#It’s still just so good and it’s such a shame there’s not more like how cruel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

almostfoxglove · 2 days ago

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ALI FAKHSDJGKH okay it's taken me 100 years to reblog this but I WANTED TO QUOTE SO MANY PARTS IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO NARROW THEM DOWN. holy shit. this was??? EVERYTHING. like, this is the canon I needed - redemption for what could have been with Helena and fulfillment of every delusion I've ever had about this man. it felt so true to the world of the show and to javi I'm actually announcing this as Canon. sorry folks!! I don't make the rules!!

gonna pop some favorite bits under the cut :,) AH

“You switched your hair up today,” Javier notes one night, sipping his coffee and flicking off the ash of his cigarette, his eyes following the way your hair is pulled up loosely and framing your face, “looks good—good, I like it.”

lord help me I would not survive this I am NOT god's strongest warrior I am a puddle on the FLOOR this is him holding the secretary's finger and complimenting her nail polish all over again DSDKFHJK

“Are you really DEA?” You ask, his expression urging you to lower your volume as he takes a seat beside you, “Is that a lie?”

this is SO HEARTBREAKING ALI like what the FUCK oh my god. I feel like I can hear her and see her scared face and I'm going to cRY ABOUT IT

“I don’t think you want my opinion,” He answers vaguely, swiping the counter for his keys. “Just admit it,” You tease him with the words tossed over your shoulder as you grab for your jacket, “It’s fuckable.”

sdhkfjhaskjhgfa

“Mierda, your fucking hands—” He doesn’t even mean it in a sexual context, but the pressure you apply is perfect, pinpoint even, knuckles rolling against the base of his neck as his mouth opens, an embarrassing sound slipping beyond his lips as you chuckle softly, watching as he lifted his head in shame, “okay—okay, you’re done.”

OHHHHH, to take javier pena apart with a massage!! HOW I YEAAARRRN

“Yeah, pretty difficult,” You jest at his expense, his smile lines creasing as he grinned slightly, “I have this asshole in my apartment—annoyingly cocky, hates massages. God, the worst—”

I love them so much. she's so charming and brings out the CRINKLY EYES and I would die for them both ok ANY DAY ANY TIME

“Not much longer, chiquita,” Javier reminds, seeming to hear your discomfort immediately.

this is so !!!!! JAVI. saying it without saying it, ya know? that he sees her. I'm gonna cry brb

“Where did he touch you?” Javier asks casually, eyes closed as he pressed gentle kisses to the inside of your thigh, pushing your shirt up higher as you guided his hand over your hip and down toward your ass and squeezing gently. “There,” You admit before guiding his hand further up, alongside your ribs and around your back, another gentle squeeze before guiding his hand around and over your breasts, “and there—here,”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” Javier promises, suddenly closer than you’ve ever known him to allow himself outside of sex, his finger drags along your chin and forces it up, looking at him, “¿Entiendes?”

MY HEART POUNDED SO HARD AT THIS PART I DONT THINK YOU UNDERSTAND

It’s just sex, you can hear the words before they roll off his tongue, ignoring your second question entirely. Tell me where he touched you.

*screams heard in the distance* *more wailing* *barking* *hollering*

“Baby, we have to go,” Javier urges, “I have to get you out.”

THE URGENT IN THE MOMENT NOT THINKING "BABY"??? MY PERSONAL KRYPTONITE?? ALI THIS WAS AN ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE

“It was a tracker,” You mumble eventually, “when he was feeling me up that night—it was because he was trying—well, he—he did, he put a—”

oh my god the pain of this realization fucking SLAPPED ME I just!! was there!! feeling her fear!! my chest is so TIGHT the angst is so GOOD

“I hope you’re okay, please come home.” It wasn’t a cry for help this time, but still a phrase that was special. A code, a message. A lifeline.

this was such a perfect ending. hopeful and soft but also still so javi!! and I'm obsessed with it. I've read this three times, oops. AND WILL DO IT AGAIN <3 all the ways you wove in the moodboard (THEIR LITTLE CODE PHRASE AHHHHH) are so fucking perfect and seamless. ugh. so good. thank you soso much for joining the challenge and sharing this fucking masterpiece with us, WE HAVE BEEN BLESSED. you are a talent and a gem and I adore you <3

𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 | Javier Pena x reader

summary | Javier's a creature of habit, a man of opportunity, and you were unlucky enough to find him when he's at his most desperate.

author's note | written for @almostfoxglove angst challenge, i really hope i did this moodboard justice ghjfkd. thank you @amanitacowboy for reassuring me while writing this behemoth + translations are at the end.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, informant!reader, set through beginning of season 3 narcos to end, angst, smut, involvement with the cali cartel, paying for info and sex, javier's a gentleman i swear, gratuitous smut, jealous!javi, protected/unprotected piv, creampies, oral (f receiving), some vague violence toward the end, happy ending

word count — 10k

The new influx of customers has been an adjustment, used to the elder regulars with orders that never changed and people who were grabbing a bite after a late night shift, it left you flustered as you reached for the pen and paper shoved into your apron, smoothing out the cloth as you approach the group of men, carrying on their conversation without a care.

“El envío llega el domingo,” It was Friday, which meant whatever was coming in would be here in a couple days—they never said what, but it was always something.

And their eyes always eat you up, hair pulled back loosely as you greet them with a smile, taking down their order as they keep their sights locked on you and commenting on the swing of your hips and the curve of your ass as you depart.

Like rabid dogs, feral and hungry.

You’ve learned to catalog their conversation, catching onto a regular pattern of when things were coming in and out, knowing that whatever nefarious business they are involved in couldn’t be good—but they tipped well and that wasn’t lost on you.

It was almost a month of daily interaction when a new customer pops in, nearing midnight as he settles into his booth quietly, thin button-up stretching over his shoulders as he removed his jacket and tossed it into the space beside him, yellow tinted sunglasses tucked into his shirt, catching the ashtray with a single finger and lighting the cigarette already settled between his lips.

You attempt to greet him, lips parting before he interrupts you, barely acknowledging your presence as he spits out the order for a coffee, black. Dickhead, you think. The pen and paper is shoved away in your pocket and you swing your hips around the counter to fulfill his order with a side of spitefulness.

When you approached again, it was with a nauseatingly sweet smile.

“Can I get you anything else?” You ask, catching his eyes briefly as they flicker up before he shakes his head, a roar of laughter and slaps coming from the booth a few feet away, perking your eyes up at the subtle information they were sharing, scooting out of the both as they slapped a bill on the table, passing by with a vicious smirk that had your blood running cold, the graze of fingertips brushing against your ass that had you biting down on the inside of your cheek to steady yourself, nearly falling into the table as they pushed by.

The stranger perks up at that, his eyes trailing over your body with the same robotic motion as them, but with an air of curiosity, like he was examining you and your reaction.

“No—no, just the coffee,” He assures you, both of you watch as the group of men climb into their shared truck, “those your regulars?”

“Unfortunately,” You let slip without thinking, “I’m sure their boss would hate to hear how loud they talk about all transfers and shipments—can’t imagine it’s anything good.”

His eyes drag to your breasts, more pointedly toward the nametag pinned in your shirt.

He speaks your name before introducing himself, “Javier,” He addresses, turning to dig into his jacket before he pulls out a leather wallet, opening it to flash off his credentials, “DEA.”

“Oh–I’m…I’m not…involved with them, if that’s what you think…” You don’t know why the revelation has your nerves shot, but the fingers that wrap around your wrist ground you.

Javier has spent weeks—not a single lead or piece of evidence to follow. You were his saving grace, a goddamn miracle. He tugs lightly, pulling your attention to him.

“How often do they come in here?”

“Uh,” You blink rapidly, trying to think, “Um—three or four times a week, usually every other day.”

He speaks your name gently, his demeanor changing as he releases his hold on your wrist before he motions for you to sit, looking around briefly to assess how busy the restaurant was.

At this hour, it was only you and him.

You slide into the booth and place your palms against the table, fiddling nervously with your fingers, watching as he puffed at the cigarette a few times before placing it in the ashtray, followed by a generous sip of his coffee.

“Everything they’ve told you,” Javier begins, pointing his finger vaguely in your direction before he points down, fingertip pressing against the table, “tell me—not a detail spared.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as your mouth opens, tongue dragging against your bottom lip as you try to access the memory stored in the back of your brain before you remember the small, mostly indecipherable notes you had been taking.

You rip the wrinkled paper from your notepad and pass it over, his brow furrowing as he attempts to decipher the information and to your surprise, he does.

Unknowingly, you had captured a loose schedule they seemed to follow when they shipped things in and out, the day trading off as weeks passed, constantly changing to throw off suspicion, but eventually things overlapped and repeated.

Quietly, Javier pulls his wallet from his pocket and tosses over a wad of bills in your direction.

You stare at it blankly, eyes dragging up to his face as he nods toward the money.

“Should cover the coffee—and a tip.”

You reach for the money, pulling it apart to count, suspicious of the amount.

Prying the bills apart you count, eyes widening as the number rises.

“Sir—uh, Javier. This is…too much.”

“Not for the information,” He clarifies, peering cautiously over his shoulder, “If I come back every week can you promise more?”

You scoff lightly, pocketing the money regardless, “I can’t promise anything—besides, it’s always the same stuff. Just when things are coming and going, nothing more.”

“Can you get more?” Javier asks curiously, an eyebrow raising as he taps the ash off the cigarette and brings it to his lips, “Like, names—anything?”

“I can try, but—”

“I’ll pay.”

Unfortunately, waitressing was a shitty job.

And you were more than willing to allow Javier to turn you into his little informant.

You nod quietly.

His order changes depending on his mood.

He never orders food, usually coffee or whiskey.

Nothing less, nothing more.

And you do dig deeper, giving in to the absurd attempts at flirting and playing it up, allowing the occasional touches that make your skin crawl, returning them with fervor. Luckily, you had a strong stomach and handled it with ease, catching the names of the four that frequented the restaurant often, curiously asking about work and life, giving them vague or fake answers for your own when they pried.

“Three are single,” You tell Javier as you slide him a glass of whiskey neat, “desperately.”

Surprisingly, he chuckles at that. You’ve never heard it before.

It’s a nice sound.

“One is married, two kids.”

You pass him a piece of paper with names and information, trading off for the cash he transfers in return, pocketing it inconspicuously. He’s never there at the same time as them, so the weight on your shoulders is lifted, but the creeping feeling of being watched stays put.

“They like it down,” You retort with a forced smile as a customer passes by with a nod, “so—up it is.”

Conversation was always easy with Javier, his charisma oozes out without even trying. It was natural for him, casually taking your hand into his during a slow shift, examining the lack of jewelry.

“Could get you a fake one, if it would help,” Javier suggests.

Unless you already had one, of course. His eyes flick up in a silent question.

“I don’t think it would matter,” You admit, “If they want something, they’re going to get it.”

The routine continues like this for a while, until eventually, it doesn’t.

A new group of men come in one Friday, the other, and another, throwing you off kilter.

They started rotating them, keeping you on edge as the information is becoming harder to obtain despite your attempts to dig and frustrations arise in Javier, but never with you.

Sometimes they don’t even speak at all, hushed tones at the table unless you’re needed—but, occasionally they get messy. It’s usually the younger guys, inexperienced, fresh-faced, eager to please the big boss but riding on an uncapped power high.

One of the men gets particularly ostentatious, always coming in on a drunken stupor and slurred words, eyeing you like a piece of meat that he was eager to sink his teeth into. He slips you his number more than once, ignores your polite attempts at a subject change when the rest of the men are hyping him up, and rarely takes your refusal into consideration.

Eventually the fear that has built in you overflows, suspicion arising when you leave work a night after Javier had long departed, a night of very little information exchange outside of casual talk—and even that was forced, understanding how frustrated Javier had become.

One of the men had stuck around, only a brief crossover as Javier had stepped into the restaurant, his eyes tracking you the entire way out before you’re pulled in by Javier’s voice ordering his drink of the night, squeezing his shoulder gently in response.

You should have known better, you should have spoken up.

Javier would’ve done something then, but instead, you convince yourself to forget about that uncomfortable feeling that crept in. You knew what would help, biding your time until Javier left for the night, ignoring how he seemed to eye you too, but with a glazed over expression of worry.

There was a car you barely noticed, swallowed up by shadows and turning on as you drove down the road when you finally clocked out, the minutes dragging before you pulled into the parking lot of the chapel you had sped towards with a weight on your chest and a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You couldn’t recall that last time you had visited, but you were desperate now more than ever.

You needed solace.

Prayer comes naturally, dedicated to begging for protection over yourself, allowing the silence of the space to consume you as soft footsteps of other patrons walked by, just raising your chin as a hand clasps over your shoulder, nearly falling to your ass as you turn to connect the owner of the hand to a body.

“Javier?” You ask quizzically, “Did you follow me?”

“No?” He looks confused, answering with full honesty.

That twisting feeling in your gut sinks further, looking around briefly.

“I can provide protection,” Javier tells you, “if you need it.”

You stay quiet, chewing gently at your bottom lip, scanning the room for familiar faces.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it? I could sense it, back at the diner.”

There was only Javier, still mostly a stranger.

“Are you really DEA?” You ask, his expression urging you to lower your volume as he takes a seat beside you, “Is that a lie?”

“I spent a long time trying to take down Escobar, I find that kind of insulting, chiquita.”

He’s met with silence, understanding your need for reassurance.

“Yes, I am,” He tells you, his gaze unwavering, “I should’ve offered a protection detail to you from the jump, but I figured me being around often enough would work—did someone follow you here?”

“I don’t know, I kinda lost sight of them.”

You fall silent, staring at a crease in the denim of his jeans as you speak.

“Should I be worried?” You ask quietly, turning your body toward him, “Like—are they going to kill me?”

“They’re getting uneasy,” Javier responds vaguely, before assuring, “Not because of you.”

“I should…I should tell you,” You take a breath, “One of them invited me to a party, I have his number. I told him I would have to work some things out, but I never…”

“Was it this weekend?” Javier asks suddenly, the lines in his forehead creasing at the mention.

“Yeah—yeah, why—”

“Say yes,” Javier urges, “I’ll keep you safe.”

It was a big promise, but Javier’s pleading eyes worked like a spell.

“This is gonna cost, Javier.”

“Name your price, hermosa.”

–

Javier’s touch is white-hot, cigarette tucked between his lips as he brushes your hair behind your ear and presses the in-ear monitor inside, hiding it behind the gaudy jewelry attached to your ear and adjusts your hair back over, stepping back and raking his eyes over your frame casually, pinching the cigarette from his lips with his thumb and pointer finger as he blows the smoke out.

“It’s small enough they won’t notice but try and keep it covered,” He tells you, his free hand shoved into his front pocket as his presence fills your apartment, moving around sheepishly under his gaze, “I’ll be a few minutes away, if anything goes south I’ll get you out.”

You stumble slightly slipping on your heels, caught by his tight grip as he steadies you.

“Sorry—I’m freaking out,” You admit, looking away nervously as his grip loosens but doesn’t leave, firm around your bicep as you sleep your other foot inside the hell, “Th—thank you.”

“You smoke?” Javier asks causally as you stand.

“Not really,” You respond, “Occasionally, I guess. It’s probably more social, if I’m being honest.”

He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and offers it to you, placing it between your lips as you take a small puff without thinking or being told, an effective way to calm your nerves as you focused on the action as he points toward the cigarette, “Don’t drink or smoke anything they give you tonight,” Javier warns, “communication works both ways, I need you coherent.”

