#dog chew machine

[secret-smut-sideblog]

The Wolf

Lavellan x Blackwall

PG-13 - death, mentions of suicide attempt, death wish, loss, cultural grief, survivors guilt, relationships forming, sexual tension, rivalry

Waking in a prison, Lavellan finds herself the captive, then leader, of a force trying to close a rift in the sky. Recruiting a gruff dark stranger in her journey...

Masterlist

-

Sweet swirling dark. Her body wandered, released from exhaustion. Peace. A kind voice whispers.

Wake up.

Her eyes drift open. The world greets her dark with damp chains around her wrists. Low torchlight casts guardsman shadows as twitching giants against stone walls.

She rises onto forearms, tightly clenching her eyes. Gods damn her, she wasn't supposed to sleep. Grief raw in her chest.

A new pain in her palm. Flexing her long fingers, she stared at the sickly green light housed in her skin. Vague memory coming back to her.

"The Dalish elf is awake, Seeker."

A woman with close cropped hair entered her prison, staring down in that complex glare humans always gave her. Her ancestry set them against her, but her visage always drew them in regardless. Otherworldly beauty confusing their senses. Regarding her with distrust but unable to help their awe.

She rose to gently cup her hands on her kneeled thighs. Shoulders back, leveling her eyes to this captor.

The woman's eyes skirted away from her gaze for a moment. A graceful woman came up behind her, long hair and delicate armor. Darting her eyes to her companion and back to the golden kneeling figure.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead. Except for you." The tall woman urged, her voice thick with righteous grief.

Strange memory overcame her. A wasteland crawling with spiders. A woman made of green light, reaching for her hand. The same hand that now crackled with unsteady energy, pulling her in a single direction.

Aurum rose it, turning her palm to her gaze.

Her life mattered very little, but she had questions. Closing her eyes in a flutter as they were swiftly answered.

"Kill me if you must." She hushed, ignoring the secrets unfolding in her mind like flowers. The woman's name, her goal, already told to her long ago. The rift spewing demons clear to her, high above them. "I'm sorry for what happened here."

Cassandra paused, surprise flicking behind her anger. She grasped Aurum's chained wrist, lifting the green sparking between them.

"Explain this."

Aurum closed her eyes, giving in to the secrets. But they had little to show her.

"There was a woman made of light. She pulled me out. Then I woke up here. I remember little else."

Leilana's eyes flashed, gripping onto Cassandra's forearm. Silent information passing. Well, intended to be silent.

Dirthamen, god of secrets and knowledge, had touched her back. She had been here before. She knew these women and their cause. She knew how this ends.

"You're lying!" Cassandra urged, lunging towards her. The shake in her voice betraying her conviction.

"Cassandra, we need her." Leilana soothed, pushing her back.

"What is your name, elf?" Leilana approached, Cassandra her seething shadow.

"I come from clan Lavellan. I have no name. Your holy men called me Aurum." She tried to keep the bite out of her voice. Their church, the chantry. The ruin of all of her.

"Why were you at the Conclave?"

Their meeting to begin peace talks between mages and templars. The warriors sworn to corral mages, now assigned themselves executioner. Held by their most powerful holy woman, now dead. An explosion.

She had been sent with a mission to gather information for her clan. But it was clear what it truly was. An exiling. A death march.

Before the explosion cut through her, she had been heading up the cliff to throw herself into the sea.

"My clan sent me. The war between your people has bled into our path. They sought information on when it would cease."

That seemed to satisfy her interrogation. Cassandra came forward, cupping her slender shoulder.

"Go to the forward camp. I will take her to the rift."

Cassandra leveled a glare down at her as feet departed. Aurum stared back up.

"I'm ready to die, if that is your intention."

Her jaw clenched, a thin empathy behind her eyes. With a huff, she leaned down and unlocked her shackles.

"You're coming with me first."

She rose on steady feet. The constant self imposed exhaustion receded. Her body sighing out from sleep.

"I have one question." Aurum hushed. Cassandra stopped in her stride, a softness in her gaze.

"Who braided my hair?" The long plait rested against her hip. Shining gold even under the damp lighting.

"Solas." Cassandra sighed, taking Aurum's forearm to encourage forward. Both striding in a fast clip. "He was watching over you."

"Come. We have little time for chatter."

Aurum nodded, the pull of her palm a clear guide.

"Take me to your danger."

-

"So, how're you enjoying our little band of merry misfits?" Varric smiled, slinging his crossbow, a Bianca, he had informed her, over his shoulder.

Several rifts had been closed, the tangling politics of the human world set before her to un-knot. She was tired, but that was far from a new condition.

"You're good people." She smiled warmly at him. "Though I'd rather Cassandra be in charge."

Varric laughed.

"Nah, she's too deep in the fight. Too many scars and prickly feelings. We need fresh eyes to keep us moving forward."

She rubbed her scar with a thumb. The angry burned skin hidden inside her wrist a touchstone of grief.

"None of us are unscathed in this."

"That's the damned truth." Varric sighed, looking out over Haven. Their small fortress, the remains of the wake of the Conclave. "But you've been impartial so far. We need that."

"Get some rest, kid. Don't think I haven't noticed you wandering the grounds at night. You need more sleep than three hours. We'll find the Warden in the morning."

She smiled sadly at him. How little they knew of her.

"Thank you. Dareth shiral."

She paused, then laughed. Varric's eyes filled with mirth.

"Sorry, I mean goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sunshine."

The night air was crisp in winter cold, breathing it in deep. Snow crunching under her feet on her meandering trail down to the stables.

She had been sleeping there, the small amount she allowed to herself, nearly every night. Being inside the chantry turned her stomach, she tried to spend only needed time there.

"Kin, a word?"

Solas' poised frame took up next to her.

"You have no idea how soothing it is to see a familiar face." She sighed, turning to him. "Speak to me."

He smiled gently, a soft knowing in his eyes.

"I've been wondering about your dreams, if you'll indulge me. There is an... unknown to you. And those with this quality tend to wander in dreaming."

She paused. Weighing how much truth to unravel. Settling on a half omission.

"I don't dream. Not like that. It is a darkness that swirls around me. I walk."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Where are you trying to reach?"

She shook her head.

"I'm lost. Fading. I have to find someone."

There was a strange weighted silence fallen over him. Staring at her with an intensity that held her still.

"You are not lost. You have not been abandoned."

An ichor tear began to well in her eye, blinking it down. Rising her hand to her eyes to rub it away before the mercury silver could escape her.

"I hope you're right. I'd like to reach somewhere eventually."

He stepped forward, peering at her.

"Your god is Elgar'non, is it not?"

Ah, yes. The All Father. Father of sun and fury. His symbol tattooed across her face in deep gold. A diversion and protective measure, subterfuge for those that would seek her power of foresight.

"I was sworn to him, yes."

He kept his stare, nearly causing her to squirm. Then, a slow smile graced his angular features.

"Of course. Only a daughter of sun could shine so bright in beauty."

Aurum laughed, lacing her hands behind her back.

"I do stand out like a sore thumb, don't I?"

"Oh, absolutely. You are a swan amongst finches."

She tilted her head at him, an incredulous smile splitting her face.

"Oh, that was a good one. I haven't heard that one before."

Stepping back, she made down towards her trail again.

"Elves are always sweet talkers." She laughed brightly. "Goodnight, Solas."

"Sleep well, Lavellan."

It soothed her heart to hear a name that once belonged to her. All of the titles they laden on her bristling up her back.

Inquisitor. Herald. Your Worship. Things they called her. None her name. Nothing could bring that back.

The moon hung heavy and full in the sky, her light guiding the quiet hush of her feet. Taking a moment to find Andruil, the goddess of the hunt's, constellation out of habit.

A familiar ache sat in her chest. Settling down into a hay bale. The horses nickering softly at her in familiarity.

So much had been lost. Fire takes all.

"No, don't do this tonight." She whispered to herself. Fingers pushing into her temples, quieting the quiver of her lip.

The stampede of hooves, the cry of her kin, smoke deep and curling up into the ceiling. Rubble hiding her small body. A hand pulling from hers.

"I love you. Breathe deep."

A choked sob escaped her throat. Beating her fist into her thigh. Determined to not break. She couldn't claim this grief. It was poisoned by her. Resolving into slow even breaths.

Laying her head down, she stared up at the moon through the high window. Silver tears dripping down her temple. Allowing her god the smallest sliver of connection she could barter. Allowing her weary eyes to finally, finally close.

-

"Up ahead, there. I see him." Solas peered down the ridgeline. At the crest of the curve of the lake, a small group of men stood at a cabin. One pacing and dark, towering over the others. The men in his stead uncertainly gripping shields.

He was a captain of the Grey Wardens, a force of men sworn to kill darkspawn. The history of what darkspawn were, and who was to blame for their creation, varied from race to race. But they were close enough to demons, and they certainly needed help with those.

"Perhaps it's best if you go first." Cassandra sighed. "I've heard this one is less... socialized."

Aurum nodded. Though she was Dalish, her beauty and poise had been a helpful tool in disarming their encounters.

Heading down the lake trail, her companions following behind, the man took up more detail in her approach.

Dark thick hair that revealed as he removed his helmet, long and slicked back with sweat. A full forked beard set against sharp cheekbones, eyes burning under a heavy brow. Steel blue and piercing through the men he spoke to.

It had been a long time since she had seen a man so striking, slowing her approach. His focus solely on the men in his stead. Voice deep and thundering, cut through with grit. Pacing like a caged wolf.

"Remember how to carry your shields. You're not hiding, you're holding. Otherwise it's useless."

"Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?"

He turned to her, the melody of her voice picking up on the air.

He froze, eyes going wide. Then huffed out a breath, striding forward. Glaring down at her, his frame taking up her vision.

"You're not... how do you know my name? Who sent-"

The growl of his voice cut off abruptly. His lip curled back in a snarl, head snapping to her right. Lifting his shield over her head, an arrow snapped into the wood. It's trajectory straight into her temple.

Her eyes widened, darting to the curve of his arm, the recoil barely shifting it. Safe inside of the dark of his frame.

"I... I didn't see it." She gasped, shock pulling her poised mask away. Darting her eyes back to his.

He peered at her. His eyes steady for a moment, then pulled away. A small shiver in his breath that he huffed away. Men on the treeline descending.

"That's it. Help or get out. We're dealing with these idiots first!" He pulled away from her, a sword slung easily in his fist.

She smiled. She always loved the bristled ones.

"Gladly." Unslinging her bow from her back, she fired an arrow right between a man's eyes. Dropping him instantly.

Blackwall's jaw clenched, then dove forward.

The way he fought rose a lust in her. Slamming into bodies like a bear, the power of his swings knocking men into the dirt. Charging and unleashing fury into his foes.

She flanked behind him, using his body as a wide shield. Firing down over his shoulder, under his arm. Moving as lightning around his thunder.

Fighting with him felt natural. And over too quickly.

As the last fell, he drove his sword down into the dirt. Crouching down to stare at the slack face of the dead.

"Someone you know?" She offered softly, coming up to his side.

He was quiet for a moment longer.

"No. But someone should remember them."

He shook his head, voice a growl again.

"Sorry bastards."

Rising back to feet to encourage the farmers turned soldiers he had taken under his wing. Shaken, but alive. His wide back still tense.

They wandered away, and he turned back on her.

"Why do you know my name? Who are you?"

"I'm with the inquisition. I'm here to see about the disappearance of your kin. The Wardens."

"Kin?"

"She's Dalish, don't mind her." Varric smiled, leaning against the cabin.

"Apologies, your men."

Blackwall bristled at her companions' presence, seeming to see them now.

