My name is Adriana, and if your'e on my page it's because of Pedro Pascal.. isn't it? Yeah, I thought so. Feel free to stay awhile and peruse some goodies on the masterlist below.
My blog is all about Pedro, with a few other fandoms sprinkled in.
Please check below for works on your favorite Pedro boys! (I do not write or reblog RPF.)
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I am currently quite busy with some life changes and won't be able to fulfill fic requests immediately, but it never hurts to ask.
(Please be aware that this blog is for those 18 years or older, minors DNI)
Alex Serian - COMING SOON!
Reed Richards - The Fantastic Four: First Steps
Ted Garcia - Eddington
Harry Castillo - Materialists
Joel Miller - The Last of Us
Marcus Acacius - Gladiator II
Lucien de Leon - The Uninvited
Clint Flood - Freaky Tales
Din Djarin - The Mandalorian
Dieter Bravo - The Bubble
Tim Rockford - Merge Mansion
Marcus Moreno - We Can Be Heroes
Maxwell Lord - Wonder Woman 1984
Frankie Morales - Triple Frontier
Dave York - The Equalizer 2
Jack Daniels - Kingsman: The Golden Circle
Javier Peña - Narcos
Pero Tovar ~ COMING SOON!
Max Phillips - Bloodsucking Bastards
Marcus Pike - The Mentalist
Oberyn Martell - Game of Thrones
My Most Beloved Fic Recs of All Time
Fucktober 2024 Birthday Writing Challenge
Reblogs and comments appreciated! I love that shit ♥️
summary: following the loss of your mother, marcus is always there for you—a steadfast companion that shoulders the weight, he takes care of you as you grieve.
warnings/tags: grief and loss, angst, hurt/comfort, loss of a parent, soft marcus, mourning, no use of y/n, use of the word mum approximately twice as opposed to mom because this was written for a Canadian, readers gender is not specified
word count: ~2.2k
author's note: this was written for my good friend @smokeinherperfume. i was very honoured to write this for you—thank you for trusting me with this, i hope i did it justice. for everyone else, if this fic is relatable to you in anyway, know that my heart is with you.
main masterlist | ao3
Grief is a physical, tangible thing. It sits on your chest, weighing you down. Its ghostly tendrils curl around you, gripping you tight—consuming you. There are some days where its hold on you lessens and you can actually breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Exist.
Other days, it holds you so firmly—squeezing, choking—and it feels like the air is being stolen from your lungs. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience, as if you can see yourself moving through life, wading through the waters that threaten to drown you as you’re forced to just endure it.
People are patient. For a time. Until it becomes too much.
And then you’re a burden.
They’re there for you in the immediate aftermath, showering you with copious amounts of love and support and kindness. I’m here, thinking of you—you’ve heard it a thousand times. And it’s true; for a while. Until they’re suddenly not there for you.
But—Marcus.
He is there.
If there was anyone in the world who loved your mother nearly half as much as you did, it was Marcus. He took the loss hard, feeling it almost as deeply as you did. But, like always, he was a steadfast companion that shouldered the weight. It’s as if he was constantly in tune with your emotions, privy to every single slight shift, no matter how small. He always seemed to know.
Whatever it was that you needed from him, he would give it to you.
He would move mountains, give up everything, and do absolutely anything that you needed him to do. His love knows no bounds. You never even have to ask. He just knows.
He speaks for you at the funeral.
You can’t seem to make the words leave your lips.
They’re right there, on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t speak through the lump in your throat.
Marcus just has to look at you, and he knows. He squeezes your fingers reassuringly and takes the piece of paper out of your hand wordlessly before he walks up to the front of the hall and recites the words that you’ve written out.
Afterwards, he wraps you in his arms and just holds you.
It could be minutes, it could be hours, you don’t know. All you know is that Marcus is here, and his arms are around you, and it feels as if he’s literally holding you together, and you choke back sobs as he runs his palms soothingly down your spine.
“I’ve got you. I’m here. You can let it out, it’s okay—I’m here, honey.”
And do. You let it out.
Everything that you’ve pushed down over the last few weeks; it all comes bubbling up to the surface, spilling out through gasps and cries, and Marcus just holds you, squeezing you tighter in his arms.
