#to be clear I'm not done musing or articulating

[whatisthiswitchcraft]

now that pride month is overrr here is something tht I have been musing over & have not yet been able to fully articulate: I remember enjoying pride in the past but still feeling disconnected and wishing that there was more of a focus on history/more of a year round presence and sense of community. and somehow (through work and time! but also fun and much love!) I have not only found that but helped build that. and I feel stronger & happier for it. and I so look forward to doing more.

[bookwyrminspiration]

why is legacy your least favourite of the series now? (btw I haven’t reread kotlc in forever all I remember is that Tam is gone and Keefe is having a Bad Time)

I think what happened is that upon rereading the other 2 I disliked, I realized their faults weren't as bad as I'd remembered, and Legacy just has very little to draw me in, and everything else is not to my taste. I'd been denying it for a while I think, trying to stay positive, but in being honest with myself this last reread it just really bothers and upsets me at times. I can try to articulate it, but there's a lot of layers that even I don't understand to my reaction, so heads up

(nothing against anyone who enjoys legacy!! i'm simply not one of you. this is your warning that this is a more critical/less positive post and perspective on legacy. if you don't want to see that, don't look)

Sophie's relationships are an inevitable part of the story the way it's written; it becomes very prevalent here, and none of it's positive, it's just more conflict--and not even satisfying conflict, to me. I'm queer in a way that doesn't involve romance and attraction, and I could not care less about Sophie's drama. And I know people talk about the importance of connecting to stories about people with experiences you don't have, but I don't think this is one of them. I've read fantasy stories with conflicted romance before, and even though I'm very attached to these characters...I just don't care for how Shannon's doing it.

I won't deny that part of it is frustration and anger knowing how some people take what happened in Legacy to further unfairly demonize Fitz (who is one of my top 2 characters)--and that part of that will be done in a "see how toxic Fitz is? Keefe is so perfect for her instead" kinda way. Which bothers me because it ignores so much about so many characters, not just Fitz. And I know they are entitled to their thoughts and interactions as much as I am, and I try not to let it get to me too much (curating my own experience and all that), but I can't deny that I'm at least aware of it. And that that knowledge negatively impacts my reading experience when I become more conscious of it. at least at the moment

And I suppose it also just makes it obvious the disconnect between me and the story. I can brush past Sophie's crush musings and brief flustered moments. But an entire book where a significant conflict is her failing relationship and searching for her parents to try and fix said relationship? It's like a whole book of "hey! here's something really important to most people!! that isn't to you! remember how different you are?" To be clear, I don't mind being different, I quite like the kind of queer I am. I don't want to change it.

It's more like a...well now I have to put up with and trudge through this tiresome stereotypical shit in a series I really like, too? I poke a lot of fun, but Keeper is genuinely a really important and prevalent series in my life, even though its not my favorite. And it's like...here, too?

I'm not opposed to relationships in fiction, there are several I quite enjoy and they can have very important places and purposes! Keeper just isn't one of them that really speaks to me--at least in canon. I don't like how sophitz was written, I don't like how Sophie's been characterizing Fitz and Keefe, I don't like her reaction to and focus on her match status even though I understand it from a character perspective. Their relationships just haven't been the compelling kind to me

I could try and link all this to like, poor writing or inconsistent characterization or catering to fans and things like that. I could probably come up with a polished argument if I tried, make it technical and about a bunch of mistakes made but at the end of the day? it's really just not to my taste. I just don't like it, even though I can logically understand why most things happened, how they were in character and contribute to their development. I just don't like what happened. I don't like how romance focused it was and how relationships panned out. I'm disappointed sophitz ended how it did, how the characters behaved in their relationships, how Sophie reacted to her match status, her inability to pull herself together for a while, how sidelined Tam's kidnapping felt, how some people will demonize Fitz, etc.

I read keeper for entertainment, and there just was nothing for me. I do what I can to appreciate its place in the series, and to acknowledge when it is true to the characters, including in ways I can't connect to. But this isn't a series I read for self betterment or learning or anything, it's for fun and none of what happened was fun for me (meaning fun in like a satisfying entertainment way including heartbreak and tragedies and horrors, not that it has to be silly and light hearted)

That was probably more than you were expecting; it was more than i was expecting! But it's such a visceral reaction that it's hard to identify and translate, and I'm sure there's more to it I haven't uncovered. in fact as I was writing this the process helped me think through more of my reaction, so thanks for the opportunity :)

[susansontag]

it's true that a lot of people online give themselves permission to say "dramatic" things about strangers because it's sadly very normalized here. but i don't think we necessarily need to swoop on the lowest level attainable and choose between different forms of violent speech every time we are really angry about something, emotionally mature people are capable of expressing strong opinions without wishing violence on the person they disagree with. instead of diverting with the whataboutism, you could just answer the question if you really care so much. what did you mean by what you wrote and if you didn't mean it at all then why not admit that you misspoke? what could the consequences possibly be?

