#Steel Cartel

[canadian-pug-cartel]

Created by my buddie (@toastpandadraws) for me and it’s too beautiful to not be seen by the world

[harrelltut]

Hello Q [QUANTUM HARRELL TECH] Dara™ of attdotcom.com... My Highly Complex [ADVANCED] Ancient 9 Ether 6G x 3 = 18G Quantum Electronic DNA Compu_TAH [PTAH] Program of Fully Operational IBM [FOI] Intranet Protocols [I/P] Approved by My [I AM] International 9 [i9] Ether steelecartel.com of SIRIUS Federal Information Processing Standards [FIPS] Privately Issued by Our National Institute of Standards and Technology [NIST] on qhtatt.tech @ 1921 QUANTUM 2023 HARRELL 2024 TECH 2025 Apple & IBM [A.i.] LLC of ATLANTIS [L.A.] 5000

WELCOME BACK HOME IMMORTAL [HIM] U.S. MILITARY KING SOLOMON-MICHAEL HARRELL, JR.™

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[ghettogirly]

Hey boo! I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but if you are, would you be willing to check this out?

I was thinking about a fresh out of prison Armando Aretas. He's been a little rough with you during sex, ever since he was released. Hurting you is definitely not his intention but he can't help but lose control after all this time away from you. It doesn't bother you at all but he still feels bad about his actions and wants to make it up to you. (Soft smut)

xblackfemalereader or femalereader would suffice.

This is for the freaks! Okay, I'm out.💋💋

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𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐨́𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚..

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᯾ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

᯾ synopsis: Armando couldn’t wait to return back to you after being freshly broken out of prison, wanting to come back home and to cherish you again was all that he wished for. However, he certainly didn’t wish to hurt you either.

᯾ theme: angst with a happy ending, smut.

᯾ format: story.

᯾ warnings: sex, mentions of escaping prison, armando is a rough during sex, mature language, reader gets hurt during sex, use of a safe word.

᯾ authors note: i hope you enjoyed!! This is my longest story yet, sorry it took so long, i added so many different elements.

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𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆, this was a normality within the institution as the men went crazy being locked in their cell for 23 hours a day. Their brains slowly turning insane at the routine of staring at white walls while the day goes by. Men turned into animals here, feeling as if they’re in a cage, they had nothing else to cast out their anger on.

Animalistic screams were scattered around the block of cells as the prison warden took no notice, sitting down on his chair with his hat covering his eyes as his head was down. Clearly taking no notice of the cameras. Casually walking over to the welded steel door, Armando looked through the tiny screen on his door, looking around as far as the tiny little screen within the door let him. He was used to the chaos, however, that didn’t mean it got any less annoying.

Yet, today was the day.

Plopping his magazine on his bed, he walked around to his shower room. Armando crouched down slightly. Pushing his fingers through the small steel gaps of the tiny vent in his cell, he opened it, taking out a match. “aquí tienes…”

His prison flip flops created a smack on the concrete floor as they connected. Whistling, he looked up at the camera while messing about with it in his hand. Wasting no time, A whoosh of light appeared before him as the flame quickly ignited and started moving slowly down the little stick. “Hasta el fuego.” Throwing the match onto his bed, he ran into the shower and disappeared down the hole.

Below the hole was a motorcycle waiting for him , with some cartel members side by side. Jumping on the blacked out bike, armando revved his aggressively before driving off. “Vamos! ¡No tenemos tiempo!” The other men nodded before quickly following their boss.

𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃. Armando’s orange jumpsuit clung to him as the fibres shrunk due to the contact of the rain above, now displaying his buff physique. Alarms were heard blaring in the distance, presumably because of the chaos he left behind.

Regardless, he kept his pace, running to a remote location within the field. His cartel organised a chopper for him there, to safely secure him back at the mansion. Branches snapped as he jumped over them or threw them out the way, Armando stayed alert.

Left. Right. Up. Behind.

Every area had to be surveilled. No witnesses. No police.

Finally reaching the location, a chopper was there awaiting him. A member stepped out to greet him, yet, there was no time for that. “¡Súbete al puto avión!” The male shouted, ordering his men as he signalled the pilot to engage. Some cartel members were still far behind. “Tsk.”

Bolts of light flashed among the mexican faces as bullets made of hardened steel penetrated the bodies of the workers still running to the helicopter, knocking them down one by one, the male angled his arms with ease. Looking through the scope, he released each bullet one by one, none of them being able to escape this fate. BANG! BANG! BANG!

“If they can’t keep up, leave them in the dirt.”

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍̃𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒. Twirling his ring around, all he could think about was his wife. You was the light of his world. Staying with him through thick and thin, you even gave up your dream of a beautiful wedding by marrying him in prison.

He was coming back home now though, ready to give you the world baby.

Satisfied with the life Armando already gave you, each day you thanked the heavens that he was still alive. It was painful, seeing him locked up. Yet, it would’ve been worse placing down his casket six feet under. 𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, travelled through your system as amygdala integrated your emotions with the other areas of your brain. He was coming back.

“Ma’am he’s here.”

“Jefe, estamos aquí.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐈. Cartel members swiftly moved to the door, opening it, revealing the muscular leader. Splashes of dirt imprinted the orange jumpsuit due to the dampness of the forest. It had slight rips in it, clear signs of getting caught onto nature.

Armando slowly made his way out of the chopper, slowly analysing all his workers as they waited for his approval. “Es bueno estar de vuelta.” Bottles were popped as loud cheers were heard from the whole crowd, who walked over to greet him. He gave handshakes and side hugs to his most loyal “friends.”

𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃. “Finally you’re home!” Running up to him, you jump in his arms as they wrap around you, leaning in for a kiss. “ive te perdió..” Armando whispers, feeling your scent flow over his senses, bringing him a sense of comfort. Looking up at you with love in his eyes, he licks his lips, “Maldita sea, no puedo esperar para quitarles la ropa.”

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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒, 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍. His heavy arm laid on your thighs, sleeping at an angle due to his constant movement while sleeping. Clearly he was not used to being in a comfortable bed, transitioning from prison conditions to luxurious conditions being a massive jump.

Yet, you felt strange. Your body felt sore due to the sudden use of muscles contracting while keeping up with Armando’s rough pace. Maybe it was the prison system that made him more aggressive, maybe it was the excitement. Who knows?

Nevertheless, you brushed it off. Not wanting to overthink all the possibilities of the sudden change in his sexual stance the night before. This was a moment to enjoy life, not dwell on it.

Removing the pink, silk bonnet that rested on top of your head, protecting every curl from breakage, they spilled out. Resting beautifully on your shoulders. It was frizzy at the roots due to the intensity of last night, the sweat causing the curls to become puffy, but that’s not nothing a little mousse can’t fix. Messing about with your curls as you was lost in thought, you felt a gentle press to your shoulder.

“está bien?”

You nodded, not really feeling the need to tell Armando about your thoughts from the night before, not wanting to concern him on his first morning being free from the cage he used to be contained in. “Never been better.” Planting a kiss on your lips, he smiled at your reply, not thinking anything of it as he was essentially on cloud nine. “Ven a acostarte con-“

A loud buzz reverberated off of the oak bedside table, a loud groan was made by the male as he slowly rolled over to pick it up. Swiping the green button, he answered. “¿Por qué coño me llamas tan temprano en la mañana?” You chuckled at his blunt answer, typical Armando.

A sigh escaped your husband’s lips, clearly annoyed at the shit he had to deal with so early in the morning. Placing the phone down he looked over at you, “tengo que irme..”, annoyance was plastered all over his face.

“That’s fine, i’ll be waiting here for you anyways babe.” You said gently, kissing his cheek and then his lips. Wrapping his arms around you, he leans for another kiss. and another. and another. “You need to go..”

“¿Realmente tengo que???”

Chuckling you lightly hit his arm, “Go and get up.”

“Ya no me amas?”

A pillow was then flung towards his head.

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𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟎𝐏𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍. Armando had blood splatters on his white-collared shirt. The first two buttons were undone as he coordinated the outfit with black pants, he was looking sexy but that wasn’t the point. “What happened?” Asking in a panic as you walk up to him to check if he’s okay. “Estoy bien, no te preocupes.”

He walked into the bathroom, taking off his shirt and pants as he threw them into the wash basket. Walking back out, half naked. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, the scars tattooed all over his body due to the violent nature of the cartel being a sad story to tell, but sexy to look at.

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 - 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐀

“Súbete a la cama, princesa.”

Wasting no time, you did as you were told, stripping off your clothes. Slowly crawling onto the bed you laid down, spreading your legs as he got in between you. Tracing his finger up and down your clit, your wetness coating his finger. “Stop-“ Not even having time to finish your sentence, he pushed a finger in, making you gasp.

Pumping it in and out, you writhed under him at the pleasure he’s inflicting upon you. “Oh fuck!”

He slowly lowered himself down by your clit, still pumping in that finger. You felt his hot breath on your lower area, sending down electrical impulses throughout your nervous system, diffusing through your synapses. A wet object then placed itself upon your clit, circling it.

Armando licked stripes up and down,

making you moan in pleasure, tugging on his hair as you urge him to do more. “I can’t..”

“Puede.” Lifting himself up from that area, he pulls his finger out from you, putting it in his mouth and tasting you. Repositioning himself, he lines up his cock with your pussy before pushing himself in, stretching you out. A sharp flash of pain struck you before quickly dying back down. Armando didn’t seem to notice and slowly started thrusting for about 5 seconds before increasing his speed.

It was somewhat animalistic as he roughly thrusted into you, clearly taking his anger out on your body. It was satisfying at first, but then, his pace got faster. His grip becoming harder. “Armando!” You shouted, but he was still caught up in the overwhelming feeling of being inside of you.

“Cherry! Cherry!”

That’s when he noticed and stopped., quickly pulling out of you “¿Te lastimaste?”

“Estoy bien, todavía estoy adolorido de la otra noche.”

You noticed the pained expression that plastered his face. “Lo siento, lo siento-“

Holding his face in his hands, you look at him with a passion in your eyes. “I know you never meant to hurt me. Stop blaming yourself so much.”

Armando looked at you and nodded, before lifting you up and carrying you to the bathroom.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇, he slowly stroked your face as you relaxed against him. “Perdoname quierda.” He whispered.

“Don’t worry, i already have.”

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[🕷️] 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“aquí tienes…” : there it is..

“Vamos! ¡No tenemos tiempo!” : Let’s go! We don’t have time!

“¡Súbete al puto avión!”: Get on the fucking plane!

Los campañeros: Their companions.

“Jefe, estamos aquí.”: Boss, we are here.

“Es bueno estar de vuelta.”: It’s good to be back.

“Te extrañé” I missed you.

“No puedo esperar para quitarme esta ropa”: I can’t wait to take these clothes off.

“está bien?” : You okay ?

“Ven a acostarte con-“ : Come sleep with-

“¿Por qué coño me llamas tan temprano en la mañana?”: Why the fuck are you calling me so early in the morning?

“tengo que irme..”,: I have to go

“¿Realmente tengo que???” : Do i really have to ???

“Ya no me amas?” You don’t love me?

“Estoy bien, no te preocupes.” : I am fine, don’t worry.

“Acuéstate en la cama, princesa.” : Lie on the bed princess.

“Puede.” : You can.