He pulls the cigarette away and places it between his own lips again.

The nicotine stings your throat and chest, giving you a noticeable distraction that calms your mind. “How do I look?” You force a tight smile, twirling on your feet as the dress clung to your curves, a soft, velvet red, “Fuckable, I hope. Otherwise I’m not getting anything out of them.”

Javier snorts at that, brow creasing at your crudeness.

“I don’t think you want my opinion,” He answers vaguely, swiping the counter for his keys.

“Just admit it,” You tease him with the words tossed over your shoulder as you grab for your jacket, “It’s fuckable.”

“Yeah, sure,” He mumbles around the cigarette between his lips, “fuckable.”

The way the word rolls of his tongue is visceral, ignoring the pulse between your legs at the vibrato in his voice and the chuckle that follows—regardless, it helped ease your nerves.

–

It’s loud, sweaty, and overwhelming.

You thought they would choose something less…obvious.

But, it was becoming more and more clear how much of the town was under the Cali Cartel’s payroll, learning more and more information as Javier shared it with you in bits and pieces, your curiosity getting the better of you.

The idea was to mingle, drifting far enough away from your date that you might happen upon one of Javier’s more meaningful targets, not going as far as to infiltrate the heads, but someone damaging if you sunk your teeth in.

You quickly come upon the realization that most of the men are confusing you with entertainment, rather than being a guest, quickly side-stepping the hands that reach for you as you squeeze your way toward the bar, sliding into an empty seat with a breath of relief.

“They are animals,” The voice beside you speaks—belonging to a man who was scientifically handsome; oddly perfect, hair perfectly coiffed and mused into place, a perfect set of teeth hidden behind plush lips and piercing green eyes—you had memorized the face in the picture Javier had shown you, “¿Cómo te va? ¿Lo estás pasando bien?”

You almost forget he’s talking to you for a moment, staring up at him distractedly before Javier’s voice speaks softly in your ear, “Answer him, chiquita. He’ll get suspicious.”

“Oh, yes,” You answer quickly, moving in closer to converse over the roar of music and the heavy buzz of strobe lights flashing overhead, “I seem to have lost my date, though.”

“Don’t worry,” He smirks, “I will keep you company.”

It does take a few drinks and you nursing your own, but you play into the act of being a mere accessory on the mysterious man’s arm, allowing him to drag you around the club with no real path to follow, eventually ending up with a smaller group of men huddled away in a corner, standing dutiful and quiet as the men talk amongst themselves in obscure words, almost like a code.

“I can’t—I can’t hear them,” Javier’s speech is garbled, drown out by the music as you squint at the pain of the feedback in your ear, “can’t—hurry—”

Eventually, you find an opening to excuse yourself.

“Hermosa,” The voice freezes you in place, but the touch is gentle, surprisingly, “I would like to see you again, outside of here—”

You quickly ramble off the name of the diner, attempting to pull away, but not before a kiss is pressed against the front of your hand, feeling the heat burn through your skin like a brand before you’re slipping through the crowd, unable to take a deep breath until you’re outside.

You walk the distance to where Javier had parked originally, finding him buried deep in a conversation with someone who had pulled up in another car, hands curled around the driver’s side window, his head turning as he heard the distinct click of your heels.

“Fuck,” He curses, approaching you with his hands hovering around you—not touch or prodding, almost hesitant to cross that boundary unless it was absolutely needed, “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” You answer confused, nose scrunching up as you peered around him at the unknown agent, his window rolling up before he drove off, “what’s that about?”

“We think someone might have jammed the comms—there’s no way to know, it could have been the club itself, one of the agents is going to look into it—”

“Can you drive me home?” You interrupt suddenly, rubbing at the spot on your hand that the man had kissed, feeling dirty, “I’m full up on being felt up tonight and I want to change.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Javier replies after a moment of hesitation, “let’s go.”

You rip the device from your ear the moment the passenger door closes.

–

Javier places your heels against the floor as you walk barefoot into your apartment, a simple but kind gesture as your belongings scattered against your kitchen counter, fingers dragging through the front of your hair and back as you smeared your makeup in the process.

“Oh, the uh—the code,” You remember suddenly, “something about a bridge, as the sun rises…something with water. The guy, the picture you showed me. He approached the four you told me were important. I don’t think they liked me being there, but I also think they assumed I was too ignorant to remember a few words.”

Javier pauses, hands digging into his hips as he paces near your door.

“Do you want a beer?” You ask curiously, the furrow in his brow sinking deep as he attempts to decipher the code, he nods silently.

You figured with the information bestowed he would leave, but instead he stays, sipping at his beer for over an hour as you watch him move, his brain working things out in real time.

He’s beside you know, hands pressed into the counter as he pushed his body away, staring down at his feet as he repeated the words aloud, but quietly, like a murmur.

“Are you sure they aren’t distributing right under your nose?”

Javier’s head tilts to the side as he looks at you, confused by your analogy.

You stare out your window for a moment, curtains pushed open, the gray luminescence of the moon illuminating the inky night sky, “I mean, they’re obviously paying people off, always partying at clubs—wait, the bridge and water,” A thought pops into your head, grabbing Javier by the hand before you’re pulling him to your apartment window, “what if they’re meeting on boats? I mean, not to say that’s how it’s getting it in, but—”

“That…makes sense,” Javier says, void of any distinct emotion as he takes a long chug of his beer before placing it on the ledge of the window, rubbing at the shoulder of his opposite arm.

“Annoyed you didn’t think about it first?” You tease, turning to tilt your head at him like he had earlier.

“Hadn’t gotten that far yet, we’re still trying to put the pieces together,” He grimaces at the tightened muscles, rolling his neck as his hands settle back against his hips, “that’ll help, though.”

“Sit down,” You urge him, pointing toward your couch and Javier looks at you with dull amusement before you’re urging him again with your insistent finger, eventually he relents.

Immediately, you round the back of the couch and allow your fingers to dig into his shoulder, working out the soreness with deft fingers, “Shit—you don’t have to,” Javier begins to protest before your hand is curling around the back of his head and pushing it forward, molding him to how you needed him positioned as your fingers dig in deep, “that’s, fuck, that’s…shit, right there.”

His voice is pure erotica, but it makes your lips curl in amusement. It was that pathetic desperation you heard so often from the men you served daily—that slight pitch to their tone as they tried to grab your attention, but with Javier, he’s completely detached.

His hands were tucked between his legs, head resting forward as you dug in with a strong, pointed touch, his groan reverberating down his spine.

“Oh, come on,” You tease, “I was just getting started.”

Javier shakes his head and stifles the laughter in his chest, resting against your couch as his hands circle the beer in his grasp, looking up at your face, tilted down toward his own as your fingers curl around the back of the couch, straps slipping down your shoulders in your relaxed state.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Javier checks, given you’ve had a proper amount of time to wind down from the adrenaline of being inside the club surrounded by dealers and potential kingpins.

He’s worried. He barely knows you and he’s still worried.

“It’s a rush,” You admit candidly, “But, I’m pretty resilient, Javier. Work is work. I’ve dealt with worse assholes on the job, I’m good at putting on a face when I need to.”

“What about now?” Javier asks curiously, eyes exploring your morphing expression of amusement to bashfulness, the way he’s staring at you outright, words unspoken.

“Yeah, pretty difficult,” You jest at his expense, his smile lines creasing as he grinned slightly, “I have this asshole in my apartment—annoyingly cocky, hates massages. God, the worst—”

He doesn’t like the way this job winds him up, the tension taught in his spine and unrelenting, staring up at you with a tinge of a buzz from the alcohol and the sight of your sloping breasts spilling out of your dress.

He’s used to driving miles and miles for peace of mind and a nice body to sink into, but you’re here, you’re smiling at him and he’d be damned to refuse the opportunity you’re presenting to him, leaning down as his hand comes up without thinking, twisting in your hair as his head turns to meet yours at the same angle, placing his beer down in the same instance.

“The fucking worst,” He echoes, his hands crawling up the edge of your dress as you climb over the couch with his guidance, speaking through rushed exchanges of lips, his hot, beer-tainted breath against your skin as he situates the dress up at your hips, straddling him without a second thought, “you were right about the dress—”

“Fuckable,” You both agree in unison, sighing audibly at the kiss he places to your chin, neck, shoving his face between the valley of your breasts as you work silently at his jeans, the clang of his buckle, metal against metal as you loosen it enough to free his straining cock, his breath catching as you wrap your fingers around the velvety skin of his shaft.

“M-My wallet,” He chokes out, muffled as your tongue dips into his mouth, stop briefly to savor the touch as his hands cups your face, eventually drifting into your hair in a similar manner to earlier but then he’s tugging, “got—got a condom.”

“Of course you do,” You snort in merriment, “is that—is that what we’re doing?”

Javier nods eagerly, never separating more than a millimeter from your lips as you stare at him, his eyes staring right back, searching your expression for any minute twitch of deception.

When Javier fits himself inside of you it is with a broken grunt, a curse under his breath, and a hand squeezing tight at your hip, fingers digging into the bunched up cloth as he wraps his opposite arm around your back, pulling you toward him with a sharp snap of his hips.

You gasp, falling over the back of the couch as your hands grasped at the surface in desperation, the start of a quick but all consuming pace of his hips, his lips mouthing at your skin; arms, fingers, even over your ribs, biting gently through the velvety fabric of your dress, stifling his shaky moans, attempting to avoid the glaringly obvious fact that he hasn’t been able to release his stress like this in weeks.

A willing participant, a body, convenience.

Deep down, you know.

But, you found yourself in the same mix of issues.

Regardless, you both ignore it.

–

Javier is gone by morning—or, what is left of it.

The exhaustion of the night and the sex catching up to you, coming undone on his cock as he gripped your ass, feeling the bruises he’d left in the process and remembering the soft, filthy words of encouragement he had whispered against your skin as you came.

He even locked your apartment and slipped the key under the crack in the door, stumbling toward the glinting gold piece on the ground and the folded up note on the ground, eyebrow creasing at the sight as you kneel to the ground, adjusting your dress hastily. You squint to read the hastily written note.

Got a lead. Money is for last night.

You peel the paper open and spot the money inside, eyes widening as you slowly realize that this was far more than he’s given you before, nearly double the first time, slowly you fold the paper back over and check the back, inspecting the item as a whole before you notice the writing on the back.

We should do it again sometime, chiquita.

You look up at the door slowly, at the cash, before peering over your shoulder at the couch, still indented with sleep and a blanket strewn carelessly over the cushions.

He paid you for sex. He’d made it transactional.

There’s a brief moment where you’re stricken with offense, half the mind to track him down and chew him out, but you remember how your exchange started and ultimately how it would end.

Plus, it was half your rent paid for from the result of the type of sex you haven’t allowed yourself to have in far too long, disconnected from feeling and fully freeing.

Besides, it must be a regular thing for Javier and you couldn’t even blame him.

He was only doing his job.

–

A protection detail does work for a brief time, at least, it eases some of your worry.

It was a younger agent, Javier had told you, little to no responsibility outside of keeping his eyes on you and reporting back when necessary. As some of the leads start to blossom, Javier appears less and less, but still follows through on his payments when you have information to exchange, even if it’s only a name or time of day for something.

You do find the boldness to ask him about the money he’d forked over for sex, flowing lightly into conversation as he gives you a recount of his time with Escobar after a night of curiosity and lacking customers drags you into the booth beside him.

Always taking careful note of any personal tidbits he would offer. You knew he wasn’t married or that, at the very least, he was an expert at hiding it. No kids, no spouse, no baggage.

“Is it hush money?” You ask bravely, counting through your tips for the night as he sips gingerly at the glass half full of whiskey, “Because if so, I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyways.”

His brow creases, confused for a brief second before you mouth the words.

My couch, the sex.

“Didn’t want things getting confusing,” Javier admits, “If it’s any consolation, the sex was good.”

“You’re too complicated for me anyways,” You snort softly, separating the bills accordingly as you glance over at him briefly, a soft hum in his throat as his lips wrap around the edge of his glass as he downs the rest of the liquor, “Was it a one time thing?”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Javier admits, “figured I should draw the line early—you aren’t offended are you? Because if you need me to remind you how good it—”

As you finish, dragging the money into one pile, you shrug, “I’m off in thirty.”

The sway of your hips as you exit the booth and head toward the back of the restaurant is enough to have Javier suffering half-hard in his jeans, legs widening as he inconspicuously rubs his palm over the denim to adjust himself, awaiting the small nod of your head around the corner that comes half an hour later.

–

Javier is efficient, you learn.

What first starts off as a casual trade turns into pure, unrestrained stress relief.

It bleeds into work for both of you, finding time to drag him off into the back office when you knew it was available, fucking over the desk with any empty kitchen and diner as the hours waned into the early morning and everyone was either on break or asleep.

You never offer up much about yourself, very little about your life before moving to Colombia or why you’ve stuck around for so long—but he does know you’re disconnected from your family almost entirely, completely alone.

He has a huge family back in Laredo, people that clearly care about him, catching him on the phone with his father one night as they bickered lightheartedly, something about Javier needing to find time to vacation sooner rather than later.

When you have sex at your apartment, he always smokes afterwards, whether in your bed or by the open window in your living room, always careful about the barrier of clothing that remains, never entirely naked in front of one another.

He doesn’t look at you either, won’t kiss you further than something quick—a wet, sloppy exchange of tongues as he fucks into you from behind, pulled back tight to his chest as his hand strains and squeezes around your neck to turn your head toward him.

And he never stays, doesn’t stay hung up on goodbyes.

He waits until you’re asleep, places the money at your bedside, and leaves.

But, there is a moment when you hear the tone in his voice switch, almost offended.

You’re both naked from the waist down and he’s thrusting into you lazily as his lips latch onto the section where your neck meets your shoulder, recounting the details that you’ve learned today, easily killing two birds with one stone.

He mentioned something earlier that night about a bust gone wrong, chewing frustratedly at his bottom lip as he spoke more with his eyes than his words before you had dragged him toward the back.

“Benny offered to take me on a date,” You address lightly, voice hitched as Javier used his palm against the inside of your thigh to spread it wider before it curls around the back of your knee and pulls up high over his lip, “he bought me an outfit and everything.”

He racks through the catalog of names in his brain.

Benny. Benny…Benito?

He wasn’t aware he’d spoked the name out loud until you’re responding with a soft acknowledgement as the desk bangs against the wall, your hand flattening out behind you for support, “Yes—same thing. I’m sure it’s for the—”

“The gala, yeah.”

He had spent the past few weeks trying to approach a way to get inside, knowing that this would be an opportunity to track the ever-expanding tree of sellers and suppliers, a front for the obvious drug trade that was happening, as you phrased it, right under his nose.

The boat lead had only gotten them so far, knowing that there was much more nefarious shit going on that he was grasping at straws to collect off of, using you as his main source of information.

He knows it’s dangerous, but damn were you good at it.

“When did that c—come up?” Javier asks, grunting into your neck as his orgasm creeped in, his fingers drifting expertly over your clit as they had a dozen times before.

“Couple weeks ago,” You reply casually, both you falling into your eventual orgasms and only hearing him speak as he’s already disposed of his condom and was buttoning his jeans up.

“When were you gonna tell me that?”

It feels like a heavy weight on your chest, the clear betrayal in his voice coming from absolutely nowhere, immediately forcing you into defense mode as you sneer at him, adjusting your top back into your jeans as you tie your apron around your waist.

“I’m telling you now,” You retort, “I wasn’t even sure he dropped the clothes off here yesterday.”

