#but I shan't take my eyes off the mark

[krakajici-kavka]

Follow your dreams. Track them down like a bloodhound. Run them into exhaustion. Grab your bow and follow the trail. Keep them in your sight at all times. Strike when an opportunity presents itself. Do not hesitate. There are not always second chances. Become one with your mark, let it turn into your second nature. It's in chasing that dream that you become it, not in a final, fantasque destination. Envision the trail, and know that if you go astray, you shall always find it again. Disappear into the woods, never to be seen again.

[bylertruther]

31 ,42, n 52 <3

thirty-one: 3 random facts.

i take things very literally and don't realize it until the second after i've already responded. d'oh 🤡

i have a birth mark (?) on the side of my knee that's white and in the shape of a goldfish cracker.

frogs, toads, and i have a very special connection that shan't ever be broken, explained, or replicated. 💚

forty-two: favourite book(s).

i'll spice it up and give you one of my fave underappreciated quotes/excerpts from sharp objects, aka the book that gave me brain damage [self-harm mention]:

He rolled my sleeve up, squinted his eyes. Trying to understand the lines in my skin. I don’t know why I let him. He had a searching, sweet look on his face. I was weak from the day. And I was so damned tired of hiding. More than a decade devoted to concealment, never an interaction—a friend, a source, the checkout girl at the supermarket—in which I wasn’t distracted anticipating which scar was going to reveal itself. Let John look. Please let him look. I didn’t need to hide from someone courting oblivion as ardently as I was.

fifty-two: something i’m talented at.

i think i'm really talented at making people feel safe. for example, i've never been on a first date with someone that didn't spill their guts out to me and give me their life story. i never had a problem with patients that were previously labeled problematic, no matter their age, how super scared they were when walking in, or the fact that this was their first time meeting me. i'm the person people look to when they're in an argument, and the one they focus on when they're presenting something or speaking in a group. when people ask themselves, "where am i supposed to put this down? who will help me carry it?" the answer is usually me. idk. even when they're nervous, i typically manage to get some kind of a breakthrough regardless of that fact. i ask people questions about themselves, i listen, i offer no judgement. i don't know if that's an uncommon thing, or if it's just the way i come off, but witnessing people's kind of split-second taken aback, bashful "!!! / oh." face when they realize and drop their defenses is a favorite of mine. call me the nutcracker the way i be cracking everyone's shells 💪

[rosenongrata]

Calm Waters

"Come on, Zhongli, join me~."

"Ah… No, thank you, I'm fine…being dry."

"Coward~."

Malachy teases their newfound lover, swimming toward where he stands at the river bank's edge. They plot their elbow on the rocky edge, allowing their chin to rest in their raised hand. They stare up at him fondly, the stars in their eyes luring him a little more out of his shell.

"It's nighttime, anyway, no one's gonna see us." They assure him softly, a wet hand dancing toward his feet. He moves away.

"Y-You have a point, but…" Zhongli sputters out, crossing his arms as his brows furrow and his mouth turn downward.

"Oh, but Malachy, I'm such a coward! I shan't let my lover or myself naked in such a bone-chilling river!" Malachy mimics his voice almost too well as they begin to swim away while they giggle to themself.

"Ah— Do not mock me, Malachy." He retorts bashfully before clearing his throat, a pink tint rising to his moonlit features.

"Make me."

"…You ought to be more careful with your words, Beloved."

Within a few fluttering moments, he's naked and by their side, grabbing them by the waist to tug them against his chest. They snicker and grin at him, a satisfied pride twinkling in their bright blue hues.

"I win."

"…You do not."

"You can't take one little loss, can you?"

"I never said I could not take a loss, as you put it—mmph!" His sentence is swiftly cut off when they spin in his hold, grabbing his face and pulling him into a deep and sloppy kiss.

"No, you didn't say it, but you sure imply it with every little cowardly action…" They whisper against his soft, unchapped lips.

"You love to play with fire, don't you?" He chuckles, brushing his gold-tinted fingers down their jawline.