I can see you're really clinging to this and I understand because I've done this before with bloggers on here too especially women. but I was not saying dramatic things about any targeted stranger, I was introducing a hypothetical and then giving an example of the kind of - imo - unhinged behaviour I meant. it must be kept in mind this was a throwaway joke post, made in about a few minutes or so

this is a very personal admission and shouldn't be taken as anything more than musing, but I actually have a type of obsessive compulsive disorder that used to make me feel very, strongly guilty about even saying 'I want this person to die' (and I could be talking about a world leader whose policies are responsible for killing millions of people!). I avoided any sense of moral ambiguity in anything I said because I was truly terrified this meant I was a 'bad person' who 'condoned violence' etc. but the truth is, I've given myself the permission that other ordinary people allow themselves all the time, to just say whatever it is I think, no matter if it's a bit silly, or hyperbolic, or whatever; because I should be allowed the grace in interpretation that other people are afforded when they say throwaway comments like this, too. from others (though you don't always get it, which is fine), but also from myself. the reason being is that it's not actually a huge deal or something to get so hung up on

so yes, like you, I have certain standards of conduct; I rarely (or perhaps nowadays never?) say people should 'kill themselves', for example, because this feels personal to me as someone with mental health issues who cares deeply about these topics. I can assure you, if I had even remotely been alluding to domestic violence against women when I quipped 'should be slapped', it would not have been written. I would have deleted it and written something else. this, of course, doesn't insulate me from the interpretations of others who take it a different way, either maliciously assigning significance to it that wasn't there to try and get the upper hand in an argument, or because they truly misread me and are perhaps upset I used language like that. I hope, at least, I've been able to clear up my intentions here

that said, I won't be apologising for the throwaway comment. I have considered it in writing this post and have written nothing that troubles me or my values. I'm sorry we disagree, but I still don't believe it's a big deal. you ofc don't have to accept that and can hold yourself to whatever standards of, well, discussion, posting, articulating yourself, idk, that you like. but you can't get someone else to repent for misbehaviour just because you wouldn't allow yourself it or dislike it. there was no literal person or even a concrete group against which I was threatening an actual act of violence; it was purely hypothetical to get a point across about how silly and ridiculous I find something. I believe to most people this came across loud and clear

[yeyinde]

Godddddd, the way you write is insanely mesmerising. Not only do you craft such rich and immersive stories, but FFYC. Your prose, your plot, your characterisation, the romance, the smut, the drama, the angst, the mutual pining - it all reads in such a perfectly engrossing cadence that I often forget I'm not reading an actual novel I picked up from the bookstore.

As always, this was nothing short of perfection!

He tucks you away, hides you—keeps you purely for the times he can spare a second to truly think and consider you. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet—in the calm. A welcomed retreat, a safe haven. A person who populates a carved space in his mind, one you had barely needed to hack at to make. Because, in truth, he made it for you, found a place that he could store you in for when he felt safe enough to let you out, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. 

This was absolutely gorgeous and I felt it in my bones. The slow release of his walls, dropping and falling as he lets her in (not that he has much of a choice because Luna is without a doubt a battering ram in her own right) is so perfectly articulated here.

Javi thinks you’re something more akin to a rain cloud—all set to burst and let whatever it is you hold close fall like raindrops. Maybe they’d be acidic, maybe they’d burn those unfortunate to be underneath, but he’d only care for the relief on your face. 

AND AGAIN!!! Another immediate punch to my gut!! YOU GOTTA STOP RIPPING MY HEART INTO PIECES AND THEN MENDING IT WITH LINES LIKE THESE 😭

I love that he's aware of how everyone sees her—a looming thunderstorm, full of kinetic energy and ready to overtake the landscape; something meant to be admired from afar—and, admittedly, it's how he saw her initially, too, but now we get this. Approachable. And, like—sorry. This might just be me kinda weirdly obsessed with biblical imagery but the idea of him seeing her as a raincloud, as rainfall, reminds me so much of a baptism, of sorts. Not in the traditional sense, but more so in the symbolism. Baptism is a newness, a sense of change. It's meant to purge and clear and IDK. It fits where Javi is in his life, and I'm wondering if maybe he's unconsciously pushing her into that direction—as someone who can absolve him, cleanse him—because it's what he desperately needs.

And Luna does, too. ANYWAY. Feel free to tear this into pieces but I just love the idea of rain. Everything feels so new and clean to me!

AND!!! This whole exchange!!!!!

You let your words wash over him, before dropping your hand close to your mug, slowly pushing it toward him. A gesture, a bold one in a sea of eyes.  Voice dropping, you flick your eyes up to his, “You can have one sip.” “And, if I take one more, cariño?”  Your lips scrunch, a real smile—all teeth and lines in your cheek—so desperate to break out. “You wouldn’t want to know, sir.”

My love language is coffee and banter so this hit me so hard. It's this amazing blend of romance and flirting and AHHHHHHHH HOW DO YOU DO IT??? How do you make the little moments feel so elevated and enlarged?? Loved this!!!

I also adored the little trickle of jealousy flowing in when Luna was speaking to another man — the way Javi immediately gravitated toward her, prodding her for information under the cadence of just making teasing conversation. It bleeds through the lines as something that Javi, from the beginning, would not have done. He'd probably just watch, smoke, and pretend he wasn't thinking about it all day. Of course, that's just my musings, but I love the growth. The way they both unfurl in the relationship—Luna with the coffee (OFFERING HER CUP IN FRONT OF EVERYONE?? HER COVETED COFFEE?? STOP IT!!!!!!) and Javi with inserting himself into her orbit instead of remaining on the fringes.

The smut was incredible—as always!! I love that Luna is already so attuned to him, just knowing he needs comfort.