A few weeks later, he drives you to see her.
You’ve been avoiding it so far—as if seeing her name carved in stone would somehow make it even more real than it already was. As if you hadn’t constantly thought of a million different things that you wanted to tell her, as if you hadn’t already tried to call her over and over again, as if you hadn’t started the drive towards her house before realising that she doesn’t live there anymore.
But—seeing the epitaph. That was something else.
Too much.
But you need to talk to her. You need to talk to your mum.
You sit there, on the damp grass, and Marcus stands behind you with his hands resting on your shoulders, thumbs soothing in calming circles.
But, the grief. God—the grief. It chokes you.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He’s so patient. He stands there and listens to you talk to her. Eventually, he sits down next to you and curls an arm around your shoulders, tucking your head under his chin. He runs a palm down your arm, trying so desperately to offer you any ounce of comfort that he can.
The bouquet of carnations laying on his lap is carefully placed in front of her, his hands gently laying it down on the grass.
Once you’ve told her everything you needed to, you stand, and he follows you up before touching a hand to the cold stone. “We miss you,” he murmurs.
In the weeks following, a vase of carnations becomes a constant on your kitchen table. Every time they seem to wilt, Marcus replaces them.
Sometimes he catches you standing there in a daze staring at them, with a wistful look gracing your features. He aches to reach out and touch you, but he knows there are moments you need to be left alone with your thoughts.
After what seems like the twentieth bunch of flowers, you come home from work one afternoon exhausted, completely burnt out and ready to call it quits when you find Marcus kneeling down over the flower beds in the backyard.
“What are you doing?” you call out through the window, tossing your bag onto the kitchen counter.
He startles, standing to turn and face you. His body language is stilted and awkward as he brushes the dirt on his hands over his old jeans. Moving aside, you see the line of carnations that are now planted in the ground.
“Marcus?” you murmur, eyes glued to the pale pink petals.
He wrings his hands, walking closer until he’s standing in the threshold of the back door. “I just thought—”
You cross the room and throw your arms around him, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” he says, returning the hug.
You’re silent, tightening your hold on him as he slowly sways you back and forward. “She would’ve loved them. I wish she was here to see them.”
“Me too, honey. Me too.”
He kisses you harder. He hugs you tighter.
He handles you with such care, such tenderness.
“I love you,” he tells you.
He says it even more than usual. Even in the most mundane, domestic, uninteresting settings, the words fall from his mouth. I love you.
He brushes his fingertips against the small of your back, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers it into your ear. I love you.
And he means it. And he needs to make sure you know.
There were so many things that you and your mother shared. Cooking, films, music. There are so many things that make you think of her. It only takes the smallest reminder, and you’re immediately swallowed by grief—completely paralysed.
And he’s there.
He guides you through it, comforting you until you’re able to come back to yourself and are able to vocalise your emotions. A constant presence, steady and trustworthy, he’s there to take your burdens away as much as he can.
Sometimes, though, you need reminders. You need to think of her—immortalise her, conjure up every possible memory to bring her back to the present.
Marcus sits at the piano in the front room of your house, nimble hands resting over the keys, and he takes a breath before he begins to play.
The light shines in through the windows, cutting his face in half with shadows in the dim afternoon sun. You watch him. You listen to him. With every press of his fingers, another note echoes throughout the room, melding together into one coherent melody, taking you away to a place where you can exist in solitude.
He plays the same songs over and over again every single time, and each time it meets your grief halfway, hitting it head-on. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat when he plays the first keys to her song.
Fix You by Coldplay.
Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and you stand to move towards him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, embracing him as he plays.
She’s there.
You can feel her.
You both can.
The week of her birthday hits you hard, and you have to take the week off work. You don’t think you’re going to be able to move from bed, the weight of your grief making you practically immobile. It’s insurmountable, clutching at your chest and grasping you firmly.
“Do you want me to stay with you this week?” Marcus asks gently from his place on the edge of the bed, a palm resting on your thigh.
“No. It’s okay. I’m alright,” you assure him.
He takes the week off work anyway.