It couldn’t have been that crucial of a detail, given that the gala wasn’t happening for another week according to the information that had been figured out.

Javier looks stiff suddenly, shoving his wallet into his back pocket before your hand is twisting around his bicep and shoving him back until he faces you.

“Is there something you need to say?” Your eyebrows raise slightly, expectant of the harsh words that were bound to be slung your way.

“I’m paying for information—honesty, too.”

“Yeah, well, you’re also paying to have sex with me.”

Javier isn’t sure why he feels it—it isn’t jealousy, necessarily. Just betrayal, that over the last few months you didn’t feel comfortable enough to share the information with him immediately, weary of the temptations of the cartel and the idea that they could pull you in, flip you against him.

He worries for your safety and well-being, knowing that he would be the one living with that guilt if anything happened to you. You were a friend at the very least, something few and far between for Javier after Steve had left. If he wasn’t at work or his own apartment, he was with you.

Javier forces a breath through his nose and huffs, eyes flicking toward you intensely.

“It’s important to know this shit, so we can prepare.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, alright? It’s not like I’m keeping secrets. I’m sure you could do your research on me if you wanted, if you haven’t already. I have nothing to hide and nothing to gain, Javier.”

His shoulders relax slightly, widening as he puffs his chest out and takes a breath, “Yeah, but they have plenty to gain from you—we have to stay ahead.”

Always one step ahead.

–

The gala comes and goes without much preamble—and you know you’re serving as mostly arm candy, dressed scantily as you hand on the arm of a man you barely know, paraded around as a prize he’s won and showing off to his friends, but he’s surprisingly respectful.

Or, biding his time. You couldn’t tell.

You don’t force off his small advances, a gentle touch or something too close for comfort as he lips pressing against the shell of your ear, whispering something you don’t pay much attention to as you survey the event, spotting a flurry of faces familiar and unfamiliar, picking up on names and information as it arises.

Javier could still hear everything on his end with the small, nearly invisible communication device shoved into your ear, hidden underneath your hair similar to last time, careful of which side you allowed Benny on.

“My boss is sending us on vacation soon,” You didn’t pay much attention, but Javier was, “could be fun, if you wanted to go—I could talk to him, he’d like you.”

Perfect. Useful. You can already hear the words that would float around if the opportunity arises. You prayed it would never get that far.

“Change the subject,” Javier says tensely, knowing you were traversing into dangerous territory.

“I’m sure your boss won’t mind, I’ll talk to him, too,” You can feel the smirk over your shoulder before you turn, wondering if he had ever met the owner of the diner or he was purely assuming, regardless, you laugh it off quietly.

“I have to stick around and keep things going, they wouldn’t survive without me,” You switch gears easily, “I don’t see you often, just your friends—why don’t you come around more?”

He’s only appeared a couple times and both were brief, first to ask you to the gala and then to give you the dress, almost like he’d rather avoid the place entirely. You were careful of giving him any personal information outside of where you worked, knowing that it wasn’t already accessible information.

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think it’s about what I want, is it?” You retort playfully, a smirk growing on his face as his thumb slides over your chin, careful how deep of a jab you make, “It’s up to you.”

Benito’s hand rubs over the back of your dress and down, fingers modeling against the loose wrinkles in the fabric as he moves over the curve of your ass and squeezes, a small squeak escaping your lips as you bite down at the inside of your cheek, ignoring the knee-jerk reaction to elbow him in the stomach.

“Not much longer, chiquita,” Javier reminds, seeming to hear your discomfort immediately.

The next hour drags painstakingly slowly, but eventually Benito drops you off at the diner at your insistent request, despite his pressuring you to invite him back to your apartment.

When you step into the threshold of your living room, Javier is already opening up the dinner had ordered at your subtle request earlier that evening, a smug smile on his face as you shake your head in exhaustion, sleeping over you hills in and instant and half-way stripping out of your dress before you even make it to your bedroom.

Javier grins in amusement as you thrust the device that you rip out of your ear into his chest, quietly tucking it away on the table as he prepares the food.

You’re dressed for comfort when you return, a shirt reaching beyond your thighs as you settle the bare skin against the barstool, underwear peeking out as you sit, immediately shoveling the food into your mouth.

You ramble out the names you caught onto, watching as Javier scribbled them down, rubbing at your temples to soothe the growing headache as you finish up your food and shove it aside, eventually slumping against the counter as you groan weakly.

You can feel Javier’s hand graze your knee, squeezing gently at your thigh, a silent invitation.

“I’m so tired, Javi,” You admit, “You can keep your cash, don’t worry. The whole thing was a bust, anyways.”

The chair creaks as Javier leans toward you, whispering against your ear, “Ven aqui,” He beckons as he pulls at your arm, guiding you silently to your room, half-expecting him to tuck you into bed and leave, but then he’s guiding you backwards toward the mattress and spreading out between your legs on the duvet as he removes your underwear, your lips forming into a subtle pout until he’s splitting you open with his tongue, a gasp escaping at the sudden sensation, fingers twisting into his hair roughly.

“Javi, what are you doing?” You inquire—it was new, a careful line drawn between you both earlier on that it was strictly sex, disconnection, but now he was trying to leave the impression of his tongue against your cunt as he devoured you all at once, squeezing at your thighs to spread them open further, a sated expression on his face that had to be a mix of his own exhaustion, delirious with want.

“There,” You admit before guiding his hand further up, alongside your ribs and around your back, another gentle squeeze before guiding his hand around and over your breasts, “and there—here,” You squeeze down tightly as your eyes fall shut, his mouth sucking over your clit as your back arches off the bed.

You come faster than you expect and had you known his mouth was so talented, you would have suggested this earlier, but through the waning of your orgasm you feel his tongue drifting over your skin in the wake of his previous touches, lapping at the salty skin before his tongue eventually finds the way toward your breast, swirling around the sensitive skin as your nipple hardens against his mouth, innately curious of his actions but not voicing them.

There was never any predicting with Javier, figuring that maybe he needed a little more distraction tonight, but as your orgasm dissipates and the hand in his hair stays, he never moves, only a low rumble to his breathing as you attempt to catch your own breath before you’re slowly leaning up and realizing his eyes were shut and he had fallen asleep.

Whatever was ailing him had finally taken hold, able to squirm away through his heavy sleep before you’re draping a blanket over his frame, still dressed from the day.

You can’t find the courage inside yourself to disturb him as he took up half of your bed, opting for the couch in the off-chance he woke up in the middle of the night to you beside him, stirring up another list of issues you didn’t feel like dealing with.

–

Surprisingly, you wake before him. The sky barely fading out of night as you stir, rising from the couch as the bulky phone on the counter—it was Javier’s, you knew that.

But still, you answer it. It couldn’t hurt, just tell them to leave a message.

Instead, as you hear the familiar voice on the other end, you find yourself pulled into an unsuspecting conversation with his father that drags into the morning hours as the sun rises, meandering over breakfast before you here him stirring in the other room, trying to ignore how pleasant but telling the conversation with Javier’s father was as you place the phone down on the counter and begin cooking breakfast, silently, still half-dressed in the clothes from the night prior, minus your underwear strewn somewhere on your bedroom floor.

He’d asked how Javier was doing when you told him your name, surprised that he was familiar with you, learning that Javier had spoken about you to him, though briefly.

Probably in passing, maybe. You try not to dwell on it.

“He seems fine,” You told him, “Busy, though.”

He’s always busy, he tells you. Cuidar a mi hijo.

He was worried, rightfully so. But, Javier was an adult, his own person.

He wasn’t your responsibility and you weren’t his.

And you try to ignore the strange sensation in your chest at the immediate elation from his father hearing your name, like an old family friend hearing from you for the first time in years, even though you knew very little of his father.

You’ve learned enough about Javier, at least. His likes and dislikes, vague interests that he commented on, the grimace in his face that would grow deeper the harder he got stuck on something, a thought or idea.

Javier clears his throat as he enters the kitchen, avoiding your gaze as you slide the meat and eggs onto two separate plates before passing it to him.

“You could have woke me up,” He said, looking up at you briefly with mused hair, his shirt wrinkled from sleep.

“Your father called,” You ignored his comment, “you should call him back.”

“You talked to him?” Javier asks blankly, no distinct emotion shining through.

“For, like, half a second,” You lie, “I just told him you were asleep.”

He didn’t need to know his father’s worry or how much he’d given away about what he knew of you, secrets that were obviously meant to be kept between them, but as Javier chews with thought, eager to break the lingering silence, he asks.

“He mentioned it, didn’t he?”

You shrug your shoulders cluelessly, “I think you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“That I’ve talked about you, or at least, he knows who you are.”

“It’s none of my business, really.”

“He hears you, at the diner—he’s nosey. I’ve mentioned you in passing. I just…I know how he gets, I don’t want you thinking anything is going on,”

“I’m not paid to think, Javier,” You tell him.

It’s disparaging, his nose scrunching up slightly at your words and the emptiness with which you throw them. This is where he always seemed to fuck up, distinguishing work from his life but somehow maintaining the balance of peace and humanity.

Do you want to explain last night? You mind screamed, but instead you offer him his coffee, the usual black with minimal or no sugar, giving him the option as you slide the mug and container in his direction. He fishes blindly for his wallet but your hand stops him.

You sigh, “That’s not—I wasn’t implying you need to now. I—I just think we should maybe reframe what we’re doing, given that things have…progressed,” The word lingers on your tongue while you bite at your bottom lip. “I’m worried they might find out where I live or about you—or the fact that I’m literally helping the DEA catch them and praying can only do so much and I’m here alone—”

“Hermosa, slow down,” Javier urges, shoving his wallet back into his pocket at your guidance and avoiding the obvious domesticity of having slept overnight in your apartment and ate the breakfast you cooked him.

It was in his nature to care, to a degree. It was his downfall sometimes, to a devastating fault. He striked while you were vulnerable and roped you into his own mess, now paying for it with guilt that had seeped into his personal life, spending the entire night prior picturing how Benito was handling you, how he could step in—how it could have been him instead.

“She doesn’t sound like work,” His father had told him a week ago, returning a flirtatious quip as you had passed him his usual coffee and offered him a light for his cigarette after his hadn’t worked, that sort of boyish tone in his voice that his father picked up on in a second.

The lines had blurred with Helena after a while, a similar circumstance that he continued to find himself in—paying for info, paying for sex, attempting to make it impersonal. But, here you were, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes, and he didn’t know how to fix the mess he had made.

He couldn’t see you hurt or send you into danger like he had with Helena, the helpness he’d felt as he discovered her near lifeless body, covered in blood and bruises after she had been beaten and traded around—it couldn’t happen, it wouldn’t.

–

Javier returns with a phone later that day, similar to his with his number attached to a piece of paper he shoves into your hand as he directs you to pack a bag in the case of an actual emergency, something quick to grab that you wouldn’t have to second guess about.

“You’re making it seem like I should be leaving now,” You tell him, taking the items he passes into your hand as you fold a stack of clothes and toiletries into the bag.

Javier shakes his head, “It’s better be safe,” He explains, “I…doubt—I don’t think they would be. We have someone listening around the clock, people on the inside, there haven't been any red flags.”

“What if something does? What if I can’t reach you?”

“I hope you’re okay, please come home.” He tells you simply, your face contorting in confusion. “It’s a code—a phrase only you and I know. If you use that, it means danger. Through a note, or that phone. I just have to hear it.”

You zip the bag up in silence, feeling the weight of the web you had tangled yourself in finally settling, curious if you would be back at square one, fleeing to a different country to escape your problems.

You nod, a subtle motion but Javier sees it.

“Javier, we should talk,” You echo once more, though with different meaning, “about last night.”

“I’ll still pay, hermosa—that isn’t a problem.”

You could handle the way it was eating at you.

“No, I mean—I mean why did last night happen? Why is your dad telling me to keep you safe?”

His face hardens at the mention of his father.

It’s just sex, you can hear the words before they roll off his tongue, ignoring your second question entirely.

Tell me where he touched you.

“You started this, you know?” You remind him, “You made this transactional.”

Was he scared of you?

Eerily silent he remains, you speak for him.

“I’m not a whore either, so if that is how you view me—I really don’t want your help at all.”

The keys in hand are gripped tight as you chance a glance toward the floor, his body entirely unmoving, his eyes downturned and staring in a similar direction, almost like he couldn’t find the words.

I”m not asking you to give a shit about me, but—”

His answer is a kiss, searing and intense, keys tossed to your bed as his fingers dive into your hair, curling around your head as you make a sound of surprise, steadying yourself as you grip his biceps and stumble backwards, tripping over the dress you had stripped yourself of last night.

You still hadn’t dressed from earlier, his hands flattening against your hips as he molds the soft flesh under his grip, his teething biting into your bottom lip as he murmurs, “Belt, get my belt,” without question, your fingers go to work, ripping the leather away in a practiced motion as you continue to unbutton his jeans, “—think I don’t give a shit, are you fucking insane?”

“A little,” You jest, “I mean—I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

This felt strangely vulnerable, his fingers pulling at your shirt with a deliberate endgame.

Naked in the natural lighting of your room, his fingers reaching for his own shirt as you work his jeans down his hips, appreciating his tanned skin as it shines with a thin layer of sweat. Despite the sticky heat that permeated throughout your apartment, his touch is cooling, comforting even.

“Another freebie?” You tease him further, hearing him snort as he reaches for his wallet and crowded you on the mattress, opening the tight leather before he grabs a wad of cash and shoves it into the sheets before tossing his wallet aside and diving between your breasts.

“Making me a poor man,” Javier retorts, peeking up through your tits as he squeezed them in his grip, mouthing delicately along the skin, “shit—but this, s’fuckin’ priceless.”

“I’m—fuck, I’m kidding, Javier. I don’t want your money. Never wanted it.”

It had always been about convenience, never expecting things to end up like this.

It was a mess, both of you were.

He’s seeing all of you, for once, and you him.

And you know he needs, wants, without saying.

He fucks you slow, legs hitched around his hips as buries his head into the space beside yours, only rising as your noises grow with intensity, the bluntness of your nails digging into his skin.

“Inside,” You beg, “inside of me, Javi.”

He moans pathetically, lips squished against your cheek as his hips falter.

“Yeah?” He grunts, “Can I?”

You giggle airly at his question, nodding fervently.

“Mierda,” He curses brokenly, groaning softly into your skin as he pumps himself inside of you, the warmth of his cum filling you to the brim, oozing out as his hips slow, his hands kneading into your skin as he rests, breathing rapidly against your chest.

“We should—should talk, Javier.” You tell him again, after a moment of silence. “Like, really talk—you know?”

Javier hums in acknowledgment, “Tonight—give me until tonight, okay?”

Tonight was good enough, for now.

–

The first thing you feel when you rouse from sleep is pain.

White-hot and persistent, restrained by your hand as they’re tucked behind your back. You feel more hands, the sound of stiff leather and the smell, overwhelming as it invades your senses.

“I see why he keeps you around,” The voice comes from behind, eyes bleary as you blink before the hand in your hair grips tight, only catching the fist coming at you from your peripheral before your world goes dark.

When you wake again, you’re upright and in a chair, head slung back uncomfortable as you attempt to stretch, feeling heavy and groggy as you move, remembering the moment from earlier you become alert within seconds, eyes searching around frantically as you spot two men.

They were strangers, faces covered, but obviously sent here for a reason.