AHH, these two make me so mushy and gross and I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!!

a new day - part v of nowhere to run

Javier Peña x DEA!F!Reader

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. chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers. no use of y/n. smut. oral sex (man receiving), angst. bit of emotions are coming outttttt. Wordcount: 6.3k AN: apologies for the lateness, my personal life has just been throwing things at me and I didn't want the emotions to bleed in when i was editing. also, if there's errors, i'm so sorry, i have had no sleep. pls forgive me. as always, huge thank you to @yeyinde who allows me to ramble continuously and to @guyfieriii who is on her way to get me a magazine and send it to me. I adore you both.

series masterlist

“I can’t believe you caught him?”

“Me neither.”

You lean back, eyes wide, twisting the cord around your finger.

“I did call you—last night. After we’d seen him. Rang your place, work...”

Swallowing, you smile. “I, um—“ 

Looking up as Peña steps out of his office, sliding his tie through the loop, eyes staring over you. Drinking you in. Making every part of you burn up under his gaze. 

“—had a date.”

“Oh. How did it go?”

Biting your lip, you watch him. How his brows furrowed, letting your eyes descend down before noticing his tie. How it sat off-centre—all threaded in a rush. 

You suspect he’s been ordered to attend a meeting. One likely about the day's events, one with a lot of Colombians, officials and higher-ups. So, you gesture. 

The corners of your lips slightly rise, watching his smile slowly grow.

“It was good. Nice.”

Van Ness snorts. “You going to see them aga—actually, fuck this, I don’t think I wanna hear anymore.”

“Wasn’t about to tell you, Van Ness. Hey—I have to go, please be safe.”

“Always am.”

“Says the man catching Narcos—anyway, Stoddard is here, speak soon.” 

“He best not be making you drinks…”

“Promise he isn’t.” 

You place the phone down, standing up as Peña comes to a halt barely an inch away from you. 

“That my name now? Stoddard.”

“Well, you’re struggling to sort your own tie, does seem a Stoddard thing to do, sir.”

He twitches his fingers at his side. Has been doing so since he guided Gilberto out to the flashing lights and clicks of cameras.

The significance of what they’d done—what he had done—crashed into him. Not knocking him off his feet, not even knocking him off his axis. But it kickstarted something.

It truthfully only slid over him when he slid into the seat of a car. 

They’d done it. Proved that surrender wasn’t the only option—that they could be caught. Because they had caught one of them. The ones they all said were untouchable. Right in his fucking home, hiding away. 

A new lease of life spreads as Javi swallows. A thrum of energy, one which has been missing since before he was sent back to the States, rippling through him as though it had never gone. Disturbing the regret he’d been feeling since… 

They’d done it. The thought rolls around, his finger occasionally stroking his bottom lip—sometimes pinching his thigh as the streets flash past the window. Doing so even as his knee hits the door, needing to, just to be certain he’s awake, and not dreaming. 

The truth it’s all a reality weaves into his muscles, the adrenaline bursting into his bloodstream—beautifully blending with the newly rejuvenated oxygenated cells that swim to his heart.  

He knows there's a shitstorm waiting for him at the embassy. For what he’d done—but, then, they hadn’t really wanted him here for the accolades.

Stechner hadn’t vouched for him because he’d been a rule-follower. More someone to blame, to use.

And now, he’d shown them the sheer proof that it could be done—the surrender could be nil and void. They could get more.

That’s what he’d thought as he had hammered his knuckles into Martinez’s door, pulling on a string marked ‘do not touch’. Hoping he’d be forthcoming—that he’d trust him to work alongside him. 

Javi hadn’t been sure if a speech on how much he wanted to do right would make up for what had already transpired. Less excuses spoken, and more acknowledged errors that he’d been determined—foolishly so. Blinded and only seeing through tunnel vision. Focused on the wrong thing; determined, but for what? None of it became clear even when he’d sat in his childhood home—or stood out in the field. The more he looked for answers, the less weight his reasonings had—the fewer excuses he could grasp at why he’d let things poison and ruin. 

In the end, he was grateful he hadn’t needed to spout any of that. The sheer opportunity that Javi had brought it to him, had been enough. 

Not sure any of his truthful ramblings would have made sense, anyway.

It was a true second chance. A hope which had been living in some recess, brushed off and placed front and centre at his feet. His hand outstretched, watching as Martinez shook his—a truce, of some sort, a promise. Maybe, in the smallest way, an element of forgiveness—not that Javi would allow it. It didn’t mean he’d squander or wreck it either, using it to stand a little taller and ensure his shoulders were a little more square. 

It’s why he takes a moment when the car pulls up outside the building. Sitting, spreading his palms in long strokes over his thighs. Catching his breath. 

He can already feel how things have changed. Already knows there will be faces turning when he steps inside, the burden of it meeting his shoulders again. Having temporarily moved it, placed it on the floor while he focused on what needed to be done. Now, the music was playing, and the true heaviness of what a second chance meant began to rest on his bones. The true power of doing good didn't just provide accolades, but gifted in moon-eyed agents and hopefulness he felt guilty squashing. 

It begins when he steps down the embassy stairs, bodies stopping, turning. His cheeks warming, ears burning as they murmur and mutter. Focusing on it, while another part blindly wants to ignore it as he enters the office. It’s why the first clap doesn’t register. 