"I thought you were the Lord of Geo, hehe."

He sighs, head dipping dejectedly for a moment before he cups their face and pulls them into a much more elegant kiss. His thumbs run along their cheekbones, his skin calloused and rough, but never leaving a mark of any kind on their star-speckled features.

"Quite funny, but… I suppose I will have to get you back sooner or later."

"Or maybe never?"

"No, definitely sooner."

[fireburningcold]

I can share this much despite my nerves.

-

     It was an hour before noon when there came a series of knocks on the wood-carved library doors of Cantabreann’s own Castle Adare. The noise disturbed Ryann's reading, the princess having just finished her book’s sixth chapter.

    Though Ryann had sequestered herself upon the library's second floor, the library's quiet allowed her to hear the faint rapping of knuckles against polished oak. Beside her, his head now raised and eyes alert, Alpean made a soft sound from his throat, his nap upon the plush woven carpet beneath Ryann's feet having been disturbed.

    Hildie, Ryann's young fair-haired maid, looked up from the needlepoint she had been attempting, to peer over the second floor's wood railing, squinting curiously at the doors.

     Venerant morning mass had concluded just two hours earlier, and though the Time of Contemplation that traditionally followed mass was only an hour, whence mass attendees were expected to contemplate privately upon the mass's conclusion, Ryann was usually allowed a two full hours before her solitude was disturbed.

     Though Hildie had only come to Castle Adare at her aunt's behest two years prior, the girl of fifteen was by now well used to castle routine.

    "Now, who could that be?" Hildie asked, pocketing her embroidery hoop in her apron pocket. Ryann hoped that Hilde had remembered to stick the needle in the hoop's fabric this time, lest the needle again come loose and give the maid an unpleasant surprise when she later went rummaging through her apron.

    "I shall be just a moment, Your Highness," Hildie informed Ryann, before rising from her cushioned seat and absconding to the stairway. Ryann listened as Hildie took the steps with hurried feet, before pausing at the landing to quietly dismount. Hildie let out a soft, resigned sigh, and eventually arrived at the library's double oak doors.

    Closing her book after marking her place, Ryann could hear the squeak of rusty hinges as Hildie met whoever was at the door. Though Ryann tried to piece out the words being exchanged, the conversation was muffled, with Hildie speaking too softly for Ryann to hear. The exchange ended a moment later, with Ryann hearing Hildie say, "I shall inform Her Highness," and then closing the door. The maid then swiftly returned to Ryann's side, having taken the stairs two steps at a time in her urgency.

    Ryann braced herself, seeing the grimness to Hildie's smile. It only encouraged the princess's worries.

    "Your Highness," the maid stiffly said, "Prince Kester has come to escort you to His Majesty's office. Your presence has been most urgently requested."

    A knot began to form in Ryann's stomach.

    "I see," she forced herself to respond, throat suddenly dry. She set her book on the cushion beside her. "I best not keep my brothers waiting."

    Hilde dipped low in a bow. "Of course, Your Highness." She raised her gray eyes to Ryann's face. "Shall I accompany you alongside His Highness?" Though she was offering, Ryann could tell from the rigid set of Hildie's shoulders that the maid did not wish to follow.

    "No need," Ryann assured, rising off the loveseat cushions. "This visit shan't take long." She smoothed out the faintly formed wrinkles of her dress's skirt, passing her hands over the smooth fabric. "And I think I would prefer a cup of your bramble-berry tea when I return to my chambers."

    Hildie gave the princess a grateful smile, and nodded her head. "Shall I take Young Master Alpean back with me?"

    Ryann, minding to pull her skirts straight first, bent low to the carpet, her arm outstretched to rest her hand atop Alpean's furry brown head. "If you would please do so, Hildie," she ran her fingertips across the points of Alpean's triangular ears, briefly soothed by the familiar softness of his fur. Alpean pushed his head against Ryann's palm, trilling softly, contented by his master's touch. However, when Ryann rose upwards and started to move away, he made a noise of slight distress.