“Benny thought he could get it out of you,” The man says dismissively, “you foreigners—stupid, messy, predictable.” He grabs the fabric of your dress and plucks the small, miniscule device from the fabric that you missed, squinting to see it before the man breaks it between two fingers and tosses the dirtied fabric aside.

“We got her to ourselves, plenty of time to—”

“No,” The other man replies sternly to the obvious subservient man, “her boss—that’s what we came here for.”

“My boss?” You croak eventually, “At the diner? What do you want with—”

The gun he pulls from his back silences you in an instant. He reaches for the phone on the counter, the yellow sticky note still attached, “That him?”

“It’s mine,” You reply with ease, “I’m forgetful and—”

Your throat swells as he ignores you, dialing the number.

You hadn’t let the reality of the situation settle until you heard Javier’s voice on the other end, careful to not give anything away as his voice comes across more energetic than usual. They didn’t seem upset at the lie, but the finger on the trigger squeezed slightly as his voice came through, a silent order to play along.

“Hola, chiquita,” Javier greets smoothly, “¿Todo bien?”

You laugh softly, “Yes—yeah.”

You know what they want, what they need.

“I hope you’re okay, please come home.” You beg, voice unwavering as you stare the two men down, both of them seeming satisfied by your ploy to get Javier to the apartment without much argument.

The line falls dead without a response, the phone tosses aside to the floor as it shatters into pieces.

Unfortunately, they weren’t going to get it easily.

–

You wished you could warn him.

One wrong move and the blade at your throat, the gun to your head—they would be your undoing.

You stared blankly at the broken lock and hinge of your door, footsteps approaching as you whimpered, the sharpness of the knife pressing against your skin as Javier whips around the corner and into the apartment.

The white-hot pain returns as you’re met with the butt of the gun, slumping from the chair as chaos whirls around you, curled up on the floor and crawling desperately away from danger as someone screams, gargling as it sounds, probably on their own blood.

You couldn’t look back, breathing panickedly as you hid behind the couch and huddled in on yourself, a gun going off unexpectedly as your ears ring, gasping as you hear the sound of a blade puncturing skin once, twice, before it clamers to the floor.

You wait a moment, although it feels like eternity, expecting the cold press of a gun against the back of your skull, but instead it was a hand and eventually another, the faint smell of a familiar cologne that brought you comfort and warmth.

“Baby, we have to go,” Javier urges, “I have to get you out.”

Out?

You look up, his eyes wild but lacking any indicators of violence.

“It isn’t safe here.” He reiterates, “Can you walk?”

You nod weakly, feeling his hand wrap around your waist as he assists you in rising to your feet, still discombobulated and wobbly, he sticks by your side as you grab your things, silent as he eventually, alongside the crowd of presumably agents and police that pass by, invading your apartment, Javier is a guiding light of reassurance before you’re barricaded in the safety of his car.

“It was a tracker,” You mumble eventually, “when he was feeling me up that night—it was because he was trying—well, he—he did, he put a—”

You blink, feeling the sting of tears as you look up at Javier.

“Things are getting worse. It isn’t safe for you here, not anymore.”

“Here? What—what do you mean?”

–

Here meant Colombia.

Which is how you ended up in Texas two weeks later. Laredo to be specific.

Javier had a place close to home. His family.

And you had talked extensively, it was the only thing that kept the panic from consuming you that night as he drove you to the embassy, tying up some loose ends before he drove you to the airport without any explanation until he was shoving the ticket into your hand.

His father had been waiting for you, as somber in expression as his son.

They were so similar it made your heart swell, an unfamiliar feeling.

Javier couldn’t explain what he was feeling for you and you could accept that, but he was careful and adamant in the idea that you would spend your time at his home, already setting you up with a similar job in town, a seamless transition that felt strange, but oddly easy to settle into.

“What if I just left?” You tease him one night, hearing his desk creek as he head slumps into his unoccupied hand, “Would that be easier for you?”

“No,” Javier says sternly, “I’m—this…I think I might be done. Feels like I’m fighting a battle that I’ll never win, feelings fucking pointless.”

It had been months now, curled up on his couch as you stared out the window and toward the empty road, wondering if the chill of fall was creeping in as the cool breeze hit your skin, “No more waitresses to help you out down there, huh?”

Javier snickers at that, though it was quiet.

“Stop that,” He chastises, “It’s not funny.”

You giggle in return, “I know, I know—just remember who’s keeping your bed warm every night, yeah? Oh—and your dad, he keeps asking when you’re gonna call.”

You hear him huff at that, clearing his throat awkwardly as he mumbles an apology to someone on the other end, the faint hum of the office around him feeding through the receiver.

“I hope you’re okay, please come home.”

It wasn’t a cry for help this time, but still a phrase that was special.

A code, a message. A lifeline.

Javier was barely surviving amongst the cartel as tensions had pulled taut and drug trade seemed at an all-time high, nearly unstoppable anymore.

It was beyond him, out of his control.

And for the first time in a long time, he has a reason, a want, to come home.

“Soon, chiquita. Soon.”

You could hear the exhaustion in his voice and it worried you immensely.

“Don’t let it consume you, Javi. You’ve done enough.”

On the other end, his brow furrows. Disgruntled and annoyed at how right you were, echoing the similar sentiment his dad had told him a thousand times.

He was done, he wanted out.

"El envío llega el domingo." / The shipment arrives on Sunday.

"¿Cómo te va? ¿Lo estás pasando bien?” / How are you doing? Are you having a good time?

"Cuidar a mi hijo." / Take care of my son.

#read #bookshelf #angst fic #ficrec #fics i love #almostfoxgloveangst2 #angst challenge shelf #javier peña fic #SCREEAAAAM

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gabessquishytum · 3 days ago

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Everyone knows Dream d'Endless - the seemingly indentured servitude to the Burgess dance troupe; the ESCAPE; the flame outs with an increasing number of duet partners; the personal dance company that puts on rare wildly successful & beautiful, but gorilla performances, that are only publicized by word of mouth (or pager?!?) & don't generally have tickets to them ..... Well, everyone in the dance world knows him, and somehow, Mr. Dream d'Endless is the Show-n-Tell/Career Day person for Robin's best friend this afternoon..... Hob is gobsmacked and tongue-tied - Dream is even MORE in person.

Everyone in the Dance world knows Hob too, for his choice to choose family over touring; and how romantic it was that he put his promising ballet career to the side for his El and how sad it was when he lost all but his Robin a few years ago.

Dream certainly knows Hob Gadling.... and not just because he's Orpheus's best friend's father.

This is too cute omg. I have this notion of Dream kind of resenting and looking down on Hob at first, because he chose family over art, and Dream never had that choice! He's mad inside that he never had the opportunity to do such an outrageous thing. Deep down inside, though, Dream thinks that Hob is the most incredible, admirable, beautiful man in the entire world.

Orpheus and Robin are the closest of friends and of course, Robin can't stop talking about Mr D'Endless - a real life actual celebrity! Robin has no idea that his own father used to be a famous dancer too. Hob tried to keep himself in good shape for ballet and tried to stay in practice, but it's pretty impossible as he has a full time job running a pub and taking care of Robin.

Dream still recognises Hob, though. Even though he's tired and out of shape, with a seven year old clinging onto him and chattering, Dream still knows Hob. Their eyes meet across the playground and it's like the overture of a ballet suddenly starts playing in the background.

Clearly its time for a long overdue playdate for Orpheus and Robin! Hob is so nervous he nearly throws up. How can he possibly sit down with Dream D'Endless, a man he's admired for years?! How can he handle the shame of knowing that he'll never be the dancer he once was, while Dream is a more shining star than ever before?!

Meanwhile Dream is asking himself: how is Hob Gadling still the most handsome man in the world, and how on earth is going to handle his massive crush on the man?

#the sandman #dreamling #ballet au

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diamonddaze01 · 1 day ago

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if heaven is real

pairing: lee chan x f!reader | wc: 2.0k genre: angst, friends to ??? warnings: really really sad, lots of inner monologuing and me attempting to be a poet a/n: for my 400 follower celebration → Kae @ylangelegy requested the fortune teller #3 (“Jealousy Thy Name is…”) + chan + “heaven”// thank you serena @gotta-winwin my love for the beta read <3 // based on fatima aamer bilal’s moony moonless sky

summary: “and is this not treason? / my soul belongs far more to you than it does to me.” - fatima aamer bilal

If heaven is real, then it must look a little like this—a little like you.

Chan thinks this often. Too often, maybe. It’s dangerous, the way his mind always wanders to you like a sinner in search of absolution. Like he has no choice in the matter—because he doesn’t. Not really. It’s dangerous, the way his thoughts always drift to you, the way he searches for salvation in your smile, in your touch, in the very air around you. But he doesn’t know how to stop it. He couldn’t if he tried. His soul has belonged to you far longer than it’s belonged to him, tethered so tightly he sometimes wonders if he could breathe without thinking of you.

And is this not treason? he wonders, though he knows the answer. He’s betrayed himself a thousand times over, letting his heart cling to something it was never meant to have. He knows that - the truth is written in the lines of your smile, the way your eyes shine for someone else, the way your laughter rings though the air. But even treason feels holy when it comes to you.

You’re standing across the room now, laughter spilling out of you like sunlight, and it makes his chest ache in the sweetest, most agonizing way. Someone else is the reason for that laugh—someone too close, leaning in too far—and Chan feels it like a dagger. A whisper of jealousy coils in his stomach, sharp and shameful, but he swallows it down, forces himself to breathe. He has no right to feel it. He knows. But still, it burns.

He knows you’re not his. He knows. But still, the thought slips in, unbidden: If heaven is real, why must it always feel just out of reach?

You glance his way, catching his gaze with a soft smile, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’ve always been good at that, leaving him undone with the smallest of gestures. He thinks about telling you sometimes—about confessing, laying his heart bare in the hopes you’d hold it gently. But the thought terrifies him just as much as it tempts him.

What if you don’t feel the same? What if he ruins the fragile, precious thing you already have? What if… what if…

But then you step closer, like a dream made flesh, and suddenly you’re right there in front of him.

“Chan,” you say, your voice soft and sweet, and it feels like hearing his name for the first time. “You okay?”

No, he wants to say. I’m drowning, and you don’t even know it. But he nods instead, forcing a smile that feels more like a prayer than an answer.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

And as your hand brushes against his, fleeting and innocent, Chan feels the love he’s been carrying for you burst through his chest like light breaking through the clouds. Is this not treason? he thinks again, but this time, he doesn’t care.

Because if loving you is a betrayal, then he’ll gladly be a traitor. After all, heaven never felt so close.

And maybe it’s a little dramatic, but that’s what love does to him—makes everything feel bigger, louder, heavier. He catches himself staring too long, feeling the warmth of it spill over his edges until he’s sure someone must notice. How could they not? It feels like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve tonight, even as he keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

You tilt your head, studying him with that look—soft and searching, like you can see straight into his heart. Chan fights the urge to look away. He knows you’ll see too much if you try hard enough. He’s sure of it.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” you say, the hint of a frown tugging at your lips. “Is something wrong?”

Everything.The word rises to the tip of his tongue, heavy and aching, but he swallows it back. His fists clench at his sides, nails biting into his palms like they’re trying to anchor him to the moment.

“I’m fine,” he says instead. “Just… thinking.”

“About what?” you ask, leaning in just a little closer. Close enough that he can smell the faint trace of your perfume, the one that always lingers like a ghost when you leave the room.

You. Always you.

He doesn’t say it, but you must catch something in his expression, because your eyes soften, and you smile like you’ve caught him in a lie.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know,” you tease, and his heart trips over itself.

It’s ridiculous, the way you undo him so effortlessly. The way you take the jagged, messy pieces of him and make him feel like something whole, something worth holding onto.

He opens his mouth to deflect, but the words die when the guy you were laughing with earlier calls your name.

Chan watches as your attention shifts to him, watches as you offer them that same breathtaking smile, and it feels like something cracks inside him. He shouldn’t feel this way—it’s selfish and unkind, but he can’t help it.

You’re his favorite secret. His greatest sin.

When you turn back to him, your brow furrows at the look on his face. “Chan…”

He cuts you off before you can say anything else. “You should go,” he says, the words sharper than he means for them to be. “They’re waiting for you.”

For a moment, you look like you might argue, but then you nod, stepping back. Chan feels the absence of your warmth immediately.

“Okay,” you say softly, almost hesitantly. “But I’ll find you later, yeah?”

He nods, forcing another smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Later.”

You linger for a second longer, like you’re about to say something else, but then you turn and walk away.

Chan watches you go, every step pulling you further and further out of his reach, and he wonders if this is what falling feels like.

Because heaven might look a little like you, but loving you feels a hell of a lot like breaking.

Chan stays rooted to the spot, watching you slip away from him, his chest tightening with each step you take. It’s like the air around him is too thick to breathe, too heavy with the weight of what he can’t say. The room feels smaller now, quieter. He can still hear your laughter in the distance, a distant melody that makes him ache in ways words cannot express.

And this, he thinks—this longing—is the worst kind of quiet. The silence that fills the space between what he wants and what he knows he’ll never have.

You’re just out of reach, as you’ve always been. He’s loved you from a distance, in the shadows of a room full of light, never daring to cross the line. Always careful, always afraid that reaching for you will burn him. He’s built this space between you, carefully drawn in invisible lines, a cage that keeps him safe from the possibility of pain, but even that is breaking apart in moments like this.

He’s always been so careful, so careful not to touch the light, because the light always burns.

But with you, it’s different. Even the smallest brush of your hand—like earlier, when you accidentally brushed against him—feels like fire against his skin.

Chan’s heart is the type to burn for things that can never be his. And yet, there it is, every beat, every breath, wrapped around you, even as you slip farther away. He’s seen the way you look at others—how your eyes soften when someone else speaks your name, how your voice lights up when you laugh with them. He’s heard the soft conversations you share, the gentle way you treat them, the tenderness in your touch. He knows, deep in his bones, that he’s not the one you’re waiting for.

And it’s selfish, the way he feels, but he can’t help it. It gnaws at him, this jealousy that rises like a tide, filling him with sharp, hollow ache. The way he watches you smile at someone else, listens to the way your laughter sounds when it’s not meant for him, and he knows. He knows he’s losing you—bit by bit, moment by moment, every second pulling you further away, making him invisible in the space you occupy.

But you don’t know. You’ll never know.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Your voice pierces through the fog of his thoughts, grounding him in the present, but it doesn’t ease the ache. You’re standing there now, watching him, your eyes searching his with a kindness that feels like a weight he can’t carry. It’s impossible to hide from you, he realizes. You’ve always known. Always.

"I’m fine," he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them, too quick, too strained. It’s a lie, but one he tells too often. Why bother hiding it from you? You see through him like glass.

"You know, if you're going to keep lying, you're going to have to try harder," you tease, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Your voice, light and effortless, hits him like a breath of fresh air—but it hurts just as much as it soothes. It’s too real. Too perfect. Too close.

But the ache that blooms in his chest isn’t sweet. It’s sharp and bruising, like a wound that never quite heals, no matter how many times he tells himself he’ll let it go.

"I guess I’m just not in the mood for a lecture," he mutters, trying to brush it off, trying to make this conversation lighter, even though every word feels like it’s dragging him under. It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? Always trying to make things feel easier when his heart is already drowning.

You give him that look—a look that knows too much—and his stomach flips. "You’re an idiot, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," he says, finally allowing a laugh to escape, though it’s tight and rough, like it’s fighting him. “But I’m your idiot.”