“¿Te lastimaste?” : Are you hurt?

“Estoy bien, todavía estoy adolorido de la otra noche.” : I’m fine, i’m still sore from the other night.

“Lo siento.” : I’m sorry.

“Perdoname quierda.”: Forgive me, love.

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[🕷️] 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @milliumizoomi @shurisgf @tyneshaaa @sarcasticbitchsblog @amplifiedmoan @wizewhispers @5tarlan7 @thedarkworldofhananerea @armandosbabymama @dyttomori @deadpool15

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

au where the Riley family lives and simon gets into some Deep Shit™️ with some sort of group, whether it’s cartel or a terror org or what have you. And despite his and price’s and laswell’s best efforts, even the most privileged information eventually makes its way to the highest bidder. Which means that when this amorphous Group wants to hurt the ghost, they go after his most tender weak point.

They snatch Joseph Riley on his way home from school one day, and he’s terrified. He knows what his uncle does (vaguely and highly sanitized), enough for a kid his age to understand the gravity of the situation. So he has some idea of what’s about to happen.

Joseph doesn’t really have a good gauge on the passing of time, trapped in a dank, moldy cell in the ground with a single dirty window that doesn’t let in much light. The cuffs around his wrists are too tight, chafing against the thin skin. He’s hungry, thirsty, tired, but not scared. Okay, he’s a little scared but not as scared as he should probably be. Because he knows that come hell or high water, Uncle Simon is on his way.

That is, until the Group gets tired of waiting for Ghost to make a move and decide to send a message. They grab Joseph by the scruff and drag him out of the cell he’d memorized every inch of through the building. Joseph doesn’t know what’s happening, but whatever it is can’t be good.

And it isn’t. The door they come to is large, looks like it’s solid steel but with a weird sheen to it. There are claw marks digging into the frame and the ground. And a low, persistent growl echoes from behind the metal. Before Joseph can even think to speak, to beg for his life, one of the men unlocks the door, throws Joseph to the ground, and slams it shut behind him.

He falls in a crumpled heap, panting and coughing into the darkness around him. And then he freezes. Because the room is silent. The growl is gone. With the last bit of courage he has, he lifts his head from the dirty, iron-smelling floor and locks eyes with two bright blue irises glowing in the dark.

He’s heard stories of the wolves before, caught somewhere between man and monster. Some had come from Uncle Simon, some where rumors floated around school, some were just stories told to scare children. The stories all talked about the ferocious majesty of wolves, massive frames and thick fur and pearly white, razor sharp fangs.

This wolf is entirely unlike those stories. In the barely-there light leaking through the seam of the door, he can see just how bad the wolf is. His fur is ragged and hanging off his skeletal frame. Barely healed scars cut deep gouges into his face and flanks. And his eyes have no keen intelligence left, just base animal instinct. He’s watching Joseph silently, unmoving.

Joseph knows the wolf is starving, and he’s the unwilling lamb led to slaughter.

But the wolf doesn’t pounce. He inches forward, nosing gently at the bruises and scratches on Joseph’s face. He whines quietly when Joseph hisses from the movement. And he herds Joseph away from the door towards a tangled pile of dirty blankets and straw, curling around his shivering body with eyes pinned to the locked door.

Wolves are pack animals, and werewolves are no exception. When one werewolf soldier Sergeant MacTavish was drugged and captured, the Group thought they had themselves a mindless killing machine. They thought they could throw a child at a lonely, feral wolf and send the Ghost a gruesome message. They either didn’t know or didn’t care that pups, no matter the species, are precious to the pack. They gave Soap a pup, and he would protect that pup with his life.

(And when Ghost bursts into the cell not long after, blood soaked and wild eyed, he doesn’t expect to see his nephew, alive and relatively unharmed, with a massive guard dog curled around him. He doesn’t expect that guard dog to change back into a man. And he doesn’t expect that guard dog to stick around once he’s back on his feet, sticking to his side like he’s got no where better to be.)

[snowysosturn]

Allies or Affiliates? - Chris Sturniolo Part 5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Pairing : Y/n x Chris Sturniolo

Summary : Law student Y/n’s life takes a turn when she reconnects with Chris, her brief teenage flame who is now a dealer for a dangerous Boston drug gang. As their bond reignites, Y/n is drawn into Chris’s tumultuous world, where rival gangs clash and loyalty is everything. Balancing her love for Chris with her own ambitions, can their connection survive the chaos that threatens to pull them apart?

Warnings : MDNI, mentions of drugs, angst, shooting

Boston’s underworld had always been run by a handful of key players, but none were more notorious than Vince "The Hammer" Moretti and Hector "Hippo" Morales. Vince and Hippo had grown up together on the streets of Charlestown, both products of a harsh environment that carved out two very different men with the same ruthless ambition. They had been best friends once, inseparable, even. But all that changed nearly a decade ago.

Vince and Hippo had gotten into the drug game when they were just 18, barely out of high school, seeing it as their way to climb out of the projects. By their mid 20s, the pair had gained control of the Boston drug trade, a stunt many tried and failed to accomplish. Vince was the brains of the operation – calm, calculating, and deadly when crossed. He earned his nickname "The Hammer" for how swiftly and brutally he’d put down anyone who threatened their dominance. Hippo, on the other hand, was more volatile, a man ruled by his greed and short temper. He was massive, both in size and personality, often using fear as his primary tool to keep everyone in line.

For over a decade, Vince and Hippo controlled everything. They had a near monopoly on the flow of narcotics into the city, from the port of Boston to the streets of Dorchester and Roxbury. The two men seemed unstoppable, until Hippo’s greed got in the way. About ten years ago, Hippo started skimming off the top, undercutting Vince on deals, keeping higher profits for himself. He became sloppy, reckless, and started making decisions without Vince’s input. What had once been a steel bonded partnership was now on the verge of collapse.

The final straw came when Vince discovered that Hippo had been using his contacts to double cross him, dealing directly with Vince’s suppliers behind his back. It was a betrayal Vince couldn’t ignore. The fallout was abrupt, violent, and left a bloody trail across Boston. Vince cut ties with Hippo, taking half the runners with him, forming the Crimson Cartel, while Hippo established his own gang, H Block.

From that moment on, the city became a battleground. Vince ran his operation with precision, focusing on high level deals, ensuring loyalty through a mixture of fear and rewards. The Crimson Cartel quickly gained a reputation for its methodical and ruthless nature, mirroring Vince’s own personality. Meanwhile, Hippo’s H Block was more chaotic, driven by greed and violence, their methods sloppier but no less dangerous.

The two gangs have been at war ever since, battling for control of Boston’s streets. Every few months, a hit would happen, bodies would drop, and the balance of power would shift. Neither side was willing to back down, and both Vince and Hippo seemed content to continue the bloodshed, each trying to prove they were the most dominant force in the city. 

Chris’ POV

The date with Y/n had been a whirlwind. As I sat in my car after dropping her off, my mind spun with memories and emotions I hadn’t felt in years. Seeing her again was like being thrown back into our younger days, the way she used to make me feel when we were 15 year olds. Back then, she was my escape, my light in a life that was already starting to get messy. We’d shared laughs, dreams, and moments that felt so innocent compared to the world I’m in now.

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was falling for her fast. Like, way too fast. It was almost unsettling how quickly all those old feelings came rushing back. She had this way about her, she was kind, smart, and driven, that made me feel like I was missing something in my life. That same pull I felt years ago was stronger now, maybe because I knew I had lost her once before. And once she slipped through my fingers, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d made a huge mistake disappearing on her.

The truth was, when we were younger, I knew I didn’t deserve her. As much as I liked her, I could see the path I was heading down. Nate had just been roped into dealing when I started seeing her, and I knew I wouldn’t be far behind. That world wasn’t for Y/n. I wanted to protect her from it, from me, so I made the decision to just vanish from her life. No explanations, no goodbyes. It wasn’t fair to her, but at the time, I thought it was the only way to keep her safe.

When I saw her name pop up on my phone last week, after all these years, something in me shifted. I hadn’t thought about her for a long time, not really. But deep down, I knew there was still something there. And when we ran into each other in court.. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like fate was giving me a second chance, and I wasn’t about to let her slip away again.

But tonight freaked me out, especially when she told me she was studying law. That hit me like a punch to the gut. A lawyer and a drug dealer? What a fucking disaster waiting to happen. I tried to play it off, tried to act like I was proud of her – which I was, don’t get me wrong – but inside, I was panicking. I couldn’t shake the irony of it. She’s out here studying to defend people like me, and I’m knee deep in the shit she’s probably going to spend her career trying to put away.

It felt like the universe was playing some sick joke on me. I knew I had to keep her at arm’s length. Getting involved with her now, when my life was more dangerous than ever, was a bad idea. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be around her. I wanted to know her, to make her laugh like I used to. The problem was, this life I’m in? It doesn’t leave room for that.

When Vince called me tonight, I knew it was only a matter of time before shit hit the fan. He said there was going to be a hit on H Block, something that didn’t sit right with me. I don’t do that kind of work. I stick to runs and keep my head down. But Vince never calls me for this stuff unless it’s serious, and I knew better than to question him outright.

"Chris" his voice had been urgent, the kind of tone that told me there was no room for excuses. "We need someone to cover a run during the hit tonight. I know you don’t do the other shit, but I need you on this."

I sighed, gripping the steering wheel. "Why do you need me, Vince? Can’t someone else handle it?"

"Because I said so. Be at the spot in an hour. Don’t make me ask twice."

And just like that, the date was over. I hated that I had to cut things short with Y/n. I could see the disappointment in her eyes, the way she tried to hide it but failed. I wanted to tell her the truth, to explain why I couldn’t be the guy she needed me to be right now. But I couldn’t. I had to keep her at a distance, for both our sakes.

As I drove toward the meeting spot, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was dragging her into the same mess I’d tried to protect her from years ago. And the worst part? This time, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull away.

The night air was cold as I pulled up to the spot Vince had sent me. It was an old, run down lot in Somerville, far enough from downtown Boston that we could move quietly, but close enough to the action. I parked my car and killed the engine, my headlights slicing through the darkness before flicking off. I grabbed my green bandana from my side door compartment and wrapped it around my face, I had a bad feeling and I knew I needed to maintain a low profile. The place was deserted, except for a few cars parked near the back of the lot. Danny’s truck was one of them, its dented side glinting under the dim streetlight.

I got out, pulling my hoodie over my head and scanning the area. Danny, Sully, and a couple of the other guys were already there, moving crates from the warehouse to their vehicles. I walked over, hands stuffed in my pockets, trying to keep the unease from showing in my eyes, since thats all they could see.

“Chris” Danny greeted me, nodding as he hauled a large duffel bag into the back of his truck. Danny was Nate’s cousin, and we’d known each other for a while, though we weren’t exactly close. He was a little older than me, with the same family connections that kept Nate locked in this life. Sully, a stocky guy with a shaved head, was leaning against the hood of his car, smoking a cigarette. His eyes flicked up when he saw me.

“About time you showed up” Sully muttered, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot.

“I had things to take care of.” I replied, my voice low.

I popped the trunk of my car and started loading the packages Danny handed me. Each one was tightly wrapped, small but heavy. The weight of them felt like a reminder of how deep I was in now, how this life had a grip on me I couldn’t shake. As I lifted another bag, the headlights of a car suddenly illuminated the lot. The beam cut through the darkness, making all of us pause.

