” you whisper as the corners of his mouth raise into a smirk.

“stealing from me? how rude” you sigh as you roll your eyes. dazai was physically incapable of being serious. or not annoying.

“yes, that’s exactly what i was doing, osamu” he chuckles as he rolls over on his side, now facing you. his hand touches your waist, cold and long fingers tracing patterns on the skin of your hip.

“morning” he whispers softly, lips pressing to your temple as you close your eyes and hum. you start playing with his fingers, your warm hands clashing with his cold ones “you’re looking exceptionally good this morning, my love” you roll your eyes at the comment.

“stop flirting with me. i’m still upset with you” you sigh as dazai responds with the most dramatic reaction he had in store at that hour of morning — a dazai appropriate reaction, after all. slapping a hand to his mouth, he gasps loudly before burying his face into your neck.

“stop flirting?! but, bella, how could i do that with such a beautiful woman next to me? in my bed at that. that would be most peculiar of me” he states, making you squint your eyes. you were not awake enough for his bullshit.

“god, shut up” you groan, turning to the side and trying to ignore your boyfriend, who unfortunately for you is stuck to your waist, not intending to move. you could tell well enough what his intentions were with the way he was cozying up to you and were determined not to give in.

“come on, beautiful.. won’t you let me make it up to you?” yeah, that wasn’t going to work. your whole plan shattered as you felt heat rise between your legs, alongside a touchy hand of dazai’s. he pressed soft kisses to the back of your ear, giggling like a schoolboy as he pulled your pants down, knowing well enough that you were not going to interject.

“i really hate you sometimes” you grit your teeth as dazai pulls your panties to the side and stops to whisper in your ear, ignoring the wet patch of slick on your laced panties.

“do you now? ask me to stop and i will” you knew he would stop if you asked to. you also knew you weren’t going to tell him to stop. so did he. but he was also not going to do anything until he got verbal confirmation that he could proceed. you groaned into the pillow as you shamefully expressed your desire.

“don’t stop..” you can feel him grinning against your back, lips trailing from the side of your face, along your jaw and down your neck, reaching your shoulder. his hands drew circles to your thighs, long fingers dancing on your tender skin.

“promise you’ll forgive me if i fuck you good?” dazai purrs into your ear. you roll your eyes, attempting to reconsider. “come on. you know you want it”

“fine. i promise. just.. get to it” you tried to hide the undertone of desperation as dazai slid his pyjama pants off, taking his half-hard dick into his hands and stroking it lazily. sleep was still evident on his features, though you were relieved he actually got a few hours in.

dazai holds onto your hips, positioning his cock between your thighs and starting to move slowly, rubbing his length across your clit and pussy lips. your breathing hitches at the agonising sensation. as much as you knew he was tired you prayed he stopped teasing you and started fucking you instead.

“you smell so good” dazai’s voice slurs as he buries his face in your neck and hair, biting into your soft flesh so he can hear those pretty sounds that he adored come out of your mouth.

“stop teasing, osamu..” you whisper as you watch his tip appear and disappear between your thighs. a yawn is heard behind you as the brown-haired man wraps an arm around your waist, positioning himself at your entrance with the other.

“whatever my love wants” he murmurs before sliding in your dripping cunt, a throaty groan leaving his mouth. you were so warm, so wet, so fucking perfect. dazai would gladly die right now if it meant he would be passing away buried deep inside of your pussy.

slowly but surely he builds up his pace as your moans get muffled by the pillow under you “is this okay?" he inquires about his pace, the way his hips move, and the reach he has as he fucks into you. you sigh in approval, hair frizzing up against the pillows.

"need you..." he knows well enough what you mean. still, he'll make you ask for it.

"i'm right here, gorgeous" his tone is amused as he slides two fingers between your thighs so he can circle your aroused clit "not going anywhere"

"osamu!..." your moans halt him for a second, breath catching in his throat at how needy you sound. he rolls his hips upwards, his fingers grazing at your sweet spot in the same rhythm as his cock. your face is dewy with sweat, lips plump and damp as you let out a beautiful string of moans. every touch of dazai's makes you squeeze around him.

“fuck, bella… trying to snap my dick off?” dazai muses, lips painting invisible marks of adoration into your flesh. you let out a hazy giggle as you part your legs even more just so he can reach better in between your legs. the sight of his dick disappearing into your sweet hole makes dazai's head spin, his voice pitch rising as he nears his orgasm.

"gonna fill you up... shit" he groans against your ear as you grip at the sheets, tears of pleasure forming in your eyes. he removes his hand from your clit, guiding your chin back and kissing the corner of your mouth. your lips hang low, awaiting another and, eager to satisfy his girl, dazai raises himself slightly so he can fully press his lips on top of yours.

your eyes roll back, your toes curl and your back arches as dazai presses his fingers into the skin of your waist, filling you up with a groan. with a hand between your legs, you follow suit shortly after, pulling away from each other panting, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

"mh.. love you" dazai's tired face melts against yours, eyes closing as he cuddles up to you. you reply by burying your face in his hair, inhaling its scent "can i leave it in?" he asks, voice above a whisper, making you smile.

"yeah" you whisper back fingers tangling themselves in his brown curls as you feel your eyelids getting heavy. you thanked the lord you didn't have work that day because it would be hard to pull away from dazai after this. not that you necessarily complained, of course.

#✦— kinktober.#𐙚 — pages.#𐙚— dreamscape.#dazai #osamu dazai #dazai osamu #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd dazai #dazai x reader #dazai x reader smut #osamu dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kinktober '23

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mochalate · 4 months

Text

"ghosts" ; postwar!levi/reader w/c: 700 ; fluff/angst

unlike levi, you're physically whole, but you seem to have lost some pieces of yourself too

“Do you want milk in your tea?” you ask, firing up the stove.

Levi pretends there isn’t a lump in his throat. “No.”

He remembers you asking him this question before, in another life. One where the monsters didn’t only show up at night; where you knew what they looked like without him having to tell you.