And that smile—the one that softens your face, the one that holds so much warmth, so much kindness—makes his heart stumble in his chest. "I guess that’s true," you say, your voice so light, so warm, that it makes him ache in a way that feels almost like a punishment. "But you’re still an idiot."

It’s easy to laugh, to pretend that nothing hurts, to deflect, to be casual—but he knows. Beneath the joking, beneath the easy words, this is his punishment. That the only way he’ll ever have you—truly have you—is through this quiet ache, this constant longing that sits heavy in his chest, like a secret he can’t tell anyone.

Maybe one day—when he’s brave enough—he’ll tell you. But tonight? Tonight, heaven feels just a little bit further out of reach. And he wonders, as he watches you laugh with someone else, whether this is how it’s always going to be. A love that’s distant. Unreachable. Beautiful, but impossible to touch.

It’s devastating. The kind of love that burns and breaks, that never knows a beginning or an end. It’s beautiful because it’s pure, but it’s also too fragile to ever last.

The moment passes, but the ache doesn’t. It lingers, filling the space between you as you turn away once again, retreating into the crowd, leaving him standing alone in the dim light, an observer of everything he can never have.

But as he watches you disappear, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe it’s okay. Maybe the ache is worth it. Maybe, just maybe, loving you from this distance is enough.

Because if loving you is a betrayal, then he’ll gladly spend his life in this sweet, aching, beautiful treason.

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offsidetracked · 13 hours ago

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I've been thinking about how I'd go about byler in S5.

When I got hooked on byler it was the same way I got hooked on every other ship; it's heavily supported by subtext, regardless of if it's confirmed by the text later on or not. Sasunaru, reylo, bkdk... all are ships that have intricate and beautifully woven subtext that made us fans speculate for years. In some cases discourse is still ongoing. That's a hallmark of some great writing as far as I'm concerned (all of these ships crashed and burned in different ways but until they did the writing was truly stellar).

Stranger Things and byler are in the same league. I just believe that this time the outcome will be a lot more satisfying. So how do we get the GA to root for it when it happens? I'm not the Duffers but I know some things I would do to help it along:

Dial up the homophobia. When byler becomes canon there can be absolutely no question; the bad guys of this show are the bigoted close-minded homophobes. It must be explicitly shown how mindlessly cruel this specific type of hate is and that it's incompatible with viewing yourself as a hero or good guy. I'd continue to spin the thread from last season and have the town blame pretty much all that goes wrong in Hawkins on your resident nerds, outcasts and misfits. Mix that with the aids crisis and the Reagan administration and next season is gonna be brutal. But it needs to be to drive home that in Stranger Things, if you're a homophobic bully, you're the monster.

Make the subtext hornier. One of the things I adore about Rian Johnson and Masashi Kishimoto is how they do subtext, particularly sexual subtext. Funnily enough dudebros in both the Star Wars and Naruto fandom, just like a lot of Milevens, didn't pick up on any of it. The Last Jedi is filled with Freudian sexual imagery. From Rey falling onto a hairy seaweed-filled cave hole to Kylo's light sabre design, yoni-shapped doorways and their joint fight towards the end—all sexually loaded and masterfully tongue-in-cheek. Naruto had a much longer run and was consequently more parsed out with it's subtexual imagery. Still it's not hard to find if you know how to look (there are some really excellent accounts on here if you wanna dive into that rabbit hole). Stranger Things has the beautiful benefit of being a horror; a genre that excels at showing our suppressed desires in grotesque and weirdly relatable ways. Phallic monsters, fluids everywhere, exposed scratched up and damaged skin, tending to wounds in intense and intimate ways, grime and dirt, panting, moaning, grunting through pain... It's up to the Duffers how in the face they wanna be about it. But it would be a missed opportunity if they don't crank up this type of imagery at least a little. Also, I want to see Mike suffer. Let him sweat and have a nervous breakdown over allegory.

Show that repression = impotence + harm. Freud, no matter what you think of the guy, is all over horror. This quote from Men, Women and Chainsaws sums it up pretty neatly; "Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways". Well bitches, now is later and it's time for the subconscious to come out of the closet and ruin everyone's day. Will is gonna be stuck in the victim part of the Final Girl trope until he fully embraces his queerness by having his feelings reciprocated by Mike. Mike, on the other hand, will probably actively find himself and the people closest to him in dangerous and harmful situations as a direct consequence of all the shame, fear and desire he's bottled up. Until he too, embraces his queer self by confessing his feelings to Will. Poetic cinema. However the Duffers go about it, the lesson everyone watching S5 needs to leave with is that forced conformity is harmful to you and everyone around you, and that there is no greater horror than the horror we subject ourselves to when we deny and repress the truth of who we are.

Well there you have it, this is what I would do to promote byler, get the GA on board and tie together this wild, wonderful, nerve-wracking ride we've been on for the last ten years. Godspeed to all of you, however it goes.

#byler #byler endgame #mike wheeler #will byers

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d-z20 · 1 day ago

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yeeeaaahhhhhhh so I had a few more thoughts about Therapist!Agatha as per the tags in these posts and decided to share them with the class :o

Epilogue

As you gathered your things, you felt lighter, almost dizzy with relief. Dr. Harkness always knew what to say and how to smooth out the jagged edges in your thoughts. She made everything feel manageable—like nothing was ever as bad as it seemed.

"You’ve been doing so well lately," she told you, her voice steady and warm. "I can see how much you’re opening up, how much you trust me."

The words had sunk into you, soft and sweet, a balm against something raw. You trusted her. Of course, you did.

Her palm had grazed your back just briefly as she ushered you toward the door. "Take care," she murmured, her touch grounding and familiar.

You stepped out, blinking against the sudden clarity of the hallway lights. Something felt off, but you couldn’t place what. Your mind was hazy—soft, pliable even. Dr. Harkness, no, Agatha made everything better. She always did.

It wasn’t until you were halfway home that the realisation struck; you patted all your pockets and checked your bag to confirm, but yep, you didn’t have your phone on you. A jolt of panic cut through the fog, and you turned on your heel, heart thudding. You must have left it in her office.

The building was quiet when you returned, the hallway eerily still. Her office door was ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the dim corridor. You stepped closer, about to knock—

A sharp inhale. Then a soft, breathy moan.

You froze.

The sound was muffled but unmistakable. Your stomach flipped, heat rushing to your face. You should have left, should have pretended you heard nothing.

Maybe she’s meditating. Maybe it’s some kind of grounding exercise she forgot to mention before. She wouldn’t do anything inappropriate. She’s your doctor. She knows what she’s doing.

But before you could move, her voice sliced through the thick silence.

"Come in, Y/N."

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Your breath caught in your throat. Had she seen your shadow outside the door? Heard your footsteps? You swallowed hard and pushed the door open, stepping inside, every nerve alight with something dangerously close to dread.

Agatha was slouched back in her chair, legs parted, her hand moving furiously between them. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her eyes half-lidded as if she were lost in some delicious haze. The air in the room was thick—charged with something suffocatingly intimate.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t startle. If anything, her lips curled into something knowing, something almost pleased.

"This is good," she huffed, her voice husky yet unwavering. "I had planned for this to be a later session, but... breakthroughs don’t always happen on a schedule. Sometimes, we stumble onto something important before we’re ready."

You hesitated, pulse hammering, but your body moved before your mind could catch up. You lowered yourself into the chair across from her, every muscle locked tight, every breath shallow.

She watched you through heavy eyes, her movements slowing, turning deliberate. "You hold so much inside you. So much stress, so much frustration."

Your fingers gripped the armrests as if they might anchor you. "I—"

A shuddering breath escaped you before you could stop it. Your thighs pressed together, warmth pooling, shame curling at the edges of it. But shame was the wrong word, wasn’t it? Dr. Harkness wouldn’t let you feel ashamed—not when she had spent so long helping you understand yourself.

"It’s alright," she soothed, her voice dipping into something honeyed. "Your body is responding because it knows this is right. You’ve been holding onto so much, and it’s exhausting, isn’t it? Letting go is hard. But I’m here to help you through it."

The air felt too thick to breathe. Your skin felt too tight, too hot, and yet something about her words soothed you, quieted the panic thrumming beneath the surface. Dr. Harkness knew best. She always had.

She shuddered, a long, low moan spilling from her lips as she orgasmed, her body trembling through the aftershocks. Her gaze stayed locked on you, unwavering, even as her chest heaved with exertion. The air between you was suffocating, electric.

And then, just like that, she exhaled slowly, her expression slipping into something serene. "See how natural this is?" she asked, her voice a lazy drawl. "How easy?"

You did feel warm. Overwhelmed, confused maybe—but not afraid. At least, not the kind of fear that made you want to run. If anything, you were rooted to your seat, unable to look away.

She tilted her head. "You don’t have to fight yourself, you know. That ache you feel? It’s just your body telling you what it needs. You can trust it. You can trust me."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves. Trust. It was all she had ever asked of you, and you had never had reason to doubt her before.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm as if the last few minutes had been nothing but routine. "You trust me, don’t you?"

The words settled into your bones, curling around your ribs. Of course, you trusted her. She had never led you astray before. The thought of questioning her felt almost childish, like undoing all the progress you had made.

She only wanted to help.

Your pulse thrummed against your skin, and you swallowed hard.

"Good," she murmured. "Then let us begin."

-----

I feel like I should mention that it took all of 15 seconds for Agatha to shove her hands down her pants after reader left and half of that was trying to get her damn button undone

The Therapist's Touch (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You sought out Dr. Harkness for clarity, for someone to help untangle the mess in your mind. But as your sessions progress, the line between guidance and something far more intoxicating begins to blur.

- OR -

Agatha manipulates you and your mind and uses it as a way to start fucking you in the name of 'therapy'

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon, smut, Dark Agatha, gaslighting, manipulation, other toxic behaviour, fingering (R recv), praise kink, lots of 'good girl', talking through orgasm, mild choking at the end

Words: 2.9k

A/N: Just to repeat: this fic contains dubcon smut, gaslighting, and manipulation so if that is something that triggers you, please do not read. Requested Fic

AO3 | Master List

You met Dr. Harkness after a particularly bad week. You hadn’t been sleeping, your thoughts a tangled mess of self-doubt and frustration. Friends—if you could even call them that anymore—had started pulling away, and work was becoming unbearable. It was one of those situations where you weren’t sure if you were the problem or if everyone else was. You needed clarity. You needed someone to untangle the mess in your head.

And Agatha was perfect for that.

The first few sessions felt normal, even helpful. She was warm but not overly so, sharp-witted with a knowing smile that made you feel like she already had you figured out. You liked that. You wanted to be understood. She had a way of pulling things out of you, teasing out the thoughts you hadn’t even fully realized were lurking under the surface.

"You feel like you're being abandoned," she told you during a session, her voice smooth and steady. "Like the people around you are slipping through your fingers, and you don’t know why."

You nodded, relieved that someone finally understood.

"It must be frustrating," she continued, tilting her head slightly as if weighing her words carefully. "To always be the one reaching out, only to be left in the cold."

Your breath hitched. Was that true? You hadn’t really thought about it that way, but… now that she said it, it felt right.

"Maybe you expect too much from people," she mused, watching you carefully. "Or maybe they don’t appreciate you like they should."

A quiet pressure built behind your ribs, something heavy and unseen. That wasn’t a comforting thought, but there was something… validating about it. Like all the hurt you felt wasn’t just in your head.

"Maybe," you admitted.

She smiled, pleased. "I think people take advantage of your kindness. You let them, don’t you?"

You did, didn’t you?

—

The shift was slow, insidious. Agatha never outright told you what to think—she just guided you there, nudging you toward conclusions you weren’t sure were yours or hers. Your relationships became strained, but Agatha was always there to reassure you.

"You’re growing," she told you after a particularly emotional session. "You’re starting to see things for what they really are."

Warmth unfurled in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a protective embrace. The weight of her gaze felt like an anchor, steadying you in a way nothing else had.

Agatha was dangerous in the way that only truly intelligent people could be. She never raised her voice, never forced an idea on you—she simply led you there, guiding you through your own thoughts like she was pulling a thread loose from a tangled knot.

And God, she was beautiful.

You noticed it in pieces at first. The sharp line of her cheekbones, the way her eyes stayed locked onto yours just a little too long, the elegant way she moved. She always dressed immaculately, sleek dark blouses that clung to her just right, lips painted in deep shades of red or plum. And then there was her voice. The kind of voice that settled into your bones and curled up there, wrapping itself around your ribs like it belonged to you.

It was embarrassing, really. You were falling for your therapist. But she made you feel seen in a way no one else had. And she never discouraged it.

Not directly.

"You hesitate when you talk about what you want," she noted, her voice gentle. "Why do you do that?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "I—what?"

"You second-guess yourself." She studied you carefully, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. "I’ve noticed it. You’ll start to say something, then stop. Like you’re afraid of being too much."

Your pulse fluttered. "I guess I just… don’t want to be a burden."

Her lips curled into something almost like amusement. "A burden?" she echoed, as if the idea itself was absurd. "Who told you that?"

You hesitated. Everyone, you wanted to say. Every time someone stopped texting back, every time you felt like you were grasping too hard to keep people close.

Agatha hummed, tilting her head just slightly. “Who have you been talking to about this?”

You blinked. “What?”

Her gaze was steady, expectant. “You said you feel like a burden. Who put that thought in your head?”

You hesitated. “I mean… I don’t know. I guess I mentioned it to a friend the other day, and they—”

Agatha tsked softly, shaking her head. “And what did they say?”

“They told me I was overthinking.”

A slow, knowing smile curled her lips. “Ah. Overthinking.” She leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. “That’s an easy way to dismiss you, isn’t it?”

You frowned. “I don’t think they meant it like that—”

“But it made you feel unheard,” she pressed gently. “Didn’t it?”

Your breath came a little faster. “I… maybe?”

Agatha nodded, like she’d expected that answer. “It’s interesting,” she mused, voice low and thoughtful. “How often people minimise your feelings. How quickly they brush you off.” Her gaze flickered back to yours, something soft and reassuring in it. “I would never do that to you.”

A tightness bloomed behind your ribs, bittersweet and impossible to ignore. “I know,” you murmured.

Her lips curled in satisfaction. “Of course you do.”

She leaned forward slightly, voice softening. "They made you feel that way," she spoke, like it was some kind of revelation. "Not because you are a burden, but because they don’t know how to appreciate you properly."

Something about the way she said it made your stomach twist.

"They don’t see you the way I do."

The words hung between you, electric.

You exhaled slowly, suddenly hyperaware of how close she was, how intimate these sessions had started to feelThe space between you felt thinner than before, her voice dipping into something softer, closer—like a secret meant only for you.

And then, like she knew exactly what you were thinking, she smiled.

"Tell me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "When’s the last time someone truly listened to you?"

Your pulse hammered.

It should have set off alarms. But it didn’t. Because she was listening. She was there for you. More than anyone else has been.

Had anyone ever really listened?

—

The next session, Agatha watched you with something unreadable in her expression. Like she was studying a puzzle, waiting for the pieces to click into place.

“You seem tense,” she noted, her voice low, honey-smooth.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, but it came out strained. “Yeah, well. Life’s a little stressful.”

She tilted her head, gaze sharp, like she was peeling you apart layer by layer. “You hold yourself so tightly,” she stated, studying you like a specimen under glass. “You don’t even realise it, do you?”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Your shoulders.” A flick of her fingers. “Your jaw. Your hands.”

You followed her gaze, your fingers curling instinctively before you forced them to relax.