He curls himself around you in bed, squeezing you so tightly. He cards his fingers through your hair, presses kisses to your shoulder, talking to you in the softest voice possible. He’s so tender—loving. Even when you feel like your entire being is shattered, about to fall apart into pieces, he’s there, holding you, comforting you.
He guides you to the shower. He brings you meals. He lays out fresh clothes for you.
“Anything,” he tells you. “Anything you need. Tell me, and it’s yours, sweetheart.”
Sitting up in bed, Marcus lays you down so your head is positioned on his lap. He runs a palm down your back, and holds a book open with the other. Nancy Drew. Your mum read it to you when you were young, and you had mentioned it to him in passing once, fondly recalling the times she tucked you into bed and turned page after page with you until you fell asleep.
He reads to you. A gentle, calming lilt to his voice, as he recites the words on the page to you. The room is calm and still, and you’re able to breathe, the weight on your chest lessening with every word that leaves his lips.
Inhale.
Exhale.
You doze in and out, and eventually, Marcus moves further down on the bed until your body is splayed out across his chest and the book is propped up on your back. He keeps reading to you, letting the tension melt from your body. Even when he’s sure you’re fast asleep, he keeps reading out loud to you, his lips grazing the crown of your head.
Being in his embrace is what pure comfort and safety feels like, and for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
You keep a jacket of hers. It was your favourite. The smell of her perfume is still saturated in the fibres and every time you wear it, it feels like she’s enveloping you up in a warm hug. Sometimes you find yourself pressing your nose into the collar, holding it against your cheek, trying to savour the feeling for as long as you can.
Eventually, the smell of her perfume is gone, worn away with time.
You come home from work one day to a small package sitting on your shared bed, wrapped up in pale blue paper with a purple bow on top. Gently picking it up, you tear away the wrapping paper to reveal a new bottle of her perfume.
Rapidly pulling it out of the box, you open the lid and hold it to your nose, inhaling the scent.
Mum.
You hear footsteps behind come you, and feel two hands resting lightly on your hips.
“That’s her perfume, right?”
The smell overwhelms you, consuming all of your senses, and you have to choke back a sob as your knees buckle. Marcus wraps his arms tighter around you, catching you before he moves you to sit on the edge of the bed. “Hey, hey—it’s okay,” he says, holding you against his chest.
He holds you so delicately, like glass in his hands, wrapping you up with tender care.
“This is– this is it. This is the one,” you murmur against his throat, pressing the bottle into your cheek. “It’s like she’s here.”
“She is, honey. She’s always here,” he says as he presses a kiss to your head and holds you even tighter. “She’s always with you.”
Marcus visits her alone one afternoon.
He lays a fresh bunch of carnations down in front of her—pruned straight from your garden, wrapped up in purple tissue paper. He talks to her, and it hits him like a freight train how much he’s missed their easy conversations. She had welcomed him into your family so easily, loving him like a second son.
Keep this one, she had told you the first time she met him, as she fondly pinched his cheek.
He replays the memories in his head, and his chest aches at the loss, but it’s nothing compared to the hole that now sits in your heart. He tells her about you, about what’s been going on in your life, and all the things you’ve been doing. He tells her how brave you are—how strong and resilient. He tells her how much you both miss her.
Pressing his palm to the stone, he takes a breath as his eyes look over the engraving. “I’m taking care of her for you. I promise. I’ll always take care of her for you.”
End Notes:
I love you @smokeinherperfume, thinking of you today 🤍
Tagging some mutuals/fellow Marcus Pike lovers: @tieronecrush, @atinylittlepain, @cannolighost, @whataperfectwasteoftime, @chronic-ghost, @undrthelights, @thetriumphantpanda, @ale-belle, @deathwife, @fishingforpike, @ishabull, @darkroastjoel, @foli-vora
best friend’s stepdad!Joel Miller x f!reader | 4.7K | read on AO3
Summary: Your plan to seduce your best friend's stepdad is coming along perfectly. But there's one small hitch..
WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Girthy age gap (reader is 21, Joel is in his 50s). Frenemy relationship. Alcohol. Passing out. TW: Stepcest. TW: Dub con. Unprotected piv. Voyerism. F!masturbation. Jealousy. Multiple orgasms. Secret relationship. Daddy issues. Mention of virginity loss. TW: infidelity. Nipple play. Creampie. TW: drugging. Not beta'd because I'm insane enough to think it's pretty good.