It takes a moment, the applause slowly raining around him, covering him. Layering in thick noise that soaks into his skin and makes him feel cold, rather than joyous. 

The worst thing is, deep down, he knows there’s an old version of him who would have smirked at all of this. Who’d have relished in it. Likely lifted his chin, and shook each hand—man or woman—rather than sinking his chin to his chest like he’s currently doing. Trying to shy from it, get through them all as they begin to move closer, ready to congratulate him—shake his hand. 

A part of him knows he should be glad. Should be proud he has somewhat earned the notoriety he walks around with now. A slither of it, anyway. 

Finding Stoddard’s hand, he’s the only one he shakes. Not sure what to do with the rest of his body as he lets his eyes move across the room, seeing the closing circle of those wanting to thank him, celebrate and pat him on the back. But, his eyes land only on the pair which pulls him to shore. 

Yours.

The one person not clapping—leaning against your desk, head tilted to the side, doing your trademark smirk. The one Javi likes to think is just for him because he pulls it from you so frequently. The one which hits your eyes and shines like the sun on a cloudless day and warms him, even if he keeps trying not to let it. 

His heart sinks, just a touch. It’s still floating on the surface of the day and is the only explanation for why it doesn’t fall to his feet. Because as he lets his eyes fall over you he realises it’s the first opportunity he’s had to think of you. To allow himself to think of you. 

How he hadn’t had a chance to make sure you got home okay. The last sight of you had been in his office, lips swollen, eyes shimmering with post-lust bliss and your clothes a little off-pristine. Your hand on his wrist, sliding circles into his pulse—all thought-out and considered. You’re gonna get him, Javi. Your teeth chewed the skin of your lip as the words washed over him, a nervousness to you he rarely ever noticed—a slight discomfort in your forced expression.

But he hadn’t asked. 

Swallowing, he releases the hand in his.  

“–Where you going? C’mon, we want to toast you…”

Hearing Stoddard, but watching you. “Start without me.”

He never questioned the tight expression when you released his wrist, his hand grabbing at things from his desk—all set to walk out, to leave. Be safe, Javi. 

It echoes through his ears as he crosses the room, watching as you take a deep breath as the gap between the two of you closes. 

Javi could let himself feel it now—the spark and the concern. Could question it—let it fill him. He could find the words to ask why Cali undoes a part of you, why you always place one particular type of mask up when it's mentioned—when someone goes. Unpicking it all, seeing it all as though someone was showing it to him all on video. 

Having been so laser-focused before, he’d missed it. Placed them all to the side, noticing the other things—the ones inflicted by others' words and actions, and not the looming one hovering over you as you worked.

Something had happened to you in Cali. Something that was left from the reports. 

He tucks you away, hides you—keeps you purely for the times he can spare a second to truly think and consider you. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet—in the calm. A welcomed retreat, a safe haven. A person who populates a carved space in his mind, one you had barely needed to hack at to make. Because, in truth, he made it for you, found a place that he could store you in for when he felt safe enough to let you out, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. 

Now just watching in slow motion as you try to hide what he assumes is relief. 

It’s a gift, how you keep people out. One he would admire if he wasn’t on the other side of it and wasn’t able to recognise how quickly and smoothly you were able to slide up the veil which isn’t breachable. While he doesn’t know what monsters live in your wardrobe or which ghosts haunt you, he knows there’s a reason why you can’t tell him too. 

A reason why you talk in riddles whenever bureaucracy is mentioned. 

A discomfort which ebbs and flows, but never truly meets the two of you, even if it tries to. It did so before he fucked you on his desk. A look so similar to the one you gave him in his office, all soft eyes he wasn’t sure if he could ever earn deserving.

He knows people consider you to be a storm. A restless bundle of anger and lightning—thunder rumbling with every step of your heel.

But, as he comes to a stop in front of you, Javi realises he hadn't seen you like that, not since the first day when you'd tried to convince him you were. Not even as you slide around your desk, using the wooden furniture as a barrier between the two of you. 

Ironic, really. When the two of you used one similar as a surface for relief, hours and hours ago. 

Javi thinks you’re something more akin to a rain cloud—all set to burst and let whatever it is you hold close fall like raindrops. Maybe they’d be acidic, maybe they’d burn those unfortunate to be underneath, but he’d only care for the relief on your face. 

The one he’s sure is hiding behind the smile he’s being presented with. 

“Congratulations, sir.” 

He slides his shades from his shirt, nodding at you. Thanking you. 

Continuing, you clear your throat, “I think the Ambassador would like to see you.” 

You let your words wash over him, before dropping your hand close to your mug, slowly pushing it toward him. A gesture, a bold one in a sea of eyes. 

Voice dropping, you flick your eyes up to his, “You can have one sip.”

“And, if I take one more, cariño?” 

Your lips scrunch, a real smile—all teeth and lines in your cheek—so desperate to break out. “You wouldn’t want to know, sir.” 

Each time he swallows, he tastes your coffee. 

Desperate to find a mug, to enjoy one more sip in some silence—even light up a cigarette, if he could be spared. But, it’s one thing, then another. Almost feeling the flutter of anxiety and adrenaline merging into something unheard of. 

From the meeting to the note in his file, right to the press conference he had needed to lead. 