“I think,” she continued, voice slow, deliberate, “you’ve spent so long bracing for impact that you don’t know how to let go.”

A strange heat curled in your stomach, something unspoken threading through the air between you.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Would you let me help you?”

Your stomach flipped. “Help me how?”

Agatha smiled—calm, measured, soothing. “A simple exercise. One that might help you process the tension you’re carrying.”

You hesitated, but there was no reason to refuse. It was therapy. She was your therapist.

“Okay,” you said finally.

Her smile deepened, approval warm in her gaze. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.

You obeyed, exhaling softly.

“Now,” she assured, “I want you to focus on the weight of your body. The way your spine curves. The way your breath moves through you.”

Her voice was hypnotic, her words weaving their way into your bones.

And then—

Fingertips against your jaw.

You startled, eyes flying open, but Agatha hushed you gently.

“Shh,” she soothed, thumb brushing along your cheek. “It’s alright. You trust me, don’t you?”

Your breath came a little faster. The warmth of her touch was dizzying. “I—yes,” you whispered.

Her lips curled in satisfaction. “Good.”

Her fingers trailed lightly, tracing the curve of your throat. You swallowed, pulse hammering against her touch.

“Your body reacts before you do,” she noted, head tilting slightly. “You don’t even realise how much you hold back.”

Heat rushed to your face. You couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or something else entirely.

Agatha’s grip firmed just slightly—not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you she was there. “I want you to let go,” she murmured. “Trust me to guide you.”

Your mind spun, tangled between this is fine, she’s my therapist and why does this feel so good?

But you trusted her. So you nodded.

Her smile was slow, knowing. “Good girl.”

Your stomach flipped again. A rush of warmth curled through you, unsettling in its intensity.

She let her touch linger a moment longer before finally pulling back, leaving you bereft. “See?” she said, as if the moment hadn’t just unraveled something inside you. “You hold onto so much. But I can help you carry it.”

You swallowed hard, clinging to her words like a lifeline. “…Thank you,” you murmured.

“We’ll work through it together,” she promised.

You believed her.

You wanted to believe her.

Even as something in the back of your mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—you shouldn’t.

—

The session after that felt different from the moment you stepped into the room. The air in Agatha’s office was heavier, charged with something unspoken. It coiled around you, wrapping tight around your ribs as her eyes tracked your movements, assessing, waiting.

“Welcome back,” she said smoothly, gesturing for you to come further in. You obeyed, feeling strangely exposed under her gaze. She hummed, studying you. “You look tense again.”

You exhaled sharply. “I mean… I guess?”

Her smile deepened. “You’ve been thinking too much. Haven’t you?”

Your breath caught. Because—yes.

She chuckled softly. “I told you, darling. You carry everything too tightly.”

You swallowed.

“I want to try something different today,” she announced. “Something a little more… physical.”

Your brain short-circuited at the word.

She leaned forward, voice dipping into something lower, more intimate. “Have you ever done guided breathwork before?”

You shook your head.

She nodded, as if she expected that. “It’s about control,” she said. “Releasing what no longer serves you.”

Your breath hitched.

“May I touch you?” she asked, voice velvety smooth.

“Y—yeah,” you stammered, your pulse pounded in your ears.

She stood, stepping behind you. The air shifted as she moved closer, the heat of her body ghosting along your back before her hands settled on your shoulders—firm, warm, grounding.

“You’re so wound up,” she murmured, her thumbs pressing in, kneading slowly. A soft sigh slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

“Breathe with me,” she instructed, her lips near your ear now. “In…”

You inhaled shakily.

“Good,” she praised. “Now out.”

Her hands moved lower, gliding down your arms, her touch light but deliberate. “Again,” she hummed.

You obeyed, and as you exhaled, her hands skimmed lower, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ribs, her thumbs teasing at the sides of your breasts. You stiffened, heat pooling between your thighs, but she only hummed in approval.

“You’re still holding back,” she whispered, breath warm against your skin. “I need you to let go.”

Her hands drifted lower, over your waist, her grip firm as she guided you back against her body. A quiet, shuddering exhale left you, your head swimming, warmth pooling low in your stomach.

“Good,” she praised, voice like silk. “You’re doing so well for me.”

A shiver ran down your spine as she pressed closer, the solid heat of her flush against your back.

“This tension you carry,” she sighed, her breath hot against your skin, “it needs to be released.”

Her hands slipped lower, over your hips, nails scraping lightly against fabric. A slow, deliberate drag that sent fire licking through your veins.

“Let me help,”

And then her hands moved lower. Your whole body went still.

Agatha hummed in approval. “You feel that, don’t you?”

A sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—escaped your lips, as your body burned with arousal.

“Good,” she praised again, like she could feel you unravelling beneath her touch. “You’re doing perfectly.”

Her touch dipped between your thighs causing a sharp gasp to tear from your throat as your body jolted, nerves alight.

“Shh, this is part of the process,” she soothed, her lips grazing your ear, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down your spine. “Trust me.”

You did. You shouldn’t, but you did.

Her hands were steady, patient, coaxing you back against her body. Heat seeped into your skin where she pressed, her perfume—something dark, heady, intoxicating—curling around you like smoke.

“This is what you need,” she declared, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit. “A full release.”

Your body arched, a broken moan slipping past your lips before you could swallow it down.

“There it is.” Agatha’s voice was rich with satisfaction, her free hand dragging lazy patterns over your torso, her nails grazing just enough to make you shiver. “That’s my good girl.”

Shame curled low in your stomach, but it was drowned out by the pleasure winding tighter, by the way she spoke like she knew you better than you knew yourself. Maybe she did. No one else had reached this part of you—no one else had understood what you truly needed.

Only Agatha.

“You’ve been holding so much inside,” she mused, her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. “I think it’s time to let me take care of you.”

You whimpered, your breath coming in uneven bursts, but you didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to.

A pleased hum vibrated in her throat as she pressed her fingers against your slick heat.

“Oh, darling,” she cooed, her lips brushing against your temple, “you do need me.”

Your head lolled back against her shoulder, your lips parting in a breathless moan as she circled your clit with practiced ease, teasing and coaxing you into submission.

“Such a sweet thing,” she remarked, her other hand coming up to tilt your chin, guiding your gaze to hers. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, and the look she gave you made your stomach tighten.

“There’s my good girl.”

The praise sent a pulse of heat through you, something deep and desperate unraveling at the sound of it. You wanted to please her. To prove that you trusted her.

Her mouth slanted over yours, swallowing your gasped moans as her fingers slid inside you, slow and purposeful. A sharp cry left you as she stretched you open, her thumb still circling, teasing, never letting you sink too deep into mindlessness. She wanted you present. Aware.

Your body jerked, overwhelmed by the sensation, but her hands were steady, guiding you through it. “Breathe,” she instructed, her lips brushing against your cheek. “In through your nose… there you go, good girl… and out.”

You tried. You really did. But every exhale was a stuttering moan, your body trembling against hers.

“That’s it,” she soothed, her fingers curling just enough to make you keen. “Let yourself feel it. Let yourself fall.”

Your fingers grasped at her sleeve, desperate for something to hold onto as she worked you open, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’ve spent so long running from this,” she murmured, voice low, hypnotic, each word coiling around your ribs and pulling tight. “From what you need. From what I can give you.”

You shook your head weakly, barely processing her words through the pleasure threatening to swallow you whole.

“No?” She tutted, her fingers never ceasing. “Then tell me, darling… why are you shaking?”

You couldn’t answer. She had you undone, every nerve alight, every thought consumed by her.

“Let go,” she commanded, her voice velvet-soft but unyielding. “Let me take care of you.”

As the pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembled against her, every muscle wound impossibly tense. Agatha’s touch never wavered—precise, knowing, relentless.

"That's it," she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. "You’re so close, aren’t you?"

A breathless whimper escaped you, your hips bucking into her hand, chasing that final push. She chuckled softly, her fingers maintaining their rhythm, teasing you to the brink.

"Good girl," she praised, her voice dipping into something darker, richer. "Give it to me. I want to feel you cum on my fingers."

Your breath hitched, your body straining under the weight of pleasure, but she didn’t let you fall just yet. Her free hand dragged up your torso, nails grazing along your ribs before curling around your throat, a light, possessive pressure that made you gasp.

"You've been holding onto this for so long," she crooned. "But not anymore. Let. Go."

Her grip on your throat tightened ever so slightly as her fingers curled against your g-spot, pushing you past the point of no return. A sharp cry tore from your lips, your entire body arching as the pleasure finally snapped, pleasure ripping through you in waves.

"That’s it, my sweet girl," Agatha cooed, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Ride it out—just like that. So perfect for me."

Your walls clenched around her fingers, the aftershocks making you shudder, but she didn’t stop. Not yet. She drew out every last pulse of pleasure, her touch easing from devastating to indulgent, dragging you through the bliss until you were nothing but a boneless, gasping mess in her arms.

"Such a good girl," she muttered, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple as her fingers finally stilled, her palm resting possessively against your slick heat. "I knew you could do it."

She let you catch your breath, but her fingers traced slow, lazy circles over your sensitive skin, teasing, reminding you who had brought you to this point.

Your breath still came in uneven shudders as she finally pulled her hand away. You barely had a chance to process the loss before she brought her fingers to her lips, her darkened eyes never leaving yours as she sucked them clean.

Heat flared in your cheeks.

Agatha only smiled.“We’ll continue this next session,” she promised, brushing a stray bead of sweat from your forehead. “I think we’re making real progress.”

-----

In this AU Agatha totally only became a therapist so she could mess around with people's minds and get paid for it.

N.B Agatha's behaviour is extremely toxic and manipulative due to the power she holds over reader. This work is purely fiction and such actions have no place in the real world.

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @jujuu23 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19

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eldritch-spouse · 2 days ago

Note

i-is it possible to get the full, delicious sex scene of this? uwu 'cause the idea of kalymir taking y/n frantically due to her matching his angel-killing-and-woman-in-robes-dream is so fucking hawttt https://eldritch-spouse.tumblr.com/post/769523379185319936/pinnie-pinnie-pinnie-pie-i-thought-of

[Yahoo, pain time!]

TW: NONCON; Gore; blood loss; delusional states; panic attacks; unhygienic moments; Kalymir's caps lock.

You didn't really have time to prepare.

It makes you think about how wars start, at times. How, in some circumstances, people are just outside performing their daily routines, before being subjected to unimaginable horrors at the hands of a force they'd never guess would show up.

Humans and monsters alike have always been tempted, it's natural, it's what leads to deals being established with those who aren't native to the surface. There had been rumors your city was hardly any different, and you've always thought that one day there might be consequences for the figures in power who think they can flirt with the fires- Pull the wool over the eyes of creatures who were made to deceive. Stories of high-ranking beasts unleashing punishment on those who break contracts always terrified you as a child.

There was no way to force judgement on them, their laws are different than ours, you sign and receive your goods on their terms, so any violations of protocol are also dealt with on their terms.

For all that childish fear your parents worked so hard to eventually snap out of you, they must be tearing their hairs off by now.

Because the very city you live in has angered a being so foul and tremendous that you felt the ground heat and shake before they even emerged.

Your night terrors couldn't have made this justice.

As screams rang ever closer, drowned out by belted roars and the horrid sounds of flesh being zipped apart, time seemed to slow down to a wounded crawl. You had barely the energy to breathe, forcing your head up towards the epicenter of the ruckus.

One look at him was enough to clamp your windpipe shut with terror. A sensation of vulnerability and hopelessness so nauseating that, when it finished raking down your spine, your stomach tightened into a marble and you held back your dinner.

That's no high-ranker.

That is so much more.

One of them. The embodiments, the focus points of each Ring, the demons who syphon all the sin around them like endless black holes of power. To provoke one of these things is to cast despair upon everything and everyone you've ever known.

This city will be nothing more than a corpse pile when he's done with it.

His generals -if you can call them that- spread out in a circle of gleeful gore. Smashing into crowds, letting no one escape their savagery and going as far as to toss each other people, playing volleyball with the lives of those they shame as weaklings. They seem equally as uncoordinated as they do strategic, hysteric with the freedom to cause as much death as possible yet still sharp enough to let none weasel out.

You've never seen a street get painted in red so fast.

Whatever chants and howls they emit do nothing but cause a ringing to take over your ears, buzzing into your brain. You can't even feel the tears running down your face.

You're outside of yourself in that moment. No longer a bystander in the massacre unfolding, you exist in a separate layer, watching it from above, everything muted to a much more bearable level.

Only the persistent, foggy sensation of touch keeps breaking that barrier. You try to shake it off, to ignore it, but it succeeds.

With a blink, the stench of innards and blood fills your lungs. You've become wet with crimson, things are now on fire. The force at your left ankle tugs again, some kind of gargle following, making you instinctively kick hard at whatever's grabbing you.

It was a man.

It is a man, more dead than alive, his lower body hanging but by a thread to the rest of him, so disfigured that you're sure adrenaline is the only thing powering his leaking, crushed body. When the force of your outburst makes him roll back, he heaves wordlessly, what you can only describe as a massive clot of blood pops out of his dismantled jaw. He stops moving.

And you vomit.

The shriek you let out felt like daggers through your acid-burned throat.

Louder still manage to be the cackles of the demons around, stopping to stare and taunt as if you're no more than a silly clown.

This mess, unfortunately, raises the attention of the entity you least want to think about. A spiked head bolts towards the general direction of the commotion, gluing itself to the miserable sight of you immediately.

Both of you freeze in burning time.

Where are his eyes...? A gaze of scorching intensity fixes you in place, but for the love of you, there seem to be no eyes on his gnarled face, just streaks of marred skin descending from a depraved crown of horns, and exposed teeth.

Aside from his hulking height, you can only focus on the sharp protrusions coming from his chest, the ones torn off his back and regrowing steadily, stalagmites of what you might guess to be bone. You wonder, briefly, sickly, if some of the scars on his form are from tearing these growths off.

When the rest of his body turns, when one heavy clawed foot steps forth, towards you, it must be towards you- It takes too long for you to react.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

Something like incredulity in the way he moves, but not quite hesitation.

Then sprinting.

Even if the whole city were between you, it wouldn't feel like enough distance was established.

Your heart begins thunderously pumping blood everywhere, limbs throbbing with the energy of a lone rabbit in a wolf's den before blind instinct takes a hold of you.

You run faster than you ever have your entire life. Faster than you ever thought you'd be able to.

Frantic legs carry you through sharp debris that stab through your shoes, tripping past corpses and obstacles without landing on your face, dashing and batting everything away with no clear goal. You dare not scream, saving every bit of air for the blood cells racing in your organism.

Large wrathful demons mockingly stand aside, going as far as to cheer -Not that you can hear much with the ringing of your panicked ears- You don't need sound to feel the thump of gargantuan footsteps behind you.

Your chest tightens, physical effort making you spit like an animal when gasps become desperate inhales.

He's too fast, too large, too much- You're going to die.

A swipe of claws across your back disorients you, ripping through your shirt and leaving bleeding welts in its wake. Like a whipped horse, you can only try to run faster.

Not fast enough, however.

Maybe it's because you're in debilitating panic, maybe just because you could never physically compete with such a creature, but everything starts hurting, the muscles in your legs almost pulling wrong, slowing you down, the pain in your chest now a raging headache.

You could have never escaped the shove that throws you to the ground.

Didn't even have the energy to shield yourself.

A wave of agony spreads through your whole face when you make contact with concrete, you fear you might have broken something when blood bubbles from your nose.