A/n: another one that's been in the wip folder for centuries 😅 this is purely for entertainment reasons, if you don't like what's in the tags feel free to keep scrolling.
dividers by @/sisterlucifergraphics 👑
JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST
Tonight's the night. You're finally gonna fuck your best friend's stepdad.
Joel Miller has been haunting your every waking thought since you first met him over Christmas break. You and your new college friend Katie spent a few days with her mom and her new husband after you decided you couldn't stand your own family for very long. And that was when Katie's stepdad became a fixture in your fantasy department.
Tall, broad, a permanent tan from working in the sun, and with biceps as big as tree trunks, Joel is first on your list of Old Men to Fuck.
Before him you never bought into the whole "older guy" kink. Most men Joel's age are balding, with bulging guts and tiny dicks. Mr. Miller himself has none of those things. And the third one you hope to find out for yourself.
You show up on Katie's doorstep unannounced, your overnight bag in hand. Your bikini is already on under your shirt and shorts. She looks less than enthusiastic. Surprised, even.
"I wasn't expecting you until next weekend," she tells you, looking like she might even shut the door on you.
"C'mon, don't leave your best friend hanging." You prop the door open with the flat of your palm, swooshing past her and into the foyer. Joel and his wife have a nice place. Lots of different rooms and a huge pool in the back. "My parents are fighting again. Don't be a shitty friend and turn me away." Your words have a bite despite the smile plastered on your face.
"How long are you staying?" she asks, trudging upstairs after you.
"Umm.. not sure. How long is your mom gone for work?"
"The rest of the week. She comes back Thursday night."
"Where's Joel?" you ask innocently.
A pause from Katie. "He's in the backyard."
You ignore Katie's weirdness and stride outside, through the French doors and onto the deck. Joel's out at the grill, and the scent of cooking meat greets your nose.
"Well, hello there Mr. Miller." You saunter up to him, your top and jeans chucked off in Katie's room, your big and perky tits on display under the neon orange bikini top. Your bottom isn't a thong but it may as well be, the amount of ass you're showing.
Joel smirks at your chipper greeting, offering a little nod. "Hey there, scooter," he says. You want to lick up the drops of sweat beading on his forehead. He's the epitome of the Ultimate Dad, dressed in a navy blue Dallas Cowboys shirt and tan cargo shorts, crisp white New Balance sneakers on his feet.
"That looks so good," you tell him, leaning over the grill, arching your back so he can get a good look your generous cleavage. "Ooh.. I just love a good, thick sausage!"
The brief smirk on his face isn't lost on you, and you give him a little wink as you walk to the pool. He wipes his face on his sleeve before going back to the grill.
It's so easy to flirt with him. He takes it in stride, but you know it's because he can't openly flirt back in front of his stepdaughter, who will surely tell her mom on you both.
You stay within his line of sight, spreading sunscreen on your skin even though Katie has the spray kind. You take your time, hands roaming over your body, surreptitiously glancing at Joel. And he's definitely watching. Smiling, you come up to him as he closes the grill, getting ready to join you and Katie in the pool.
"Get my back?" you ask, handing him the bottle.
You untie the knot holding up your halter bikini top, feeling the heat of his gaze upon your skin. His large, roughened hands knead the cream onto your shoulders, smoothing down your back, settling briefly on your waist, squeezing lightly before tracing back up, massaging the sunscreen into your skin. "Anywhere else?" he asks gruffly.
You glance over at Katie, who's sitting on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. She's glaring at you, but turns away when she catches your eye. She's either angry or embarrased, probably both. You don't care. You're gonna be bouncing on her step-daddy's dick soon.
It's easy to keep Joel's attention on you once you have it. Your breasts are practically spilling out of your top. You make it a point to show them off as much as you can, especially in the pool, staying in the shallow end so they stay above the water, bountiful and enticing. You can practically see him licking his lips. Later when you eat you keep eye contact with him as you seductively eat the sausage on your plate. By the time lunch is over you're sure you're getting that cock tonight.