    "I shan't be gone long," Ryann assured her pet, looking over her shoulder. "Follow Hildie, and perhaps she shall treat you with a biscuit." She looked to her maid. "Is that not right, Hildie?"

    Hildie beamed. "Exactly right, Your Highness." She clapped her hands gently towards the furry beast, smiling imploringly. "Come, Alpean. Auntie Cara baked some biscuits fresh this morning." The promise of a treat must have assuaged the beast's worries, as his tail began to thump repeatedly against the floor in anticipation.

    Assured, Ryann started for the stairs. As she descended the steps, she placed her hand against the railing, ignoring the faint tremble of her fingers.

[drabbles-mc]

Settling down to enjoy this with the BIGGEST fucking tub of popcorn that you could ever imagine. Cartoonishly large.

“Señorita! N— no puedes entrar ahí, por favor! He’s in a meeting. I can’t— If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t let you back there!” -> no but it's SOOOO not fair that you have me cackling right off the rip. I'm yodeling. Andrea doesn't give a FUCK if she needs an appointment. Nor should she!!! 😂😂

And this, ladies, is why it pays to wear sensible footwear. -> no but this is so true. on my days at the office I wear heels to be ~fashionable and professional~ and it makes me MISS my days at the school wearing my nikes sksksk

She turned back and kept on tearing down the hallway, closer and closer to the door marked, ‘Colonel Horacio Carrillo’ in block letters that were just as uppity and patronizing as he was. Or maybe it was just because it was his office, the arrogant prick. -> you're going to have me screaming for the ENTIRE 2.5k of this, aren't you???? I'm not upset about it!!!! I'm not upset about this. But this has me losing my shit in SUCH a way. Like. OF COURSE this is how she feels about him. Why wouldn't she???? 😂😂 She's so valid and right for her bitterness. I don't even need further context to know that she's right 😂

He wasn’t even threatening to slash her tires. -> I fucking LOVE the way you write her. All I'm picturing is

For a split second and against her own will, the image of him sitting at the bar flashed in her mind. -> GAGGED that we are getting backstory. I'm vibrating into the next plane of existence. I'm soooo 👀👀👀👀👀

Dressed like a dad, but in khakis and a grey polo that fit far too smartly for him to actually be anyone’s dad. -> there's a daddy joke to be made here but i shan't do it KEKW

car windows all smudged with insistent palm prints that said something like, ‘mmm, that’s right. Just a little closer.’ -> fuck OFF Kay this is so hot it's not fair. it's just!!! it's not fair!!!!!

Carrillo’s nostrils flared. Yeah, that’s right. Fuck off. -> these three sentences in successio of one another is just. so so fucking good. I'm pumping my fist in the air

Or is that how you rolled back in Colombia? You and your search bloc. -> my eyes are fucking MASSIVE!!!!!!!!!!! I'm going to rupture a fucking cornea!!!! Carrillo's gonna rupture one of the veins in his forehead!!!! None of us are safe!!!!!

It seems, despite her due diligence, Ms. Nuñez must not be that great a journalist because she doesn’t know how to take ‘no comment’ for an answer. -> my lord this man is SUCH a prick but god the way i can FUCKING HEAR HIMMMM!!!! this bastard man is rattling around in my brain!!!!!!! Andrea should swing on him. Just once. Sometimes violence really should be the answer :pasevil:

The other nearly tripped over his chair on the way out, seemingly unable resist the temptation to observe them with wonder like a couple of zoo animals. -> chismoso 😂😂 but i can't pretend that i would've been any better sksksk

Her eyes narrowed. What the fuck was he playing at paying her a compliment like that. -> she's so right for this because i, too, would be off-put if Carrillo said anything vaguely complimentary to me 😂😂

Oh, she was positively— she wanted— but no, she couldn’t— oh, but she fucking could though. She would if she could— she really could actually fucking punch him. -> she way I can just absolutely FEEL this entire paragraph. Like. I've had this exact train of thoughts in my head before I swear. I love it so much. Also she should DEFINITELY punch him 😂

“Do it,” he said again quietly, eyes virtually unreadable. “If that’s what you really want. Hit me.” -> DON'T LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH, ANDREA!!!! JUST!!!! DO IT!!!!!