Sully narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell is that?”

I glanced up, watching as the car – a beat up Sedan with tinted windows, slowed as it approached. My pulse quickened, a cold chill running down my spine. Something wasn’t right.

“Fuck” Danny muttered, stepping away from his truck. “That ain’t one of ours.”

The car came to a stop about twenty feet away, its engine idling. For a moment, no one moved. The air was thick with tension, the kind you could feel deep in your gut. Then, just as Danny opened his mouth to speak, the passenger window rolled down and the flash of metal caught my eye.

“Gun!” I shouted, diving behind my car as shots rang out.

The lot exploded into chaos. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete and metal, shattering the quiet night. I heard Sully swear loudly as he ducked behind his car, pulling a gun of his own from his waistband. Danny fired back, unloading rounds toward the Sedan as the other guys scrambled for cover.

The H Block bastards must’ve gotten wind of the hit Vince planned on their crew tonight. They were trying to get ahead of us, throwing the first punch. My heart pounded in my chest as I crouched low, waiting for the spray of bullets to end. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The sedan’s tires squealed as the driver floored it, the car swerving wildly as it sped out of the lot. The gunfire ceased, leaving only the ringing in my ears and the smell of burnt rubber lingering in the air. Slowly, I stood up, my hands still trembling.

“Everyone good?” Danny called out, his voice tense. He lowered his gun, his eyes scanning the lot.

None of us were hit. Somehow, we had all managed to avoid getting shot. But that didn’t mean the situation was good.

Danny walked over to me, still holding his gun as he checked his surroundings. “You alright?”

“Yeah” I muttered, though my chest was still tight with adrenaline. “What the fuck was that?”

“H Block” Sully spat from behind his car, his face contorted with anger. “Those fuckers must’ve heard about the hit we’re pulling tonight. They wanted to get us first.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the unease settling deep in my gut. This was too close. I wasn’t supposed to be part of the violence, just the guy who kept things moving. But now, I was part of it whether I wanted to be or not.

Danny shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans and turned to me, his expression serious. “Listen, man, you need to get the fuck out of here. Go on the run and keep your phone on. We’ll take care of the rest.”

I looked at him, my jaw tightening. “What do you mean, take care of the rest?”

Danny’s eyes darkened. “We’re still pulling the hit on H Block tonight. This shit doesn’t change that. Just get the run done, and keep your head down.”

My stomach twisted as I nodded. Danny and the others quickly piled into their cars, engines roaring as they sped off into the night, ready to finish what had been started. I was left standing in the cold, my car now loaded with the packages I was supposed to deliver. But my mind was somewhere else, on the shots fired, on the faces in that car, and on the fact that everything had just gotten a hell of a lot more dangerous.

As I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, I couldn’t stop thinking about Y/n. She had no idea what I was caught up in, no idea how close I was to a world I’d tried to keep her out of. But now, I wasn’t even sure I could keep myself out of it.

a/n: posting a day early bc i need a social media cleanse tomorrow lol

taglist: @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @lvrsturniolo @slutniolo @spaghetti835928383 @marrykisskilled @sturnsxplr-25 @bxtchboy69 @vickytaa @anikaistg

[callsignfate]

Hi I have a request (if you don't like it that's fine), let's say fem reader works with Valeria and reader have a big crush on her leader. One day Valeria has a meeting with another cartel leader ,but he didn't want to make business with her, he wanted to kill her. Reader was outside the office but when she heard the fight she wanted to help so she covered Valeria with her body and reader got shot ( not bad ,let's say leg or arm). So Valeria was so mad at her bc she actually care about the reader. It can be a little angst with them saying what they feel (no need to be super romantic...but still 😆) and ofcourse fluff at the end. Sorry if it's chaotic, English is not my first language 😭 if you do this I'll be so happy but if you decide it's a thrash I'll understand 😆😆😆😆 thank you

Seeing Red

Day Twelve of Writemas/Birthday post

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

Okay so I saw this and I immediately wanted to write and post this so todays post that was supposed to be posted today will be posted as tomorrows post! Thank you Anon for this request and never apologize for your English's skills they are really good for how terribly hard (and stupid) it is to learn English. I was born in the United States and I still personally struggle with so much! This was such a cool Idea!

TW: Mention of injury, blood, guns, gun shots, needles, medications. If I've missed any let me know!

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

Valeria was an attractive woman, and she knew it. She rarely had eyes for anyone, that was until she found you in the midst of her cartel pyramid.

She was aware of your attraction to her. She observed your eyes scanning her body and face whenever she was around, how your breaths would become heavier when she ordered you around, and how desperate you were to listen, to be perfect for her.

She adored this, and you. Although she never showed it directly to you, she would inquire with the people closest to her about your whereabouts, how you were doing, and if they could give you a better position—something closer to her.

She knew you would never betray her; she could see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice when you always responded with a quick "Yes ma'am." She made it believable that you had climbed ranks yourself; your skills weren't mediocre by any means. In her mind, this justified her desire to keep you close, to keep an eye on you.

So, when the day to meet another cartel leader arrived, she ordered you to stand outside her office, keeping anyone else out and keeping him in.

And that's exactly what you did. Standing like a soldier guarding a base, you stood there for an hour, listening to the muffled conversation that slowly became heated. The harsh, angry words of Valeria were muffled through the door before the man's voice erupted into an angry yell. Awkwardly hovering your hand over the doorknob, you pushed the door open to see Valeria's eyes locked on the man who held the cold steel pointed at her.

She didn't even glance your way, and Valeria's eyes didn't waver—there wasn't a hint of fear in her gaze. Without thinking, you pushed the man away from her. His anger flared, and a loud bang rang through the room. Another two men, whom you usually worked with, rushed in. Your eyes frantically searched Valeria's body as your hands patted over her gear and arms, only stopping when her face looked... bewildered.

The two men had the cartel leader pinned on the ground as they handcuffed and gagged him. Your eyes only glanced back at them once before you started shaking Valeria's shoulders, asking if she was okay, where she was shot.

A painful burn slowly faded into your mind, and your focus flickered to your hand as you pushed it against the pain that was getting worse. The adrenaline faded quickly, and your trembling hand moved into your line of sight, stained a deep red.

"Oh." A strange calmness settled over you as you stared at the blood on your hand, the pain registering more profoundly. The gravity of the situation hit you, and you felt the room spinning. Valeria finally shifted her gaze from the restrained cartel leader to you, her expression a mix of surprise and concern.

"Let me see." She hissed out with a level of anger in her tone that almost made you flinch backwards, Her hands moved quickly to move your gear, before she groaned and started taking it off quickly to get a better look.

"Damn it," Valeria muttered under her breath, more to herself than to you. "It doesn't look too deep, but we need to get this patched up."

Despite the urgency, there was a gentle touch in her hands as she started to apply pressure to the wound. The makeshift bandage she fashioned from a torn piece of fabric was surprisingly efficient, considering the circumstances. "I've patched up my own wounds before, let's go." Valeria added before she began moving you out of her now busy office, her mind racing as she led you to a room that only had one large table in the middle and fluffy lather chair's around it. "Sit. Now." She ordered out, you looked at the chair as she moved to open a small closet that was tucked away in the order. "I don't want to bleed all over the chair, it could make a mess." You murmured out quietly, her head whipped around with a glare that felt like daggers, without another word you sat down, her head giving you a brief nod before she went back to searching for the medical supplies in the closet.

Valeria swiftly grabbed a medical kit from the closet with a small sigh of relief, her hands moved with practiced efficiency. The atmosphere in the room was tense, but there was an odd sense of trust between you and Valeria, an unspoken understanding.

She cleaned the wound meticulously, her movements precise. The pain was sharper now as she probed around, but you held back any sounds of discomfort. Valeria didn't seem to appreciate the stoicism.

As she finished applying a more secure dressing, she met your eyes with a disapproving and concerned glare. "What in the hell were you thinking rushing in to take the shot, I had it."

You met her gaze evenly, a sense of defiance flickering in your eyes. "You were in danger. I couldn't just stand there."

A mixture of irritation and something else danced across Valeria's expression. "You think I can't handle myself?"

"It's not about that," you replied, choosing your words carefully. "It's about having each other's backs. We're a team, Ma'am."

Her eyes softened, the harsh edge momentarily giving way to a more contemplative look. "A team, huh?"

"Yeah, a team," you huffed.

She sighed, glancing away for a moment before refocusing on you. "Well, next time, let me do my job. I can't afford to lose you."

Your mind stuttered as you heard her last word, you? Did you hear that correctly? You tried to blink away your pleasantly surprised expression at her words.

"Just me?" You asked with the smallest of smile pulling at your lips as Valeria pushed her hand out at you with two small medications in her palm.

"Alright, don't get all mushy on me," Valeria retorted, almost avoiding your question. She handed you the medications, a clear attempt to steer the conversation away from the momentary vulnerability.

You took the medications, suppressing a chuckle at her deflection. "Thank you."

"Yea, just take those, and no running into gunfire without a plan next time," she said, resuming her typical authoritative tone, "I care about you too much to let you just get shot, understood?"

You nodded, a genuine smile playing on your lips. "Understood, Ma'am. I'll leave the heroics to you.. maybe"

Valeria's stern expression softened for a moment, a rare hint of warmth in her eyes. "Good. Now get some rest. We both have jobs to do."

As you left her makeshift medical room, you couldn't help but feel a subtle shift in your dynamic with Valeria. It was as if the unspoken bond had solidified, creating a connection that went beyond the professional.

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

[andmaybegayer]

it's really wild that they still use so much wood for homebuilding in the USA. Is it a cartel thing? I can't imagine why you'd want to use a material that is so variable and flammable for home construction. Like yeah sure it's great in the pre-industrial era but now you can excavate and process gravel and cement and clay and iron and aluminium.

Wood isn't exactly cheap! Supply is variable and very sensitive to all sorts of weird things and it simply cannot correct very quickly. Steel is taken out of the ground and we make huge amounts of it, it's much more stable.

Maybe the amount of wood isn't that high? A fair amount of a house is gypsum board which you do actually dig out of the ground.

Still, I'm surprised that steel studs haven't completely outcompeted wood. Does it require more work to assemble? It might just be an industry momentum thing, you'd have to find builders who know how to work with metal framing, which presumably isn't a lot of people. You jump straight from wood framing and drywall to curtain walls on steel skyscraper frames.

There were some Construction Physics articles on this that I missed because I was busy hang on.

This article shows that the material and labour cost of framing are both the largest single costs within their own class, at 8% and 11% of the total cost of a home respectively, so it is expensive, and presumably that makes your homebuilding very sensitive to price spikes in wood.

This is from the last wood pricing spike and yeah, wood pricing can seriously affect the overall cost of a house, but it's also shockingly stable for a while there for being, you know, wood.

But yeah it feels like it's a significant fire hazard. It's not bulk lumber that can char without burning, it's all 2x4's and framing beams.

None of what I say is meaningfully correct.

[oddclan-askblog]

More slig stuff plus lore below the cut (there is a lot.)