You lay on the lounge chair, soaking up the sun. Katie naps peacefully in the chair next to you, mouth open, snoring lightly. Joel's on your other side, the sunlight gleaming on the water droplets on his skin, his arm over his eyes to block out the harsh sun. You admire the soft paunch of his belly, the hairiness of his navel, the little peek of a happy trail leading down to his swim trunks. And there, currently at rest, the soft line of his thick cock, just visible through the material.
You run your tongue along your lips, reaching out ever so cautiously. But Joel looks up in time to grasp your hand. "What do you think you're doin', little lady?"
"Just admiring the view, Mr. Miller." you tease him, not releasing from his grip. You glance over to Katie. "She's asleep, she won't see anything," you whisper to him.
Joel's mouth is set in a firm line, and you can practically see the decision-making going on behind those dark lustful eyes. "You always this bold?"
"Only when I see something I want.."
"You're trouble," he whispers.
"You don't know the half of it.."
Katie wakes up suddenly, breaking the mood. But you've come prepared, and bring out the bottle of whiskey you brought with you. "Shots, anyone?"
You wake up groggy, your mouth dry and bitter, your stomach swirling with nausea. Your phone lights up at your touch, showing it's two in the morning.
The last thing you remember is doing shots with Katie and Joel. Maybe you went past your limit, though you pride yourself on handling your alcohol. Sitting up in Katie's bed you try to clear the fuzz in your brain as you reach for a bottled water on the nightstand.
Only then do you realize Katie's gone. Hopefully she just went to the bathroom. Refusing to divert from your plan of seducing Joel you get up and change into the sexy pajama set you'd bought for just this occasion, and start your way downstairs.
Your heart is thudding with excitement, your pussy already drenched with thoughts of what you're going to do to him.. and what he's going to do to you.
Halfway down the stairs you hear a thud coming from the living room, and then a harsh "Sh!" and a soft groan.
Joel's not alone.
Did his wife come home early? You peek into the living room where the TV casts its cerulean glow on a completely unclothed couple on the sofa, the woman writhing on the man's lap, his large hands on her hips. Your heart lurches when you see who it is.
Joel and Katie.
They're trying to be quiet, despite the rhythmic thwacking of flesh on flesh, and they're too absorbed in each other to notice you standing in the doorway. Katie's little whimpers of pleasure fill the room as Joel stares up at her, eyes evoking unbridled lust.
It makes your head spin as you put all the pieces together. Katie hadn't wanted you around this weekend - specifically because she wanted Joel for herself. She must have put something in your drink to make you fall asleep so she could sneak out and fuck him.
Katie's not as much of a shrinking violet as you thought. Part of you can't help being a little proud of her subterfuge.
You know you should leave, but a bigger part of you stays rooted to the spot, your hand going into your sleep shorts and under your panties as you watch your best friend and her stepdad.
Joel covers Katie's mouth as she comes, his huge palm barely able to mimimize the moan of pleasure that emits from her. Once she recovers he gently places her on her back, her legs hanging over his shoulders as he steadily pumps into her.
Your fingers are inside you, scissoring to spread you as wide as you imagine Joel's dick is, pumping your hand into you at the same speed that Joel is going. It should be you stuffed full of his cock on the living room sofa. It should be you moaning his name in ecstasy, barely attempting to quiet yourself.
Every time she comes he talks her through it, murmuring sweet things to her as he lets her come down and then switches position again, likely wanting to feel her in every way possible. Now he has her face-down ass-up as he pummels into her from behind, his grip on her so strong it's leaving bruises on her hips.
You whimper as you imagine yourself in Katie's place, but they're too engrossed in each other to hear it. You're waiting for her to come so you can let go too. And right as she's moaning his name Joel pulls away, stroking himself until he spills his load on her ass, both of them breathing heavily and slumped over. You come right after, soaking your hand in your panties, your free hand clamped over your mouth. What a rush, and yet you have so many questions as to what you've just witnessed.
They're talking now, speaking in low tones, likely trying not to wake you, under the impression that you're still asleep upstairs.
"I'll send her away," Katie's saying. "I know you don't like her. I don't like her very much, either."
Biting back a retort you harden your gaze at the two of them, laying side by side on the sofa.