Where you remember he hates milk in his tea.

Levi fears he's being greedy, wishing for you to remember. He’s been doing nothing but wishing for the last few months— how long until the universe takes away everything it’s given him this time, like he’s a spoiled child having his playthings confiscated after a tantrum?

He tries to be grateful. You survived that fall from the Founding Titan’s spines. Someone, somewhere had listened when he’d held your hand and prayed for you to wake up, to look at him just one more time, so he could apologise for not being there to catch you. He’d wanted nothing more than to hear you say his name again. So what if you'd ended up saying it like a question?

Levi watches you set his cup down in front of him, smiling. You’re always smiling now, far more than before. It makes him worry he’s being selfish, wanting you to get better. Wouldn’t he choose to forget too? All of the death and the destruction, from the underground to the coast of Marley; and the powerlessness to stop any of it?

He tries to tell himself he would, but he knows it’s a lie. What else did he have to show for all of it, if not for those memories?

“Have you remembered anything?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I’m sorry, Levi.”

“Don’t apologise. You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

You bite your lip— just like you always did. That’s what gives him this devastating, soul-gouging hope, every day. How you’re still you. You still like sweet things more than salty ones, and your spoon still produces the same clinking melody when you stir the sugar into your tea.

He allows the wound to reopen itself every morning after you ask to start sleeping next to him again, because he wakes up with your head tucked against his shoulder just like he remembers. He knows everything is still in there, buried somewhere inside your body; because on some nights, you cry and struggle in your sleep, running from things that won’t ever chase you anymore.

Levi selfishly wakes you up, to ask you again and again if you remember, but you never do.

Pieck had visited once, back from one of their peace-mongering trips. They weren’t working, she’d told him. She’d heard all about him from his brats in the 104th, and thought he would have some sage wisdom; or at least understand what it felt like to lose hope in something you believed in.

He couldn’t supply either of those things.

Pieck was smart, he’ll give her that. She had understood immediately.

“I always felt,” she’d said, “that it was the worst thing in the world to not have any scars to show. But at least I could explain what was wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Levi had replied. It was true.

Pieck had hummed. “There’s definitely something wrong with you though, captain. Who thinks waking their wife up from a nightmare is selfish?”

It's selfish, because Levi feels like what he wakes you up into must be the real nightmare, lying next to a strange man who knows more about you than anyone else in the world.

"What's got you worried?" you ask him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

He's worried you'll realise he could just be a bad dream, if that's what you wanted. "I'm not worried."

"You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

You laugh. He realises your cup is already half-empty, and his is untouched.

"You're quiet, but not like this. Penny for your thoughts?"

You give him a smile that's as lovely as always, as lovely as it's always been. He knows he could fall in love with that smile as many times as it took. And when you reach for his hand, he wants to believe you'll allow him to, even if it's just for today.

Thank you for reading! Please like/reblog if you enjoyed. :) check out my other stuff?

Divider @/cafekitsune

#snk x reader #aot x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi oneshot #angst #fluff #i swear im working on precipice i have 3k words in the draft #my fic

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jungwnies · 10 months

Text

syn ' a-z alphabet (safe for work) yang jungwon pairing ' bf!jungwon x gn!reader

requested ! i am soooo sorry this took so long... i lowkey forgot about it until i came back on a few days ago

a ⋆ affection - how affectionate are they?

he's literally a cat

he's so affectionate with you

always cuddling

always playing with your hand or your fingers

literally attached to the hip

b ⋆ bonding - how often do they bond with you?

all the time

hes a big bonder duh

whenever he isn't at schedules

he spends all of his time with you

c ⋆ communication - do they keep in touch with you when they're away?

yes ofc

but he's leader

so he only gets to give you a lot of his time while he's at the hotel

he texts you through out the day but he can't hold a conversation until the day is over :c

d ⋆ dates - how often do they set up a date for you two?

all the time

but they will be the most cute dates

arcades, carnivals, festivals, amusement parks

little walks around the river and very pretty scenery ofc

e ⋆ essential - what is the thing that is important to them?

family

friends

the usual

the relationships he has with people

and lastly, the members

f ⋆ friends - how did the friendship start?

in school

you guys were definitely forced to work together on a project

and from there you guys became friends

g ⋆ gross - what is the thing he hates in your relationship?

lies

omg he hates liars so much

h ⋆ hugs - do they like hugs? how do they feel?

ofc he likes hugs

he loves them so much

they're always so loving and comforting

his embrace is like home

i ⋆ i love you- how fast do they say i love you?

he doesn't say it first that's for sure

he says it when you say it

because he doesn't want to mess anything up

he's scared to lose you or scare you away with the love bomb

j ⋆ jealousy - how jealous do they get?

not very jealous

but he definitely gives whoever is checking you out a dirty look

k ⋆ kiss - how good are they at kissing?

he's a good kisser

not the bomb.com

but his kisses are sweet :C

l ⋆ love - how do they show their love to you?

giving you his time

when he puts anything down just to pay attention to you

that is how he shows you he loves you

he just loves spending time with you ugh

m ⋆ mad - how often do you argue?

not often

but sometimes

but they are never bad arguments

n ⋆ naughty - how do they deal with you annoying them?

he annoys you back

duh!

doesn't get mad though LOL

o ⋆ open - how often do they open up to you?

all the time

you are his backbone

his support

his everything

he always opens up to you

p ⋆ pet names - how are they with pet names?

babe, baby, jagi

just the simple ones

nothing too crazy

q ⋆ quiet - silent treatment?

he gets pouty

but never silent

r ⋆ ramble - how often do they talk about you to others?

all the time

he boasts about you like it's his job

forget being an idol

talking about you is his new career

s ⋆ soft - how soft are they to you?

literally the softest with you

so sweet

always cuddling with you

bro is literally a cat???

t ⋆ think - what reminds them of you?

animals

everytime he sees a cute animal

he thinks of you

he will see a bunny and be like

"it's almost as cute as MY y/n"

always says "my" before your name

cus you are his

u ⋆ unhappy - what makes them break if you break up with them?