Slig growth differences: 

free sligs can see well and do not need goggles. They maintain their lower set of mandibles which are used to feed food into their moths as well as taste. Teen sligs steel guns, ammo, and goggles from older sligs when they're not looking. While most of this goes to new escapees sometimes cool stuff "slips through". Teens don't really need any of it, they're seldom allowed to fight or raid. It all just looks really cool so of course they snag it. 

Adult tribal sligs new or original, are expected to leave the old gear behind in favor of copper jewelry and tattoos. Some keep their old gear but most move on. 

Slave sligs are blinded and their lower set of mandibles are removed while they're young. This makes tough food harder to eat and disincentives them from fleeing the factories in adult life. Additionally their tails are bound and cut short making movement without pants very painful. 

Occasionally baby Sligs are smuggled to freedom but very very rarely. Rescuing a squawking sadistic slug is quite difficult compared to a mud egg. 

New blood: 

Slaves who try to become free can not enter the community at will. They are required to bring their weapons and gear (unloaded), whatever they can snatch food wise, and must mark themselves to show their commitment. A mark consists of a very obvious "X" across the head or chest, anything hidden is likely to be missed and the latter will be shot on site. The X must be scarred over by the time they arrive unarmed. 

When this policy was first implemented there was a lot of success and their numbers grew by the day. Once the cartels caught on the deserters thinned out significantly. Recourses have dwindled. Some suggested the policy be changed so marks could be carved across other parts of the body, so as to be more hidden. Treun will not allow it he wants the mark to be obvious.  

Village life: 

There is only one above ground settlement left in Oddworld, the rest are numerous connected by a maze of caves. Escapees are allowed to congregate at the aboveground settlement but no further. Any interaction from the other clans require natives from above or below meeting in the middle. A free queen is rumored to exist but this has never been verified. The sanctuaries constant need for new support and supplies suggests otherwise. 

Sligs live minimalist lifestyles, their tents are woven fabric with leaf littered over the top to blend in with the ground. Each member hunts and gathers together for the clan. Trade with mudokon allow for the acquisition of new art and the occasional tattoo. Muds are not allowed into specially marked sections of the slig tunnels. 

Underground is more complicated, most of the smaller settlements are only three to ten homes strong. The inhabitants feed on cave mosses when desperate but otherwise eat off of dead animals swept into the caverns. Their homes are short dead end tunnels dug into a horizontal "s" shape. A flood room is built into the lower curve so excess water stays in the front half of the home. At the high point of the second curve a long vertical tunnel is dug up toward the bedrooms and other chambers. 

Almost everything is made of some form of clay with fabric and food being stored indoors. Rotten food and waste are disposed of ahead of the village by several kilometers so it flows down current come the storm. Sligs responsible for this travel on specific days of the week. In the interim, trash is carefully sorted and clutter is discouraged. 

The Catacombs: 

Under the swamps lie the ruined Slig cities and shrines. Tunnels and hidden enclaves dug deep into the earth over thousands of years weave a beautiful and dangerous tapestry out of the rock. They can be navigated and shrines can still be accessed but doing so requires careful effort. The biggest danger below is not getting stuck, crushed, or lost, its drowning. Rain is hazardous and inconsistent from above, mountain melt, swamp mog, and anything small enough to drag under, will flood even the largest chasms. 

Bells and bridges connect the highest non flooding point of the caverns. They are specially designed with grooves on their exterior so they will ring as the rain pours. If one can not make it to a bridge above, death is assured. 

The deepest settlements have specially dug water drain offs and bastions so other caverns remain safe. Many ancient cities and statues are closed off by collapsed tunnels or completely submerged underwater. All point to a powerful past where queens warred for power and free sligs thrived in abundance. 

Some areas are inaccessible due to toxic gas which can spread to other caverns if opened. Sligs have a variety of ways for assessing the danger of rooms ahead. Birds are the old-school method, less preferred given the scarcity of food. Repurposed gear can be used especially gas detectors if stolen.

The most common method is tying a trained rat to a string and allowing it to skitter through a small opening. The opening will be closed momentarily with food occasionally added in. The short string keeps the animal close by, its breathing and squeaking being an indicator if the environment is unsafe. If the rat stops squeaking all together the chamber has no oxygen. If the chirps are frantic and it begins scratching at the lid the room is toxic. If all is normal the room is safe. When the results are in the string will be pulled like a leash and the pet returned. This keeps the sligs and their fuzzy buddies alive without wasting resources or much time. 

As Ratz serve a vital role their is much cave art and carvings in their honor. Indeed it seems even ancient sligs understood these creatures genius. Rats and Mize are bred and sold across slig territory for looks, colors, size, and sometimes food. Other Odd races would find this disgusting but Sligs could give less of a damn about their opinions.

Beliefs: 

Sligs are not religious or particularly spiritual at present, they are mostly focused on day to day survival. Some settlements are zealous in their practices and preach their own version of a coming end time. A world borne anew from a great ancient flood where only the most steadfast are saved! Treun blows these isolated settlements off, his people are experiencing enough pain as is. Wouldn't help to preach of imminent death even if most would ignore the rapture too. 

[canadian-pug-cartel]

Houston and Dallas (not my best work but also fuck digital)

[harrelltut]

1968-michaelharrelljr.com's GOLDEN Domain Creator [D.C.] Father of 1921steelecartel.tech's Pure BLACKANUNNAQI.tech GOLD MOUNTAIN [GM] LAND PATENTS... Computationally [PC] Mining Eternal [ME] 1698 Wealth Economies [WE] in Mother's Old America [MU ATLANTIS]

WELCOME BACK HOME IMMORTAL [HIM] U.S. MILITARY KING SOLOMON-MICHAEL HARRELL, JR.™

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EYE GO DATA [i-GODaddy.com] ADDRESS MINE... MY OWN ANCIENT MICROBIAL WEALTH & METAGENOMIC BUSINESS @ quantumharrelltech.ca.gov!!!

LOOK AT ALL THAT GOLD DEEP INSIDE Aghaarta's Inner Earth [Qi] Domain of TIAMAT's Enclosed Garden of Pure Delight!!!

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[ghettogirly]

Omg your stories are too good to me. I'm stop bothering you. One more time . Can you do something for bad boys 4. Since the reader , Armando, Marcus and Mike probably the ammo square are on the run. They see why she the way she is. '' they are are in her world now''

Something that goes with this song '' I don't want to play this part but I do , all for you . ( Reader) What she does for Armando.

What ever you have in mind . I know it going to be good !!

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐗 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀 “𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐒“ 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍.

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃

-> synopsis: Armando meets a girl who is exactly like him. While on the run, he is dragged into her world.

-> theme: angst.

-> format: story.

-> warning: mentions of blood, fight scenes, spoilers for bad boys ride or die, mentions of urban folklore, mature language, Malia and Armando both have daddy issues.

-> authors note: thank you for requesting! i really enjoyed writing this one. 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬!

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄. Four bodies were littered around the girl as she was pinned down on the sandy floor, her face cementing a print in it due to the force of the two security officers. Clouds of Smoke covered the yard, as they moved in a tactical form to stop Malia. Dragging her up, they pushed her down the empty corridors, all the way to solitary confinement as they investigated the incident.

She shouted as they threw her into the cell, cursing at the shit she landed herself into. She was mainly furious at how she didn’t know the reason why they tried to murder her, unclear about the past and the future presented to her. All Malia could do was to stare at the white walls around her as they slowly made her lose her mind.

“They tried to murder her because she’s the only one who could ID Captain Howard and exonerate him from all this bullshit!” Mike shouted, sweeping the papers off the table.

Lockwood and Rita looked at each other and then looked at Mike.

“Guys please, just transfer her to the Miami Correctional Facility and then i can deal with the rest.”

A sigh escaped Lockwood’s lips, raising his eyebrow at Mike, indirectly telling him to not fuck this up. “Fine, but if you mess up, my ass is on the line.”

The trio walked into the aircraft, side by side. Armando accompanying the duo for extra manpower, skilled in combat, there was no question for this addition. Malia was slid next to them, chained to the aircraft ceiling in a steel cage. The bars were slightly rusted as the metal corroded due to the moisture in which the cell was kept it. She looked up at him, her doll-like eyes hung low, her black iris staring right at him.

“45 minutes.” Armando stated, his voice running through the girls body, surprising her due to the low frequency of his tone. Clearly he was not fazed at her notoriety as another cartel member. Nevertheless, she tried to make herself comfortable, leaning back on the metal bars as she fiddled with the handcuffs that entrapped her hands.

This was going to be a long ride.

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐔𝐏 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐓’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐊. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he whispered, looking back at the crew before the door flew right open. Two caucasian men came running out of the boot armed with the same weapons Mike handed in at the entrance. Marcus was winded on the floor, leaving it up to Mike and Armando to stop the men from reaching you.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, the mexican male flung into action. Jumping off his chair, he twisted in the air, striking one of the men in the face with his foot. Using this opportunity, Mike then ran for the other one, repeatedly punching him and unarming him.

It was like a war zone, blood splattered everywhere, staining the silver aircraft.

This continued for minutes, yet it felt like hours due to the quick pace of the fight contrasting with the slow movement of the aircraft. Both of the men were holding their own, getting hit but still standing their ground. Clearly showing the similarities between the two. How ruthless, fearless and fucked up both was.

Unbeknownst to the men, the aircraft suddenly opened. Releasing a big gust of wind in, the gravity of the air causing the men to suddenly fall back, causing them to hold onto a stable structure in hopes of not falling to death. However, the gravity of the wind started to rattle Malia’s cage, suddenly causing the rope to elongate. Sliding off the cage plane as the chemical bonds that held the fibres together, were slowly unraveling.

“Get me out of here now!!” Malia shouted, urgency in her voice as she signalled to the men, banging the cage to cause a reaction. Mike leaped into action, holding the rope in order to stop the cage from flying out. Still fighting off the men, Armando was hit from behind and knocked down. His forehead being slashed causing a cut to occur on the males forehead. “Fuck!”

The stinging sensation caused Armando to pause momentarily. This split second allowed the men to fly off the plane, activating their parachute not before smiling at the struggling crew. “Armando, get her out!!”

The man snapped out of his gaze at the two, now disappearing men. Looking back at his father, he noticed the rope about to snap. Running to one of the guards, he grabbed the keys before ramming it into the padlock for the cage. 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃.

𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐓. “You’re in my waters now. Get rid of the fucking phones. Ya’ll better not slow me down.” She spat at them, irritated at the idea of becoming apart of a team.

Armando scoffed, before catching up with the girl. The two older men trailing behind as they argued between each other. “We need firewood.” He said lowly, his eyes focused on looking around the forest, it being a habit to check his surroundings.

“Since when was you the leader?”

“We saved your ass. Show some respect.” Bumping past the girl with his broad shoulder, making her lose her balance, he walked ahead.

“Dick.”

The fire illuminated the forest as the four sat around it, reflecting on the chaotic day. Malia just stared at the flames. Her eyes in trance as they danced around each other. “Yo Malia, where you from?” Marcus shouted, interrupting her focus on the flames. Mike shoved him, signalling a “why the fuck would you ask her that?” type look.

“I’ll answer.”

𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐒, where my dad grew up. My mother was from the Caribbean lands of Trinidad and Tobago, she was originally on holiday to visit family where she met my dad. They were inseparable, attached to the hip even, Bonnie and Clyde.” She scoffed, shaking her head as if the love story was grotesque.