" FINALLY. "

His voice barrels through your entire body. He doesn't sound one bit exhausted, not even strained, just mortifyingly excited.

The demonlord rolls you over without a crumb of resistance, your open-mouthed, panting visage weakly staring upwards.

Towering over you is death himself, you don't waste time thinking about how he'll torture you for his own amusement. You don't think at all, waiting for the first blow. Will he kick your ribs in? While he crush your face with a foot? Will he pick you up and twist you in two?

Instead, the massive monster tries to pull you up by the already torn collar of your shirt, growling when that doesn't work. He tears it off brutally, knocking out the air you'd been trying to catch. You're yanked up by the arms instead, likely because if he did that to your neck, your head would have popped clean off.

" WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING YOUR ROBES?! "

...

Robes?

A terrified mind races to understand.

You've never once come in contact with him, he's mistaking you for someone else.

The pain coursing through your arms and shoulders only allows you to grunt, not that he seems very intent in getting an actual response from you.

The Icon of Wrath looks around, easily throwing you onto something hard and vaguely chipped. You realize it must be hood of a car, perhaps a truck, from the way it squeaked upon impact.

No time is wasted as he traps you there, studying you for a pause. There's the sound of something slapping onto the ground, though you can't possibly see it from this angle. In fact, all you can see is his intimidating physique casting darkness upon you.

" THE FOOL I WAS. TO THINK YOU'D COME TO ME IN THE PERFECT CONDITIONS... "

You shiver, though it has nothing to do with temperature.

Something about the way you're being regarded screams trouble is coming. A whole new type of fear encompasses you.

" WHY HERE, OF ALL PLACES?! " A balled up fist slams so hard against the car hood that you're jostled up for a moment. " YOUR HOME IS NOT WITH THESE MAGGOTS! YOU BELONG IN WRATH, MADE AS MY TROPHY FOR THE AGE OF BLOOD I'LL BRING FORTH. "

What can your shaking mind even respond with?

" ... W... What? "

He doesn't deign your squeak of a noise worthy of attention, this rumbling sound emitting from his chest, loud and low, the rattle of a satisfied predator. All at once, he uses both hands to grab the hem of your pants, lifting your lower body when he tugs up and rends the fabric apart, easily peeling it out from under you.

Animal instinct kicks in before you even confirm the gravity of the situation, flailing and kicking with sore muscles.

The beast laughs, this racuous sound devoid of any care, amused, easily holding you down by the midsection while his dominant hand comes to rip senselessly at your shoes, your underwear, your bra. All of it goes flying back. You don't even notice the shards of glass that have stabbed into the soles of your foot.

" Stop! Stop! " The scream rips out your throat, a pathetic sob.

" YES... " He nods, confirming something to himself at the sight of your now bare body. You realize idly that he's allowing you to scratch and hit however you please, entirely unfazed.

Incredulously, disgustingly, he strokes a hand upon his dark, blood-soaked skin, then slaps a warm wet paw over your body. You don't understand what's happening until both meaty hands are caking you in blood.

There's a different quality to his breathing as he paints you in red, it becomes harsher, his chest heaves like a bull about to charge. The knowing revulsion within you causes you to jerk and attempt to weasel away, but every time you get on his nerves too much, he lifts and slams you against the car.

The third time he does that, a sting spreads across your spine, vision swimming. You decide it might not be a good idea to encourage this. It's all you can do not to shake too much while warm and sticky crimson is spread all over your form. He seems to be thinking as he does this, trying to imitate some kind of pattern, deciding the zones where you should be most covered in the gross, foul-smelling results of his slaughter.

Whose blood is this? Your neighbors'? Your friends'?

A bit of it wedges past your lips, you're glad your stomach has already flipped everything it had.

When he passes by your tits, both hands squeeze and roll too hard, catching your nipples in a sharp pinch that zings through your whole figure. Desperation has you opening your mouth to say something pointless, to plea, to cry, but all it does is whimper when you take note of the growth bulging his unique loincloth.

With neither shame nor hesitation, as soon as he notices where your gaze has fallen, the massive monster uses one hand to untie the cloth, toss it aside, revealing a length that nearly makes you feel lightheaded.

It's not just the comparative size, something he seems very eager to display, it's the barbs flaring underneath, no doubt meant to tear into any hole he claims and anchor his cock as deep as possible. The mental image of your body stretching disgustingly to accommodate it is sickening. He looks incredibly hard, you're sure that there's no give to his shaft, that it's heavy and unmanageable for most partners he attains.

Partners... As if this beast doesn't just grab people randomly like he's doing to you.

There's a snort, you realize he's studying the newfound horror on your face.

" YOU DON'T REMEMBER ME. " It's not a question. " I'LL JOG YOUR MEMORY, WHEN I RATTLE THAT FUCKING BRAIN OF YOURS- "

" H- Hu-?! "

In a blink, the Icon is blanketing you in a suffocating closeness, panting against your face as the hand that isn't pinning you by the ribcage darts to his cock and pumps aggressively. While the lurid sound haunts your ears, all you can focus on are his misaligned blade-like teeth. The bits of flesh caught between them when he no doubt bit sections out of people. A dark tongue hovers behind them, wet with drool and shimmering in excitement. His breath is far from pleasant, though there's hardly a way to escape it.

When your head turns in an attempt to abstract from the situation, he forces it back in place and hunches further to lick the mess on your ruined face. A scratchy, far too hot sensation that claims the red he previously caked you in, then bridges over your nose to collect the river that flowed from it when you fell.

The god-awful agony of that location being nudged has a scream belt out of you. Flailing legs thump uselessly against his thighs, your foot nudging his dick at some point. Fuck if he cares. All force you have goes into slapping and scratching at his head, another fruitless effort seeing as he doesn't even flinch. It gets him to stop assaulting your face, to bite your right hand instead.

It wasn't too hard. You know he has the force to tear it right off, to sever all those ligaments and tissue. All he does is give you a taste, aggravate your suffering, cackling at your shriek.

It feels like your extremity's been crushed, fingers struggling to move when a frightening numbness sets in.

Your intact hand has no direction and no goal, furiously swiping at his neck in hopes that it would get him to back away. You mostly succeed in chipping nails.

The demon groans however, apparently incensed by the effort.

" FIESTY LITTLE FUCKTOY CAN'T WAIT FOR MY COCK, CAN YOU? "

...

He's interpreting your fight in the worst way possible.

" I'LL MAKE SURE IT'S ALL YOU GET WHEN WE'RE HOME. "

Home? Home?!

As soon as your bitten hand regains some feeling, the avalanche of trepidation within you just at the implication of being taken to Hell -to this beast's dwelling- makes you swing as swiftly as you can towards his jaw. A punch that pops the fluid between your aching joints yet hardly molds his rictus.

You try everything. Bruising your arms, letting the pain flare through them. There's little hope in your motions by the time you curl both fists around the horns sticking out his head, yanking aimlessly.

" TEAR THEM OFF! " He demands, the want in his insufferable voice utterly transparent.

You can't.

You pull and twist and try to snap them off his skull, but the protrusions stay lodged there as a crown of morbid victory.

" BAH- THE SURFACE HAS MADE YOU WEAK. ANOTHER THING I'LL HAVE TO FIX. "

The demonlord's disappointment is palpable, though enthusiasm quickly replaces it, you can't disappoint him enough to avoid being assaulted, it seems.

His focus shifts to your nethers. You're anything but wet, though he pays no mind to it, suddenly pushing your hips apart so he can frame your pussy.

" TINY FUCKING THING. " He chuckles, observing your fear-clenched hole.

Clawed thumbs trace the rift of your entrance casually, on occasion nudging the bud above in lazy rolls. It's not as if you wish to get aroused, the amount of pressure he uses behind every motion is just inescapably stimulating. The first jolt of your hips, entirely reflexive, is rewarded with a wanton hum.

He slips a thumb inside with some resistance, then the other. You can only wince at the stretch, alarmingly aware of how those claws might slice through your vaginal walls if you shake too much. The fear causes you to tighten further, a painful feedback of sensation that appears to excite him.

A visceral hiss escapes through the gaps between your teeth when he pulls, spreading you out forcibly and mercilessly.

With no inch of lubrication to be found, a burning Hell settles and you start crying quietly again.

" I NEVER GOT A GOOD LOOK AT YOUR CUNT BEFORE... WONDER IF IT'LL FEEL BETTER! "

And that's all you get.

Hot-flashes have you sweating when his thumbs finally leave you alone. A thick tongue swings around, preparing a ball of spit that unceremoniously lashes against your genitals. You realize then that his spit is the only semblance of help you'll have to handle that torture device of a cock.

He slaps it on top of your mound, and you don't look down.

You don't want to see how much he'll hollow you out, don't want to see where it reaches, don't want to think about the weight and heat of it on top of your skin.

Your body... Your poor body. What evil did you commit to warrant this?

" I WANT YOU TO SCREECH MY NAME, THE SAME WAY YOU DID IN MY VISIONS. " He giddily reveals, dragging himself lower to line up properly. A foul maw leans to snarl in your ear. " KALYMIR. "

The sound echoes in your mind, adding to the stab of terror when the tip of his much-too-large dick prods at your entrance. You can't breathe, for a second, wondering how he thinks this is actually going to work, morbidly questioning if this is really how you'll die.

As soon as trepidation releases your lungs and the first crack of pain from his pushing arises, you babble hysterically.

" Stop! Oh God stop- I'm gonna die! "

Kalymir does pause, likely because the sound of fear must be arousing to him in some way. He's already smirking before you even say another word.

" Listen- I'll do anything, please I'll do anything, anything you want- "

" HAH. " Bold teeth get a coating of saliva, one brutish hand holding onto your neck just hard enough to silence the rest of your whining. " I WANT YOUR HOLES AROUND ME. "

Perhaps it was a small mercy that he rammed into you.

Maybe, if he was less excited, he'd have taken his sweet time pushing inside, dragging out the pain until your throat is hoarse from screaming.

All you feel is a flash of indescribable agony, vision going black and body tensing like a coil about to break. There's no direction to go and nothing comforting to hold onto as Kalymir's member carves its place within you.

This must be how vivisected bugs feel.

Writhing is all you're allowed.

Distantly, you realize you're bleeding. You can sense the way your torn body tries to lessen the pain, tries to lubricate itself, tries to contract in pulses meant to shove him out, yet only cause him to groan happily.

Every single time Kalymir throbs inside you, he presses into everything and offers a contradicting mix of feedback. There's the scorching of your poor insides begging you to remove the unwanted intrusion, and the creeping pleasure of sensitive spots being crushed into submission.

The monster himself looks vaguely out of breath, drooling openly onto your stomach while he recovers from the suffocating hold your body has around him. Kalymir cants his hips to somehow slide more of himself inside you, but there's no space left, he merely ends up sliding you back.

" LOOSEN UP ALREADY- " The Icon huffs, a note of incredible cruelty following. " OR WILL I HAVE TO FUCK YOU OPEN? "

You know those barbs aren't in use when he pulls back, and thankfully, your insides don't shred into ribbons.

There's no describing the vacant sensation of his retraction. The split second where air chills your abused hole as it tries to pitifully shrink anew, only to be rammed wide again in yet another nauseating piston.

He's too hot to handle, too rough, the mere contact of his war-hardened hide against your skin causes scratches and rashes from unrequited friction.

You wish you were wet. Maybe you are, but it's hardly enough. Only blood can periodically ease the torment of his jarring, mercilessly mechanic thursting. The truck hood bounces while he damn near crushes you to the vehicle, frantic claws finding purchase on squealing metal, perhaps mocking your own cries of pain.

The stimulus becomes too much.

No matter how hard you might want to alienate your mind from the situation, he won't let you. Kalymir's barking comments, the way he'll clumsily paw and grip at your softer sections, the press of teeth around a bare neck- It all stabs alertness into you, forces a figh or flight heave of primal panic whenever you so much as manage to vaguely dissociate.

Perhaps you instinctively can't abstract from this torment at all.

Kalymir yanks at your soul, chewing and tearing into it, all-demanding and all-consuming.

There's no escape from what's being done to you.

A confused body, unable to escape, fights for a different kind of preservation by drowning you in waves of arousal. It's unavoidable, you think through the slightly muted burning, it's predictable. You don't care to stifle the way your cries have shifted, don't try to mask twitching legs and curling toes.

You don't want this, you never wanted this, whatever is forced upon you isn't evidence that your mind has changed.

You just want it to end, really.

Ignoring your own creeping orgasm is impossible, though you try to focus on breathing evenly, shoving away his snarls of pleasure by listening to the squeak of the vehicle beneath you.

You're not too sure what you screamed when he hilted inside you in a telltale erratic grind, when you were claimed in a way so vile it chilled your bones. When it seeped out of your ruined orifice, onto the car, a pinkish hue that reminds you of sickly discharge.

The rest of it coated you, the monster grinning and huffing with pride at his work.

At this point, most of the pain you feel has become unreachable, replaced by an ambiguous throb of physical exhaustion and trauma. You cannot move, as if your limbs were made of cement and your back had rooted itself to the metal contraption beneath.

Yet your eyes still find Kalymir's face.

Inside them, burns an animal rage that creases your complexion into something borderline inhuman.

This demon will die by your hands.

Kalymir must have felt the silent, sweltering fury showering you from head to toe, releasing a delighted swoon as he picks you up like a soaked rag.

You wonder what Hell is like.

#Kalymir oc

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joelalorian · 2 days ago

Text

Under False Pretenses - Chapter Four

Stepdad!Dave York x f!reader | wc: 3717 | masterlist

Summary: A challenging mission, whirlwind marriage, and an unexpected yet captivating stepdaughter push Dave York to the brink as secrets, feelings, and loyalties collide.

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ mdni. Stepdad trope. Unspecified age gap. Pining. Ogling. More self-love (m and f getting it done). Recorded evidence of voyeurism on reader's part. Soft, sexy, and intense Dave. Domestic Dave. Good Dad kink. We like thick thighs in this house and so does Dave. Nicknames and terms of endearment. Mummy is a whole lotta bitch. No use of y/n.

Series Masterlist

Chapter Four

Over the next few weeks, you paid close attention to the dynamic in the house, picking up on subtle behaviors that left you with questions.

Like how your mom and Dave never seemed affectionate toward each other, though your mom simpered over him and acted a certain possessive way whenever she noticed you watching. They were supposed to be in the honeymoon stage but never seemed that happy together. In fact, your mom liked to put on an act which appeared to annoy Dave more than anything.

You couldn’t put your finger on what, exactly, was wrong with the situation – maybe they were only affectionate with each other behind closed doors? The thought of what they might get up to in the privacy of their bedroom made you feel ill, but mostly jealous, after what you saw Dave do in the hot tub that night.

Were they trying to be respectful in front of the girls? They went out often, either with the neighbors across the street or on their own, staying somewhere overnight for one event or another. They spent time together like married couples do. Still, something felt off to you.

Whatever it was, you were probably not supposed to pick up on it. You couldn’t help but wonder what they were like when they were out together, at these galas or restaurants or wherever.

It didn’t help that you were battling against your ever-strengthening feelings for Dave. One part of your brain tried to justify it by citing the fact that Dave and your mom didn’t seem to like each other all that much. Yet the other part felt the twinges of guilt and shame at night when you thought of him while touching yourself, wondering how it would feel if his fingers slid beneath your panties instead of your own.

You developed the habit of showering right after making yourself come, trying to wash away the depraved thoughts you envisioned about your stepfather.