On reflex, she scrunched her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck and yanked back so hard, he hissed. -> Carrillo getting his hair pulled is a song that slaps EVERY fucking time. Thank you can I have another. It just. It doesn't get old ever.

“Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I need you. I��ll never need you. And that’s why you love this.” -> WHAT A FIIIIIIIRE FUCKIN WAY TO CLOSE OUT THE FIC!!!!! MY GOD!!!!!!

The fact that these two mever got to share the screen is a CRIME. I need a bonus Narcos or NMX episode where they meet and they fuck and it gets horrid and messy!!!!!!!!

| OUR MAN IN MEXICO |

Pairing: Andrea Nuñez x Horacio Carrillo

For @narcosfandomdiscord Summer of Smut Alphabet: July 1 - [A] Angry sex

Word count: ≈ 2.5K

TWs: smut, biting, slapping, hair pulling andrea being her bestest, most cuntiest self

⁂

“Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I need you.”

⁂

“Señorita! N— no puedes entrar ahí, por favor! He’s in a meeting. I can’t— If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t let you back there!”

Andrea walked over to the door of the embassy office without a word and barged through, tearing down the hall. The secretary scrambled from behind the desk like a spooked rabbit, little kitten heels click-clacking on the tiled floor as she struggled to keep up with Andrea’s long, steadfast strides. And this, ladies, is why it pays to wear sensible footwear. The poor woman was just doing her job but her frantic puttering and cries of, “Señorita! You can’t be back here!” only served to build the rage in Andrea’s chest more.

She stopped so cold and turned around so fast, the woman’s forehead nearly slammed right into her own.

Andrea crossed her arms. “Mira, vieja. You haven’t even called security, so unless you’re going to tackle me to the ground and throw me out yourself, and—“ she glanced down at the woman’s heels, eyebrow cocked smugly, “—you could try but I don’t think you’d get far in those— I’m getting into that goddamn office one way or another.”

The woman sputtered something unintelligible. Andrea couldn’t be bothered to let her piece a proper sentence together before cutting her off with a curt, “ya eso es lo que pensaba.”

She turned back and kept on tearing down the hallway, closer and closer to the door marked, ‘Colonel Horacio Carrillo’ in block letters that were just as uppity and patronizing as he was. Or maybe it was just because it was his office, the arrogant prick.

Sure, he was a legend back in Colombia. Sure, he helped take down the biggest, baddest drug trafficker the world had ever seen. But if this asshole thought a gag order was gonna fly in the wake of Rebollo’s mess — which, oh by the way, she helped to expose — he was deader than General Jesus Gutiérrez Rebollo’s reputation. She refused to be cowed by the AFO goons who followed her to her car on late nights after work. She certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by this Colombian haircut. He wasn’t even threatening to slash her tires. So, what was a bit of healthy confrontation between friendly colleagues? Making an appointment would’ve just spoiled the mood.

As her hand landed on the door handle, she smirked at the sound of muffled voices inside. Huh. So, he really was conducting business. In Mexico, “he’s in a meeting,” was usually code for he’s actually chain smoking at his desk, on the phone chatting away with his mistress on company time. But no, it seemed Carrillo hadn’t been dodging the press. Maybe just her calls.

For a split second and against her own will, the image of him sitting at the bar flashed in her mind. The night she met him. Well, not him, him. Not as she knew him now, no more than a stranger, dressed like a dad, but in well-tailored khakis and a grey polo that fit far too smartly for him to actually be anyone’s dad. She’d come to find out he was divorced, no kids, so a dad he certainly wasn’t which, if the rumors she’d heard about Search Bloc were true, made more sense and still wasn’t comforting in the slightest. But she didn’t know about any of that yet.