"I prefer to travel alone." He rumbled, eyes cutting back to her.

"So do I, but there's strength in numbers." She sighed. She was fond of her party but Gods, did she miss the solitude of the forest.

"I'm guessing you don't know their whereabouts then?" She offered, pulling his sword from the ground and holding it out with the hilt towards him.

He stared at the blade grazing her chest. Quickly taking it from her.

"No. I haven't seen another in years. We dont keep track of one another." He seated it back with a grumble.

"Right." She smiled, stretching out her shoulder with a pull on her lifted elbow. A small sigh of strain released. "You've been a great help in battle. I liked fighting with you."

He leveled his gaze on her again.

"And I you."

She smiled at him and saw his eyes dart from her.

"Well, that answers all my questions. I'll be out of your way, lone Warden."

She stepped forward, Cassandra's tired stare beckoning her along.

"It was lovely meeting you, I hope to see you again." She smiled as she passed. Varric rising from his lean, Solas picking up at her side.

"Inquisition... agent. Hold a moment."

She turned as he drew forward, a furrow in his brow. Shoulders softened.

"I've heard good word of your cause. I have not traveled with another in ages... but if you're truly seeking to solve this... Maker, this hell..."

She waited, seeing his resolve form, waver, then build again.

"If you're trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me."

"And maybe I do." She smiled, his posture pulling straight. "I would be honored to have you."

"Then you'll have me." He breathed, then filled his words again. "I didn't catch your name...?"

Solas took up behind her, a solid presence. Staring over her shoulder.

"I have no name. Lavellan is fine."

Blackwall met Solas' eyes, a cold reproach. Then softened on hers again.

"You have no...? Right."

He took up on her right, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Where to, Vella?"

~

Next Chapter

[valiant-if]

let me tell you, it's barely past noon for me and Monday has already been a Trial™

at least now i can get to the good part of the day (writing)

[eats-the-stars]

immortal robot this, machine that lives forever that. look. my job is to manage 6 machines. they are NOT immortal. right now 3 of them have little baggies taped to their sides with pieces that flew out and notes that say stuff like 'do NOT use needle 6 it is BENT' and this is a frequent occurrence. you want to keep a machine working? u need to baby the fuck out of these things. u don't just switch one on at the beginning of the day and turn it off at end of shift. these guys will jam and bend and tangle and flash error messages you've never seen in your life. one of the long-time employees will squint at the screen and go 'oh yeah you just need to uh reach back here and there's this wheel and you just turn it. no, it doesn't matter which way, just keep doing it until it works again. easy peasy.' and somehow this works. are machines smarter than ppl? also no. this bitch gets a loose screw and insists we need to switch to a bigger frame. haha no. i will get the washer stuck to a magnet behind the big corner machine and use that to tighten your screws baby girl. oh the frame is okay now? who would have guessed. like i love machines. they are beautiful. but a machine in motion is constantly cycling parts and spitting heat and breaking down. these lovely bastards are not at all immortal. so sorry baby girls but u will not outlive your fleshy caretakers.

[chillzhang-blog]

Calcium Dog Bone Chews Pressing Machine #RawhideBonePressingMachine #Dog...

[dogfoodmachine]

🐶✨ Want to create soft dog chews that support health and training? #Cold...

[karmaphone]

anyone got any tutorials or whatever for converting human clothes to dog clothes

[kutyaharapas]

i have to put more work into ritz as a character. he needs a mroe defined identity and defined role

[hereticsgravesite]

.

[auckie]

Old as shit skinny white woman in bed hooked up to 200 tubes and machines surrounded by her crying family, she looks up towards the eldest daughter and raises her frail hand. Everyone stops, listening raptly. She coughs twice and then clears her throat, and beckons the daughter closer. ‘i should’ve eaten her pussy. I should’ve rawed that roast beast like a rabid dog on its last legs. I would’ve made her bleed you know. She would’ve thought she came so hard that her period started. The squirt would’ve drowned me, but I’d swallow every last drop of rna so I could sequence it for the years to come. They’d have called me the krypt keeper. I would’ve chewed so hard her gynecologist would’ve woke up in the middle of the night sweating like a stuck pig. But I didn’t. That’s why I’m surrounded by you fucking bozos.’ With her final words she breaths her agonol breath and falls backwards before flatlining, leaving her family in the quiet hospice room stunned and teary eyed in the wake of her passing.

[pankesitopank]

AHHHH I SAW YOU DID MY REQUEST THANK YOUUU I LOVED IT IT WAS SO CUTE I couldn’t message you when I saw bc I was in the middle of finals (sorryy 😖) but I really loved it thank uu 😍. Anyway I have another request unfortunately #desperate. I was thinking of like bff Jisung who’s like in love w reader and is babysitting their dog and finds a special toy while looking for clothes to wear and becomes all whiney and stuttery n stuff while using it 😛. thank you for listening 🙂‍↕️

Caught!

wc: 3k

bff!han jisung x fem!reader

cw: bff to lovers - use of vibrator - reader catches him on the act - perv jisung - overstimulation - whiny and desperate han - creampie - crying (han) - softdom!reader

note: i love you chezzeballs300

You hadn’t meant to leave him alone. Not really. But your dog had taken to Jisung like he was a goddamn chew toy with a pulse, and your last-minute appointment couldn’t be rescheduled. You’d barely shoved your shoes on when Jisung waved you out the door with that lazy grin of his, already on the floor being licked to death.

“I got him, don’t worry!” he called through the laughter, voice slightly muffled under the weight of sixty pounds of overexcited canine. “Go! Save the world or whatever!”

You’d thanked him, blown him a kiss out of habit. He’d caught it and pressed it to his cheek with a dopey smile you didn’t see.

So now here he was—alone in your apartment. Hair fluffed from your couch pillows. Hoodie slightly damp from dog drool. Slippers too small and squishing his toes.

And he was comfortable. Really. You were his best friend. This was fine.

He flopped onto your bed after taking the dog for a quick walk, scrolling through his phone and letting the soft afternoon light warm his face. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the summer breeze. Somewhere down the hall, your laundry machine hummed a rhythm he didn’t recognize.

Your scent was everywhere.

That shampoo you always used, the hint of vanilla you swore wasn’t perfume. The gentle, feminine quiet of your space that wrapped around him like a blanket. Jisung buried his face in your pillow before he could stop himself.

And then—

Drool.

“Aw, come on,” he groaned, scrubbing at the wet patch on his hoodie. “Dude, you’re worse than me.”

The dog blinked innocently from the floor, tail wagging in slow thumps.

Jisung sighed, tugging the hoodie off over his head and padding toward your dresser. You’d told him he could borrow anything while he was here—something about the drawer on the left and not the right—

He opened the right.

And that’s when it hit him.

A drawer he’d never seen you touch in front of him. One that definitely didn’t contain any normal clothes.

And nestled between a rolled-up sleep mask and a bottle of lube so old the cap was crusted—

Was a vibrator.

Not some cheap little bullet either. This thing was sleek. Curved. Used.

His mouth went dry.

For a moment he just stared, heartbeat drumming in his ears, vision tunneling until the only thing in focus was that.

It looked too pretty to be real.

Then his brain kicked in—and immediately short-circuited.

That’s hers. That’s been inside her. She’s used that—she’s used that and—fuck—she’s moaned—

He slammed the drawer shut so fast the dog startled.

“Shit,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. “Shitshitshit.”

What the fuck was he doing snooping?

You trusted him. He was supposed to be watching your dog, not—

Not imagining how you’d look riding that thing with your thighs shaking and your pretty mouth falling open.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and sat down hard on the edge of your bed. He could feel it already: the way his dick was pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his sweats, half-hard and pulsing with a guilt-soaked need he knew he shouldn’t indulge.

You were his best friend.

He loved you.

Like loved you. Not just the kind of love you joked about in texts or danced around during movie nights. Real love. The kind that made his stomach flip when you curled up next to him. The kind that made him remember everything you ever said about your turn-ons, your exes, your toys.

The kind that made him ache when you looked at him like he was just your friend.

And now he was sitting in your room, with the image of your vibrator burned into his brain and your scent all over him.

He licked his lips. Swallowed.

Then stood up.

Slowly, quietly, he opened the drawer again.

His hands shook.

The toy was heavier than he expected. Warm, almost. Like you’d just used it. Like it still held some phantom trace of you—your heat, your slick, your sounds.

His breath hitched.

“Just look,” he muttered to himself, like a mantra. “Just… look.”

But his other hand was already drifting south. Already palming himself through his pants. Already trembling with the beginnings of need.

He should put it back.

He should leave.

But instead, Jisung lay back on your bed, clutching your pillow like a lifeline, your vibrator held to his chest like a stolen secret.

And with his other hand, he pushed his sweats down just enough to free his cock

It sprang up flushed and leaking, angry and desperate, twitching at the thought of you. The idea of you using this—of you putting it inside yourself, moaning, writhing, calling out his name—

Wait.

No. Not his name.

Not unless you thought of him when you used it.

The idea nearly made him choke.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, pressing the tip of the toy to his lips. “I’m so fucked.”

And he was.

Because the second the base buzzed to life in his hand, Jisung knew there was no going back.

The first time the vibrator touched his cock, Jisung gasped—sharp and choked, like his lungs couldn’t decide if he should breathe or beg.

The buzz was low, steady. Gentle at first. But the moment it kissed his flushed, aching tip, he jerked so hard his knees buckled. His back arched off your bed and he let out the softest, most pathetic little whine, one hand immediately flying to his mouth to muffle the sound.

It still slipped out around his fingers.

“F-fuck… oh—god…”

He was already too sensitive.

Already leaking—already so fucking hard from just thinking about you, about the drawer, about what it must’ve looked like when you used this on yourself.

Did you lay back?

Did you ride it?

Did you touch your tits at the same time?

Did you moan his name, even once?

The thought of you squirming under your own fingers, lips parted and brows furrowed in concentration, made his hips twitch up against the toy, chasing the sensation greedily. He was already losing it. Already dizzy.

And then his traitor mouth slipped—

“Yn…”

His voice was so needy, so soft—like a prayer he didn’t realize he was saying out loud.

And worse: your dog was still asleep in the corner of the room, completely unaware that his babysitter was currently rutting against your vibrator like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He should stop.

He needed to stop.

But the moment he teased the base of the toy under his shaft—pressed it there, just right, right along that strip of oversensitive nerve—his hips jerked again. His cock throbbed hard enough to make his stomach clench, and then—wetness.

Spit.

He’d drooled onto your pillow.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered, biting his knuckle hard, cheeks burning. “What the fuck is wrong with me—”

But the buzzing didn’t stop.

The vibrations crawled up the length of him, buzzing along the ridge of his cock, teasing the base, the tip, circling back down again like a cruel whisper of the real thing.

He kept fucking into it. Barely-there thrusts. His thighs trembled, abs flexing with every clench, every desperate grind, every little shiver.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had to. If he opened them, he’d see your room. Your bed. Your pillow soaked in his spit. The vibrator you’d actually used between his legs. And maybe—maybe the worst part—

He liked it.

No—he loved it. The guilt. The heat. The pathetic need in his gut. The idea that you could come home right now and find him like this—half-naked and panting, so far gone he couldn’t even stop grinding against something that still smelled like you.

He let out a broken, high-pitched sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, chest heaving as he humped the toy again and again and again. It wasn’t even in him. Just pressed to his cock. Just buzzing there while he fucked into it like a dog in heat.

“Please—” he whispered, not even sure what he was begging for. “Please—pleaseplease—oh fuck, I-I need—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

Because the thought was you.

He needed you.

You, in that tiny crop top you wore when you cleaned the kitchen. You, in the gym shorts that always hugged your thighs. You, teasing him when you bent over to pick up your keys, laughing when he turned red and looked away.