One night, you woke up aching, burning with need from dreams of Dave that floated away like whisps of clouds when your eyes opened, upper thighs sticky with your arousal. Your fingers weren’t enough for how worked up you were, nor was your go-to bullet vibrator, or the damn pillow you resorted to grinding on when nothing else worked.

Desperate and frustrated, you rolled up your blanket, flipping over to straddle the heft of the material. You shifted until you found just the right angle to catch your clit against the most solid part of the balled-up blanket, rocking your hips as you ground your pussy against it.

Pleasure built up at the constant pressure against your clit, one hand gliding up your belly to your right tit, pinching at the hardened nipple until you felt just the edge of pain, taking the pleasure up a notch as you imagined you were riding Dave rather than the blanket.

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good,” you keened when you neared, then toppled right over the edge, practically convulsing at the sinful sensations flowing through you. It lasted longer than usual, the effects of your orgasm.

“Holy shit.” You flopped over with a heaving sigh when the quivering eased, panties and blanket soaked with your release. You’d have to do laundry, but it was worth it.

You couldn’t stop the attraction, the subsequent deepening feelings. No matter how hard you tried.

What was wrong with you?

Well, a lot probably, you laughed at yourself. Perhaps you just had some daddy issues.

On Saturday, you found yourself watching the girls again while your mom and Dave went off to a golf outing or something, your mom all decked out in clothes you’d never seen her wear before. You thought she sure was feeling herself as she clung to Dave’s arm in her too-short khaki skirt and bright-colored, body-hugging golf shirt. Her tits looked about ready to bust through the material. She’s trying too hard, a little, vindictive voice whispered in your head.

Dave, on the other hand, looked dashing in a pair of gray golf pants and a deep blue polo shirt – the picture-perfect image of a professional going off to play golf for the day.

“We’ll be gone all day, but I left money on the counter in case you wanted to take them somewhere,” Dave informed you as he hugged the girls goodbye. Standing, he stepped forward to hug you – for the first time – his voice soft and breathy in your ear as he added, “Go do something fun. I feel like I’ve been neglecting them lately and I know they love hanging out with you.”

Stunned by the sensations flowing through you simply from having his arms wrapped around your body, his warm breath in your ear, you merely nodded. His scent overwhelmed you, full of sandalwood and masculinity. You nearly fucking drooled.

“Don’t wait up!” your mom chirped when Dave ushered her out the door, his face already marred with a scowl.

Yet another moment where the two of them didn’t make any sense, you thought. Shrugging it off, you turned to Alice and Molly and clapped your hands.

“How do you feel about the aquarium followed by some time at the park?” you asked, feigning nonchalance. You’d be heartbroken if they turned the aquarium down. It was your favorite place to visit.

Unable to contain their excitement, the girls squealed, already running for the door.

“Hmm, I guess you’re not that interested.” You laughed as they shrieked, making sure you knew exactly how excited they were to go on an adventure. Tickling their tummies, you turned the girls back toward the stairs. “Well, you two need to brush your teeth before we head anywhere. Your breath is stinky enough to kill a manatee and we don’t want that to happen! They’re endangered!”

Twenty minutes later, the three of you loaded up into your little sedan and you double-checked the girls were buckled into their spots in the backseat before heading off on the big adventure. The drive took about thirty minutes, and you arrived in time to catch the stingray feeding, snapping pictures of the girls delightfully tossing fishy bits to the “swimming butterflies” as Molly called them.

Letting the girls lead the way, you followed along, oohing and aahing at all the sights while you took pictures. You texted a few to Dave, showing him that you listened and took the girls to do something fun.

You: We’re having quite the adventure today!

His response came almost immediately.

Dave: I’m jealous. I love the aquarium!

You: Me too

The girls were gently dipping their little hands into the touch tank to feel the slimy skin of a small “swimming butterfly” when your phone buzzed with another text from Dave.

Dave: Make sure to get a picture with all 3 of you in it

Heat immediately rushed up your neck, to your cheeks. He wanted a picture with you in it. You and his girls. The naughty part of you wanted to believe he was looking for an excuse to have a picture of you. The more rational part of you insisted that he just wanted a picture of his daughters with his stepdaughter, someone they enjoyed spending time with and looked up to. That thought took the wind right out of your sails, leaving you feeling gutted and guilty for the hope in your heart.

After gathering yourself, you led the girls to a dolphin statue and asked an employee to photograph the three of you with your phone. Posing the girls on either side of you, you all beamed at the phone camera.

The employee was a mom with young children and took a few shots, encouraging the girls to ham it up with their “mom”. You choked, rushing to explain that you were just their stepsister, but the girls completely went with it, teasingly calling you mommy before the words even left your mouth. It left you stunned and feeling things you didn’t have the bandwidth to dig into right then.

Offering a shaky thanks to the employee, you followed the girls to the next display. Fingers scrolled through the photos while the girls gazed at the otters swimming in their manmade pond. The shots were good – some cute, others silly, and one where you were visibly shocked by the ‘mommy’ comment. Dave was NOT getting that one. You sent him two knowing he’d like a cute one and get a kick out of a goofy one.

Dave immediately texted back a heart emoji. You stared at it for three solid minutes, not knowing how to feel or what to think, before Molly tugged on your shirt to get your attention.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” the little girl insisted. Pushing the conflicted feelings from your mind, you took the girls to the bathroom, after which you all decided it was time for lunch in the aquarium’s Catfish Café.

After the aquarium, you stopped at the playground near the house, hoping to tire the girls out for a relaxing evening at home. You watched them play, chasing each other around the jungle gym and interacting with a few other children. Sure enough, within an hour, Alice and Molly shuffled toward you, cheeks reddened and eyes tired.

“Ready to go home?” you asked. All the other children left already as it was around dinner time. Your car was the last one left in the parking area when you helped the girls climb in.

You finished buckling Molly into her seat when a pitiful whimpering sound caught your attention. Bending down to see where the sound came from, you saw a puppy cowering under your car.

“Oh, my goodness,” you uttered softly, not wanting to scare the poor pup. With one arm, you reached under the car in slow, careful movements to scoop the puppy up. “Come ‘ere baby. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

At first, the pup whimpered, but those whimpers quickly turned to excited whines as they licked at your hands and face while you cradled it to your chest. A glance determined it was a male pup, and he was bigger than you first thought once he stopped cowering.

“Where did you come from, huh?” One hand gently caressed his head and back as you glanced around. The parking lot and playground were empty, and you didn’t spot any missing pet signs on the nearby light poles. The heartbreaking reality hit you like a brick.

Someone must have dumped him.

A natural born bleeding heart for animals and children, you could not possibly leave him. Doing some quick mental math and already developing an argument to present your mom and Dave for keeping him, you gave the pup a thorough once-over to check for any obvious signs of fleas or injuries.

To your untrained eye, he appeared fine.

That settled it for you. You only hoped that Dave wouldn’t be mad. You didn’t give a rat's ass what your mom thought.

“Hey girls, look what I found!”

Dave saved the pictures you sent in a private folder on his phone, safely stored along with the ones he took a few weeks ago. Every single time he opened the photos app, he berated himself for staring at you. Yet he couldn’t stop.

What he wouldn’t give to…

Lisa interrupted his thoughts with a cackle and Dave tuned back into the conversation at the bar. They were attending the golf outing with their neighbors from across the street – the very people he was assigned to monitor as part of the mission.

The Grants were a married couple not much older than him, and they were supposedly caught up in some nasty business involving military intelligence and the Russians. They seemed nice enough to Dave, at least on the outside, but Roger Grant gave off the vibes of a man with an over-inflated sense of power and wealth.

Dave watched as Roger flirted shamelessly with Lisa, the man’s wife, Mary, two martinis deep and lost in conversation with the handsome, younger bartender.

He couldn’t wait for this damn day to be over, for this operation to be over, for his life to go back to normal. Dave would kill to be anywhere but here with these people, preferably home with his girls, and you.

Fighting the incessant urge to text you, Dave checked the time and slipped the phone back into his pocket. It was late enough to draw this outing to a close. Herding his wife and the Grants back to his SUV after some subtle coaxing, Dave drove them all home in relative silence. The alcohol seemed to have worn the three of them out.

“Let’s do this again, York,” Roger shook his hand before climbing out of the vehicle. “There are a few people I’d like you to meet next week.”

“Sounds good,” Dave replied wearily, too tired to keep up the charade, but pleased to finally make some headway into the man’s circle. “Just let me know when and where.” Ducking into the house, Dave left Lisa behind to continue the small talk with the Grants.

The door barely closed behind him before he knew something was up. The air in the house felt different… happier, livelier if possible.

Kicking his shoes off and placing them in the shoe rack, Dave moved stealthily into the family room, holding back a chuckle at the sight that met his eyes.

Alice and Molly sprawled on their tummies, each holding a tennis ball, while a fluffy brown pup danced back and forth between them, letting out happy little yips each time the girls giggled. You sat off to the side, legs crossed in front of you, muttering off a litany of names like you were waiting for some reaction from the dog.

“Who’s this little guy?” Dave asked as he stepped further into the room, sitting on the floor next to you, close enough that his thigh pressed against your knee. He caught your darted glance at him out of the corner of his eye but stayed focused on the dog. The pup trotted over, eagerly nosing his hands and climbing into his lap. He looked like he had some German Shepherd in him. Dave’s heart melted. He always loved German Shepherds. “Hi, buddy. Where did you come from?”

Before you could answer, the girls launched into a story-telling mode, telling him all about how you found the dog abandoned at the park, dropped by the vet before they closed to see if he was microchipped (he wasn’t), and stopped at the pet store to pick up supplies before bringing him home.

“Can we keep him, Daddy?” Alice asked, baby cow eyes like his own begging, willing him to agree. “Can we? Can we?” Molly added, working her charm just as hard.

He glanced at you, your own eyes wide and hopeful, though you stayed quiet. Powerless against the three of you, Dave cracked a smile.

“We can keep him on one condition,” he replied.

“What’s a condishun?” Molly questioned; her little brow furrowed sweetly.

“It means I want something in return for letting this puppy live here with us, sweetheart,” Dave explained softly. His eyes flashed to you as you stayed abnormally quiet, nose scrunched up in the cutest expression he’d ever seen while you awaited the terms of his condition.

“What do you want, Daddy?” Alice sighed heavily and he beamed knowing she feared the worst.

Leaning forward, he swept the girls into his lap, the puppy scrambling over to you. “I want… to choose his name!”

Dave could feel the weight of your eyes on him, and he grinned when you laughed, urging the girls to let him pick the name.

“You better not pick something lame,” you teased, fingers curling through the pup’s fluff.

“Yeah, Daddy! Nothin’ lame,” Alice and Molly insisted.

Feeling a pull at his heartstrings, Dave swallowed heavily. Why did he love that you already had such an endearing influence on his daughters? So unlike your mother.

“Let’s name him Ranger.”

You met his gaze with a soft smile curling your lips. “Like Army Ranger?” He nodded and your smile widened pleasantly. “That’s a good one. We could get him a camo collar, too!”

The girls cheered, calling out ‘Ranger’, repeatedly. They shrieked with glee any time the pup responded to the name. A sense of contentment washed over Dave, and he patted your thigh with a grin, savoring the feel of your flesh beneath his large hand. “You did good. They’ve wanted a dog for years, but I kept putting it off.”

Before you could respond, Lisa stomped into the room. “What the hell is this?”

Dave looked over his shoulder, suddenly realizing his hand was still on your leg and he pulled back guiltily. His wife did not look pleased.

“It’s a dog, obviously.” you deadpanned, pulling Ranger into your lap to smother him with love. Dave buried a smile at your sassiness, relieved that his wife’s focus was on you and the dog rather than his inappropriate hand placement from moments ago.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Lisa snapped impatiently. “What I meant is what’s it doing here?”

The girls glanced back and forth between all three adults before Alice bravely spoke up. “He lives here now.”

Dead silence rang through the air – even Ranger read the room and stopped panting – while Lisa pursed her lips and glared at Dave.

“Oh no, he does not.” Your mom practically spat the words, arms folded across her chest, daring any of you to challenge her. When no one moved, she swooped forward, reaching for the dog.

The girls sat there open-mouthed, bordering on tears as you scurried across the floor away from her, Ranger clutched close to your chest and began to argue. Dave stood to follow, patting your shoulder as he wrapped your mother’s arm in a tight grip, dragging her from the room. Once out of earshot, Dave lit into her.

“This is my house, and I already said we’d keep him.” When Lisa tried to argue, he added, “Don’t ever speak to my daughters in such a tone again. They are young children, not hardened criminals. You will speak to and treat them accordingly and do not overstep my authority with them again. Am I clear?”

Pissed off and once again questioning this whole marriage thing, Dave stalked away giving Lisa time to do little more than nod. Slipping down the stairs to the basement, he hid in his office for a couple hours, finishing paperwork and reviewing security footage from the perimeter of the house – something he’d been putting off since you moved in. As days of dull video played on the monitor, Dave’s mind turned to thinking about you. Not only were you beautiful and smart, but you always treated his daughters with respect, like they were your own.

At some point, he heard you come down the stairs and putter around your space before the fan clicked on in your room, indicating you were going to bed. Dave’s thoughts turned a corner then, wondering what you wore to bed. In his mind, he imagined a fitted tank top, hardened nipples poking out in the chilled basement air, and a pair of panties encasing your plump, juicy ass. A sudden image of you in nothing but one of his button-down business shirts flashed in his mind.

Cock twitching to life in his pants, Dave shifted the chair back a bit and palmed himself to relieve the pressure. He envisioned being there in bed with you, mouthing your tits as you squirmed beneath him. Giving into what was clearly about to happen, he tugged his pants open and slipped his cock free from the black boxer briefs he wore below them.

Just then, a new image appeared on the screen—you were walking along the side of the house a few weeks ago, your movement triggering the rear perimeter cameras. Slowly stroking his cock, he watched you peek around the corner of the house at him in the hot tub, remembering what he thought about when he sunk into that steaming water…

Holy fuck.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Dave had never been so curious about someone in his entire life, not even Carol back in their honeymoon phase. Finding you fascinating, he longed to know everything about you, carnally or otherwise. Watching you give in to the overwhelming need to pleasure yourself while watching him take care of himself in the hot tub… was fucking mesmerizing.

“You beautiful, filthy girl,” he rasped, eyes drinking at the sight of you shoving a hand down your pants as you watched him.

Spitting into his left hand, Dave fisted his thick length in a tighter grip, trying with all his might to pretend it was your hand wrapped around him. Bottom lip pressed between his teeth; he fought to stay quiet as he stroked his cock, rewinding the footage to rewatch the scandalous scene over and over while his mind filled with you.

What would it feel like to have you kneeling before him, tongue darting out to lap at the tip of his cock before wrapping your lips around him? He tugged faster, harder at the thought, a needy whine stuck in his throat. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple as he worked himself closer to the edge.

Dave didn’t last long, the idea of you pleasuring him and watching the clear, recorded evidence that he turned you on, was too much to handle. Leaning back in his chair, cock curving toward his belly as he stroked harder and harder until the first spurt of cum erupted. He came harder than ever before, mouth open in a soundless moan as he worked himself through it. His spend shot farther than normal, hitting him in the face, one rope landing in his mouth.

“Fuck,” he groaned as the orgasm drew to its inevitable end and he slumped down in the chair, chest heaving. Dave licked his lips, tasting himself and wondering what you’d think of the flavor. He imagined kissing you, letting you savor the taste on his tongue. His cock twitched at the thought.

He was so fucked.

tbc

Chapter Five

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