As soon as it ended, he was led to the staircase—practically shoved off. His feet all heavy, legs like lead as he steps down, ready to hide in his office and release many heavy, simmering breaths.

That had been his plan. His only focus—until he finds you waiting.

Then he thinks of the file room, his place, his desk…

It knots all inside of him—that thrum of disbelief that blends so disastrously with the sudden acknowledgement he doesn’t deserve you. Something he thinks a lot, yet is finding it harder to fight off under tiredness and waning adrenaline. 

It isn’t just whatever it is between you—the fun, non-committal thing neither of you are likely to acknowledge—but your mere attendance in his life. 

The way you make things brighter, shine something that makes the edges a bit more colourful and meaningful. Not quite ready to allow it closer to the centre, to let it touch the parts of him still tainted in darkness and regret. He doesn’t think even your shine can do that alone. 

Wiping a hand over his face, he moves towards you. Absently wondering when you’ve snuck in, having not seen you arrive or between his meeting finishing and arriving here. He’d looked for you, met Stoddard’s eyes and nodded for him to come.

Yet, here you are, shaking someone’s hand as Javi moves past another person, noticing that you’ve removed your jacket, so that he can see the outlines of your bra straps through the back of your blouse. He spots the clipboard pressed to your chest, hand wrapped around another mug—one he soon realises is the one you always give him. 

It diminishes, the part of him which wants to protect you from him. From the disappointment he tends to bring and the fact he’s so thoughtless. That even under your occasional frostiness and many secrets, you’re kind… sweet. 

It’s why he should blink, and turn away—not that he can tear his eyes away enough to solidify his thought of walking away. Your presence practically demands his attention, even if you’re talking to someone else. Your leg crossed in front of the other, a white pen tucked away behind your ear and hearing, as he moves closer, the Spanish flowing from your tongue. It’s crisp, and clear—rolling beautifully to his ear as the conversation nears an end. The man’s hand in yours, another placed on your arm—squeezing—bidding you farewell.

Something unfurls, and stretches its legs inside of him. Only settling when the man’s hand leaves your arm, leaves the close proximity and is walking away. 

“You making friends?” 

Shrugging, you smirk. “Apparently so. You looked good by the way.” 

“I did?”

Nodding, you hand him the mug. “Yeah. Like you were supposed to be up there. You know, before you get into your head, it should have been someone else.”

He nods, taking a sip, wincing at the strong taste of alcohol—frowning at you as you smile wistfully. 

“Thought you could do with something stronger. Also, you doing the conference is smart, I like it—takes the heat off Chris and Dan.” 

He nods again, taking another sip. More prepared this time to coat his throat in amber, staring, wondering how you managed to sneak a mug of bourbon to him. Not that he should be surprised. You seemed to manage to do a lot, keep things turning, keep things organised. 

“So, sir. How do you plan on celebrating?”

He takes a long drag, raising his brows that hopefully says, I think you already know, and from the smirk, you shoot him back, you do. The two of you fall into a walk, one where your strides match, where your eyes can be on the other but not walk into a thing or soul. Not speaking, not for a minute, your eyes taking him in—raking over him, assessing him for something (or nothing) he can’t be sure. 

“Are you waiting for an invite for that or…”

Shrugging, he watches you take the mug back as he narrows his eyes. “Never been one to wait to be asked to be somewhere, cariño.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” you comment, sliding closer as you press the button for the elevator. “So, what? You want to take me home and fuck the day away?” 

He looks at you, flicking from your eyes to your lips. Watching as you swipe the tip of your tongue against your lower lip. Your body heat is almost smothering his skin—even through his shirt and jacket. “If I ever say no to doing that, cariño. I’ve got brain damage.”

Smirking, you nudge him, the ding of the elevator's arrival making you step back. “If we have a choice, I choose yours. It's fancier.” 

“I don't know, I bet you have candles and decorative pillows.” 

“That what makes a place fancy in your eyes? The amount of candles someone has.”

“I have no candles.”

Snorting, you shake your head as he presses the button for your floor. 

As the doors close, he glances at you, how your expression is fixed on the metal doors. 

“I’m glad you came back, Peña.”

He hears it, and conjures another set of words. Ones he heard, ones he had been meaning to acknowledge—until the phone rang. Until life hurtled a thousand things, and then he was flying to Cali. 

Javi… I was worried. I was worried about you.

You turn your head, flicking your eyes over him. “Another night, I’d show you how unfancy my place is. Tonight, though…”

He knows. Knew even before the teasing had begun about his place or yours. His thumb strokes over his middle and index finger as he chews his cheek. 

“Plus, someone must have come in and knocked all your files on the floor,” you say, a lightness to your tone, “Left your office in a right mess.” 

The doors pinged open, only able to watch as you step out—not waiting for him, just leaving him behind, chewing his smirk.

The moment Martinez left his office, he just remained sat on the edge of his desk.

It had taken longer than it should to sink in. The power people had, the corruption, how it bled and rotted in every corner of the place. The enormity of it all, how without his sacrifice and him handing his notice in, it would have all been undone.

Martinez was the good one. The one who hadn't toed the line, hadn't stepped into the grey, hadn't even been selfish. Not like him.

He drained the glass, finished his cigarette—staring at a patch on the floor until his fingers wrapped around the edge, feeling marks along the wood. For a solid minute, he traces them, feels the lines, the deepness to them, until his mind wonders if they’re from you.