"I saw the way she was throwing herself at you," she continues. "I wanted to push her into the pool."
Joel chuckles low and soft, the way you'd been fantasizing he would do with you. "She's the type of girl who's used to getting what she wants. She's nothing like you, soft and shy and quiet. I love that I don' t know what's goin' on inside that pretty head of yours." To top it off he kisses the top of her head.
"She's only my friend because she wants to sleep with you," Katie warns.
"She ain't gonna get that far," he says as a promise. "Look at me." He cups her chin and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. "It's just you and me, okay? Not even your ma can come between us."
You're back in bed when Katie returns. Even as she stands over your bed, you feign sleep. You don't have the mental fortitude it takes to process what you just witnessed. It was like a porn coming to life. Except it should have been you, not Katie.
"Wake up," she says. "I know you saw us."
"What?" you murmur, feigning tiredness. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Cut your bullshit," she growls. "You saw me fucking Joel, didn't you?" You've never seen this side of her before. Sweet, gentle Katie, who cried at those stupid SPCA commercials and said yes ma'am/yes sir to everyone over the age of thirty. The Katie you thought was a virgin and saving herself for marriage, or at the very least, romance.
Maybe you've met your match.
You sit up, dropping the act. "So what if I did? I was on my way to fuck him myself. Little did I know his own stepdaughter got to him first. You're gross, you know that? He's practically like a father to you."
"He's not my father. Besides, I love Joel, and he loves me."
This makes you laugh. "You're kidding, right? Katie, he's married to your mother! The man's not gonna drop everything just to be with you. He found an easy lay. No one in the world is dumb enough to give that up."
"You're just jealous."
"Yeah, let me tell you how much I want to run away with your stepfather." You roll your eyes. "You really think he loves you? You're delusional, Katie."
She sits on the bed, shoulders hunched. The closer she gets, you can get a whiff of sex off her.
"It's real between us, you know," she says quietly. "It's not just sex. We really do love each other."
"Oh honey, be real," you urge her. "It's fine for you to have your fun with him, but it's not gonna go anywhere. He'd lose everything. It's not worth the risk."
She's quiet, as if she's contemplating your words. Of course sweet little virgin Katie would fall head over heels for the first older man to give her some attention. You just never thought it'd be Joel Miller of all people.
"How did it happen?" you ask out of curiosity, a gnawing need that must be sated. Scooching over, you make room for her in the bed with you as she begins her story:
She used to steal his flannel shirts from his hamper when he was out. She liked the scent of him, whether it was the cologne her mom had bought him for his birthday or his own natural scent, the sweat the lingered on him as he came inside from mowing the lawn or working in the shed out back.
It was her secret sin that she had a crush on the man her mother married. Her own dad left to start over in another state with a younger woman who worked at his office. He wrote emails, sent gifts, but didn't put the effort in that showed his love. Joel hated him for that, cussing him out whenever his name was mentioned.
"You deserve better than that," Joel would mutter, squeezing Katie's shoulder. It was innocent at first. He had eyes only for her mom. He saw her as a daughter of his own, or so he'd told her. He'd never done anything inappropriate or acted untowardly with her. Part of her was relieved. A deeper, darker part of her wished he'd cave in so she could do so too.
She studied you, your behavior around men when you used them to get what you want. Standing shyly on the sidelines, she learned how to move, how to use her voice, how to dress. Luckily Joel didn't seem to mind what she wore, always complimenting her whether she had on her worn overalls or the sundress she'd borrowed from your own closet.
She was wearing that sundress the first time she kissed him.
He'd froze at first before pushing her away, telling her she shouldn't have done that, it was wrong for numerous reasons. But then he gave in and kissed her again.
That's all it was at first, just kissing and touching, always when her mom was out, or upstairs in bed, aided to sleep by a combination of pinot noir and heavy medication. Katie was a virgin, but despite her curiosity she didn't want to rush into this.
Certain sins she kept from him, like the way she'd steal his favorite flannel shirt from the laundry hamper, still bearing his scent, his sweat, the remnants of his cologne.. When he was out she would sneak the shirt into her room and touch herself, playing with her pussy while she held the fabric to her nose, imagining things she didn't dare suggest to him outright.