just the fact he can't hold you anymore

the way his bed feels so empty without you besides him

makes him

fucking

sad

dont even

think

about

breaking

with

jungwon

otherwise

both sides of your pillow

WILL BE WARM

v ⋆ vacation - how are they with long distance relationships?

he's so bad at this

nothing that can break a relationship

but he just can't handle it

as well as some people can

w ⋆ wholesome - the sweetest thing they ever did to you?

obviously when he surprised you by coming home early

x ⋆ extra headcanon

expanding on him coming home early

you were really sad because he was on tour

for literally so long

and he told you he wouldn't be back for another 3 weeks

because there are new added dates

but little did you know the later dates weren't for another 2 months

so when he came in and surprised you

you wanted to cry

tears of joy obviously

y ⋆ young and beautiful - (how long does it last?)

a very long time

but i don't know if it will last forever

i feel like he would be the type to be in a super long relationship

and you guys just

fall out of love.

DAMN

i should write a story about that

z ⋆ zzz - how do they sleep with you?

he always has an arm around you

keeps you close because

he never knows

when he will have to leave again

so he keeps you super close

577 notes · View notes

enhaloves · 1 year

Text

When he crosses the line

genre: Fluff! a spark of angst!

pairing: bf!niki x reader

masterlist

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

You are fully aware of your boyfriend's playful nature and have become quite accustomed to it. He's always looking for opportunities to tease you, and although you may not like to admit it, you find it endearing. When he teases you, he becomes very affectionate and cute, which you truly enjoy. However, it's important to note that not all of his attempts at teasing are successful.

It was one of those days that you just wanted to forget. Everything seemed to go wrong, and you felt like you were constantly battling against the universe. You were exhausted both physically and emotionally, and all you could think about was getting home, taking a hot shower, and sleeping for at least 12 hours. So that's exactly what you did. After feeling refreshed from your long shower, you hopped into bed and grabbed your phone.

You promptly texted your boyfriend Niki to share the unfortunate events that took place. You nearly fell into a street canal, had an unsatisfactory sandwich, failed your quiz, and received a C- grade from your P.E. instructor for stumbling down during dance class. The day was beyond terrible.

Despite your frustration and lack of attention to your phone, you were able to receive a text message from your beloved boyfriend. “what the hell…” you muttered under your breath. This was not what you have planned on seeing after having a mid breakdown crisis. Your boyfriend had just sent you ‘lol, sounds like a you problem’. i honestly think he'd do this 😭😭😭

You knew he was just being playful, but you needed not his teasing but his empathy. You didn't know what to reply, and you absolutely didn't want to come off as sensitive, so you decided not to reply. You left him on read, indirectly saying you did not like what he had said.

As you lay in bed, you couldn't help but feel the weight of the day on your shoulders. You had been feeling overwhelmed with school and work, and his teasing had only added to your mounting stress. You closed your eyes, hoping to calm your racing heart.

You fully broke down, curled up in your favorite blanket for a solid 30 minutes. Sobbing quietly with the lights turned out, you found yourself replaying the conversation in your head. You didn't know why his words had gotten to you so much, but you couldn't shake the feeling of hurt.

Your phone suddenly rang, and your boyfriend's name displayed. You hesitantly grabbed your phone but answered it anyway. You had not noticed that he video called you, so your full-on crying face was shown on his screen, and you quickly put it away from you.

"Oh y/n," you hear him call from the other line. "What, are you gonna make fun of me now?" you gently said, not having the energy to sassily ask him.

"Absolutely not, princess. Can you please show me your face?" he requested. Though you were confused by his sudden seriousness, you complied with his request. "How long have you been crying?" he asked, moving closer to the screen to get a better look at you. You shrugged, not sure how long you had been crying or even why you were crying. "Is it because of what I said?" he asked, and you found yourself crying again for some reason. "I'm so stupid," you heard him mumble.

"I'm so sorry, love. I know I was being insensitive. I promise to read the situation first before teasing you. I'm so sorry. I love you." You looked at him on the screen, and he looked very concerned and sincere. You nodded your head and smiled a bit. "Now, can you please tell me what happened again so that I can give a proper reply? I love you." He stares into the screen.

You felt comforted by his words and sincerity, and proceeded to recount the incident to him, which he listened to attentively and even offered some remarks on. "That professor deserves a good beating. How about I dance challenge him?" he joked, making you laugh and smile.

"I love you," you said, feeling reassured and grateful for him. You knew that with him by your side, everything was going to be alright.

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salty-croissants · 4 months

Text

Bullfrog and Rayman/Ramon x fem reader : trying on their clothes

Thank you @elyn-27 for the request !

This ask wouldn’t show up in my inbox anymore for some reason - either I deleted it by accident or my Tumblr is going bonkers … sorry for the inconvenience ! Luckily I had a screenshot saved ;C;

Anyway this is such a cute prompt , I ended up getting inspired and wrote three mini stories for the boys based on it :D

Hope it all turned out okay !

Details : use of female reader ;

established relationships ;

no warnings needed

Bullfrog 💚

< Hmm … c'est bizarre … didn’t I put it here yesterday ? >

After searching in the drawer for a few more seconds , Bullfrog finally closed it , very puzzled : he always took good care of his assassin uniform , and yet that morning it just wasn’t in the usual place he placed it .

Maybe you remembered ?

< y/n ? Have you seen my - >

Then , as soon as he walked in the living room he finally saw you … and a smile illuminated his face when he realized what you were wearing .

< Ah , so that’s where my uniform went … >

< Oh - hello sweetie !

Sorry I uh … I was just looking at it this morning , and I thought it would be fun to try it on , but I can give it back to you right away if you need … it … >

The moment you felt Bullfrog’s hands gently caressing your cheeks , all while staring at you lovingly with those beautiful eyes of his , you couldn’t help but blush …

< Non , you can keep it until I need to leave , it looks really good on you mon amour ~ >

He then left a kiss on your forehead before heading off to gather all he needed for the upcoming mission …

It was in those sweet little moments the two of you shared that you fully realized just how much you loved that frog , and just how much he loved you back .