You, right now—coming home, walking in, catching him like this—

Your voice: “Jisung?”

Your eyes: wide. Confused. Hot.

Your mouth: “What are you doing with that?”

Fuck.

His cock pulsed.

“Ah—!” he gasped, pressing the toy harder against himself. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t— I just— I wanted to feel— I-I didn’t mean to—!”

He was panting now, full-body shaking, one hand still holding the toy, the other clutching your pillow like it might keep him anchored.

His hips moved faster.

He was getting close.

Too close.

And the guilt felt so good—the idea of being caught, of being used, of you looking down at him and punishing him for being so filthy, so desperate, so in love—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck I’m gonna—!”

He came with a shudder, a soft, helpless cry muffled against your sheets.

Hot, sticky ropes spurted over his belly, thighs, the toy. His toes curled. His breath caught.

But the vibrator didn’t stop.

The buzz kept going. Unrelenting.

And so did he.

His hips bucked again.

His thighs trembled.

A second orgasm started building before he could even recover.

“No—fuck—can’t—! I c-can’t again, I just—hngh—”

His stomach muscles spasmed, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body thrumming with overstimulation.

But it felt so good.

So filthy.

So right.

And the worst part?

He still imagined you walking in.

Because if you saw him like this—sweaty, flushed, cock twitching helplessly against the vibrator—

Maybe you’d finally understand just how badly he wanted you.

You opened the door with your keys already between your fingers and your tote bag half-falling off your shoulder.

You were only supposed to be gone for a couple of hours—just a quick run to your sister���s place to drop off some things. But now it was past 7, the sun was setting warm and low through your living room windows, and your dog hadn’t come running to greet you.

Odd.

You slipped off your shoes. The leash was still hanging where you left it. Food untouched. Water bowl full.

And the bedroom door… cracked.

Soft, breathy noise filtered through the silence.

Whimpering?

You frowned.

“Jisung?” you called. “Everything okay?”

No answer.

So you stepped forward—quietly, slowly, like you were afraid of what you might find—and when you pushed the door open just an inch more, the scene made your brain stop working.

Because there he was.

In your bed.

Sweaty. Blushing. Panting.

Naked except for the hem of one of your oversized shirts pushed up to his chest. His thighs were trembling, knees half-bent, his whole body twitching and shuddering with aftershocks. And between his legs…

Your vibrator.

Still buzzing.

Still wet.

Still smeared with his cum.

“Jisung?” you breathed, mouth falling open.

His head whipped around so fast it looked like it hurt. Wide brown eyes locked on yours—pure terror for a second, followed by guilt, embarrassment, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“W-wait, I—I can explain—!” he choked, scrambling to toss the toy aside and cover himself, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His hips bucked helplessly, his thighs shook, and he made this desperate little whine like the shame was eating him alive.

“I—fuck, I didn’t mean to—I was just—! I just wanted to wear something comfy, and I saw it in the drawer, and I—I didn’t know I was gonna—fuck, please don’t hate me—”

He looked like he was about to cry.

You just stood there, heart thudding in your chest, mouth dry.

You should’ve yelled.

Should’ve kicked him out.

Should’ve said anything.

But instead, the only thing that came out of your mouth was—

“…Did you come thinking about me?”

Silence.

Thick. Stretched. Breathless.

His eyes went even wider—doe-like and shocked, his mouth open but speechless.

And then—softly, brokenly, like admitting it would shatter him—

“…yes.”

You stepped closer.

He blinked up at you.

You reached for the vibrator—sticky, still buzzing, abandoned on the sheets—and clicked it off.

Then you tossed it onto the floor.

And climbed on top of him.

“W-wait—! What are you—? You’re not mad?” he asked, voice cracking, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch. His dick was still twitching, still hard, shiny with cum, flushed to the tip.

And you—your thighs were already straddling his hips.

“No,” you said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”

His breath hitched.

“…Are you gonna punish me?”

You smirked.

“No,” you said again. Then, softer—“I’m gonna ride you.”

Jisung whimpered.

The second your fingers wrapped around his cock, he twitched like he’d been electrocuted.

He was still sensitive—overstimulated and leaking, head thrown back, thighs shaking under your touch—but he wanted it. Every inch of him screamed for it.

“You’re such a mess,” you whispered, dragging your folds along his length. “Were you humping my toy like a little pervert?”

“I—nngh—yes,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop—”

“You came on my sheets,” you said, rubbing the tip against your entrance. “Came all over yourself. Thinking about me.”

He nodded frantically, lips parted, cheeks flushed red.

“I’m disgusting,” he choked, voice wrecked. “I-I didn’t mean to, I just— I love you, and—”

You froze.

Your eyes snapped to his.

“…You love me?”

His breath caught.

Shit.

But it was too late to lie.

“I—I do,” he whispered. “I’ve been in love with you forever. I didn’t know what to do anymore, and when I saw that thing in your drawer I just— I lost it. I’m sorry—please don’t make me leave—”

You leaned down and kissed him.

Messy. Hot. Tongue first. Your teeth scraped his bottom lip, and he moaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting years for this.

“I’m not gonna make you leave,” you said. “I’m gonna fuck you until you forget your name.”

And then you sank down on him.

His reaction was instant.

High-pitched, breathless whimpers. Eyes rolling back. Hands flying to your hips but not gripping—just resting, like he was too afraid to move, too afraid to mess this up.

You took him slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way he stretched you open, how wet you already were just from watching him. His cock filled you completely, bottomed out with a soft slap, and he sobbed.

“P-please,” he begged. “Please move, I—I need—oh god—”

You rolled your hips.

Once.

Then again.

And Jisung lost it.

His nails dug into the blankets, his head buried into your shoulder, breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.

“Y-you’re so warm,” he gasped. “Feels so good—feels better than anything, oh fuck, I’m—”

You bounced on him slowly, lazily—grinding down in circles, making him feel it. He was already whining again, that sweet pitch in his voice like he couldn’t decide if he was going to cry or come.

You tugged his hair. Tilted his head back.

“Look at me.”

He did.

And you kissed him again—slow and open-mouthed this time, swallowing his sounds, letting him moan into you like he needed it to survive.

“I’m not mad,” you whispered. “I’ve wanted this too.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I—I love you—”

“I know.”

You bounced faster.

His hips tried to chase yours, but he was too fucked out. He couldn’t keep up. He just whimpered, head back, cock twitching deep inside you.

And when your walls squeezed around him, when your nails raked down his chest, when you leaned in and moaned his name right against his ear—

He came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sticky.

With a shout and a tremble, his whole body went rigid under you, cum spilling deep, so much of it, and he was still babbling—

“I love you—thank you—fuck, I love you—I love you”

You stayed there.

Grinding through it, fucking him through the high, kissing the corners of his wet, pretty eyes.

And when you came next, clenched tight around his sensitive cock with a soft cry of his name, he nearly passed out from how good it felt.

You didn’t get off him for a long time.

He wouldn’t let you.

Not because he needed to go again (though he definitely did), but because he didn’t want to let go. His arms curled around your waist, his face pressed into your chest, his voice soft and hazy.

“…so I guess I’m not just the dog babysitter anymore, huh?”

You laughed.

“No, Ji,” you whispered. “You’re mine.”

And he smiled into your skin.

“Finally

[joelsrose]

I just started watching Narcos and girl, Steve and Javiiiiiii….I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of all of that…

What about something really fluffy with reader being a goody two shoes secretary or something, like really smart but totally shy…and Javi is flirty and teasing and Steve is sweet to her?

Love your writing 💖

i loved this prompt! hope you enjoy x

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

It was your first day, and to say you were nervous barely scratched the surface of it. You were practically vibrating with anxious energy, your fingers clutching a notepad like it was a holy text, the strap of your purse leaving a red line on your shoulder as you followed the very pregnant woman you were replacing through the narrow corridors of the DEA field office. The air was thick with heat and the faint tang of cigarette smoke, a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead, as if it too couldn’t be bothered with the pressure of the day.

The woman walked slowly, one hand resting low on her belly like she was holding the baby in place, her voice calm but brisk as she pointed out the important things you’d need to know: the coffee machine that only sometimes worked, the drawer with the good pens that no one else knew about, the printer that jammed if you looked at it the wrong way.

“Here’s the printer,” she said, giving it a gentle pat like a temperamental child. “The agents are usually too lazy to copy their own files, so don’t be surprised if they come sweet-talking you into doing it.”

You nodded quickly, trying to absorb every word and committing them to memory with the panicked focus of someone who absolutely did not want to mess this up.

She paused before heading toward the elevator, shifting her weight with a soft, maternal groan. Her eyes softened as they swept over you. “Buena suerte, cariño,” she said, her voice warm and kind.

“Gracias,” you replied in your quietest voice, the syllables soft and careful on your tongue. She smiled, gave you a wink, and disappeared down the hall.

You took a breath. Then another.

Your new desk sat tucked into the corner, a little nest of organized chaos—files stacked neatly, a potted plant that had seen better days, and a phone that had already rung twice before you figured out how to transfer calls. You were seated there, chewing nervously on the edge of your pen, furiously typing something you hoped was formatted correctly, when a low voice startled you out of your focus.

“Afternoon.”

You gasped and nearly knocked over your water, your wide eyes darting up to find a man standing by your desk—tall, with a calm smile and a gentle glint in his blue eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, tie loosened just enough to make him look like he’d had a long day, but still cared.

“Shit—sorry,” he said quickly, hands raised a little in apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blinked, heart pounding, already flustered. “Sorry—I, I didn’t see you coming.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and easy. “You’re new, right?”

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. First day. Is it that obvious?” you asked, trying to smile through your nerves.

“Not at all,” he said, with a warmth that made your cheeks flush. “You’re doing great.”

Your eyes dropped to the stack of papers in his hands—typed reports, some of them dog-eared, all of them marked with red pen. “Do you need those photocopied?” you asked quickly, already half-rising from your seat, desperate to be useful.

He glanced at the stack, then at you, like he hadn’t expected you to offer. “Would you? That’d be real helpful.”

You nodded, carefully taking them from his hands like they were precious. His fingers brushed yours for a moment—warm, calloused—and it sent a weird little buzz down your spine.

“I’m Steve,” he added, smiling down at you. “If anyone gives you trouble around here, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

You flushed again, muttered a soft “thank you,” and he gave you a nod before stepping back toward the hallway. You watched him go, then glanced down at the reports.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The day had dragged on in the way only long, hot days in Bogotá could—the kind that left a sheen of sweat clinging to your collarbones, your blouse stuck to your back, and your legs aching from running errands across the office like a girl with something to prove. Phones rang, the typewriters clacked with relentless rhythm, and you’d barely had time to sip your lukewarm coffee, let alone catch your breath.

Now, with the sun beginning to dip low outside the hazy windows and your shift nearly over, you were at the filing cabinet, quietly humming to yourself as your fingers skimmed over manila folders—searching, focused, tired.

And then—you heard it.

A low whistle behind you, smooth and deliberate.

You turned, startled, your heart skipping before your eyes even landed on him.

He was leaning against the doorframe like he was born to do it—one arm hooked just above his head, the other resting casually at his hip, thumb tucked into the waistband of jeans worn soft at the edges. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, the light cotton clinging to the heat-slicked curve of his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he couldn’t be bothered with formalities, like formality had never once tamed him. The ceiling fan above him turned lazily, lifting the edges of his dark, slightly mussed hair, and a cigarette sat tucked behind his ear.

No tie. No badge in sight. Just the lazy drape of his frame against the door and that impossible calm in his posture—as if nothing in the world could rattle him, but you just might.