Around here, strangers in dimly lit bars were seldom safe and fewer troubled themselves to even establish a pretense of safety. But he was a different, safer kind of stranger. She didn't know how she knew but she didn't. He must’ve been anyway, since she didn’t usually make it a habit of taking strangers back to her car after some pleasant, cheap conversation and a few shots of even cheaper bourbon.

And yet, that’s where he ended up. The back seat of her stationwagon, his firm lips encased against hers, breath deliciously hot and sticky on her neck, fingers ruthlessly digging into the flesh of her hips as she ground them down onto his, car windows all smudged with insistent palm prints that said something along the lines of, ‘mmm, that’s right. Yes, just a little closer.’ A couple of months later and those stupid smudges were still there. She noticed them crossly when she’d parked outside, moments before accosting the man’s poor secretary. She'd wondered aimlessly if he’d even know what they were if he saw them. Would she want him to? Maybe that’s why she was in such a foul mood. She didn’t know.

Shaking her head, the indecent image dissolved noncommittally into thick, black ink behind her eyelids, like answers disappearing in a magic eight ball. Outlook not so good, ask again later. Oh whatever, fuck off. I don’t even have enough sense to regret the whole thing. So just fuck off.

The momentum of the door swinging open fueled her ire again, and she breathed it in, soaking it up., letting it fuel her. When the handle smacked against the wall, three heads whipped around to stare at her in shock. It looked so rehearsed, she couldn’t resist the urge to crack a sly smile. Carrillo’s nostrils flared. Yeah, that’s right. Fuck off. She strode between the two suits seated at each corner of his desk, to face him across it. He barely moved an inch, elbows propped up on the armrests of that big, obnoxious executive chair he sat in behind the desk.

Leaning forward, knuckles pressed flat on the papers strewn across like all of it was hers, she said cooly, “Sorry to interrupt, Colonel. But you’ve been dodging my calls, so thought it best to pay you a visit. Call it professional due diligence.”

He was fuming, dark eyes lit with indignation and what else was it? Maybe panic. But all that Boy-Scout-School-of-the-Americas training must’ve kicked in because he didn’t miss a beat. “Mm. Due diligence? About what, exactly?

“To ask you a simple but very important question.”

He waited.

“To ask how— after only a few months, just how is it that you think you already own the journalists in this city? I thought the point of bringing in an outsider was to avoid corruption, not perpetuate it by silencing the people’s right to free press. Or is that how you rolled back in Colombia? You and your Search Bloc.”

He knit his brows and, as if he just remembered they were there, glanced at the two men still seated, who watched them with a combination of confusion and the voyeuristic enthusiasm of a housewife watching her favorite novela.

“Gentlemen,” Carrillo cleared his throat and motioned to the door, “we’ll have to pick this up later.” His jaw hardened, eyes moving from the door to Andrea, going from resigned to livid in mere seconds. “It seems, despite her due diligence, Ms. Nuñez must not be that great a journalist because she doesn’t know how to take ‘no comment’ for an answer.”

That was a low fucking blow and he knew it. Well, what the man lacked for in hospitality, he more than made up for in emotional range. One of the men tipped his hat as he stood up and gave a sheepish shrug before heading to the door. The other nearly tripped over his chair on the way out, seemingly unable resist the temptation to observe them with wonder like a couple of zoo animals. Two fingers to her forehead, Andrea gave them a tiny salute filled to the brim with disdain.

Once the door closed, she rolled her head back around to face Carrillo, who looked like he could throttle her right there.

“If I were a man, you’d hit me right now, wouldn’t you?” she said like it was a dare. Ignoring the blaze of shock all over his face, she continued to press, still leaning over the desk. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Carrillo opened a drawer and rifled around for something. He came out with a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, lit it, and then leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

“Well?”

He took an infuriatingly long drag, and exhaled the smoke in her face, so that an opaque cloud now filled the space between them. On purpose. Naturally. This wasn’t his first rodeo with angry reporters. But this was his first rodeo with her. She straightened upright, waiting for him to speak.