Rayman 🧡

You had decided to try on Rayman’s suit that morning out of sheer curiosity , mostly because you were looking forward to see his reaction :

you knew that your boyfriend had been very , very busy during the past weeks , so you eventually came up with a little surprise for him that would hopefully cheer him up a bit .

You were sure that he was still asleep since it was pretty early , but when you suddenly felt his hands around your waist you realized that he had figured out what you were doing …

< Well well , don’t you look gorgeous in my suit , darling ? ~ >

You chuckled , blushing at his compliment while holding his hands in yours …

Classic Rayman , he never missed an opportunity to remind you how beautiful you were to him .

< Aw , you really think so Ray ?

I’ll give it back to you if you need it , but - >

< Don’t worry , there’s plenty of time before I gotta leave for work , and besides … >

When you turned around to look at him , Rayman didn’t waste the opportunity to lean forward to kiss you .

< … a few more minutes spent with you is all I could ever ask for y/n ~ >

< Pfft … okay , you’re just trying to flatter me now ~ >

He chuckled in response , and you gladly accepted his lips on yours again , happy to see that he seemed to be way more at ease than before .

He was always working so hard … he really deserved a small break from it all , and since you were like a safe corner for Rayman he always treasured those precious moments with you .

Ramon 🖤

Ramon didn’t even question where his coat went :

he didn’t forget about your adorable habit of wearing his clothes , so he just walked back to your shared room , watching you huddle close to it with your eyes closed until you noticed your boyfriend staring at you from the entrance …

< Oh - hey Ram —

Sorry … your coat is just so cozy and warm , I couldn’t resist … >

< Nah , you don’t have to be sorry y/n … >

He sat next to you on the bed , his hand reaching up to caress the back of your neck ,

< You do look real pretty in it ~ >

< You really think so … ? >

< Mhm … >

It wasn’t long before your faces leaned closer and closer , until your lips met in quite a few passionate kisses … which eventually lead you two to lie down in bed for a while longer , just cuddling and enjoying each other’s company …

< Tell me , was wearing my coat an elaborate plan to cuddle some more ? ~ >

<; *gasp* , whaat ? No !

…

Yeah , maybe … but it worked out well for both , didn’t it ? ~ >

< Heh … yeah . >

You watched Ramon snuggle closer to your chest , letting out a soft sigh as you used his coat to cover him up .

< I love you so much , y/n … I really needed this . Thank you . >

He didn’t have an easy sleep last night , tormented like always by the horrible thought of Eden hurting the both of you …

But at least he had you with him to bring him some joy , even by doing something as small as trying on his clothes .

< I love you too honey … I’ll always be there for you , no matter what happens . >

Hearing you whisper those words in his ear was enough to make all the tension in Ramon’s body melt away …

He really was lucky to have someone as special as you in his life .

#captain laserhawk #x reader #rayman x reader #bullfrog x reader #captain lazerhawk rayman #bullfrog captain laserhawk #captain laserhawk bullfrog #rayman #captain lazerhawk bullfrog #ramon captain laserhawk #cl rayman

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liz-allyn · 1 year

Text

sugar and vice, pt 1 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: I have a meet-cute in a coffee shop. but for mob!peter.

words: 5.5k

warnings: Shameless TASM mob!daddy Peter fantasies, including, but not limited to, kidnapping, knives, bang bang shoot shoot, pining, eventual smut

Part 1

“Just a coffee, black. Biggest ya got.”

Wearily, yet still wired, Peter tapped his fingers on the stainless steel counter. It was late. Or early. Streetlamps still blazed in unholy darkness outside. It had been a long night. But he had felt like he’d been up for years.

Across from him, a young woman wearing overalls and a daisy-yellow bandana gave him a heavy nod. “Sure,” she replied, gravely. “I have to warn you, though. We over-roast our beans. It’s bitter as hell.”

He blinked at her, not expecting such honesty. She had a trusting face. Pretty eyes.

“Ya wanna sweeten it up for me?”

He could hear the lame pickup line of a younger version of himself. One that wore a confident smirk, walked with bravado. One that hadn’t lost what he had lost. The older Peter of today brushed that voice away. “I like bitter.”

He glanced up at her eyes and saw sympathy. “Oof, tragic,” she frowned, shaking her head teasingly, her coyness peeking through. She retrieved a paper cup and filled the dark liquid to the brim.

The personalness of it threw him off. Peter had wandered in like a zombie. He only briefly heard her ask for his order and his name, both of which he gave, and he expected nothing in return but the coffee. He watched her carefully, shifting uncomfortably. He was the only customer in the shop at this hour, but he didn’t expect to be seen.

“Here you go,” she declared, handing the cup over. “One large black graveyard dirt, extra tears.”

It wasn’t so much the joke, rather the way she beamed when she said it. It was like sunlight peeking through the curtains just right, casting a familiar space in an ethereal glow.

She glowed.

Seeing it awakened his senses. He felt the way flowers must feel, desperately reaching their petals out toward the sun after they’d been neglected through a long, dark winter.

Before he knew it, he was smiling back. Teeth bared, eyes crinkled, grinning like a fool. He thought his muscles couldn’t remember what smiling felt like. It ached.

She reached out, extending the cup towards him. But it was so much more than that.

His gaze darted from her sparkling eyes, to the curve of her mouth, back to the apples of her cheeks—

“Thanks for stopping by, Ben!”

The illusion vanished, as did his smile. He pulled away, staring at the stainless steel countertop for a moment. He thanked her and took the cup from her hand, dropping a couple of bucks in the jar. He didn’t spare her another glance as he turned on his heel.

For a moment there, he felt free. He’d forgotten what he was underneath the leather gloves, thick cashmere coat, the bitter coffee, and the fake name.