His gaze found you instantly, dragging slowly over your frame in a way that made your throat tighten, like he was memorizing the way the light hit your cheek, the soft mess of your hair pulled up from a long day.

“Didn’t know angels came with filing cabinets,” he drawled, voice low and honeyed, like he said things just to see how they'd sound curling out of his mouth.

You blinked, caught off guard, your cheeks already heating like a match had been struck under your skin. The folder in your hand wobbled slightly in your grasp.

He stepped into the room with the kind of ease most men faked—every movement loose and casual, but still impossibly confident. The cigarette stayed tucked behind his ear as he sauntered closer, boots heavy on the floor, his eyes never leaving your face.

“You always this shy, mami?” he murmured, stopping just a foot away, his voice dipped in curiosity and just enough tease to make your stomach flip. The way he said it wasn’t mocking���it was gentle, almost sweet, like he’d stumbled across something delicate in the middle of all this noise and didn’t know whether to pocket it or leave it untouched.

You tightened your grip on the folder like it might anchor you to the floor. “I’m not shy,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

He chuckled—a soft, amused sound that made your spine tingle.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, voice low, something amused dancing behind his eyes. “You blush easy, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to say anything more without squeaking.

His eyes flicked to the way you fidgeted, and his smile shifted—still playful, but a little warmer now. He reached out slowly, not abrupt or showy, and took your hand in his like it was the most natural thing in the world. You froze as he lifted it, turned your wrist slightly, and brought your knuckles to his lips.

“I’m Javi,” he said simply, brushing a kiss over your skin like it was a greeting he gave everyone, though something in the way he lingered—barely a second longer than necessary—told you maybe it wasn’t.

Your breath caught. “Oh,” you whispered. “Javier Peña?”

His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise—and something smug behind it. Like he wasn’t used to people saying his full name so softly. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at the way you were looking at him now, half entranced, half terrified, all butterflies.

“In the flesh,” he murmured, his voice dipping even lower, smooth as aged whiskey and just as dangerous.

Then, after a beat, his head tilted slightly, dark eyes scanning your face with slow interest. “No te he visto antes,” he said, the Spanish rolling easily off his tongue, like smoke curling in the summer air. I haven’t seen you around before.

Your lips parted, a soft little sound escaping before you could catch it. Your face grew warm—warmer, somehow—and you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers suddenly clumsy.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know Spanish. Not yet. I’m… I’m trying to learn.”

His mouth curved again, but this time, it was softer. Not a smirk. Something quieter. Something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

“Don’t apologize, cariño,” he said, the word slipping out with so much casual affection it made your knees go a little weak.

Your brows lifted—almost instinctively, like your heart was reaching for understanding before your head could.

He leaned in just slightly, close enough that the scent of his cologne wrapped around you—warm leather, smoke, and something unnameably him.

“Cariño,” he repeated, his voice velvet-smooth, “means darling.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your throat tightening like a ribbon being pulled gently.

“Oh,” you said, blinking up at him, your lips curving in shy surprise.

He took one step closer, and you didn’t move away—not because you weren’t nervous, but because something about him made it feel like gravity had shifted in the room and you were being pulled toward him, whether you liked it or not.

“If you’re serious about learning,” he said, tone suddenly low and conspiratorial, like a secret passed between friends—or something more, “I could teach you.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, heart hammering, words tangled in your throat. He was so close. So confident. So intentional. And you were just… a girl with sweaty palms and a head full of butterflies.

“I—um… I mean, if you want to,” you managed, instantly wanting to crawl into the filing cabinet and shut the drawer.

He chuckled, low and rich. “I offered, didn’t I?”

Your mouth opened again, but he was already turning, already walking away with that easy, unhurried gait, as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a single word. He glanced back once over his shoulder, just long enough to catch your stunned expression, and smirked.

“Hasta luego,” he called, like a promise.

You stood there, your heart beating loud in your ears, wondering how a man could make a single word sound like foreplay.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

By the next day, things felt easier.

You still walked a little fast when someone called your name and still triple-checked the spelling on every file, but the rhythm of the office had started to settle into your bones. You knew which drawer stuck slightly and had to be tugged twice, which phone line belonged to which department, and how to make the coffee strong enough that even Peña didn’t complain. You felt—if not confident—then at least not completely lost.

And then came lunch.

Most of the agents took their breaks out on the front steps of the building, perching wherever the sun fell just right. Some ate in the breakroom that always smelled like reheated leftovers and strong cologne. You could hear the laughter echoing down the hallways sometimes, voices calling out, boots clunking against tile.

But you, quiet thing that you were, stayed at your desk.

It felt safer here. The whirr of the fan. The hum of the fluorescent lights. The comfort of your own little corner in the chaos. You’d made your sandwich the night before—plain, careful, pressed in wax paper—and now unwrapped it slowly, laying the napkin across your lap like you were still trying to be perfect even when no one was looking.

That’s when you saw a figure approach from the corner of your eye.

You looked up.

“Hey,” he said, with a soft, easy smile.

Steve Murphy.

He was in his button-down, sleeves rolled up, his tie slightly askew in that charming way like he’d been too busy solving things to fix it. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his fingers through it a few too many times, and his eyes—so blue and so gentle—found yours like they already knew how to read your every nervous thought.

“Oh—hi,” you said quickly, startled but trying not to show it, straightening just a little in your chair. “What can I help you with?”

He chuckled, low and kind, as if your question had been sweet rather than unnecessary.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes flicking down to your desk. “Just saw you sitting here. Have you had lunch yet?”

Your fingers curled around the wax paper in your lap. “I was about to,” you said, glancing down at your sandwich, embarrassed like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Here?” he asked, stepping in a little, brows tugging together slightly. “Alone?”

You shrugged, the heat creeping up your neck again. “I… I don’t really know anyone yet,” you admitted, voice soft as your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your napkin. “It’s okay, though. I don’t mind.”

Steve’s expression softened even more. And then, with the same steady calm he always seemed to carry, he leaned forward just a little, one hand braced on the desk.

“Well,” he said, voice soft and laced with just enough warmth to make your chest ache, a small smile tugging at his mouth as his eyes met yours with something quiet and reassuring, “you know me.”

You blinked, startled for a moment by the easiness in his tone, the way he said it like it was a simple truth, like of course you knew him, like that fact alone was enough reason to follow him anywhere.

Your eyes lifted to his, wide and unsure, but already softening at the way he looked at you—gentle, patient, like he wasn’t asking for much, just a few minutes of your time and the tiniest bit of trust.

“C’mon,” he added, his voice low and kind, the words not coaxing but welcoming, like an open door. “It’ll be good to get out of the office for a bit, don’t you think? You’ve been working nonstop.”

Your heart gave a quiet little flutter, a warmth blooming beneath your ribs that you tried not to show on your face. You looked down at your sandwich—still neatly wrapped in wax paper, untouched, suddenly small in your hands—and then slowly looked back up at him.

You hesitated for just a second longer, then nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

His grin widened—pleased, but not smug. Just honest, like he was genuinely happy you’d said yes. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go.”

And then—just like that—he was leading you out into the hallway with that easy warmth radiating off him, like he didn’t even realize how much it meant. Like he didn’t know that, with just one smile, he’d made the noise of the office seem a little less scary, and the world a little less lonely.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Murphy made things easy. He had a calm way about him, the kind that didn’t draw attention to itself but wrapped around you like warmth from the sun. He asked questions that didn’t feel nosy, made quiet jokes that surprised a laugh out of you, and somehow made the walk down the stairs feel like less of a walk and more like… company.

“I know a place just down the street,” he said, holding the door open for you like it was second nature. “Best empanadas in town, no contest.”

“Really?” you asked, your voice lighter than it had been all morning.

“The best,” he grinned. “And I don’t lie about food. It’s sacred.”

You stepped into the humid afternoon together, the city humming with heat and noise around you. You walked side by side on the sidewalk, Murphy keeping just a half step ahead like he was ready to shield you from a rogue taxi or a sudden gust of wind. You were still tucking a piece of hair behind your ear when the scent of cigarette smoke reached you—and then a voice followed.

Low. Lazy. Familiar.

“Bueno, hablamos luego.”

You looked up just in time to see him—Javier Peña, leaning against the edge of the building like a man who belonged to the street itself, phone pressed to his ear, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. His shirt was wrinkled in that unfairly perfect way, tie loose, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose. He turned his head, eyes catching on you first—then Murphy—and that easy, smooth line of his mouth shifted.

The phone dropped from his ear. “Chao,” he said flatly into the receiver before hanging up without waiting for a response.

“Well, well,” he drawled, pushing off the wall with slow grace. His eyes dragged over you both, sharp and unreadable. “Where you two headed?”

“Lunch,” Murphy said simply, barely glancing back.

Javi’s smirk curled like smoke. “That so?”

“Yep,” Steve replied, tone easy.

Javi flicked the ash from his cigarette and checked his watch with theatrical boredom. “Damn,” he said. “I’m starving.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he added, voice soft and low, eyes trained straight on you, “So… where we goin’?”

Your heart jumped. Murphy looked over at you, brows raised like he was waiting to see what you’d say. Javi didn’t even bother pretending—he was watching you closely, cigarette still between his fingers, like the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.

You blinked, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “I… um…”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Murphy said casually, kind as ever.

“Wasn’t asking you,” Javi murmured, eyes never leaving yours.

Your stomach flipped.

Murphy gave him a look—dry, unimpressed—but didn’t argue. He just smiled at you gently. “Up to you,” he said, soft enough that it grounded you.

You glanced between them. The calm steadiness of Steve. The simmering fire that was Javi. And you—stuck in the middle, blushing, trying to decide who your knees would give out for first.

“Of course,” you said, trying to keep your voice from wobbling as you tucked your hair behind your ear. “Best empanadas in town, apparently.”

You smiled up at Murphy, and he grinned back, bright and easy like always, a little wrinkle forming at the corner of his eyes, the kind of expression that made you feel like you were someone worth smiling at.

“Damn right,” he said, his hand already in his pocket as if he were checking to make sure his wallet hadn’t somehow disappeared just from thinking about lunch.

And then—of course—Javi.

“That so?” he repeated, his voice lower, slower, and just sharp enough around the edges to cut through the summer haze. He stepped forward, flicked the last of his cigarette to the pavement, and gave Murphy a long, sideways look. “I’d argue I cook better ones.”

Murphy raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”

Javi smirked, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them into the front of his shirt. “What, you think gringos are the only ones allowed to throw meat in dough and call it a meal?”

“Didn’t know you had time to cook between all the—” Steve gestured vaguely, “—charm and cigarettes.”

Javi just grinned wider. “What can I say? I multitask.”

Your face was already warm, but it only got worse when Javi’s eyes found yours again.

“Tell you what, cariño,” he said, voice syrupy, way too smooth, “you come over one night, I’ll show you how empanadas are supposed to taste.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, entirely useless.

Murphy glanced at you, gentle and kind, but there was something knowing behind it now—like he saw the way you shifted under Javi’s gaze, like he noticed how easily your breath caught.

And then—just like that—you were walking.

Down the sidewalk, between the two of them, like it was the most natural thing in the world and not completely insane that you were flanked by two armed federal agents who smelled like warm leather and aftershave and power, one radiating sweet protection, the other lazy fire and smirking danger.

Murphy was all calm presence—his gun concealed under his jacket, his steps steady, his voice warm as he asked you about where you grew up, what you liked to read, if you’d tried any Colombian desserts yet.

And Javi? Javi was chaos in a collared shirt—his sidearm stuffed into his pocket like he didn’t care who saw it, hands in his pants as he walked with that signature swagger, eyes occasionally flicking down to you with that same unreadable heat. When he spoke, it was slower, more calculated. Less about facts, more about watching you react.