“My dad showed her his work, playing it off to be an innocent man who does construction. Yet, he lived a double life. He was the head of a Caribbean drug syndicate. The ‘Baku’ cartel. Based on a Bajan folklore of a tiny man with a long beard who terrified residents by constantly moving objects around in their houses. The Baku man was supposedly owned by East Indians and when customers lapsed on payments for goods received, this little man would be summoned to put fear in the hearts of those who owed debt.”

“Oh shit, so he’s linked with them voodoo people.”

“Shut up Marcus.” Mike whispered, urging me to continue on with my story.

“My dad was associated with that legend as he too put fear into those who owed him. Unfortunately, It was too late for my mom to escape him as she was pregnant by him with me and she was murdered when i was 5. The end.”

They just went silent, shocked at the abrupt ending as they looked up at her with sympathetic eyes. Except Armando, who instead, looked at her as if she just gave him comfort. “Your mother died too?”

“Yeah, as much as i hate my father for all the terrible things he did, including being a reason for my mother’s ending. He gave me a sense of purpose you know?”

“Sí, conozco ese sentimiento..” Armando whispered, fiddling with the dirt below him as his eyes reflected the fire pit in the background. Sadness weighed down his heart as he met someone else with the same tragic fate of his own, his eyes becoming glossy.

He sucked it up though. He never cries.

“They’re bonding..” Marcus whispered, leaning over to Mike who just shrugged him off. “Come on guys bring it in.”

Malia just stared at him. “You guys are some soft ass motherfuckers.”

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐?

[🕷️] 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“Sí, conozco ese sentimiento“ : Yeah, i know that feeling.

[🕷️] 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

@milliumizoomi @thedarkworldofhananerea @wizewhispers @deadpool15 @5tarlan7 @amplifiedmoan

[jolalibrary]

i. fairy lights

javier peña x dea! f!reader | chapter one of nowhere to run

Summary: Determined to do it better this time, Javier Peña returns to Bogotá to take down the Cali Cartel. With a new promotion, office and team, what he doesn’t expect is the pretty thing outside his office—or why they’re not allowed in the field. “You should also know, Peña. I’m harder to sleep with than an informant.."

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers, smut, angst. no use of y/n, mild use of a codename for story purposes. wordcount: 5k authors notes: this would have remained in my google drive if it wasn't for the sheer love, listening ears and heart of both @yeyinde and @guyfieriii - every bit of sass is written for you.

series masterlist

Your eyes studied him. Peered through the half-open blinds, trying to assess at what stage you should go in—make your introductions. You’d hung back, not wanting to fawn like the others, needing to know if the man they placed on such a high shelf really deserved to be raised amongst the rest of you. 

Because you knew what he had done. You’d heard the whispers, the gossip—even if they tried to keep a lid on it. 

“Here.” 

Your eyes are pulled to a tall shadow, finding no smile—no smirk. Face entirely void of emotion. The coffee in his hand presented to you, your fingers obediently wrapping it, narrowing your eyes at the person in front of you. 

“From your favourite place.” 

The smirk falls easily over your lips. “What did you do, Van Ness?” 

It’s then he smiles—almost smirks. The two so closely woven together that you aren’t entirely sure where joy and torture truly begin. “I may or may not have fucked your filing system—but in my defence, I’m not the only one.” 

“I’m aware.”

“You met him yet?” he asked, nodding his head towards the office you’re stationed outside. “The new Attaché.”

“No, and do you not have work to be doing, Dan?” 

He shrugs, placing his cup down before leaning both palms on your desk, moving closer and closer. You watch as his smirk begins to cut into more of his features, almost being allowed to greet his eyes.

“This is for Fiestl’s sake—and the new pair of eyes studying us. The former thinks you’re seeing someone.” 

Mirroring him, you bring the coffee to your lips, leaning forward as then noted and the taste explodes across your tongue. “Lemme guess, you’re enjoying watching Chris squirm?” 

“Do you blame me?”

“No. Not really.”

You command him to look up when you walk through his office door. Your knock barely meets his ears before you’re there, stalking into his office with your hands full of files, papers and a single notebook.

He hears you murmur about not wanting to interrupt, but Javi doesn’t believe you.

Because of the sly smirk carved into your cheeks. The way you’re standing boldly in front of his desk, not giving him any indication that you’re not standing exactly where you want to be, at the time you wanted to. 

Your name falls from your tongue like it’s supposed to be blessing the air. As though you’re doing him a favour by informing him of it—not that it mattered.

He’d already learnt your name. That, and the name you’re so often called around the office—the one no one has yet explained to him. 

Now that you’re here, not restricted by half-open blinds and glass, he can look at you fully. He can run his eyes up and down your frame, not just admire your side profile. You’re pretty is what he thinks. Likely knows it from the way you don’t cower under his gaze, but rather thrive under it. He bets you act like you’re made of glass, when you’re in fact made of steel—that you’re used to making others feel better about their inadequacies than owning the fact you’re good.

You stand straight, not extending your hand out across his desk to him—telling him, without using your words, you’re not really here to make introductions. 

It almost pulls a smile from him. Your obvious indifference is welcomed after the sea of interviews he feels he’s had with the rest of the department.  It’s clear you’re not here to fawn, to interrogate him—you don’t even appear to be impressed he was half the reason Escobar was taken down.

Your eyes are still on him—piercing, digging themselves in as you continue to speak. They pierce, both your words and your sight, back remaining as diligently straight, words tumbling and falling from your lips into sentences he’s not even processing. 

Javi suspects you know he isn’t listening.

Holding yourself in a way that tells him this is a process, more than kindness. Your impassiveness growing, fermenting in the lack of interruption from him—and he welcomes it, almost craves it. So drained from shaking hands and listening to pester him for a scrap of information—an insight they’ve not read from a newspaper. 

You, without meaning to, provide a semblance of normality as you continue to talk. 

Shifting, he moves to lean on the sideboard behind him, keeping his eyes trained on you, noting how you’re American, but your vowels are tinged with the tone of someone who has been here too long. He hangs off of them, the inflictions, the oddities in the way you speak certain words. 

He shouldn’t. 

Javi has already woken up beside a colleague—an intern. Had already failed his promise to himself he made on the plane over, that this time would be different. 

And, here he is, dragging his eyes up and down your frame—noting things about you that are irrelevant, not listening. 

“--I’ve made notes, which I’ve tabbed for you. Just in case you decided to stop listening.”

You lift your eyes from your notes, and it’s different than when you’d first stalked in. They’re softer, their piercingness lost—vanished, as if you’d never tried to dig them into him—dousing him something akin to cool water on a stifling day. 

For the single, briefest second, he’s lost to the world around him. He’s falling, tumbling into them—losing his grip on morals and right from wrong as you just watch him. Not knowing how you’re basking him in light, sunshine and fucking serenity. 

A sight he’d never expected in his office, never mind in his presence. 

He clears his throat, Crosby’s words coming to him—rotating around and around. It’ll be different this time. By the book. Javi knows he has to make amends for what happened before. Even if it means having to follow orders, keep himself to himself—not fuck a subordinate again. Leave with his head held high, determination strong, impenetrable—

“Did you get all of that?” 

The air around you both tenses, constricting. 

It almost cracks, suddenly pulled to the point it’s making it hard to breathe. His mind is trying to latch to words, but just keeps replaying your entrance—how you stormed in like a hurricane, sweeping everything to the sides and leaving only you. The air shifts under the pressure, poisoned with patchouli and amber, a scent he cannot help but continue to inhale as it tries to stick to the walls—to the inside of him. 

Your eyes change again, sharpening—pitchforks at the ready as though you’ve already built him a stake to burn him on. Them trying to needle into him, undoing the carefully stitched threads that are working hard to keep him together. He equally tries to carve something out of you, work behind the layers, walls and forced aloofness. 

That’s when he finds it—hidden under carefully placed truths and hidden lies: hope. 

His heart descends, spluttering in annoyance. Because people pin that to him more than anything else. They assume he’s the answer—the centre of something big, important. A beacon they’ve all been waiting for, the one who can slay the biggest monsters and undo the greatest of crimes.

He feels it. 

How they say they wrap him in armour, but actually weigh him down in expectations. 

He moves his index and middle finger in the same pattern against his thumb. A slow rotation once, before moving it the other way twice. The pain in his head continued to throb, to pulse—his free hand rubbing that spot on his forehead. 

“I can repeat the basics, if that would be easier?” 

Your voice is like syrup—dripping into his ears, yet they’re not sticking. They’re clumping, forming somewhere between his ears and not filing themselves where they’re supposed to be. 

He can’t find the word no, or thank you. Unsure as he looks at you, how to explain this isn’t your words, but everything else. That there’s something sitting on his chest—has been since Escobar. That it lies there, dormant, waiting. 

“Sir…” 

He snorts, both at the way you say his title and that you’re the billionth person to call it him. Suddenly realising, knowing that the reason he cannot find the word no or thank you, is because they’re not the words he truly wants to say. Javi wants to say that he can’t take in your words because the floor is slipping away, his blood is bubbling nervously in his ears, heart and throat. 

Swallowing, he meets your eyes, wondering if you know that he feels like he’s drowning and yet he’s on land. While the ground feels and appears tough, firm and solid, it’s sliding under it—back to the flames he baptised himself in last time. The licks of fire singeing the edges of his skin.

Mainly, Javi wants to tell you that your to-do list that’s bigger than even you… he’s not sure what to do with any of it. 

You step closer, heels echoing in the small space as you slam the files on his desk—a piece of ripped paper capturing his attention. Your handwriting, all swirls and legible letters—not the writing of a man or another idiot in this place. Not able to pull himself away from it until he feels your fingers on his bicep, tight but soft in nature. 

“Breathe.”

You whisper it, let it greet the air with more kindness than you’ve shown since you burst into his office. Your thumb draws a triangle shape against his jacket, as you repeat the one word again. 

“What?”

Javi doesn’t mean to spit it—to let it hit the air harshly and questioningly. He doesn’t mean to be blunt or direct, shattering your softness and mellow tone. 

You pull your hand back all the same, but your face doesn’t shift—doesn’t change—and you also don't move. 

“Take a breath,” you say, in a tone devoid of any emotion. “You… look like you need it. And, I know I reeled off a lot there, but we’ll find ways.” 

Eyes full of something he can’t place—like knowing, experience and grief. Your unspoken words slide into his mind without needing to speak them. 

“We because you and I, we’re going to find ways around problems. I’m not Stoddard, and I’m not one of the idiots out there, Agent Peña.”

His pulse quickens, especially when you take a step back, pulling a piece of paper from the top of the pile before placing it more firmly in front of his chair. More in view, if he were to lean forward.

“I cannot put a vest on and leave these walls to do your bidding, but I can do a fucking lot inside these walls. With sheer will and a sharp tongue. This is what I’ll do for you. I’m the one who does your grunt work, so you can make the difference; I’m the one who’ll take the mountain of shit first, so you can make that difference. I’ll hold up the goddamn walls, Peña. You just have to tell me what street and what number. Whatever you need me for, I am here. So, breathe.” 

Your words almost make him crack—make him believe for a second that what you said was true. 

But, Javi knows better—has seen so much.

He’s played the game, seen the deceit wrapped in kindness, and been spat out because of it. 