His hand found the door, the winter chill penetrating his glove. Just as he began to push it open, he heard a shout.

“Wait!”

He did, glancing back at her, against his better judgment.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, almost shrinking into herself with a sheepish expression. She blushed at the eagerness and volume of her own voice. “To have a great day.”

He blinked, brow creased.

“It’s, uh, sorry— it’s stupid,” she rolled her eyes, slapping her palm across her forehead. “But I’m… I’m supposed to say ‘have a great day’ and I always forget, maybe ‘cos I’m a little ADHD, and my boss always reminds me that I need to say it every time, but that’s awkward, right? Like it needs to come up in conversation, I can’t just blurt it. I mean, I can. Like, I just did. But that was weird, right? It was weird. And sometimes, I’m thinking about the next 3 things I have to do, or the thing I just did and I get… I don’t know, a little lost in the moment, and then it passes, and then I felt like I missed out, y’know?”

He stared. “No?”

“On saying what I want really to say,” she said with a voice full of warmth—gentle and genuine in tone. Her babbling ceased as she emphatically declared. “I really hope you have a great day. You deserve it.”

There it was again. That smile. Sincerity and kindness sliced through him like a razor. He was a child again, getting a kiss on the cheek from his mother. Her cheerful gaze lit him up inside, like setting off a roman candle beneath his ribs. It wrapped him in a firm embrace, filling him, shielding him, and grounding him all at once.

This time, he couldn't look away. Didn't want to. He waited until he could hear the flutter in her heart. He was smiling again.

“Thank you. I think I will.”

And as if she’d cast some sort of spell, he did. The way she enchanted him, he was certain if they lived 400 years ago they might accuse her of witchcraft. He always had a good day when he saw her. No matter how painful, or dirty, or bloody. She became his good luck charm. His ability to ‘have a good day’ became entirely dependent on seeing her.

He shouldn’t go back there. He should try the Starbucks down the street. But he couldn’t help it.

She’d pour him basic drip coffee, announcing aloud to the whole shop as she handed it to him. “Here you go! Extra large, extra-hot dark roast, with extra-darkness and a splash of angst.” There was affection in her gaze despite the sarcasm of her voice.

“One extra large coffee, black as the devil’s soul.” She’d whisper to him privately, gifting him with a good-luck smile, even when the coffee shop was full of people during the morning rush. In those moments, she made him feel like they were the last two people on the planet. And it always made something in his belly flutter.

“I have an extra-black ‘Fault in Our Stars,’ with a shot of ‘The Road’ for my friend in the suit!”

Her friend. He couldn’t help but blush. How could he come to this place every day, stand in line, and feel like he was coming home? She was magic.

The coffee really was awful.

“Let me know if you ever want me to sweeten that up for you,” she graciously suggested, as the cup left her fingers. The brush of her fingertips against his felt like wildfire. Her comment was innocent, but his mind wasn’t. “I think I can make it taste better—I have some window cleaner left.”

He was smiling again. It blossoms into something reciprocal. That should be enough. He shouldn’t be greedy. He should walk away now. He should run.

“What would you suggest?” he asked coyly. It was the first time he had ever done so.

A million saccharine-infused terms of endearment flowed through his mind—sweetness, sugar, gumdrop, sweetheart, sweetie, cookie, peach, muffin, angelcake—most of them were trash. (Really, Parker? What is this, high school? Whaddya doin’? You ever talk to a woman before? Why do you sound like somebody’s grandpa? Such a creepy —

Some of them weren’t appropriate between friends. None of them appropriate coming from a stranger.

That’s what he was, deep down. God, this precious girl—she was so trusting. Was she friendly like this with everyone? No, he had noticed as time went on. She’s warm and kind to everyone she meets. But not like this. Not the way she is for him.

“Ooh, getting adventurous, are we?” she teased him, stars in her eyes.

For him. All he could do was stare back in awe at the Milky Way in her gaze. He would follow them and venture on any journey where they may lead.

“How do you feel about lavender and honey?”

Flowers and sugar for Brits and fancy people. He quirked his brow at the concept. “In coffee?”

Her eyes twinkled with excitement, as she spun around and began her concoction.

For him.

He needed to leave. But he followed the length of her arms, the delicacy of her fingers, the way her hips moved as she danced around her workstation. He was hypnotized again.

He imagined dancing with her. Letting her body flow and wrap around his like curtains billowing in the breeze. He barely registered that she was holding a new cup out toward him. While he was daydreaming, she had written his name on the cup and drew a little heart next to it.

He stared at it. It’s not exactly his name. But it’s the one he’d given her. And in return, she had given him so much.

He took the cup from her hand and couldn’t help but feel like he was undeserving of her kindness. Or her attention. Or her heart.

“Don’t make that face,” she softly admonished as if she could read his mind, or she might have read his sad look as disproval of her efforts. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

She gave him a smile. She gave and gave and gave. Gave him a reason to keep living. She didn’t even know.

He took a sip. It warmed his tongue, his throat, his heart. It ached.

“S’good,” he hummed, honestly surprised. He was telling her the truth. He reached for his wallet with his free hand, retrieving a wad of bills. He always paid in cash.

She waved him off, mock offense on her face. “No, silly. That’s not how gifts work!” Her laugh sounded like church bells.

She was a gift. For him. His flower. His Honey.

“This one’s on the house,” she assured him, as he hesitantly lowered his wallet. She whispered low, in a tone that burned him up inside. “It’ll be our secret.” His mind felt like it was rebooting. She said it innocently, but he was anything but. She scoffed with a flippant laugh, “Just don’t tell my boss, okay?”

Her boss. He knew about her boss. Tod. With one ‘D’.

Some mornings, particularly Monday through Thursday, he’d see the pencil-like man stiffly pacing the back of the bar while she and another young girl kept up with demand. Hawkish eyes, always watching. Always judging. Rarely picking up a milk jug himself.

He dominated the register. Peter hated handing him cash. His face reminded him of a cheese grater if it could look unhappy. “Are you sure you don’t want a pastry?” he offered the ‘add-on’ with what was supposed to be a smile.