And God—they both smelled so good. One like soap and sun-warmed cotton, the other like cigarettes and something rich and musky, and you didn’t know if it was the heat or your own mind playing tricks, but your knees felt a little weak, and your heartbeat was tapping against your ribs like a trapped bird.

They were opposites in every way—Steve with his soft drawl and honest eyes, and Javi with his cigarette voice and sin-soaked charm—and yet… somehow, you were drawn to both.

Two storms. One gentle. One electric.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The lunch spot was small, tucked between a hardware store and an old pharmacy, the kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you knew what magic it held inside. The windows were fogged with heat and the smell of grilled meat and cumin wafted out each time the door opened, mixing with the thick air and the street dust that clung to everything in Bogotá. A faded sign above the door read La Esquina, the paint chipped but still proud, and inside, the radio played something soft and lilting in Spanish, the kind of music that felt like a breeze even in the sweltering warmth.

Murphy reached the door first and opened it for you, stepping back with an easy smile.

You blushed, eyes dropping automatically as you passed. “Thank you,” you murmured.

“Always,” he said, gentle and sweet, like it wasn’t anything special, like it didn’t make your heart do a quiet little tumble in your chest.

And then Javi, right behind you, muttered with a smirk, “Thanks, gringo.”

Murphy gave him a look, but Javi just flashed a toothy, unapologetic smile and followed you both inside.

The place was buzzing with locals, the smell of oil and spice and fresh lime lingering in the air. Ceiling fans turned slow above cracked tile floors, and the walls were lined with old posters, curling at the edges, and handwritten specials tacked to a corkboard. Booths lined the far wall, red leather cracked and faded in places, but they gave the place a charm that felt lived-in. Familiar. Warm.

You were still looking around, taking it all in, when Javi’s hand lightly touched your back.

“Here,” he said, already guiding you toward a booth near the window, the sun slanting just right to catch the soft sheen on his forearms. He slid in first—fast, confident, smooth—and made sure there was only one seat left on the inside.

Next to him.

You hesitated for a second too long.

Murphy raised an eyebrow like he might say something, but didn’t.

You sat down.

You could feel Javi’s leg warm against yours almost instantly, his body stretched out beside you with one arm draped along the back of the booth like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. You kept your hands in your lap, trying to pretend you weren’t entirely aware of every inch of him next to you, of the way his thigh pressed against yours with casual certainty.

Murphy slid into the seat across from you both, his jaw tight but his expression otherwise unreadable.

He gave Javi a look. Subtle. Controlled. But it said Really?

Javi didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he leaned back against the booth with that infuriating, devastating ease—his arm still draped along the backrest behind you, his knee brushing yours like it belonged there, like this seat was his by right.

You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck.

“Is there… a menu?” you asked, voice soft, desperate to cut through the tension with something normal, something neutral. Your hands were folded neatly in your lap, even as your pulse drummed just under your skin.

Javi let out a low chuckle, head turning just enough for you to catch the flicker of mischief in his eyes. “No need, cariño, they know what to make.”

Murphy rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something snarky—but instead, he looked at you, softening instantly.

“They don’t really do menus here,” he explained, voice low and warm. “They just kind of… bring you what they’ve got going today. Usually a few different fillings, whatever’s fresh. You just tell ’em how many you want, and if you want them spicy.”

He paused, his smile gentle. “Trust me, it’s good.”

“Real good,” Javi added, low and smooth beside you. He didn’t look at you when he said it—he was watching Steve, his smirk now laced with something more subtle. Something sharp.

You nodded, trying to focus, trying to stop your eyes from flicking between them like you were watching some high-stakes poker game. The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve, all kind words and quiet steadiness, his hands folded on the table like a gentleman, his badge tucked neatly beneath his jacket… and Javi, sprawled out beside you like a slow-burning fire, gun heavy in the pocket of his slacks, cologne mingling with the faint scent of smoke clinging to his shirt.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The food arrived quickly—hot, golden, impossibly fragrant. The plate was set in front of you with a cheerful "¡Buen provecho!" and the smell alone had your stomach fluttering in anticipation.

You picked one up carefully, the crust still steaming, the edges crisp and flaking at your touch.

And then—without thinking, without meaning to—you bit into it.

The flavor hit you like a wave. Rich and warm, the filling tender and spicy and perfect, the dough crisp and buttery, everything so unexpectedly divine you couldn’t stop the quiet sound that left your lips.

A soft, involuntary moan.

Just a small one. But it hung there. Obvious. Intimate.

Across the table, Murphy’s brows lifted just slightly—barely a twitch of amusement—but it was enough to deepen the lines at the corners of his eyes, his lips tugging into a smile that was half playful, half tender as he leaned forward, resting his chin in the curve of his hand like he had all the time in the world just to watch you.

“That good, huh?” he asked, his voice a low hum of warmth, teasing without cruelty, kind in a way that made your pulse stutter, like he could make your fluster feel less like embarrassment and more like something sacred.

You blinked, cheeks burning hotter by the second, and reached for your napkin, fumbling to wipe at the corner of your mouth as you mumbled, “I didn’t mean to—sorry, it’s just… really good.”

Murphy chuckled, and it was soft and genuine and boyish in that way that made something bloom painfully warm in your chest. “Don’t apologize,” he said, voice dipped in affection. “You’ve got good taste.”

And then—without fanfare, without hesitation—he reached across the table.

Gently, with that easy, steady confidence that came so naturally to him, he took hold of your napkin and dabbed just beneath your lower lip, the soft cloth brushing your skin as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world and not the most intimate moment you’d had since arriving here. His fingers grazed your chin for the briefest second, and you held your breath like a startled deer, too dazed to move, too overwhelmed by the kindness of it to process the closeness.

Your breath caught in your throat.

And then—you felt it.

Javier’s body next to yours, no longer relaxed, no longer lounging—he was coiled now, the shift subtle but unmistakable. His cigarette was back between his fingers in a flash, but he didn’t lift it to his lips. He didn’t light it. He just rolled it, slow and deliberate, between his thumb and index finger, like it was standing in for the things he wanted to say but wouldn’t. His mouth curled into something that might’ve been a smirk or a grimace, sharp and tired and too knowing.

And then, under his breath, low and in perfect rhythm with the movement of his cigarette, he muttered in Spanish, “Claro, el caballero perfecto.”

Of course, the perfect gentleman.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant to be. But there was an edge to it—dry and rough and bitter at the core, like the taste of something he didn’t want to swallow. His gaze flicked to you just long enough to notice you hadn’t caught it, and he exhaled through his nose, the tension still rippling under his skin like a live wire waiting to spark.

But you—oblivious and bashful, cheeks still flushed from Murphy’s touch—just gave a soft, nervous laugh and took another bite of your empanada, your lashes fluttering, eyes cast downward like you could hide in the comfort of your food, unaware of the storm rolling in beside you.

And Javi?

He said nothing more.

But his eyes didn’t leave you.

Not once.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of quiet productivity, the kind that lulled you into a rhythm—sorting files, answering calls, typing up reports with the soft click-clack of your keyboard filling the room like a heartbeat. The office had slowly begun to empty as the sun dipped lower in the sky, its fading light turning everything gold through the hazy window panes, dust floating in the air like little flecks of glitter suspended in time. You were tired, but not unpleasantly so—there was still a pleasant warmth curled low in your belly, the echo of the empanadas lingering like a hug from the inside out, reminding you of laughter and heat and Javi’s thigh pressed ever-so-casually against yours in that booth.

By the time six o’clock crept up, the office was mostly silent. Phones had stopped ringing. The fan hummed gently overhead. You glanced at the clock, blinking slowly, your limbs heavy with exhaustion as you yawned behind your hand and leaned back in your chair, spine arching slightly in a stretch that made your blouse pull taut across your chest.

And then you felt it—that shift in the air.

The kind that always seemed to come with him.

“Hola, muñeca.”

Your breath hitched.

He was standing just a few feet away now, half-shadowed in the doorway, and somehow—even after hours of work and heat and sweat—he looked untouched by the day. Javier Peña, tall and devastating as ever, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long forgotten somewhere, sunglasses now tucked lazily into the collar of his shirt.

“Hi,” you breathed, your voice smaller than you intended it to be.

He stepped closer, his boots slow and heavy against the tile, and leaned a hand on the edge of your desk, his body folding toward you in a way that made you instinctively shrink back—not out of fear, but anticipation. Like the space between you was an invisible thread, and any closer would snap it.

“Still here?” he asked, voice soft, the corner of his mouth curling up just a little. “Office all emptied out, and look at you—la buena niña, working late.”

You smiled shyly, fingers twitching near your notepad, though you couldn’t remember what you were even writing. “I just… wanted to finish up a few things.”

He hummed low in his chest, his eyes scanning your face. “Dedicada,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like that.”

You swallowed, feeling your pulse quicken beneath your skin.

And then—almost like he’d read your thoughts, like he’d felt the quiet wanting gathering between you—he reached into his back pocket with a slow, easy motion and pulled out a sticky note, the edges a little worn and curling at the corners, the paper crinkled as if it had been sitting there for hours, waiting to be offered. He laid it down gently on your desk, the soft pap of it landing against the wood far louder in your ears than it had any right to be.

Your eyes dropped instinctively, your breath catching when you saw the scrawl—his handwriting rough and slanted, the letters uneven and fast, like he wrote the way he lived: unbothered, unrushed, with just enough edge to keep you guessing. A phone number, half-smudged at the corner, and beneath it, just two words.

Spanish Lessons.

“I was serious about those lessons,” Javi said, voice low, that familiar smirk ghosting over his lips as he looked down at you—like he wasn’t just giving you a number, but pulling a thread you didn’t even realize had been wrapped around your heart all day.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then tried again. “I—I mean, you’re already so busy,” you stammered, your voice quiet, almost too soft, already half-apologizing for even existing in the orbit of a man like him.

He shook his head, just once, the motion slow, deliberate.

“Not for you, preciosa,” he said, the pet name curling off his tongue like honey warmed over low flame.

Your breath faltered again.

“I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flushing so hot you were certain he could feel the heat rising off your skin.

And that’s when he leaned in just slightly, his voice dipping even lower, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth like he wasn’t sure where to land. “I know,” he murmured, the words sliding over you like silk, “I’ll teach you at our first lesson.”

And then—of course—he winked.

Slow. Sure. A little devastating.

And just like that, he turned and walked away, his back straight, his gait unhurried, as if he hadn’t just left your entire nervous system in shambles and a sticky note burning like a secret in the middle of your desk.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

You slung your bag over your shoulder with one hand, the other reaching back to sweep your hair into a quick, messy twist, your fingers working automatically despite the fatigue weighing down your limbs. Your heels pinched with every step, the ache radiating from the balls of your feet with that familiar, dull throb that came after a long day of being polite, poised, and perfectly put-together. You gathered the last of your things—the folder you’d meant to leave on someone’s desk, your notepad, your pen that always leaked a little ink—and stepped out into the quiet corridor, the office behind you hushed and emptied, bathed in the soft gold light of early evening.

You’d only just started walking, your mind already drifting to the quiet comfort of your apartment, when you heard them—voices. Low, hushed, male. Serious. The kind of tone that slowed your steps instinctively.

You paused, half-hidden by the corner, your body tensing before your mind could catch up.

You didn’t mean to stop. You didn’t mean to linger. But something in their voices—muted, clipped, almost like they didn’t want to be heard—made your skin prickle. You hesitated, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag, and you knew it was wrong, that you should’ve turned around, kept walking, left them to their conversation.