“Alright…”

You nod, shifting your weight, watching you be lulled into a false sense of security—wondering if your walls are down enough for him to see a real answer on your face as he asks:

“Answer me this, Agent. What did they give you?”

It’s instant—the way you flinch. Small, likely not visible to most. 

Truthfully, it catches him by surprise, not expecting it. Having spent a large chunk of time around people who hold secrets, he’s not seen that one happen before. Not so quickly, not so naturally it flitters and is removed before he can truly take notice of it. 

Regret bathes him. Falls in heavy buckets from the ceiling down onto him, and he stuffs the feeling down under his suit and faultily-thrown-up ego. 

Even if the words to take it back are so easily there, readily available to be spoken—

“Not a glass prison,” you reply, words as sharp as knives.

Your back straightens again, face unreadable as you snatch your notebook from the files, the soles of your shoes making their exit before you pause, giving him one last look. 

“I’ll be at my desk, Sir.”

You don’t slam the door back into place, but rather cautiously slide it until he’s alone, lifting your chin, eyes holding his. 

Fuck.

Blanketed in low light and the soft twinkles of the bar’s fairy lights, Javi spots you immediately. 

Your jacket is removed, hanging limply from the barstool you’re sitting on, swirling the crystal glass, sloshing the liquid and ice inside of it. 

It’s instant—the twist of guilt in his stomach. 

He’s tried to speak to you. Tries to find ways to apologise without as much as saying it. But, you’re good. If he tries to ask you about work, you are nothing short of professional. Calling him sir, fetching what he needs and handing him notes—needling yourself further into his guilt. 

Outside of those moments, when he’d offered you coffee, you’d simply lifted your full mug without as much as meeting his eye. He had even tried to beat you into work, only to find you already there, your desk lamp being all that illuminated the office as you tore through files and mumbled a brief morning. 

The only benefit to your ignorance towards him is he’s been able to watch how soft you could be—how you smile with ease and how gentle your voice could be with those that aren’t him. He’d been able to watch the dynamics of the people who approach you, a taller one making you smirk and a more blonder man able to make your back straighter than he can. 

It’s also allowed him to peer under the hard exterior and defensive tone, and learn more about you from others.

Luna. That’s what they call you—a callsign, codename. A reference to your last operation in Cali before you forced yourself to be on desk work. A name chosen by you, they said—now one you fit so perfectly. One with the night, never sleeping, never leaving the office. 

Now, you’re here. 

Haunting him out of work as you are his work life. If he had known you drank here, he’d have grabbed a bottle and drank alone in his apartment. Not caring for the uptempo music and the fact others stare at him. 

He knows he’s giving more to Colombia than he ever should have—both fractions of his soul and his pride, as well as pieces of his future. The notion forces him to undo his tie as he walks over, letting his tie hang as he slides his jacket off—trying not to fixate on you. 

Even in the low lighting, he sees your perfectly manicured nails and the way your lips slide into a smirk. You roll your wrist as he slides into the chair beside you, amber and ice swirling with your motions—likely making a rhythmic noise if not for the loud music. 

We’re going to find ways around problems. 

“Evening… Sir.” 

He’d found your file, and read the pieces he was able to. He knows a redacted file when he sees one, but the main points are still there—still bold in pressed ink and serif. 

Javi smirks, both at the fact you still haven’t looked at him and the fact he can’t get used to being called sir. Least of all when it falls from your lips—a hidden note to it when you let it leave your tongue. Mouth curling around each letter as you let it float to his ears. 

It’s almost torturous when you say it—just like your perfume has grown to be. Hanging heavy in the air when he walks through, giving him hints of where you are, where you’ve been. He’s also been able to discern vanilla is another element to it, mind flicking to you when he smells a note from your perfume. 

He knows he’d be able to work out the other notes if he allowed himself to. Be able to work out which ones are all you and which you soak your skin in. 

You bring the glass to your lips, draining the liquid down your throat before placing it between the two of you, taking the hint.

“Same again?”

Nodding—direct and clinical, just like a well-trained agent. “Por favor.”

There’s a story. One which goes deep or goes high, he hasn’t quite worked it out. Knowing there has to be a reason for so much to have been removed and a reason why someone as talented as you has been saddled to a desk. If he were more drinks in, he’d ask. Bite the bullet, use his lack of tact to make you angry until you’re bursting at the seams, spilling all of your treasured truths. 

You don’t look at him until your glass is full, and then your eyes meet his, placing him under a spotlight. Illuminating him, making him glow as you make his skin warm and his shirt clings more to his spine. No words leave your lips as you bring the glass back up, taking the smallest sip as you smirk—letting the silence thicken. 

She’s good. Talented.

That’s what he’s been told by Crosby. No further explanation, moving quickly on. 

“You have secrets.” 

You laugh, harsh and short. “Oh, don’t we all. I know a lot about yours.”

“You gonna start calling me a hero too, Luna?”

Pursing your lips, your eyes narrow briefly. He watches as your head tilts, eyes not sharpening or changing, but something in you does. Likely to do with the name—the codeword. The one they used when you were down in Cali to refer to you. 

“I wouldn’t waste my breath telling you something you don’t believe.” You let the words hang, brew and fizz. “You don’t get to call me that, either.”

You take a long sip, rolling your lips together as he brings his own to his lips. He coats his tongue in it, attempting to smother the growing anxiousness embedding itself into his bones. Because there’s something about the way you stare at him, how it makes things unlodge and shift inside of him. 

“You should also know, Peña. I’m harder to sleep with than an informant and I’m not half as impressed by you as Katie, the intern.” 

He tenses, visibly. Not able to hide it, bury it. He doesn’t miss the tone, the way you say it with brimstone and annoyance. The hair along his neck standing on edge as you continue to stare, to dig into him. 

“What… here all of one day and you already managed to fuck the intern. My hero.” 

His cheeks burn, draining his glass as the whiskey does a good job of burning his insides. Hating how you know—how you’re unafraid of lifting a mirror to show him his failings. He despises that you know the edges of him, pierces—the worst parts of him. 

Mainly, he dislikes that you’re smirking, sipping your glass as though taking a victory sip. A checkmate. 

“I sat next to you because I thought you’d cause me the least amount of issues.”

Smirking broader, you tilt your head. “You clearly don’t know me then, Peña.”

“No, Luna. I don’t.”

Placing his glass down, slowly rubbing the base of his palm against his forehead. Regretting coming here, regretting thinking he could… 

“I’m sorry. For… the other day. For upsetting you now.”

You lean back, something between the two of you shifting as he watches you sigh. The music changes, slowing, almost quietening. “I’m a bit impressed you know that word.”

He almost laughs. Letting the thick silence thrum between the two of you, resting his elbow on the bar’s counter as he watches you play with your glass.

Clearing your throat, you refuse to meet his eyes as you ask, “It’s likely the whiskey… but, you doing okay, Sir?” 

He watches as you roll your finger across the rim, occasionally glancing at him, but never meeting his eyes. 

Something he suddenly wants—desperate to earn the sight of them. 

“Less of the ‘sir’.”

It’s then he hears you laugh. Low, smothered by faux indifference, compared to the usual you so easily muster. 

“The barrel—barrels—they have you over… i get it. I meant what I said, Javier. If you need an ear,” you say, fingers flexing across the counter as you meet his gaze. “You’re not the only one, to be fucked by bureaucracy—is all I mean. But, you likely know that, right? Heard all about me, and my failings. Have to if you’re calling me my cover name.”

He swallows, watching your chin dip, eyes falling to your lap.

“They make you feel like you’re it, and then just as easily they’ll rip it from you—and you’re left with… nothing.” 

It fluctuates—changes—some shadow of truth emerging from the depths between them as it stands before them both, almost warningly, but not threatening. He can’t understand it, can’t read it fully, but knows it’s there. 

And then you smile, vanishing it all away as you offer him your name again. 

As though you hadn’t already handed it to him, as if he hadn’t already committed it to memory and tried it on his tongue. 

“--just in case you didn’t listen to me before.” “I listened.”

Your lips curl. “Yeah? That before or after you checked out my ass?”

He says nothing, taking your glass and draining it. 

“Don’t call me Luna.”

“Why, you hate it or something?”

You say nothing for a moment before you turn to the bartender—ordering them both another drink. 

He finds you taste like heaven and hell all at once. 

You burn him, consume him—desperately trying to rip through him. He’d let you. Aid you in shredding him apart as long as your sweet, full lips remain pressed to his. They pull him from self-deprecation and overwhelmingness, gripping your waist as he gets you inside his place, pressing your spine against the inside of his door as you let out that honeyed whimper he heard outside the bar. 

You taking me to yours, Peña? Can do.  Don’t pretend you’ve not been thinkin’ it for the last hour. 

One of your arms slings around his neck, eyes full of molten fire and lust as you capture his lips. Pressing yourself roughly against his body, allowing him to pull you so flush he feels the buttons of your blouse against him. 

Before we do this—you clean? Yes, I’m fucking clean. Just checking. I don’t know where you’ve been, Peña. Get in the car. 

The moment halts, pauses. It breathes between you, all set to unravel as your eyes ghost over him, breath merging with his as he stares at you. 

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your lips curl into a smile, one he strokes with his thumb. “Thank you, Sir.”

Fuck. That word. It drips from your tongue to his ear and down to his cock. His lips messily meeting yours, every other touch precise and well-versed, as though the two of you have done this before together. The movements are painted together by moans and whimpers, a part of him sliding back into place as clothes—both yours and his—fall to the floor in the wake of him getting you to his bed. 

He runs his thumb over your blouse-covered peak, his teeth running down your neck to a spot which makes your nails dig into the back of his head. Your other hand is on his spine, fingers sprayed as he moves you elegantly around the furniture like it’s a dance and not ruination. 

Then your lips find him again, pulling him up, teeth slightly nibbling at his bottom lip. You kiss him like you’re breathing life into him—trying to awaken parts of him stolen months ago. Pity, guilt and an array of other things are all smothered by the way your tongue slides past his teeth. Your fingers are busy in their pursuit, the clanging of metal undoing hammers into the air as his trousers ease from his hips. 

“Thought you were harder to sleep with.”

Your laugh blends with a moan as he presses you against the wall outside his room, hand snaking inside your underwear. 

The fabric cuts into his palm, sliding two fingers into your slick as you clench around him—enveloping him, coating him in your want and need. 

He waits for the back-pedalling for you to tell him something egotistical like others usually do. Only, you don’t. 

“Took pity… fuck—on you. Seemed like—oh, fuck—you need this.” Your hand clutches his cheek, eyes burning into his as your lips try to capture his, just about ghosting, the sensation of it almost making his move against the air. “Plus… thought you’d be better than my—oh, Peña—fingers… Sir.” 

He emits a groan which comes from somewhere at the back of his throat. It makes him crash his mouth to yours, fingers twisting to find the spot that makes your knees weaken. He tastes the whiskey and the mint you’d popped on your tongue when they’d left the bar. 

He smells your perfume, noticing how it wraps around him, digging its claws into him, smearing over his skin. 

“Wanna taste you…”

You clench your walls around his fingers, nails digging into his cheek and waist as you stare, slowly nodding. 

Not allowing you to change your mind, he frees his hand from your underwear, picking you up, kicking the door of his bedroom open as he takes in the small yelp from the sudden movements. 