“Well, before I can answer that, I have a follow-up question.”

She crossed her arms, swinging one hip out to the side, “O, sí?” inviting him to continue treading on dangerous conversational ground.

Nodding, “Sí, sí,” he flashed a cynical smirk that dissolved into a glare as he looked up at her and gave a perfunctory tap of his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. “Just who the fuck do you think you are, barging into my office like this?”

“Just who the fuck do you think you are, putting a gag order on all press inquiries relating to Rebollo’s trial?” she shot back.

He dragged long and deep from his cigarette again like it was an oxygen mask, then said dismissively, “It’s a big case. A lot of moving parts. You know the judge makes that call, not me.”

“Wow, you really must believe I am that bad at my job if you think I’m naive enough to buy that bullshit. As if you have no sway with Mexican judges who can be bought for less than a few pesos.” She laughed bitter as battery acid, “Venga ya pues. No me shingües con esas mamadas, cabrón.”

There was a beat of silence before he stood up, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray, saying through gritted teeth, “No. I don’t think you’re bad at your job.” He rolled his eyes, grumbling, “That’s the entire problem. Cierto? Sí porque eres una cachorra con un pinche hueso entre tus dientes.”

Her eyes narrowed. What the fuck was he playing at paying her a compliment like that.

“What? What am I supposed to say? Thank you?”

A tacit desperation crept under his glare now, an equal measure of anger and pleading for her to understand.

Oh, no. That’s when she put it together. Oh, hell no. Her face fell and she dropped her arms to her sides. No. No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

“No. No me digas que t—“

His glare melted, eyes full of nothing but pleading now as he stepped around the desk to join her on the other side.

“Okay, yes I talked to the judge. But Andrea, I only sugges—“

“No.” She backed away, dropping her bag on the ground. “Don’t do that. You don’t get to say my name like you know me well enough to patronize me this way.”

“You have to underst—“

“Understand?? What do I need to understand??? Hmm? What? That I might get hurt? That my job is dangerous? That journalists in this town have a short fucking shelf life? Or oh, that you what? You care now? You’re what? Trying to protect me?”

“Look, Andrea.” She wished he’d stop saying her name. “I know you're tough. You can take care of yourself. But this is bigger than you and you're not bulletproof. The pockets this Rebollo had his hands in? They’re more dangerous than some thugs following you to work or harassing you in the street. They’ll ruin your reputation, your livelihood, take anything you have, maybe even have you killed.”

“That’s never stopped me before.”

Carrillo pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Andrea. After you’re gone, they’ll come after your colleagues, friends, family.” She could tell he was growing more defensive by the way he strained to keep his voice level. “Corruption on this scale does more than just ruffle feathers. The more you uncover, the further you dig, the easier it is to bury you and anyone you care for. And that’d be too hard to bear for anyone who might be starting t— well, maybe— who does care for you.”

Her chest burned. She was roiling with indignant fury, practically breathing fire, nostrils flared, hands balled into fists at her side. Este pinshe pendejo. They’d been working together for weeks now, and not once did it step outside the confines of professional conduct with the exception of the— well, it was just the one time. She’d assumed they were moving on because of course they were. What was one night in the backseat of her car when they were nothing to each other? Nothing. But now this, all of a sudden, out of the blue. Why? Because. Because he cared. Well, he’d neglected to fill her in on the feelings and the caring before taking it upon himself to violate a boundary, meddling in her work ostensibly on her behalf.

Oh, she was positively— she wanted— but no, she couldn’t— oh, but she fucking could though. She would if she could— she really could actually fucking punch him.

As she stood there, vibrating, ready to go nuclear, he stepped closer. “Now who’s the one who wants to hit someone?”

Barely beyond strangers, and yet, he understood her implicitly. It only made the whole thing all the more aggravating. He stepped closer again, until they were nearly chin to chin.

“Do it.”

She looked up, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“Do it,” he said again quietly, eyes virtually unreadable. “If that’s what you really want. Hit me.”