You were just about to do exactly that—your foot already shifting to step back—when you heard it.

Your name.

Spoken clearly. Firmly. And not in passing.

You froze.

Your brows drew together before you could stop them, a quiet frown pulling at the corners of your mouth as confusion began to twist, low and slow, through your chest. Your heart, which had only just begun to settle from the rush of the day, now beat with sudden urgency, and your breath turned shallow, catching at the top of your lungs. You stood frozen in place, body pressed lightly against the cool wall as if it could ground you, protect you, hide you from the fact that you were—very much—eavesdropping.

“She's not just another girl for you to flirt with, Javier,” Murphy said, his voice low but firm, words sharpened just enough to carry even though they weren’t meant to.

There was a pause. A beat of silence so thick it made your stomach clench.

And then, Javi’s voice—smooth and dry like aged whiskey poured over ice.

“¿Perdón?”

The word was soft, but laced with warning.

“Oh, come on,” Murphy scoffed, not backing down, the tired edge in his voice laced with frustration. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No,” Javi said, his tone cooling all at once, the shift so subtle you could almost miss it—almost. His voice came steady now, sharper at the edges, like a man squaring his shoulders before a fight he didn’t ask for but wasn’t about to walk away from. “Go ahead. Spell it out for me.”

There was a pause.

You could imagine Murphy standing there with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed—not angry, not exactly, but tired in that bone-deep way that came from watching someone make the same mistake over and over. You pictured him dragging a hand down his face, his voice dropping into something quieter—not softer, but more weighted.

“Everyone knows what you’re like, Peña,” he said at last, the words careful, deliberate. “You flirt. You lean in. You get close. You—”

He faltered, and for a moment it sounded like maybe he wouldn’t finish. Like maybe part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Javi didn’t give him that luxury.

“Vamos, gringo,” he said under his breath, a mocking lilt curling around the words. “Dilo completo.” Go on, big boy—say the whole thing.

The silence that followed felt like a held breath.

Then Murphy did.

“You fuck them,” he said, flatly. “And then you leave.”

The words were blunt. Brutal. They landed like a weight in your chest, heavy and cold and unforgiving.

Javier didn’t speak.

But you didn’t need him to.

Even from around the corner, you felt it—the shift in him. The tension coiling tighter. The sharp inhale through his nose. The silence that wasn't surprise, but insult. His jaw must’ve clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides, fighting the instinct to lash back.

And you—frozen behind the wall—felt your stomach drop as your name echoed silently in the air again, because you weren’t just hearing a story about Javier Peña anymore. You were part of it.

Tangled in it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

eeeekkk this was my first narcos fic, im happy to write part 2 if anyone requests it ૮꒰>⩊< ྀི꒱ა

[dumbpuppyfag]

18+ ONLY, IF U FOLLOW ME AND I CAN'T CLEARLY SEE UR AGE THEN I WILL BLOCK U

hiiiiiii! i'm paws, i like to post silly stuff and horny stuff and silly horny stuff and occasionally about marxism-leninism. i'm nonbinary, i use they/it pronouns and i looove puppyplay bullshit. i have too many followers and wayyyy too many ppl giving me shitty unsolicited political opinions, so i go nuts with the block button

DO NOT INTERACT:

anyone below the age of 18 (this is not negotiable, u need to leave immediately)

terfs/transphobes

racists of any description (this includes zionists, settler-colonial apartheid is racist)

anyone sexualising irl minors, stay the fuck away from me. i will report you and everyone you interact with, i will snitch on you to the cops, i will do anything i can to ruin your day, fuck off.

detrans/sissy-focused blogs. this is not a judgement, do ur thing, it's just very bad for me personally. we all have boundaries that need observing and this is one of mine

anyone called like mr-pain-daddy who posts stolen ass slap gifs and/or types like they just got done tying a woman to railway tracks

hp fans (u suck, fuck u)

stuff i'm into

puppy puppy puppy i'm a good puppy i love being a good puppy yayayayayayayyyyyy!!!!

hypno/dumbification/anything that turns anyone into a mindless fuck machine

being a little muskdrunk pit freak

tboys. i love tboys. i am in love with tboys. tboys i love u. i was put on earth to worship at the altar of puppyboys. this is not confined to sex, i love and respect you as my transgender brothers but within a horny context i am ur fucking chew toy

bondage/restraints

P R A I S E ! ! ! ! (note: i am not a boy, however i can be a good boy in the dog sense)

intox kinda but generally within the framework of the hypno stuff (irl drugs and alcohol not so much, aphrodisiacs and swirling pink heart shaped potions yes)

stuff i'm not into

(this is separate from the dni, what consenting adults do is their own business, it's just stuff that i won't engage with bc i do not like it)

serious pain

ageplay (age gaps are fine, absolutely nothing where anyone is a minor, this is a hard hard limit for me)

whatever the hell raceplay is

hard cnc (i.e. violent physical coercion)

scat, emeto, gore

probably some stuff i'm forgetting

finally, i have a moots-only sideblog where i post about politics and serious stuff like that. if we're moots and u want in then dm me ^_^

[chillzhang-blog]

Cold Extruded Dog Soft Chews Machine #DogChewySoftTreatsMachine #Lecithi...

[dogfoodmachine]

🐾 Want to make nutritious, high-protein dog chews that stand out? #HighP...

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 12

Source for pic

Imperfect 12

Word Count: 5443

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: Aaaaand we're down bad in the angst stage of this fic. I hope you guys are ready for it, because it's going to take a while before we're back to happy. I've envisioned that last scene before the cliffhanger FOR MONTHS in my head. That and what follows. I hope I did it justice. I love you all, but I hope I managed to crush all your pretty little hearts. Do tell me all about it in the comments! But refrain from being murderous, I still have to get to the happy ending!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

The rancid smell of the docks is overwhelming. Rotten fish carcasses left too long in the sun, half-devoured by the gulls; stale water splashing softly against decaying wood; and worse: the stench of the nastiest breeds of humans, gathering to add to their list of unending sins. Himself included. 

Kid has lost track of time since he dropped you off, with nothing but the twinkling of stars and the lonesome chirps of crickets to mark the progress of the night. 

Victoria is shrouded in shadows and silence, both acting as punishment for his actions. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles have blanched, and he can’t stop thinking about his mistakes. 

“You should’ve walked away when you had the chance, man.” Heat’s in the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dash, arms behind his head. Kid closes his eyes and tries to swallow the lump of guilt that’s lodged in his throat. 

“But you had to be a selfish son of a bitch.” Heat turns his head, and Kid keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t need to open them to know what’s facing him, though. Half of Heat’s head is gone, his brain blown to shit by a PKM machine gun bullet. The Kevlar vest is nothing but a silly adornment, riddled with bullet holes and still-fresh blood. 

Wire laughs in the backseat, a low, rumbling sound. When he speaks, his voice sounds different from when he was alive. His vocal cords sound completely crushed under the weight of the pillar that collapsed on top of him, flattening him into an unrecognizable lump. “Crawling back to the Pit like a dog with its tail between its legs? I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

“Coward.” The word echoes in his head in all their voices. An amalgam of misery, dragging him down with clammy fingers filled with shame. 

“If you couldn’t keep your promise of getting us out of there alive, Captain, you could’ve at least kept your promise to Kill.” Bubblegum pops his chewing gum loudly near Kid’s ear, and he wonders how he can do that when his lips are melted together by the unforgiving heat of the scorching flames that devoured his body. 

“You told him you’d stay out of Hellpit,” Quincy’s voice comes out in a wheeze, a charred hole in the middle of her torso leaving no doubt about the fate she suffered. “And look at you! You’re back already? Tsk…”

He senses Hip and Reck there, too. But they don’t speak. They never do. They got blown to shit right in front of him. Nothing but red mist, blood, and gore left behind. Nothing to bring home. Yet they still judge, they still make sure he carries the guilt on his shoulders. 

Kid removes his hands from the wheel and presses the balls of his palms against his eyes, trying to snuff out their accusations, their ugly truth. But they don’t stop. They never did, and they never will. 

“You hurt her,” Quincy says.

“Aren’t you ashamed of hitting a woman? Your woman?” Heat scolds.

“Daddy warned her to stay away, warned you, but you were never very good at taking orders, were you, Captain?” Bubblegum speaks right by his ear, and Kid swears he can feel the hot breath warming his skin. “Perhaps if you were… we’d all still be alive.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Kid mutters between clenched teeth. “Yer dead, yer all fuckin’ dead.” His voice trembles with desperation and guilt. They’re right.

Wire chuckles, his voice gravelly and rough. “We are. Because of you. And that’s why we’re here. You think a few hours in the Pit are going to help you? That you can drown us out with punches and silence our voices with blood?”

“SHUT UP! Shut the fuck up!” Kid slams his fist into the dashboard, and the plastic gives, cracking and leaving jagged, sharp pieces, splitting in a morbid mimicry of what’s happening to his heart and soul. 

“You’re still running away. From us. From her. From yourself,” Wire continues. “You will always be a coward.”

He wants to scream. To roar and tear his chest open. To lay himself bare and let guilt and pain wash him away. To be cleansed of his sins, to free his conscience… to rest.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, opens the door, and gets out of the car, leaving his demons inside, though their ghostly voices still linger in his head. 

The warehouse is dimly lit and looks as rotten as all the decaying souls inside. Poorly drawn graffiti lines the outer walls, fighting with splotches of rust in a silent battle to see which can overtake more space outside the building. The graffiti is losing. 

The man at the door tilts his head in acknowledgment and lets him in without a word. Inside, the air feels thicker, heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and testosterone. This time, he didn’t call ahead, so he means to find Apoo. He doesn’t have to look around too much before Apoo finds him.

“Eustass, you bastard,” Apoo cackles, handing him a can of cheap beer. “When I called last week, you said you were done with me.”

“Put me in.” Kid doesn’t ask. Doesn’t plead; he doesn’t need to. Apoo will taunt him, annoy him, and then put him in. He always does. 

“Roster’s full. Wrap your dick back into your pants and find another place to itch your fists. I ain’t got room for you tonight.” Apoo’s snake-like eyes glint under the dim lights. 

“Put. Me. In. Apoo.” Kid’s clenching his jaw so tightly his ears nearly pop from the effort. 

“Geez, man. Calm your tits, I was joking. I’ll find you a spot. Drink that beer.” 

As if on cue, a roar erupts from the crowd watching. The fighter inside the cage drops to the floor, bloodied and beaten. Apoo shrugs and signals the cage handler.

“Clear that useless pile of trash from the cage. Eustass is in the house!” The crowd cheers. The regulars know him, and they’re always down for a good show. 

“Yes, Captain. Go on. Be a monster, you’re so good at that. Run away from us. From her. Run. Run. Run. Coward.” 

He can’t even identify who the voice belongs to now. The roar of the crowd is deafening. Finally. 

Kid knows they’re right. Monster, coward… he’s both. And perhaps that’s all he’ll ever be good at. There’s no use pretending. He should never have thought he had a chance at something else. A chance with you. 

He was always meant to wreck it. 

The cage door swings open with an ominous sound as they drag the limp body of the previous fighter out. Kid’s blood rushes to his ears, his hands clench, itching to hit something solid. 

And the voices?

They finally drown.

-*-

You didn’t sleep at all. 

Tears threatened to spill all night, but you wouldn’t let them. It was stupid, but you felt that if even one of them slipped from your eyelids, it would mean you’d have lost the battle. That you’d lost Kid. And that was unacceptable. 

Sometime during the endless night, you decided you wouldn’t give up. You wouldn’t let Kid wander out of your life just like that, not when it was clear you meant so much to each other. You would just do what you do best: fight for Kid. 