No, Javi. Just you. Only you. 

It’s instant, the way he darts to his bottom drawer, rummaging through until he retrieves the file—the one marked with your name. The one he’d sourced before, now paying attention to the parts he had ignored then. 

From the look on your face, you’re as surprised to see him, as he is that he knocked. A wine glass in hand, the red of it sloshing from side to side as he observes you process his arrival. That he even got out of the car. 

“You… know where I live?”

He drops his hand from leaning on the door frame, wiping his mouth. “I know where you live.” 

Opening the door, you step aside—hands tugging at your cardigan to wrap it around yourself. “Some could call that stalking, sir.” 

“Y’gotta stop with the sirs.” 

“Do I?” 

You smirk—it spreads up your cheeks until it hits your eyes, before your hand pushes the door closed behind him, keeping your eyes on him. 

All he can think is how pretty you are. How beautiful you look, even if you’re all undone—nothing on your face, a baggy t-shirt and some shorts, the thickest socks on your feet. 

“Drinking alone, cariño?” 

It’s slow, how you lean against the door. Not letting the two of them head further into your place. “Some days justify it. Don’t you think?” 

He does. 

More than he wants to say—not wanting to spoil your evening. Taint your home with talks of work and bureaucracy. Things he suspects you know more than you’re likely to share. The thick lines through your file are all an indication of it.   

You take a sip, and then another. 

Adding nothing, just letting him stand there, and he half wonders if you expect him to plead his case here—or whether you’re assessing whether to eject him out of your place as quickly as you left his prior. 

Mainly, he focuses on the fact it smells like you. Floral with a hint of darkness—your decor not all that different from his, just with additional touches. Some candles, some colour—some attempt at making the place feel like a home and not somewhere to rest your head. 

It’s only in the growing silence does he hear the faint sound of music, something low, involving a guitar thrumming in the background. 

“Are you lonely, Agent Peña?” 

He places his hand in his pocket, leaning against the wall opposite you. 

“No.” 

You nod, rolling your lips. “Just in the neighbourhood then?” 

He wipes his mouth as his other hand rubs his palm against his index finger in his pocket. Suddenly unsure why he was here—why he’d found your address and come. 

Javi wasn’t lonely. Didn’t have the time to be. A sea of paperwork on his desk, the guilt weighing down on him, hearing the colonel's voice over and over—the once pleasant taste of liquor now turning bitter in the back of his throat. 

“You forget I know where you live, so I know you’ve come out of your way.”

A laugh escapes and falls from his lips as he dips his head. 

It all of a sudden catches up with him, how the day has been a range of emotions. The delicate way things had needed to happen, the thrum of adrenaline—the joy, the meeting, the conference… 

Lifting his chin, he finds you still watching him.

No smirk. No smile. All soft edges and a comforting presence—waiting. For what, he can’t be sure, but he kicks off the wall all the same. Sliding his hand from his pocket, softly wrapping it around your hip as he places his forehead against yours, walking you backwards, taking the glass from your hand and placing it down. 

He tells himself he needs a moment. A stolen one that doesn’t bleed and change into others. A break in from everything, for a second. 

It only shifts when he wraps each finger on your hip, pulling you close. He keeps your shoulder blades against the wall, the guitar strumming increasing as much as his heart is beating. It’s all rhythmic, a remix of a song he isn’t sure of—but one he is tuned into all the same. 

It takes his breath away how you look at him. How it’s harder to stop himself from falling into them, worsening as your hand cups his elbow. At first, it’s all shared breath and waiting. Neither moving, his forehead just remaining against yours.

“Are you okay?” 

It’s so soft. Barely audible if his body wasn’t pressed against you, as he shakes his head, feeling your fingers slowly sliding in gentle circles around his elbow. Cupping him, keeping him as close as his hands keep you.

“What do you need?” 

He says nothing. Afraid that saying ‘you’ is too much. Having hoped the action would speak louder than the words as he stares into you—mixing brown with yours to make a colour artists dream of. 

“Hey,” you say again. More demanding, assertive. “Javi, what do you need?” 

He doesn’t think, doesn’t attempt to. Embodies the former version of him—the one which had gone to the Colonel’s home, to begin with—the one who takes and takes and takes. 

“You drunk, baby?”

He hears you swallow, before slowly shaking your head. 

“Good,” he whispers.

Closing his eyes, he lifts his forehead before dipping his head, his mouth captures yours. Javi merges the taste of sweet wine, whiskey and his cigarettes together, creating a taste so intoxicating and delicious he’s not sure he ever wants to come up for air. 

Just need you, he thinks as his tongue slips past your parted lips. 

Only want you, he urges as he feels your other hand sliding around his neck, deepening the kiss, his tongue able to taste that small whimper you do when he squeezes your hip. 

It’s different—but then each time he kisses you is. It has been needy, and passionate. Another, it has been soft, almost meaningful. Now, this time, he’s able to feel how warmth consumes him as you kiss him more purposefully. He deepens it in search of more, kissing you more hungrily, full of need and want.

It’s only when he feels your hand skate over the back of his neck, fingers teasing the bottom of his hair, does he slow. In time, pulling back, pressing his forehead against yours—bruising your hip with his fingers as he takes a few deep breaths. 

“Whatever it is…” 

“We can’t fix it, cariño.” 