Peter’s eyes shot over to his Honey as she was artfully pouring foam, adding her magic to someone else’s cup. She refused to look at Peter and he hated it. It reminded him of a defense tactic. Don’t look at the thing you don’t want to be taken away. As if he was a prized possession that she wanted to hide away from Tod, who might accuse her of having ‘favorites.’

It stirred wild emotions to be thought of that way, especially by her.

How dare her boss accuse her of any wrongdoing. How dare he threaten her.

“I’m fine,” said Peter, with a chill he hoped Tod could feel.

He needed to leave.

He needed to take his Honey and his Lavender Latte and just go.

He shook his head. His brain was lagging again. He turned away from the straight-backed scarecrow before a robotic ‘thank you for being a customer’ could be responded to.

Peter waited. Eyes on the floor. Eyes on the exit. Eyes on the windows. Eyes on her, but only briefly. He waited and daydreamed bitterly, waiting for her to call out a name that wasn’t his.

“Honey Lavender Latte,” his enchantress called out. Hearing her voice caught him from his downward spiral. He made eye contact with her as he took the cup from her hands. Warmth radiated from her eyes, although muted. It was enough to soothe and comfort him.

She blushed, sheepishly, unable to contain the smile in her voice. “Have a lavender-ly day.”

His mood lifted. Such a silly girl. Witchcraft, indeed. “Thanks, Honey,” he replied, without thinking.

Her big eyes widened for a moment, and her heart quickened. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked away, unsuccessfully hiding her teeth.

Peter would call her that a million times in a row if it would elicit that reaction.

“Have a great day,” Tod interrupted, murdering the moment.

Poor girl. She cowered slightly, like a dog hearing the word ‘no.’ She took a breath and put on a smile, turning back towards her work.

Tough girl. She didn’t need Peter to defend her.

He glanced over at Tod with a deadpan expression, and walked out of the shop before he did or said anything else stupid.

The world was full of Tods. It was also full of monsters. Sometimes Peter was one of them. No Tod was truly worth his attention.

Except for that one time.

A Tuesday morning in the middle of the holiday shopping season. Peter stood in line patiently, arms crossed, gritting his teeth. He glowered behind the bar at Tod, standing too close to his Honey. She gazed up at her boss helplessly, watching him turn red in the face, as the flagpole of a man waved his arms wildly. Clearly agitated, he kept his volume low but his body language screamed at her.

“What I need your help with is this,” Tod hissed as he towered over her. “I need you to tell me what is the best method for getting information into your head. How can I communicate with you in a way that you’ll understand?” His voice was soft although he flailed like a wavy-arm inflatable man in a car lot.

“Tell me honestly,” he sneered, dressing her down in front of a line of customers. At this point, Peter didn’t need any superpowers to be able to hear the conversation. She visibly fought the urge to cry. “Do I need to write it down? Do I need to scream at you? Do I need to throw something? Do I need to take you aside and have an hour-long conversation?” She kept her eyes on the ground as he kept pelting her with icicles. “Tell me your preference here. What is it that you’ll respond to?”

The scene came to an abrupt end when the glass of the shop window shattered. The sound silenced him finally. The front door swayed limply, having been yanked off its hinges and slammed into its frame. His Honey glanced around the shop with concern.

Peter was no longer there.

He didn’t come back that day.

Neither did Tod.

Some sort of accident, his Honey told him the following week, although he already knew the details. She explained to him why the shop had a new manager, a well-composed woman named Leyla. By the airiness of her mood, he could tell she greatly preferred Leyla’s managerial style.

She was happy, and that made him happy.

And that should be enough.

He should leave. He should run. Get as far away from her as possible.

But he was intoxicated by her. Drunk on her sweetness and her Honey Lavender Lattes.

He looked at her like she was the queen of the hive. He’d let her take that crown, any anything else she could ever want, if he had the chance. He’d worship her. He already looked at her like she was a goddess. The devotion in his honey-tinted eyes was clear to anyone who bothered to look.

“Peter Parker!”

Hearing his real name while he stood grinning like a fool in front of his Honey one afternoon made him flinch, sending a shiver up his spine. He turned around, yanked from his reverie, watching three men stroll into the shop.

He positioned his body in front of her, obscuring her from their view. His hands were tight balls at his sides.

Peter was familiar with two of the faces, but razor-sharp focused on the mountain in a suit they called Filch. He’d seen that greasy face more times than he’d want to admit, shrouded in darkness and cigar smoke. Seated at the hand of Wilson Fisk.

His jaw locked in place.

Filch looked overjoyed to see him. Like they were old friends. Like Peter didn’t know that Wilson Fisk was plotting to move against him.

“I thought that was you!” he brightly exclaimed. He strolled through the shop, like a cheetah stalking prey. Removing a hat and revealing what little hair he had left underneath. “Long way from Queens. Fancy finding ya all the way out here, eh?”

Peter knew better. The only surprise in this situation was intended for Peter. He’d been followed here. Watched.

His spine went rigid, shoulders into stone.

Don’t look at the thing you don’t want to be taken away.

He could hear her heart flutter faster behind him. As if she could sense the way he bristled when they arrived. Trouble in her kingdom. A disturbance to the delicate sanctuary she had built, like all of her totems and protection spells were wearing out.

Peter kept his back to her. He kept his eyes trained on the three men, who spread out in a familiar pattern. They were scoping the place. Checking for cameras, other patrons, and all possible exits.

Don’t look at the thing you want—

“Hey, Sugar, it’s cold outside,” Filch called out, with all the grace of flagging down a hooker. “Whaddya got to warm us up?”

Peter stared straight ahead. Glaring. Fuming.

“Might I suggest the coffee?” his Honey answered. “Just made a fresh pot of the dark roast. It’s good.”

He might have cracked a smile if he wasn’t busy envisioning a scenario where he’d have to kill the three men in the room with just the tools available in a coffee shop.