It’s not until you’re lay against his sheets, eyes coating him in a potion mixed of lust, pleasure and need, swirling shades all around him he couldn’t begin to name, does he really take notice of how fucking beautiful you are. He’d seen it, noted it—but hadn’t allowed himself to truly appreciate it, something he began making up for as he slowly drops to his knees, pulling you a little closer. 

You watch him watch you, chest rising and falling before him. 

“Javi,” he breathes as he hooks a thumb on either side of your underwear, beginning to slide it down your thighs. “That’s what you should call out when I make you come on my tongue.” 

He places a kiss to the inside of your knee as you moan, discarding your underwear before hooking your legs over his shoulders—noticing how wet you are, allowing his breath to dance over it, purposefully blowing it as your hips wiggle in both desperation and apprehension. 

“You have to earn that,” you murmur, missing your usual confidence as he stares at you through his lashes. “Sir.”

He smirks, and then he devours you. Tongue flattening against you at first before he plunges it inside of your folds, tasting you—tasting how much you’ve wanted him since your eyes had begun flicking from his lips to his eyes. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh, hearing you—a chorus of please, Peña,  fuck and—

Javi. 

After a night of Peña and a day of sirs—it’s bliss. His name falling from your lips makes him rock his hips for friction. Makes him want to halt his plans to have you come on his tongue, and instead bury himself to the hilt inside of you. 

But there’s time. 

He knows this. Wants this. He wants to take you apart with the same tongue that made you mad. He wants to apologise with the mouth which went too far. He wants to know what your pleasure truly tastes like and commit each note of it to his taste buds. 

You lose it when he sucks lightly on your bundle of nerves, swiping his tongue in slow and quick circles one way, and then the other— “Fuck, Javi. Please—please, fuck—let me…”

He grins. Plunging his fingers back inside of you, curling them, letting them meet that spot he discovered earlier, that he now wants to conquer. Feeling how tight you are, how soaked. How each movement makes a sound which blends with the sound of your pleas—a compilation he wouldn’t ever let be taken from him. A sound he’s happy to burn into his brain. 

Each movement takes you closer to the edge. Your nails carve through his hair, digging into his scalp as his name falls and falls in a mixture of moans. 

He swirled his tongue in a way which makes your hips buck, and he grips you tightly, not letting you move from it until you were breaking, snapping—

The sound you emit sprays across the walls of his bedroom, his tongue lapping up every drop you’ll give him—ears taking in each infliction and sound you bestow on him. 

“Fuck,” you say when you come down, all breathy and sweet.

Fuck, he thinks. Swiping his fingers across his chin, licking you from them as you pull him up from between your legs, kissing him—tasting yourself on him as he grasps her cheek and jaw, falling against the sheets with you.

“Need you.”

“Sí?”

You smirk, all devious and devilish—sliding your leg over his as he grips your hip—digging his thumb into your skin as you whisper in Spanish:

Ruin me. 

He halts, letting the words circle as you bite your lip, rolling your hips against him—knowing he was going to do just that. Over and over again. Savour each moan of yours until even in the morning, before responsibilities and rights and wrongs sneak back in, he would need you again.

Except, Javi doesn’t wake up with you beside him in the morning. 

He wakes up alone, bed sheets cold—and something akin to disappointment fluttering in his chest: you left.

Briefly, he wonders if it's karma. Another arrow to his knee, a mirror confronting him of his past mistakes. Because, he shouldn’t be bothered that you left—preferring to avoid mess and complication.

But it stung. It irked him. Because usually, it was he who did the leaving, not the woman he had just slept with. 

chapter two ->

[nightlyrequiem]

Be Still My Heart

Chapter 2- Analyze, Adapt, Overcome

Masterlist AO3 Next Previous

New Chapter Every Saturday

You're the best in the meth industry but a new product suddenly pops up. You and your boss, Valeria, must figure out who is making it so you can take back the market. All the while tension is building between the two of you.

A/N: This is one is a bit short and a little uneventful, but I promise you it gets good. I'm very excited to get to the later chapters.

Tags/Warnings: Illegal Substances, Boss Employee Relationship, Angst, Some Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Manipulation, Suggestive Themes, Smut (But Only in CH20.), Dual POV

 Even after a few weeks, you can't get that meth out of your mind. You lightly swish your hips to the beat of the song playing in your earbuds. Your gloved hands carefully pour the liquidated Red Phosphorus into an Erlenmeyer flask. Even through the gas mask you can still pick up wafts of the garlicy smell of the chemical. You'll have to talk to Valeria about getting a new a gas mask. Destroying your lungs is not one of your goals in life. While you work on this batch your mind strays to the meth Valeria brought you. The Enginuity of its creation is both impressive and irritating. You're a little upset that you didn't think to use morphine. Although that isn't entirely your fault. Getting unlicensed morphine here is like pulling teeth. That's why Las Almas's choice of drug isn't heroin.

You inaccurately hum along to the song while you measure the proper amount of Sulfuric Acid to add to the Red Phosphorus. You're very precise with your cooking. Too little and it won't be as potent, too much and you'll blow it up. You learned that one the hard way. Someone abruptly taps you on the shoulder and you yelp in surprise, almost dropping the Sulfuric Acid. You set it down on the steel counter and turn to look at the intruder. Corra's light brown eye's stare back at you, shining with amusement.

"Valeria wants to see you in her office." She informs you. Her eyes dart to the equipment behind you.

"Alright, tell her I'll be right there I just need to finish up." You reply. Corra leaves and you turn back around to swiftly finish up this batch.

Once done, you leave it in the big metal container to let the liquid product ferment into the iconic methamphetamine crystals. You make your way out of the lab after properly disrobing out of your PPE and neatly stuffing it back into the locker. On your way towards Valeria's office, you're ignored by the others. You see two of her worker's snorting something off of a table. You assume it's your product. You'll have to tell Valeria about that. Like you'll need to tell her about the gas mask. Come to think of it, you're also severely low on Ephedrine.

You open the door to her office and walk in. Giving Deigo a flat look, one he returns. Valeria gives you a much more friendly look and invites you to sit down.

"I want to discuss this new meth going around." She says. Leaning back and bringing a lit cigarette to her lips. 

"I think it's coming from one of those little gangs that have been popping up." Diego remarks. Furrowing his brows. Recently the Cartel has been dealing with new gangs that think they have what it takes to compete. After Valeria was arrested, multiple people began vying for the metaphorical crown. Her incarceration created a power vacuum, as Valeria would put it.

You shake your head at Deigo's claim, refuting it quickly.

"No, I don't think it's even being produced in Las Almas, let alone Mexico." You object. Both Deigo and Valeria look at you.

"Why do you say that?" Asks Valeria. You look at the wall. It's painted some muted red colour. It makes the room feel smaller. 

"Because," You say, staring at the wall. "morphine is such a hassle to obtain, if someone was stealing it, we'd know. And if there were a group big enough to pay hush money to hospitals, we'd know about them too."

Valeria nods in agreement.

"She's right." Valeria murmurs. Deigo rubs a hand over his knee, smoothing over the denim of his pants.

"There is that growing nuisance in Pajaro Azul." He grumbles. Pajaro Azul, Las Almas's sister city. You went there once and hated it. It even has it's own bigwig cartel. You'd never tell anyone, but they scare you a little bit. The men look ten times meaner and the man who runs it is crazy. You prefer the traditional small-town cartel in Las Almas. Even if their reach and influence is anything but.

"Let them deal with it." You say, furrowing your brows. "If the meth is coming from there then I doubt the Pajaro Azul Cartel will let that slide for much longer."

Valeria stubs out her smoke and stretches. Deigo fixes you with a look of annoyance.

"They've let them get this far." He grunts. "They're a bunch of pussies. We need to take care of it ourselves." 

You look to Valeria for backup but she's looking at Deigo. Regarding him with careful consideration.

"I'll think about it." She says. "I don't want to tread on their toes though. A war is the last thing we need right now." Her gaze darkens. Just a year ago, Valeria was caught by Los Vaqueros, aided by foreign military. The whole town was ravished by one of the groups going rogue and both she and the town are still recovering.

It's thanks to you, in your humble opinion, that the cartel is healing so fast. Your meth is making them great money. Well, it was. Until that other stuff just appeared out of thin air. The thought brings a jealous scowl to your face.

"How did that new batch do?" You ask. Looking at Valeria intently. You worry the inside of your cheek. Valeria glances at Diego. Nodding at him. He takes the cue and stands up, brushing off his pants and lumbering out of the room, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him. The office feels much lighter without his intrusive presence. "It didn't sell." She says.

You frown at her. "What?"

"Most of our usual customers weren't buying." Valeria explains. "The other stuff is cheaper and better."

The statement is a wrecking ball to your pride. Cheaper and better? You frown deeply at the news.

"Well..." You start, picking at a loose thread on the sleave of your shirt. "I'll have to come up with a new recipe." Something more addictive than the Super Meth. Which will be hard without morphine. Valeria stares at you as you go quiet, retreating into the dark folds of your brain. Meth causes intense sugar cravings. Which is one of the main reasons meth users have bad teeth. That and the Acetone in it reacts badly to saliva, drying it up which makes keeping bad bacteria at bay much harder, causing cavities and rot.

You brighten. That's it, sugar.

"I need sugar." You tell her. Looking up at her with renowned determination. Valeria blinks but nods.

"Okay." She agrees. "How much?"

"Three pounds should be enough." You say, then pause. Something in your mind is wiggling for attention but the harder you try to think about it, the less clear it becomes. You needed to do something. You shrug it off. If it were important, you would have remembered.

Valeria dismisses you and you head back down to the lab. You sit at your little desk and begin to start planning out the proper ratios of your ingredients. Excitement wells up inside of you. Nothing is better than a good challenge. You spend hours carefully crafting a new recipe. A few orange crystals of the meth sit on your desk for motivation.

[happilybredbellies]

“Thanks for choosing me mister,” Heather said, smiling up at the man as she opened her jacket to give him a good look at her bikini-clad curves. “I promise you won’t regret it! I’m allllll yours till morning, so just tell me what you’d like to do to this curvy little body of mine first!”

Inside, Heather was trying her very best not to vomit. As a cop, pretending to be a ditzy high-class escort for this snobby businessman was just about the most humiliating thing she’d ever done, but there was no way around it. This man was supposed to have ties to the local cartel, the same cartel that her partner had been looking into when she disappeared close to a year ago. The brass might've written the woman off as dead, but Heather wasn’t about to give up on her friend so easily. While it pained her to resort to playing the part of a prostitute, it was the only way she knew of to get at the files he kept in his penthouse safe.

So Heather swallowed her pride, making sure to keep the vapid smile plastered across her face as she stripped off her clothes and spread her legs wide. This man was nearly twice her age. It shouldn't take long to tire him out, and once he'd blown his load and fallen asleep Heather would have free reign to start snooping around.

“C’mon big guy,” she teased, steeling herself internally, “take me for a spin and show me what you got!”

2 Years Later

Heather groaned, rubbing a hand over her bloated dome of a belly as she plopped down on one of the communal beds she shared with the other cows. Her twins were overdue and had been kicking practically non-stop all week, but that wasn't a valid reason for taking time off work. If anything, the constant stimulation her children provided only served to make Heather more productive, as the dark stains currently forming on her shirt could well attest. The door to their living quarter swung open barely a second after she sat down, revealing one of the cartel’s goons.