It’s cold—the way he says it. Wishing he could retract it the moment he sees your brows scrunch. Instead, he shows no sign of letting up his grip on you. Hoping it’s enough to wordlessly explain that he needs you close, wants you—in fact. Needed to just be around you. Even if he shouldn’t, couldn’t… 

He presses two fingers to the side of your cheek, curling them. Your mouth parts, words—likely reassuring ones, knowing what he knows about you—are all desperate to fall and heal over the cracks. But, he shakes his head, watching your lips close as quickly as they had opened, your fingers continuing to draw shapes at the base of his hairline, studying him—searching his eyes.

Then, like a light in a dark room, understanding spreads across your gaze. Illuminating everything, likely connecting the dots in that beautiful—but deeply fascinating—way you do.

“Martinez…”

“Cariño… not, not right now.”

Slowly, you smile, spreading your fingers in his hair—tugging on him, pulling him with far too much ease until his forehead presses back against yours. 

“You did this… before.”

A breath escapes his lips. “Yeah…” 

“Why’d you come, Javi?”

I needed you.

It wasn’t a lie. If anything, it was more truthful than he cared to admit or accept. Which is why he didn’t say it—didn’t let on that the moment the walls began to tremble, he thought of you. Looked through the blinds, bitterly disappointed you weren’t there to be witty and sarcastic, smirk in that way that gets under his skin and make some flirtatious comment that makes it hard not to kiss you.

He could tell you that. Be honest. 

Instead, he says nothing, staring into your eyes until he feels your other hand, the one which has been continuing to grip his elbow, squeeze. 

“Okay. Lemme look after you,” you whisper, before kissing him.

Brushing your lips against him, before pulling away and then kissing him again. Testing the waters, looking for some form of permission as he grips your hips, giving it to you. He doesn’t protest when you begin trailing kisses down his jaw. Your fingers sliding around his arm, to his waist, to the belt holding his trousers up. 

Holding the base of your neck, he stares into your eyes, feeling your palm brush suddenly over his cock. “You don’t have to, car—“

“Shh,” you whisper. 

Slowly, he watches as you lower yourself to your knees, his throat going dry at the mere sight of you. Watching as you grip his cock. All teasingly slow, dragging it out—your tongue sweeps across your bottom lip as you continue to stroke him. 

Eyes closing, he lets his head meet the wall. Needing more—almost asking for it.

It’s what you want, he assumes. Because as soon as he reaches the point where he’s going to ask, you wrap your pretty lips around him. Taking note of the way you run your tongue around the head of him before licking a stripe along the underside of his cock. Finding that your eyes don’t leave his—watching what you do to him, enjoying it. 

It’s endearing.

A desire building, suddenly wanting nothing more than to watch—how he wants an unrestricted view of such beauty—of you taking him down your throat, of your cheeks hollowing, even if your actions are compelling him to close his eyes. 

You’re always pretty—but this is something else. You are on your knees for him. 

Taking as much of him as you can, your hand working what you can't fit—his own hand tightening around your head as you wrap his cock in warmth.

He feels you smirking, your mouth pulling back as you swirl your tongue over the head of his cock, a hand grasping the back of his thigh as you hum around him. 

“So fuckin’ pretty, cariño.” 

The tip of your tongue slides over his slit, making him hiss again—making your name tumble freely from his tongue as he leans himself against the wall for leverage.  

“I know,” you whisper, tracing your lips with his slick head, “Come down my throat, Javi.” 

He grunts, nails digging into his palm as you take him down your throat. His other hand bites into your head as you take him deeper, his hips spluttering, thrusting against your tongue. 

Your eyes have closed.

The window into your need to please him vanishes, and he wants to ask you to open them. To let him see. His finger strokes the top of your cheek, feeling the dampness from a tear at how deep you’re taking him. 

How deep you want him down your throat. 

His hand aids you, fucking into you as you hollow and moan—it vibrates all around him. It covers and smothers his own grunts and groans. The one you pull from him with ease, because everything with you he is slowly learning is easy. Not complicated—even if the situation is. 

All he can think is you’re a fucking goddess, an angel—something he’s now one hundred per cent sure he doesn’t deserve. 

He hisses out your name, feeling your hands clutch at him for balance, his moans filling the hallway of your place until he’s coating your throat in his pleasure. You lap up every drop of it, swallowing it—swallowing all of what he’s given you.

You don’t move, not for a minute. Him slowly pulling himself from your mouth, your hand wiping any spend from your lips to your tongue. 

“You’re… fucking—”

“Something?”

He snorts, arranging himself before he fastens his trousers, shaking his head. His hand offers out to you, pulling you up from your knees as he adjusts your cardigan—as he places his lips against yours. 

“I didn’t… this wasn’t why I came around.”

“Why did you… come round?”

His muscles tighten, swallowing as he stares at you. 

Then you smile, placing a hand over his chest, palm flat, fingers spread. “You got anywhere to be, sir?” 

Javi is frowning, before the rest of your words sink in. His hand captures yours, holding it flat against him as he shakes his head. 

“Because you’re here, may as well let me toast you.” 

Some mornings greet him loudly—sweat clinging to his skin, head hammering, and the world chirping.

The morning, it greets him gently, softly. The sun slides through open curtains, a calmer sound of occasional passing cars greeting his ears.