Fight until he gets it through his thick skull that you and he are meant to be. 

At breakfast, you put up a strong front and a smile on your face, giving your father no chance to unwrap his ‘I told you so’s.’ Not when you’re ready to fight for your relationship. 

After lunch, you barge into the garage like a hurricane following a storm. Shoulders held high, chin up, and determination fueling your steps. When you see Kid, the previously rehearsed speech goes out the window. Your heart beats like an ancient war drum inside your chest, and all you want to do is wrap your arms around his neck and pull him to you. 

He’s sitting inside Victoria, so you approach without hesitation, pressing your lips into a thin line to keep them from trembling. No weakness. 

You lean down, then jerk back with a shocked gasp.

“What happened?” Kid’s face is a mess, again. Purplish eye, split lip, dried blood caked in his eyebrow. “Kid!” Your eyes wander to Victoria as he pulls out the cracked dashboard. “What the hell happened? Did you get into an accident?”

Taking two steps back, you survey Victoria’s condition, looking for dents or any indication of what could have happened. She’s fine on the outside, which means… Kid did the damage himself.

“Nothin’ happened. Please, go home.”

His words hit you like a slap. He’s begging you to go away. He hasn’t even lifted his gaze to meet yours. 

“Talk to me, Kid.” You lean down again, extending your hand to touch him, but he climbs out of the car with the dash in his hands and puts an insurmountable amount of distance between you, even if it’s just three steps. 

“No. We ain’t doing this anymore.” He still doesn’t look at you. He turns his back and places the large piece of plastic on his workbench.

“Are you really giving up on us? After everything?” You already sound breathless, and you’re still at the beginning of the battle. 

The very air stills and hums, like it’s alive with your grief. Kid grasps the edge of the workbench, his muscles coiled tight with restraint. 

“You won’t even look at me?” An indignant scoff parts your lips. “You need to stop doing this! You can’t be hot and then cold; wise one minute and dumb as a rock the next!” Kid looks over your shoulder at you, but can’t seem to hold eye contact. 

“I know I didn’t ask for commitment. But at least show me trust. Trust in the way I feel about you, but mostly…” You swallow down a sob, clenching your fists to stop your hands from trembling. “Show trust in yourself, Kid.” 

You take a step forward, and he takes one back, eyes on the floor and clenched fists holding up his walls against your vicious strikes. 

“You said I was your girl! You called me yours, like I mattered!” A sob tears through your throat, and only by sheer will do you force your tears down. “You said I was special, Kid! What changed, huh? What changed between yesterday and today, Kid, because—”

“Ye wanna know what fuckin’ changed?” Kid roars, his eyes finally snapping up to meet yours. They’re wild and red-rimmed, filled with the exact same kind of pain you’re feeling, but brimming with the shame and guilt you're trying so hard to rid him of.

You bite back the rest of the sentence that was already halfway out of your lips when he closes the distance between you with two angry steps. “This is what fuckin’ changed!” Without giving you a chance to react, his hand is at the hem of your shirt, lifting it and exposing a dark bruise on your side. 

You gasp as he takes in the blemish. It looks terrible, you’ve seen it. It’s large and purple, about the size of a grapefruit, and hurts like a bitch. But you try to school your features back to a more nonchalant expression. And fail miserably. 

Kid removes his hand with a resigned scoff, and your shirt falls back into place like a sad curtain fall at the end of a tragedy. 

“I fuckin’ did that,” he says, his voice hollow.

“It was an accide—”

“It don’t matter!” Kid waves his hands in the air, eyes widening as he shakes his head. “I still fuckin’ hurt ye! What the fuck don’t ye get?”

Kid turns away from you when you try to reach him again. He slams Victoria’s door so hard, you have no idea how the glass didn’t shatter altogether. 

“I am the fuckin’ monster yer father warned ye about!” He runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, and the split on his lip opens up when he roars the words. “Angry! Dangerous! Volatile!” A loud, insane cackle leaves his lips next. “I ain’t changin’, sweetheart!”

Your throat tightens, and tears flood your eyes again. He’s not allowing you inside his walls. He doesn’t let you climb them and drag him away. He’s given up.

“Stop, Kid, please…”

“This is me! I’m a fuckin’ mess! A tickin’ time bomb, waiting to blow up in yer face.” Kid lets out another dark, humourless chuckle. “Run away while ye can.”

You step forward again, undeterred. Your relationship with Kid is nothing but a war zone, with battle after battle. Each one more exhausting and draining than the last, with barely enough time in between to allow you to breathe. 

You’ll be damned if you’re going to desert it without a proper fight.

“You’re doing it again. Pushing me away, thinking you’re protecting me, when all you’re doing is hurting us both. You want to drown in guilt and shame and self-loathing alone, so I can be happy on my own?” Your scoff nearly makes him flinch. “You’re just trying to punish yourself, Kid!”

Kid lifts his head, his gaze falling on yours, and for a moment, he looks so lost that you dare to hope. You keep trying to pull him to you, begging him to take the rope you keep throwing over the walls and either break through or let you in.

Anything.

“You think this is exactly what you deserve. That you should be alone, buried in pain and guilt with no chance of absolution.” You force back a whimper. This hurts you as much as it does him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he pleads with a growl, shaking his head and averting his gaze again. 

“No! No, Kid! I will not shut up!” The shrillness in your voice is as high-pitched as it is desperate. Your nails dig so hard into the soft skin of your hands that you already know they’ll leave red, angry marks. “I’ve seen who you are when you stop trying to blame yourself for every mistake!”

“Stop talkin’!” he roars.

“I’ve seen you smile and be happy! I’ve seen you try to be better! I’ve seen you stay!” Your voice falters as your breath hitches, but you keep ramming on those walls as hard as you can. “You made me feel safe! And—” You can’t fight a watery sob, nor the tears that crash down when it hits your throat. “—and wanted, Kid! Please… God, please… fight for us!”

“There’s no ‘us’ anymore.” The finality in his words is what shakes you to your core. He’s done this before. Pushed you away so many times, trying to be the asshole everyone paints him to be. 

Is this the final straw? Is this where you finally draw your limit and simply stop fighting? Because it hurts. It hurts so much to be the only one carrying all this weight. How can you keep fighting when it suddenly feels like there’s nothing left to fight for?

“Ye know ye don’t belong with me. Ye know, deep down, that yer meant for more; bigger, fancier things. Someone stable, safe, rich.”

The feeling of déjà vu almost takes you down. Your father uttered those words to you a long time ago. They hurt then, but now? Now they make you bleed. 

“I’ve fucking had that, Kid.” It’s the second time you’ve told him this, but you still know it won’t stick. “I told you.”

“But that’s what ye fuckin’ deserve!” he growls, eyes blazing with fury and a wish to be right.  “Not—”

“I don't want that!” you snap, voice cracking under pressure. “I only want—”

“—me!”

“—you!”

The silence is so heavy it almost bounces off the walls. You're both staring at each other, chests heaving, wearing your hearts on your sleeves; bleeding out emotions through your pores.

It’s not enough. 

You realise that as soon as he takes another step back. 

“This is the only me yer gonna get. The screwed up, broken and beaten up Eustass Kid. The one with nothin’ else to give but anger and pain. Ye don’t want that.”

And round and round in circles you go. 

A deep sigh leaves your lips as they tremble through the tears. It’s enough. For today, it's enough. You’ve depleted your ammo for this battle, and you need to recharge. 

You turn your back on him, silently vowing to return tomorrow and try again. “Clearly, you still have no idea what I want.”

You’ll keep trying. You have to. Because you know he’s worth it. Even though he’s shattering you into tiny pieces every time he pushes you away, you know he still holds the power to repair them.

If only he allows himself to. 

-*-

The next day, you try again. 

You figure that with sleep comes clarity, and perhaps today Kid is more willing to listen to you, to give you another chance, or, better yet, to give himself a chance. 

However, you didn't expect to be greeted by a ‘closed’ sign and no sign of either Kid or Killer when you arrived at the garage. 

Kid doesn't answer his phone, nor were you expecting him to, honestly. He's been ignoring your calls and texts since you came back from the road trip. You try Killer next, and he declines the call. 

You're already thinking that he might be busy when he texts you in reply. 

Killer: Hey, City Girl. I'm kicking some sense into him right now. Talk later? 

You reply with a ‘yes, please’ and let a smile wash away your worries. Killer instantly knew what you wanted before you even spoke to him. And he's talking to Kid, so maybe he can speak some sense into his thick skull. 

You hope. 

-*-

“Wanna tell me what the fuck happened?” Killer looks around Kid's living room. There's a pillow ripped to shreds, a bunch of crushed beer cans, and a half-empty scotch bottle. Kid’s on the floor, curled against his knees like a wounded dog, eyes empty, red-rimmed, and head swimming with alcohol and regret. 

“I happened,” Kid scoffs. A truth hard to swallow, but a truth nonetheless. 

“Elaborate. And don't fucking lie to me. I already know you went to Hellpit, even after promising me you wouldn't anymore,” Killer sounds pissed as fuck. He even removed his bandana to address him, which means business. 

“I fucked up, Kill. What else?” The slur in his voice comes from more than just the alcohol. It's deep pain, guilt, and shame, too. 

Killer sits on the couch and crosses his legs. “I got time,” he deadpans. “Spill.”

Kid fights with his conscience first. He's ashamed to share his faults. But then he looks up, and there's no judgment in Killer's face. There never was. Not once since he's known his best friend - his brother - has he laid judgment over his actions. 

So he talks. He starts at the nightmare because, really, that's where the shitshow began. He explains how you pulled him out and how he took advantage of that. Of you. 

Killer doesn't judge. 

“I could feel her tremblin’ against me, man. She was terrified that I would leave or push her away. Ain't even needed to hear the words. I could feel it.” Kid runs a hand through his matted hair and sighs. “And I didn't want to leave, Kill. All I could think about was how natural it felt to hold her. How good it would feel to wake every fuckin’ day with her in my arms.”

“So what fucked it up?”

A scoff leaves his lips before he resumes the tale. He talks about how everything was running smoothly until it wasn't. Until that fucker Basil Hawkins pointed out the differences between you and how much you didn't belong in Kid's world. 

“I saw it, I fuckin’ saw it. She was in her element. Usin’ posh words and bein’ all icy. Put him in his place, that's for sure. But made me see she's far off my league, man.” Kid reaches for the bottle, but Killer intercepts the action. 

“I'll make you coffee instead.” Killer gets up and navigates Kid’s kitchen like it's his own. “So was that it?”

“If only…” He tells his best friend all about how you told him that he's what you wanted, that it’s him you chose. And then… then comes the hard part. The part where he has to admit that he hurt you. 

Once he starts, though, he doesn’t shy away. He tells Killer how he only saw red when he heard you call his name in distress. All he could think about was getting the motherfucker away from you and then… punish him. 

“She tried to stop me and— fuck,” Kid groans into his hand. “I pushed her. I fuckin’ laid hands on her. Her back slammed into the payphone, and I only snapped out of it ‘cause she fuckin’ yelped!” 

He punches the pillow hard. Maybe not for the first time, since the fabric gives, and it deflates in a sad little poof. 

“Her eyes, Kill— fuck. She was scared.”

Killer places two mugs of coffee on top of the end table in Kid’s living room. Their steam swirls in the air, stealing time away before Killer even speaks. 

“You didn’t hit her, man,” Killer deadpans, his voice steady in a world that hasn’t stopped shaking since it happened. “And she wasn’t scared of you, Kid.”

“How the fuck do ye know that? Ye weren’t there!”