One night she didn't count on him coming home so early, and had fallen asleep on his bed after bringing herself to pleasure over and over..
Joel's heart stopped as he took in the sight of her on his bed, her legs bare beneath the t-shirt. He felt a jolt of desire course through him, his fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to touch her. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, torn between doing what he wanted and doing what was right. He slowly approached the bed, his eyes roaming over her body. His hands itched to touch her skin, to pull her into his arms. "Katie," he whispered, his voice almost reverent.
"Mm?" she moaned, waking up slowly.
Joel froze as she stirred, his heart thudding in his ears, He didn't know what to do, what to say. "You.. you're in my bed," he managed to croak out, his eyes glued to her half-naked body.
"S-sorry," she realized she was still holding his flannel. Joel's eyes flickered to his shirt still clutched in her hands and swallowed hard, trying to find a coherent thought. "You shouldn't be in here.."
"I'm sorry," she repeated, with no excuse for why she was in there in the first place. Joel shook his head, his voice a low growl. "Don't apologize." He took a step closer to the bed, his body moving of its own accord, drawn to her like a magnet.
Her breath shuddered and despite herself her core grew warm and wet. "I'll go."
"No," Joel said firmly, his hand shooting out to grip her wrist as she started to get up.
"Joel?" She gasped when he pressed her down, undoing his jeans. Her panties were pushed to the side as she held onto him, heart buzzing with excitement.
"Katie.. God, I'm sorry," he groaned as he settled between her thighs.
All her breath left her as he pushed forward and she gasped in surprise. Joel stilled above her, his face mere inches from her. "Did I hurt you?" His body trembled with the effort to keep still.
"I'm okay," she whispered, the pain melting already. As soon as she said that he started to snap his hips against hers and she cried out.
His breath caught in his throat, fingers gripping her thighs as he thrust fast and deep. "Christ.. Katie.."
Before she knew it he was pulling away, removing from her as something warm and sticky covered her belly. Joel groaned as he spilled himself onto her stomach, feeling both relief and guilt wash over him. He looked down at Katie, her body trembling under his. "I'm so sorry.. I shouldn't have.."
"It's okay," she whispered, her mind still spinning with what had just happened.
"We won't tell anyone what happened, okay?" He found a towel and cleaned her, his touch gentle.
"And so.. what, you've been fucking him ever since when your mom's not around?"
Katie shrugs. "Yeah.. she's been going on more work trips lately. I don't think she suspects anything.."
"Katie, she's not stupid. You're fucking her husband under her roof. She's bound to figure it out eventually. You or him or both of you will slip somehow."
"What is wrong with you?" she counters. "You told me yourself that you mess around with your own stepfather."
"That's different," you huff. "I only blow him sometimes when I want a little extra spending money. I would never straight up fuck him!"
"It is different.. because Joel and I love each other," Katie stresses.
"He doesn't love you! He just wants to fuck you!" you nearly shout. "Jesus! What would happen if your mom found out? She owns a fucking gun!"
"Quiet!" Katie hisses. "She'd never hurt us. When the time is right he's going to leave her and be with me."
"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"
Katie doesn't answer you, she just gives you a sad look, as if you could never understand.
You're starting to think you don't want to understand.
Still, that doesn't deter you from pursuing Joel yourself. Now that you've seen that cock in action you need it. If a sweet, simpering virgin like Katie can somehow persuade him, you with all your know-how will land this easily. Piece of cake.
After making sure Katie won't bother the both of you, you find Joel on the deck outside, enjoying an ice cold beer.
"You look comfy," you purr, standing in his direct sunlight so he has to look up at you.
"What're you doin' out here?" he mutters, sipping a beer, sitting straighter up as you sit next to him on the deck sofa.
"I just wanted to come out and say hi," you say prettily, swiping his beer and taking a sip, letting the tip of your tongue linger on the bottle.
"Where's Katie?" he asks, voice rough as he watches you.
"She got her period or something. She had to run out to buy pads." A little smirk dances across your face. "So we're all alone. What should we do?"
He turns to glance over his shoulder at the house, as if to check that Katie really is gone. "It's up to you, darlin'. Wanna get in the pool? Sunbathe a little?" His smirk matches yours.