It’s only then that he registers he’s waking beside you. Your warm, soft skin curled against him—his own arm holding you close, keeping you close. 

It takes a second for the sleep to flutter past his eyes, glancing at the clock on your bedside table—the one which ticks ever so loudly now he’s awake. It’s obvious the two of you have managed to catch a few hours, remembering how he’d brought you in here—thrown your decorative pillows to the floor with a smirk that you kissed immediately from his mouth.

He had told you he wouldn’t stay. 

But, here he is. Now, though, he should move—even if he’s unsure if he wants to. 

It’s never been his favourite thing, waking up outside of his own space. Never mind besides someone else. There were occasions and exceptions. He’s not prepared or currently capable of assessing whether you’ve slotted yourself there, either. 

All he knows is… he likes it, being here. 

Enjoying the fact he’s been allowed to steal a moment of this—of you. Letting himself enjoy it, the sound of your soft inhales and exhales, the way you fit against him—not in a way that looks perfect but simply feels it. 

And it scares him. Just a little bit. 

That thought returning, the one which bellows and beats the drum that you deserve better: than him, than what he can give you and the life you’d have being around him. 

Pinching his nose, he knows he should go to the office. Should begin to unravel the highs and lows of the day prior. Make a start on the paperwork that is already mounting higher than he expected. 

Instead, he turns his head. Selfishly admiring the way you sleep so peacefully, how he’d somewhat expected to find a creased forehead or a tightened jaw. A part had also expected to hear nightmares plague you, knowing there’s something there—living in your mind. A bad memory, a past which hammers at you to get out. 

He’d half expected to have his own rear its head too. 

Instead, he’s sure none had greeted the night air. 

If anything, he slept peacefully, soundly. Almost oddly, for the most consecutive hours since way before Escobar was caught. He shuffles against the pillow, eyes widening when he realises and feels your head rolling ever so slightly on his chest. The smallest of movements that had rippled out into hearing you murmur. 

Freezing, it dawns on him that he doesn’t want the bubble to burst. Studying, secretly praying he hasn’t woken you, as your lashes flutter and your lips don’t press back together. He’s a passenger, unable to stop the undoing as your brows dip, your fingers spread over his chest—

“J-Javi?” 

It’s full of sleep, his name. And fuck, it has never sounded so nice.  

He thought it bellowed or screamed as he fucked someone was good, but this… is something else. It takes a chunk from him, snatches it, and renders him thoughtless as you turn your head on his chest, looking up at him, blinking. 

“Morning,” he whispers, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m… I should go, cariño…”

You frown, not like normal—smothered in sleepiness that it doesn’t quite form. 

A string is plucked in his chest when your fingers slide over his chest, watching them rub at your face. A desperation rises in him to kiss you, to taste what morning and goodness is like—even if it's coated in unbrushed teeth and last night. 

But, it’s his moment to move—his chance. To relieve you of his presence. 

Not that he takes it. Instead, he absorbs the moment he was robbed of the first night he took you to his—of seeing you without armour or walls. 

“If y’give me…”

“—cariño—“

“… like fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” you say, words monotone and low as your hand slowly drops from your face to his chest. “I need… really need a shower. Then can come wit’you.” 

As soon as you sit up, cool air brushes over the places you’d been against him—goosebumps appearing over his skin as you stretch. His hand lightly grasps your forearm, keeping you from sliding out the sheets completely as he whispers your name.

Lets it slide into the air of your home, around the two of you—the room he secretly wishes could pause time so neither of you had to leave.  

Not ready to face the fallout from Martinez, the look of ‘what’s next’ on everyone’s face. Never mind the note clearly from Stechner. 

“You don’t… you don’t have to, I need…” 

His fingers move to your cheek, sliding over your jaw, only managing a half-breath as you flick your eyes to look over him—stunning him in a shade, he’s not sure truly has a name. 

“W-what?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

Following your suit, he sits up, your sheet falling to his waist as he marries his lips back to yours. Fingers finding your chin, keeping you there, stealing another moment, and another. Doing so until your hand wraps around his wrist, thumb stroking a line up and down his wrist. 

“I need a shower…”

He snorts. “You don’t have to come with me.” 

“I’m normally in an hour or two later anyway—plus…”

“Plus?”

Your lips slide, less of a smirk but more than a smile. “I have to come and ensure you don’t fuck with my organisational system. No other reason.” 

“Not one?”

“No.”

He tuts. “I can keep things organised.” 

You scoff, light and airy. “Peña, you’ve been here five minutes, and your desk already looks like it’s amassed ten years of files, so—I’m gonna call bullshit. Respectfully.” 

“Respectfully?”

“Yes.” 

He allows a laugh to escape, light and airy, it falling from him with far too much ease. Pulled from some depths he hasn’t allowed himself to explore. 

Sliding from him, you stand, grasping at a t-shirt that begins to mist over your body—hiding your skin, your curves and the marks he’s left from view. 

“I… I should say, I don’t mind that you showed up at my place, Javi.”

He traces his mouth with his thumb, looking at you. “Javi, huh?”

You smile, rolling your lips as you sigh. “You wore me down.” 

“Go shower, I’ll wait for you.”

Pausing at the door frame, you glance at him, half your body framed in shadow and the other in the morning light. He’s not sure he’s ever seen someone look more beautiful in the earliest hours of a new day.

chapter six ->