“Mornin’ ladies,” he called, gesturing back out the door. “Better get moving. The Boss wants you girls in your pens and pumping as soon as possible today. Word is he’s just snagged another cow for the herd and is looking to give her ‘the tour’.”

Heather stood, grunting with the effort of heaving her gravid figure up off the bed. She made no complaints as she waddled out the door along with a dozen other women, all former cops, all now in varying stages of pregnancy. The businessman Heather’d been looking into two years ago had turned out to be the hidden leader of the cartel, and he had a…unique way of handling any women who got too close to that truth. The memory of Heather’s own ‘tour’ was seared into her mind. She could still remember the terror that’d gripped her heart as the Boss walked her down the rows of pens, letting her see the heavily pregnant women inside squealing in pleasure as industrial grade milking machines pumped streams of sticky white liquid from their swollen tits. But that hadn't been what broke her. Rather, it'd been the sight of her old partner, the very person she’d been trying to save, staring out at Heather with unfocused eyes as she climaxed from labour pains, the head of her child already poking out from between a pair of thick, motherly thighs, that ended up shattering Heather’s fragile hopes for rescue. Well, that and all the aphrodisiacs, fertility boosters, and growth hormones laced into every meal she was given.

Thanks to that cocktail of drugs, Heather’s breasts soon expanded into a pair of proper udders, and it wasn't before she found herself hooked up to a milking machine of her very own. Despite her initial reluctance, Heather ended up settling quite nicely into life as the cartel’s newest dairy cow, enjoying days spent mewling in pure delight as each spurt of milk sent pulses of pleasure shooting up her throbbing nipples. The breastmilk of captive policewomen was apparently quite the hot commodity within the criminal underground, and the Boss’ ‘open pen policy’ when it came to fucking them had made him quite popular, both among the guards and their increasingly needy livestock.

Today, as the men fastened cups around her dark, swollen teats, Heather simply leaned back against the stall and let out a happy sigh, already feeling the pressure in her milf-stuffed tits beginning to ease as she reached around her giant belly to finger her dripping snatch. She didn’t even notice the Boss entering the pens until he was right on top of her, but the slim young woman at his side looking strangely familiar. It took a moment to place the girl, but then it clicked. She’d been one of the station’s newest recruits, fresh out of the academy and always pestering Heather for advice during her last few months on the force. 

Now, judging by the horrified look the girl wore as she stared down at the fertile cow her old mentor had become, it seemed as though the girl was starting to regret her decision to follow in Heather’s footsteps. Heather simply smiled up at the slender girl, trying to communicate to her the wondrous future that awaited her once she’d plumped up a bit and finally had a baby or two rounding out that flat tummy of hers. But the smile twisted abruptly, becoming a grimace as there was a sudden pressure between Heather's legs, accompanied by the sound of something splattering onto ground beneath her. Her water had broken.

“Understand? This is what happens to women who stick their noses where they don’t belong.” Boss said, forcing his newest pet to watch as Heather began pulling herself into a squatting position. “That’ll be you in a few months, just another fat breeding cow for my herd, happy to spend the rest of your pumping out milk and babies for the cartel. Don’t worry, the drugs will make sure you end up loving every second of it, even during childbirth.” He turned to Heather. “Isn’t that right, cow?”

The first contraction slammed into her as if waiting on his cue, the pain converted into a wave of indescribable pleasure that washed over her entire body. Heather came immediately, squirting all over the floor as the former policeman let out a long, throaty “Moooooooooooo!”, already feeling the first of her babies starting to slide out of her womb and into her birth canal.

The younger girl tried to recoil in disgust but the Boss just laughed, holding her in place by her hair. She'd soon learn to obey, just like Heather had before her. Like it or not, she was a cow now, a member of the herd, and cows like them belonged on a farm.

[skinnyazn]

Lick Your Wounds

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 2/3 Notes: Thank you to @solidly-indulgent for inspiring the fic with their request of Jag getting injured and Ghost being sad feral, I'm cranking out these chapters, also idk why this needed to be a chapter but we had to put Ghostie through some more ~t r a u m a~, smut next chapter,

Part One | Part Three | AO3 | MASTERLIST

Simon watched everything happen with wide eyes behind his mask. He watched as the man with the rocket launcher’s brains exited his skull, watched as the death of his cranial neurons caused his finger to twitch against the trigger—one last desperate grip at life. And he watched in absolute horror as the missile made contact with the wall you were firing from. Screamed your name as the wall caved in a plume of smoke and chaos. Shook Soap’s hand off of his shoulder when he tried to pull him into cover. 

It’s happened once before, these feelings. A long time ago when he saw the corpses of his family littered about the floor. His nephew looked undisturbed, as if he was just sleeping. His mother, face down. Every sequential death he witnessed or caused left him feeling nothing. He’d steeled all his emotions away, turning himself into an empty vessel: a ghost. Waking in the middle of the night drenched in sweat—to horrors replaying and a voiceless scream on his lips and a constant numbness. But here he was, all these years later. Feeling. Guess you brought out the worst in him. You reminded him he was human after all.

Soap yanked him hard into cover as a bullet whizzed by his head. 

“L.T.!” the Scot shouted. “L.T. focus! We can’t worry about her right now.” He fired his assault rifle at an approaching target. 

Can’t worry about her. It echoed in his head. Reverberated off every part of his skull. In spite of the oppressive heat, Simon felt hypothermic—like he was frozen in Russia instead of this Mexican jungle. But he sucked in a deep breath and snapped back into The Ghost because that was all he knew how to do. He stabbed the enemy next to him in the neck; a spray of blood gushed across his mask as he removed his bowie knife. 

The pair advanced in unison. Soap set up the charges against the metal door to the target room while Ghost provided cover.

“Clear out!” Soap shouted. Simon shifted two steps to his left. 

The explosion was small but impactful as it burst the doors open. Soap ducked inside, clearing out any remaining enemies while Ghost surveyed the grounds of the compound, looking for any stragglers. He fired his rifle into a few more bodies before following Soap.

“Fuck,” Soap breathed. 

The inside was filled with caches of equipment. Computers, hard drives, munitions. It was what all of you had come for and then some. All the evidence that the Buluc Chabtan were smuggling for the Cartel.

“It’s gonna take ages to sort through this, L.T..”

Simon’s mind was still reeling—fighting the bile that was threatening to come up. He tamped it down.

“Fifteen minutes, Sergeant. That’s all the time we get if reinforcements come.” He looked at his watch and then at Soap with something of a plea in his eyes.

Johnny sighed. “Go. I’ll bag as much as I can.”

Ghost nodded, then threw his collapsable duffel on the floor and hurried out the door.

Back in the stifling heat, Ghost weaved between crates and trucks and corpses, making his way toward you as fast as he could while maintaining his guard. It was oddly quiet amidst the chaos—all the insects and birds silenced and only the radio playing. The compound appeared clear as he sprinted with his rifle in hand. His sweat drenched his camo fatigues, turning them a shade darker. Ahead, he finally saw the rubble and smoke from the rocket's destruction. He felt the bile come back but sucked in a deep breath instead and climbed inside the collapsed structure.

[queermentaldisaster]

“The Hunt Is My Muse”

Hello! The first chapter of my shifter!au fic is here! This one is gonna be a long one, so you better strap in. This one is gonna be so much fun! I'm so excited to introduce you all to the intricacies of this AU i have plotted out.

Tags: @forestshadow-wolf @spicyspicyliving @bringinsexybackk69 (If you wanna be added or removed, leave a reply, tell me in a reblog, or shoot me an ask. Reblogs are greatly appreciated.)

Chapter under the cut.

Chapter 1: "Steel and Silver Sing For Justice"

“No.” He said, being adamant about this. “I’m not working with him on this.”

Price exhaled, his eyebrows furrowed. “Ghost, you will be working with Sergeant MacTavish on this.”

“And do you remember what happened the last time we worked together?” Ghost huffed, crossing his arms. 

Price closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ghost, this isn't a discussion. We need both you and the sergeant on the field for this one. If it makes you feel better, you'll be working with Commander Phillip Graves as well as Colonel Vargas and Sergeant Major Parra.”

“It does not, but it's not like I have a bloody choice, eh?” Ghost asked, his eyes narrowed under the mask.

Price exhaled once more. “No, no you don't.”

“Of course.” Ghost mumbled, turning around and leaving.

That was a few days ago. Now he was sitting in the helo next to Soap, the Scot rambling about something. Honestly, he'd tuned Soap out a while ago. He stared at the ground, feeling the urge to shift, that feeling like deep-rooted anxiety deep in his gut, bubbling up. He clenched one of his hands into a fist, taking deep breaths. ‘In for three, hold for three, out for three.’ He thought, repeating that in his head as he continued breathing.

When he looked back up, Soap was giving him a weird look. “What?” Ghost asked. Soap shook his head. “Nothin’, ye just looked nervous is all. Ye alright?” He responded, his voice soft and calm. Ghost looked away. “‘M fine, sergeant. Worry about yourself.” He whispered. Soap arched an eyebrow. “Lt, ye clearly ain’t fine. Just talk tae me, please.” The younger man pleaded.

Ghost shook his head, as the helo landed “No, Soap. I’m fine. We need to focus on the mission.” He stood up. Soap huffed. “Fine.” he said as he stood up. “But ah dinnae believe ye.” He muttered. Ghost looked back at him. “You don’t have to believe me.”

The helo opened and Ghost walked down the ramp, Soap at his side. The Colonel, Alejandro Vargas, walked forward to meet them. “Alejandro!” Soap exclaimed, offering his hand for a handshake. Alejandro took it with a polite; “Sergeant MacTavish.” 

Soap chuckled, his smile growing ever wider. “Call me Soap,” he said as the two men pulled away from the handshake. Alejandro looked to Ghost. “Lieutenant. Laswell says they call you Ghost.” He murmured. Soap cut in. “Actually, I believe he prefers to be-”

So Ghost cut him off. “That’ll do.” He said, looking back to Alejandro and nodding. Alejandro nodded. “You two shifters?” He asked, and it was a simple question. But one that Ghost did not answer. But Soap nodded. “Ah’m a red fox shifter.” Alejandro smiled. “Ocelot here. Let's go.” He turned around and led Ghost and Soap towards an armored vehicle.

Ghost and Soap climbed in the back. Alejandro got into the passenger seat. “This is my second in command, Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra.” He murmured, and Rodolfo looked at the two in the back seat. “Hello.” He murmured, before saying something to Alejandro in Spanish.

“Where’s Hassan?” Ghost asked. Alejandro smirked. “Cartel safe-house, ten clicks from here.” Ghost nodded, and the vehicle began driving, two more behind it.

Ghost honestly kinda zoned out on the drive through the city. At some point, he heard Soap say something to him about kids, guns and balloons, and Rodolfo said something about his mask, but he was too busy trying to ignore that damned feeling in his gut.

Ghost didn't shift. Not since Zaragoza and Roba. He used to, even with his dad's abuse, albeit rarely, but he couldn't anymore. Not when all it brought up were memories of pain and suffering. So he let the animal in him fester.

It would never get out again.