“Pour me a cuppa that,” Filch replied, his eyes never leaving Peter’s.

Peter only slightly relaxed when he felt her presence back away behind the bar. She grabbed a paper cup and filled it with steaming-hot tar. She set the cup down on the counter and backed away, minding her workstation. “That’ll be $2.50.”

Good girl, Peter thought. He saw Filch go for his breast pocket.

“I gotcha,” Peter cut in before Filch could move closer. He grabbed the cup and handed it over to his rival’s lapdog. “‘S’on me.”

Filch eyed Peter cautiously, reaching out where both hands could be visible. He took the cup with exaggerated gratitude. “No, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I said I gotcha,” Peter firmly cut him off, the cords in his neck going tight. Peter retrieved a few bills from his coat pocket, never breaking eye contact with his opponents. “We good here?”

Too many seconds passed with no response. He could feel the twitch of his pulse in his throat. Filch’s eyes drifted back behind the counter. He was too close to her. He studied her in a way that was far too intimate. It made Peter’s skin crawl.

“We’re good,” Filch replied. A smile curved his lips. He held the cup up, toasting him. “Have a great day.”

Peter swallowed hard as the three men sauntered out. He watched them go, his stomach sinking, bile rising.

They’d been watching him alright. Who knows how long. He’d been a patron of this shop and he would order from this girl and stare at her with doe-eyes and hearts swirling around his head, out in the open where anyone could see. And they did see. He showed his hand and now the game was over.

“Who’s Peter?” he heard her voice softly ask.

The illusion was shattered. He turned his head, but couldn’t bear to look at her. He felt sick. Empty. Furious. Petrified.

The monsters were gone now. But they’d be back.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say, as he walked out of the door.

They’d be back. He’d be there first.

She watched her favorite customer disappear into the night, her eyes wide with longing as she followed him. He disappeared in a few blinks of her eyes.

Something unsettling crawled beneath her skin. Maybe it was longing, but she was familiar with longing. This was new.

Her hands were shaking and she wasn’t sure how that happened either. One minute she was staring into his dreamy, honey-hued eyes, then the next he was running in the other direction. Not unlike their first meeting, a scene which she replayed over and over again in her head, trying to figure out what made him go so rigid.

Who’s Peter?

Peter Parker.

She repeated his name in her mind, reciting it like a mantra. She wasn’t great with names, but he told her his name was Ben on that first morning so many months ago, and she made a point to remember his name, and to say his name, because people liked it when you said their name, it made them feel closer to you and she wanted more than anything to be close to him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her wheels were spinning again. She used her thumb to push down hard on the center of her opposite palm. The dull pain grounded her back to reality.

When she opened her eyes, she half expected him to be there. He always seemed to show up when she least expected it. He was a bright spot in her day, despite his gloomy demeanor. He could be dark as a raincloud, but she loved dancing in the rain.

Or as her co-worker Nasrin teased her one day, he was her “tall, dark, hot cup of coffee.” She hid her face in her hands as Nasrin got to the “sucking him down with a straw” part of the analogy. She was incredibly grateful that he had been standing by the door, and there’s no way he could’ve heard that.

Now she had a first name and a last name and a... another name? And a place — you’re a long way away from Queens. A quick Google search of the names in question pulled up too many generic results. There was a dated article about a Ben Parker who was killed in an armed robbery, but her tall, dark friend couldn’t have had anything to do with that.

It twisted her stomach when she considered the fact that she really didn’t know him. She didn’t know who those guys were, and by the looks of things, she didn’t want to know. She should just drop it.

She did the best she could to keep busy, but there weren’t any more customers after that. She sent a quick text to her new manager that she wasn’t feeling well, and closed the shop early. She took the subway home.

Once she got on the train, she didn’t make it back to the platform. It was late, but the subway car was still unusually empty, save for a couple of randos sitting at the opposite end of her car. Any other night, the near-solitude would’ve been a blessing. Tonight, something felt off.

Twenty minutes into her ride, just as the train was about to cross the river, it jerkily slowed to a stop. Her cessation of movement stirred her. Her head popped up from the glow of her phone screen curiously. She worried her lower lip as she glanced at the doors and windows, as if she could somehow see whatever it was that was stopping the train.

She jolted as she felt a hand clamp down on her upper arm. Startled, she looked up at the two other occupants of the train car, now standing inches behind her. Two men that had been seated quietly, also seemingly distracted by their phones.

“Come on, sweetie pie,” one of them said, towering over her. “It’s time to go.” She didn’t recognize either of them, but her instincts reminded her of the altercation in the coffee shop. These two had the same ‘goonlike’ look.

She tried wrenching her arm away, but the stranger held tight. “Get off,” she hissed. His partner on the left took her other arm, albeit more gently.

“Hey, take it easy,” the other man admonished. “No need to be rude.”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” the first man added, with a greasy smile. Her eyes darted around frantically. Panic set in as she realized she was alone in the subway car. The doors slid open, but there was no platform. Instead, the doors opened to building rooftops. The train had stopped on an elevated track above the street.

“Let’s go,” the gruffer man beckoned, grabbing her arm more tightly. He dragged her through the doorway, on a dark walkway next to the tracks. As soon as he lifted her, she erupted into a fit of screams. She kicked her legs, shrieking for help, but no reply came. She didn’t know if no one could hear her, or if people knew better not to respond.

“Keep it down,” one of the goons ordered coldly, dragging her along. She desperately resisted, letting her legs drop out beneath her.

She heard a hiss and pop as the subway train sprang back to life behind them. She watched helplessly as it pulled away.

“A wild one, aren’cha?” the red-haired roughneck tutted, yanking her back up to her feet. “Be a good girl or I’ll throw ya over my shoulder.”

She tried jerking away again, but halted as she faced the edge of the walkway. The dizzying height stunned her into submission. Her knees began to lock up, trembling with fear.

“Take it easy, Katz,” the man’s partner chided him, albeit insincerely. The two of them practically carried her down the walkway. “You’re scarin’ her.”