Killer raises his shoulders, twisting his lips into a sad smile. “She ain’t like that, Kid. She didn’t stop fighting for you once since she met you.” Killer leans forward, elbows steady on his knees. “She wasn’t scared of you. She was scared for you. That’s different.”

“Ye don’t know.”

“Wanna bet? How many times did she knock on that door? How many missed calls?” Kid’s silence is answer enough. “I rest my case.”

They drink their coffee in silence, Kid eyeing the scotch bottle like he’s being tempted by the devil himself. He gets up to set the mugs in the sink, and stays there for a beat longer, just staring at the black smudge at the bottom of it.

“I still ain’t right for her. I never should’ve led her on.”

“Aye, so you’ve fucking said. And still you can’t keep your hands off each other. Face it, Kid, you and she are meant to be together, no matter how hard you try to push her away.” Killer talks as if he’s teaching a preschooler his ABCs, like it’s common sense, as easy as breathing.

It’s not.

“I ain’t gonna pretend I’m not poison.” Kid turns the faucet and fills the mugs before rinsing them and setting them aside. 

“You’re not poison, man,” Killer scoffs, rising from the couch to lean against the counter and stare his friend down. “You’re damaged, sure. Hurt? Damn right. Broken? In fucking shambles. But you’re not beyond saving. Everybody deserves redemption.”

Kid’s head hangs from his shoulders. He’s heard that speech before. Every once in a while, Killer tries this. It never works.

“You need proper help. Professional help. Therapy, not the fucking end of a bottle or to rage against everyone and everything.”

He’s said this more than once, too. 

“I ain’t fuckin’ doin’ therapy, ye know that.” He tried it for a few months after he was discharged from the army. Never really worked, he fucking hated it. Hated having to speak and open himself up to a fucking judgy stranger. Fuck that shit.

“Why, Kid?” Killer snaps, a little growl slurring his question. “Is it because you think expressing your feelings is a weakness, or are you scared to break apart once you let someone see what’s on the inside?” Killer shakes his head. “Maybe you’re just afraid of who you’ll be once you’re not broken anymore…”

Kid walks away from Killer, pacing the room like a caged lion. Nowhere to go when the world is breathing down his neck. 

“Guess yer therapy is workin’ right!”

“Aye. I never miss a fucking session, Kid. I lost my friends, too. I can’t compare our situation, and I never meant to, but I’m broken too, brother.” Killer places one hand over Kid’s shoulder. He doesn’t squeeze, he’s just there. “And talking helps.”

Kid purses his lips together, jaw tightening, and doesn’t let out another word. Instead, he turns his back on his friend and faces the window. 

Killer knows that’s his cue. So, he picks up his jacket and keys and heads for the door.

“You’re not alone unless you choose to be, Kid.”

-*-

Luffy is having a party. One of his ragers, something more chaos than entertainment. You promised you’d make an appearance, even though it’s the last thing you want, but then decided to use the get-together to your advantage.

Kid has been avoiding you. He keeps leaving the texts you send unread, doesn’t pick up your calls, and you even stopped showing up at his garage because he kept the ‘closed’ sign in place, and you were feeling guilty that he was losing clients over this. 

That’s why you begged, pleaded, and even resorted to bribery. And it worked. You made Killer promise to bring Kid to Luffy’s house by any means necessary.

It’s a long shot, you know that, but it’s one you hope works. Kid would never go to one of Luffy’s parties of his own volition, and Killer told you he would try his best, but he wouldn’t make any promises. 

You can’t help the fluttering in your stomach from how nervous you are. Kid’s been very adamant about keeping you out of his life, and this is your only chance at speaking to him. It feels like hours pass between casual conversations with your friends until you see a glimpse of red near the entrance hall.

Muttering a quick excuse to Nami and Robin, you move, eyes peeled and, sure enough, there he is: black tee, jeans, a scowl, and attitude for days. He doesn’t want to be here, so you should account for his bad temper before you approach him. 

But you don’t even care.

Making a beeline towards him, you evade sweaty bodies and flailing limbs, reaching him already breathless. “Kid!” you urge, speaking over the loud music. “Let’s talk.”

He grimaces, shooting Killer an accusatory look before the blond disappears into the crowd. Only then does he look back at you. The wounds on his face are still very fresh, but it’s the growing shadows in his eyes that worry you the most. 

“I should’ve known it was a fuckin’ trap.”

You reach for his hand and pull him to a more secluded corner. He doesn’t pull away, nor does he resist you, but you don’t really know how to interpret that reaction. You don’t dare to be hopeful, but you don’t want to be downright pessimistic either.  

“You don’t even need to say anything, just let me speak, please, Kid. Please.” You squeeze his hand, eager eyes pleading with dull, amber ones. He opens his mouth, ready to contest, but closes it and nods instead. 

“You’ve been trying to push me away since the day you realised I was much more than just another girl. You keep saying you’re broken, that you’re a monster. Dangerous. And I keep coming back, Kid. What happened at that gas station wasn’t your fault. You were protecting me. I’m not scared of you, Kid. I never was. You know why?” 

You pause, but he doesn’t answer. “Because I know who you are here,” you whisper, placing your open palm against his chest. “You’re just a man who’s learning how to be whole again. And that takes time and effort.”

“Yer wastin’ yer time on me,” he drawls, eyes shifting without catching your gaze.

“I’m not. You don’t get to decide that for me. It’s always been my decision, not yours. You say you’re all the things my father warned me about, and I already told you I accept all of that, because it’s all part of you. But you know what?”

You take a tentative step towards him, one hand holding his, the other still on his chest. You chase his gaze until you trap him against your own.

“You’re not just that. You’re not just angry and dangerous. You’re also the man who called me his girl, who took me to the beach, and threw wet sand at my hair. The one who gave me his jacket to keep me warm and taught me how to fix a car. The man who held me close and told me he wasn’t going to leave—”

The words get stuck in your throat, and you swallow down a sob. It’s now or never. He needs to understand how special he is to you.  

“I love you, Kid. So much.” The words are barely a whisper, but you feel him flinch, his breath hitching, eyes widening, and his throat working to swallow a lump. 

“Don’t do this… It just makes it harder,” he whispers, taking a step back and avoiding your gaze. 

What? How is he still pushing you away?

“Harder, Kid?” you croak. “This was never easy. I’m barely holding on as it is…” Your confession makes him flinch again, but the shadows in his eyes recede. For a few moments, the world stops, and there’s only you and him.

You, him, and the lightest flicker of hope.

Until he shakes his head, drops your hand, and disappears back into the crowd. 

-*-

You lost him. 

Not just emotionally, but physically. He’s nowhere to be seen. He vanished.

Thinking he's already gone home, you take another look around, trying to locate your friends to say you’re leaving, since you feel emotionally exhausted. You weren’t expecting to confess to Kid that you love him, but it happened.

And it didn’t change a thing. 

You have no idea what you are going to do now or where you are going to go from here. But you’ll figure it out. You always do.

But then you see him, across the room. 

Kid’s sitting at the impromptu bar, a high table Luffy set up with beverages and stools. He looks weary, ready to call it a night even though he’s nursing a drink. There’s a storm brewing behind his eyes. 

With a deep breath, you decide to try one more time. Maybe this time’s the charm, you hope. One of you has to give. Either he sees reason, or you give up. There’s no in-between.

You’re two strides in when Kid looks up. His gaze locks with yours, something unreadable behind his eyes. Shame? Sorrow? You can’t quite tell.

He swallows and, without breaking eye contact with you, reaches out and pulls a girl by the waist straight into his lap. 

You stop, heart thundering against your ribs. You barely acknowledge who the girl is or where she came from - does it even matter? She’s laughing and flirting, placing a hand on his chest. Kid’s hand grips her waist, and your world starts to shrink. 

He wouldn’t…

You know what he’s doing. Your mind knows he’s using every method he can think of to push you away, to make you see he’s not good enough for you, but your heart… your heart is in your throat, ready to spill out and shatter into tiny pieces. 

Kid narrows his gaze for a second, and then his hand slithers up the girl’s spine, settles on her nape, and curls around her hair. Your move. You’ve lost count of the times he did this to you…

You can’t breathe. The air is stale, there’s not enough oxygen in the world to fill your lungs.

You try to speak, but no sound leaves your lips, so you just mouth the words: ‘Please, don’t’. You desperately shake your head, pleading, begging him not to do this. He can’t throw away what you have like this. Because if he does…

Then what the hell have you been fighting for all this time?

You take another step forward, and your legs wobble. Your vision swims. Are you crying?

Kid is still looking at you. He pulls the girl down, leaning in, angling her face so he can kiss her.

You shake your head again, a breathless whisper leaving your lips, an unheard plea: “Don’t… please… no!”

And then—

Darkness.

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|Chapter 13|

[armandlovesgirlcock]

fic recs!!

collating my favourite IWTV/TVC fics, will probably keep updating this list periodically.

Devil's Minion Longfic (20k plus)

Daniel Molloy’s Incredible Showstopping World-Famous Model Train Extravaganza for Children and Easily-Awed Vampires by Ariaste @ariaste

come and get your knife by apoptoses

Such Unfortunates by SheOfBadIdeas and shineforthee @danielmolloystits @shineforthee

Camboy Molloy by GrayGiantess @graygiantess

cranefucker island circa '82 by katplanet @katplanet

Shorter Devil's Minion fics

American Boy by jabedalien @androidbrittaperry

the orpheus and eurydice of recollection by SheOfBadIdeas

His Mouth On Me by QueerCrusader @queer-crusader

Crossed Wires, Mixed Signals by faggyhatemachine @faggyhatemachine

heat waves by hallospleen

Strict Machine by siria @siriaeve

Comme des Garcons (Like The Boys) by faggyhatemachine

welcome, stranger of myself by siria

perversion by jabedalien

Laundry Service by andromanic @loustat-lover

The Rest is Silence by trinityofone @trinityofone

Dead Dove (non DM ships in brackets)

advanced hallucinatory studies by jabedalien

paterfamilias (blood of my blood) by woundfag @armandcock

and i'm the toy that feels all things by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters (Gabrielle/Armand, Gabrielle/Armand/Lestat)

snuggling with dead things by beingmadissad @hvnnigrvhm

chew by fleshfeel

gratitude by anon (Gabrielle/Lestat)

Other Ships/DM+ (pairings in brackets)

as I draw near to you (you will draw near to others) by straycatfish (Alice/Daniel/Armand)

superset theory by katplanet (the diabolicule in every possible pairing. my fave chapters are danstat and danlou)

both arms cradle you now by philomelas_tongue (Daniel/Louis) @philomelas-tongue-says

Tell Me (Now Tell Your Man) by faggyhatemachine (Armand/Daniel/Louis)

find some new deepness there by platoapproved (diabolicule) @platoapproved

some footage from the archives by mitzvahmelting (Armand/Rashid) @mitzvahmelting

mount me like a butterfly by trinityofone (diabolicule)

Guess (the colour of your underwear) by ignorama (Daniel/Lestat)

Midnight Sky by humansunshine (Lestat/OMC, Lestat/OMC/Louis) @lestatlovesboypussy

dog heaven is also squirrel hell by exsanguinate (Armand/Louis/Lestat)

RPF (zamasian unless stated otherwise)

Du trägst ‘n Gott zwischen deinen Schenkeln by ignorama

The Strength to Withstand (Fails Me) by QueerCrusader

old tricks by englishsummerrain

What's Your Next Line? by salamander @4th-make-quail

The Only One That I Let In by BeautyInChains @thebeautyinchains

Keep Wondering by minionsdevil (Eric/Luke, Eric/Luke/Assad)

Painted Bright Red by QueerCrusader (Sam/Assad)

and probably like twenty more fics i've accidentally missed off this list