He was inscrutable. There was no more pleading. No humor. No anger either. Something else. Something baser. She thought about those smudges on her car window.

Her hand moved so quickly, he didn’t even have time to flinch. She slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him back a couple of steps. The blood rushed to his cheek, angry and red, as he turned back to face her with an expression of something like dazed admiration. He began to speak but before he got a word out, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close to bury him in a kiss so deep, the force of it nearly hurt her teeth. She inhaled the rumble that escaped from the back of his throat like it was a breath of life, before breaking away and shoving him back to sit on the desk.

Hooking his fingers in the belt loops of her jeans, he yanked her close, positioning her between his knees. She felt a tug at her hair as he pulled out her hair band. Catching his hand on its way down her shoulder, she brought it around her waist, sinking into another brutal kiss that had them both gasping for air. As one of her hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair and the other traveled down to palm the bulge in his pants, his hips bucked against hers and she felt a sharp sting as he bit her bottom lip. On reflex, she scrunched her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck and pulled so hard, he hissed.

Oh yeah, that felt good. She’d liked how it sounded and how he looked, head back like that, chin up, throat exposed. Getting lost in those deep, dark brown eyes, she kept him pinned in that position, regarding him for a moment. She suddenly found herself thinking about those nature documentaries on the Discovery Channel, ones where the lions take down gazelles, sharp canines puncturing their throats right there. His skin tasted salty as she tongued his neck in that very spot. If she were a wild animal, he’d be bleeding out on the floor for what he’d done. Trying to save the poor damsel-in-distress reporter from her own recklessness because oh, she can’t possibly know what’s good for her. That wasn't what it was until he made it that way. Co;onel Horacio Carrillo, our man in Mexico, nothing but a mouse in her trap.

Then she said, sincere but grave, “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I need you. I’ll never need you.” To soothe the wounded expression on his face, she planted a soft kiss on his mouth and trailed a few more along his jaw, mumbling as her lips made their way back down to his throat, “And that’s exactly why you love this.”

═

taglist: @drabbles-mc @narcolini @ashlingnarcos @cositapreciosa @narcosfandomdiscord

[fulgurantfirstborn]

Though he was a Powder Keg himself, Gwynfor preferred leaving the maintenance of his weapon to someone else. Sure, he had the tools and skill to sharpen his blade, finetune and readjust the switch mechanisms to his liking, but that would rob him of the excuse to visit Cathedral Ward.

"Ah, is it that time again?" The quiet voice of the smithy greeted him from the back. "Hasn't it only been a week, Saigo?"

"I've been busy down below, Bel. Besides-" Eyes widened into feigned offense. "Don't you appreciate the business of a regular customer?"

The hunter slung his swordspear off his shoulder and offered the weapon to the shorter man. Scarred fingers deftly ran along the handle and checked the locking gears that let the blade transform. There was a sharp exhale as Gwynfor took a seat besides the workbench. Indeed, there were quite a number of alignment issues, no doubt from landing many weighty blows upon whatever enemies the hunter had recently fought. Nicks marked the edge of the blade too, but they were minor enough to ignore for the time being.

"Frankly, I am surprised people even venture down into Old Yharnam." Bellevance sighed as he opened his tool drawers. "But that is not my business."

Waving off the hunter, the smithy lit a nearby lamp to shine upon the swordspear. "This shan't take long, but you may leave and visit the marketplace if you're hungry. Else, feel free to make yourself comfortable. There are shortbread cookies behind you."

Besides the sound of metal tinkering, the two men sat in a comfortable silence. Gwynfor enjoyed watching Bellevance work so he had long since learned to stay quiet since their initial meetings. There was a soft but determined intensity to the smithy's focus, a quality that the hunter admired and did not want to interrupt. Of course, there were other admirable qualities too, but... Gwynfor was not sure he should confess such things. Not now.

He yearned to, though. When that day came, perhaps the hunter would tell Bellevance his true name.