They arrived at an old set of metal stairs leading to the street below. The sharp, steep grade of the steps made her vertigo even worse.

“No, help! Somebody help!” she hollered, wrapping her fingers in a death grip around the banisters and anything else she could reach.

“Keep your mouth shut!” the red-head called Katz snapped at her. He reached around and tried to put his beefy hand on her mouth, but she bit down on his flesh the second his fingers reached her lips.

“Ow!” he roared. “Bitch!”

She saw him rear back his fist. Then she saw nothing.

When she came to, her whole body ached. Every muscle throbbing, like she’d been twisted into a pretzel. Her eyelashes fluttered open. Flickering flourescents stung her eyes. Bleary, she gazed around in a dreamlike state until her senses slowly started to awaken.

She tasted glue. And blood. Took heavy humid breaths through her nose. She was on her side, on a concrete floor in a garage she didn’t recognize. The smell of motor oil and cleaning solution stabbed her nostrils. She gazed up at the shadowy, filthy undercarriage of a Rolls Royce lifted high up above her. Loud bangs jarred her out of slumber further. She faintly wondered who would be jackhammering—

Loud pops. Gunfire.

Her body went rigid, then sprung to life in terror. Attempting to open her mouth to scream, she realized that it was taped shut. Even slight movements of her jaw stung her flesh. She tried to sit up. Her arms tingled, like her limbs had fallen asleep. When she tried to move them she felt a sharp sting on her wrists.

Alarm started to take hold. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She glanced down and passed her dirty, blood-stained shirt to the duct tape wrapping her ankles. It might as well have been iron. Her wrists were also firmly bound behind her. Trying to pull them on them felt like ripping off her own skin. She whimpered excruciatingly.

The sounds were getting closer. She glanced around, eyes begging for help. Searching frantically for any reprieve amidst the scattered car parts and junk.

The gunfire was getting closer.

She scooted, inching her way across the floor until she reached a work table. She was lining her spine up against the table leg when the garage door rattled open. She was out of time. A spill of light from outside lamps flooded in, blinding her. She could only vaguely recognized her own shrieks behind the wall of duct tape.

A group of people stood at the garage doors with their backs to the light. She watched their imposing silhouettes with horror.

A tall, male form approached her, his long black coat trailing behind him. Tears that she couldn’t contain sprang from her eyes. She was trapped, terrified, like a rabbit staring down a wolf. All she could focus on was the gun in the man’s hands as he stalked toward her. She squeezed her eyes closed, waiting to hear a final shot that would end her life.

“Easy, easy,” a familiar, deep, and soothing voice rolled over her. “Shh, don’t be scared, Honey.”

Her breath hitched. Eyes popped open.

Crouched down to her eye level was her tall, dark, and bitter friend. Ben—Peter—whatever his name was— the moment she recognized his soft chocolate eyes and the scattering of a peppery beard on his otherwise boyish face, she felt a wave of relief.

His leather glove still held firmly onto a pistol. The sight of it dropped her back to reality. Like a bucket of ice water being poured over her body. She shuddered as he scooted closer.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he placated with a calm voice. “You’re okay.”

She wanted to believe him. He set his gun down on the concrete floor and reached for her with both hands. Another sound of a distant gunshot made her jolt. She recoiled away from his touch, shrinking herself up against the table leg.

He flinched at her reaction with a pained expression, as if she’d stabbed him. His hands faltered for a moment.

A man’s voice rang out from the group lingering behind, a youthful tone from someone barely older than a teenager. “Boss, we gotta go!”

A deeper voice called out in response, “C’mon, Pete. The calvary’s on the way. Get her on her feet! ”

Her eyes widened, tears streaming down her face. He stared back at her, his expression turning grim. She gazed up at her savior to realize that this was no true rescue.

A sickly feeling crept over her as she put the pieces together. Whatever this was, whatever was happening, whatever had happened to her—it was because of Peter.

Her tall, dark, and dangerous stranger. He grabbed her by the hips, scooting her closer. She wailed as he scooped her body up in her arms, dizzy with how fast and effortless it seemed. He carried her like a toddler having a tantrum, except she was restrained already.

Peter said nothing as he carried her out of the garage, barely looking at her, as he marched towards an idling, blacked-out SUV. She barely had time to spot the driver, a gorgeous woman with long silver hair.

She smirked at her, eyes sinister.

When the SUV finally came to a halt, all she knew is that they were in an underground parking garage. Her limbs felt heavy, the assault of adrenaline starting to take its toll. Few words were spoken during the car ride, and none to her. Thick tension filled the air.

She was on the floorboard, her cheek pressed up against the carpet. She gazed at the feet of two men seated in the back. One of them was the fresh-faced teenager she heard calling Peter ‘Boss.’ His name was Miles, she had heard. The other was a rugged, haunted-looking man, with large dark eyes fixed on the windows, ever watchful. Miles called him Miguel, before the older man shot him a look to stay quiet.

“That’s the unifying issue with the men in this car,” the woman driving the SUV snarked. “You all talk too much.”

Her heart hammered at the glint of a knife. Miguel opened a switchblade, grabbing her ankles.

“Whoa, hang on,” Miles talked to her—the first one to do so. “He’s gonna cut the tape, just so you can move your legs, okay?”

She gazed up at his soft dark eyes, her own still welling with tears. She felt the release on her legs give way as she kicked the rest of the tape off.

“Lights out,” a cold, distant voice ordered. The sound came from the front passenger seat, where Peter sat in tense silence.

Both Miles and Miguel seemed to hesitate, glancing at each other.

“You sure?” Miles questioned.

“He didn’t stutter,” the silver-haired woman replied, definitively. There was a bite in her voice, but it carried with it a tiredness filled with frustration. She sounded more like an older sister jabbing a younger sibling.

The woman popped open her door to get out. “Let’s go, boys. We got groceries inside.”

The world went black again. A dark hood was thrown over her head, obscuring her view.