"I've got something better I'd like to do." You perch your barely-covered ass on his lap, grinding down slightly, his bulge twitching beneath you.
Realization dawns in his eyes and he keeps his hands at his side, a feat of restraint. "You're practically just a kid."
"The last time I checked, twenty-one is a full grown adult."
He exhales through his nose as you continue to press him. Another sip of beer passes his lips before he replies. "I'm over twice your age," he mutters.
"So?"
"I'm old enough to be your dad. I've got wrinkles and everything."
You trace your fingertip over his crow's feet and the deepening ridge between his brows. "I think your wrinkles are cute."
"You're just bullshittin' me." Joel's blushing though.
"No bullshit. Promise." You rub your hand on his knee. "Girls my age love older men."
He's intrigued now. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"
"Because y'all know what we need while we're still figuring out what we want."
He makes a hmph sound in his throat, but he's nonetheless intrigued. "And what is it that you want, kid?"
Your fingers wander to the graying curls at the nape of his neck. "I want to take care of you, see that your needs are met."
Joel shakes his head. "Why waste all that on an old man?"
"I just think we could have a good time together."
"Good time, huh? What exactly do you think we'd be doin'?" His brow arches.
"Might be more fun to show you."
Joel gives an amused scoff as you pull him close, brushing your lips against his. His rough hands grab your waist, pulling you to straddle him. Your lips part, allowing his tongue in your mouth, exploring and tasting.
He's married, he's involved with his stepdaughter, and now this.. you're a beautiful girl and he's just a weak man.
His arms wrap around you, hands sliding up your tank top, stroking your soft skin. His kiss turns rough and greedy, biting your bottom lip and tugging it between his teeth. You start to grind on his lap, moving your hips in little circles as you slowly pull your top off. Joel's breath hitches in his throat, his eyes hungrily admiring your flesh. He'd be lying if he said he'd never snuck a look at you before. And now you're giving him exactly what he wants.
He leans in, leaving a trail of kisses down your neck and chest. You arch into his kiss, his beard lightly scratching your skin. "I want to feel you," you moan softly.
"Yeah? Think you can handle me?" he mumbles against your skin. "I'm more than two decades older than you, sweetheart."
"I'm well aware." You grind down on his lap as he gazes up at you with his big brown eyes, his hands gripping your thigh, holding in you place on him. "They say older trees are the sturdiest," you add.
"Never heard that line before, darlin'.." He gives your thigh a squeeze, his hand sliding up the hem of your shorts.
"Glad I can give you some kind of first," you whisper, your lips running down his neck as you unbutton his jeans. You lift off him enough to touch him through his boxers. Joel inhales a sharp breath, reaching to grasp your wrist. "Don't you think you're gettin' a little ahead of yourself, darlin'?"
"What? Don't tell me you're feeling guilty.." you tease him, unclamping his hand from your wrist so you can pull down your shorts and panties in one go. "I wanna feel you, Joel.."
That's the moment when his self-control goes out the window. "Fuck," he growls, eyeing the slickness present between your thighs as you climb into his lap. "Think it'll all fit?" you murmur, allowing the tip of him to sink in.
"Gonna find out," he grunts, thrusting up into you, his hands gripping your hips. God, he's big, bigger than you'd dreamed, and thick.
"You okay?" He gives you a chance to adjust to him. After you nod, he pulls almost all the way out then back in again at a torturously slow pace. "Takin' me all the way in," he mutters, running his tongue along the side of your throat.
"Joel, you're huge," you sigh. "I can feel you in my belly."
"Yeah? Right here?" He presses his palm to the small bulge protruding in your lower stomach. "Come on, sweetheart, take it. Ride me like you mean it."
"Oh, fuck.. it's so good," you moan as you start moving in earnest, bouncing on his lap as your pussy squelches around his cock. He grabs your hips, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tries to steady you. "Slow down, darlin'," he warns you. "I'm close. Don't want this to end so soon."
"Already?" You tsk-tsk. "Poor guy.. you must really need to get rid of that load." You hear his scoff and decide to go for the jugular. "I bet Katie never lets you come inside her.."
"What?" His eyes jerk up to yours, hands tightening on your hips, ready to throw you off. "What are you talking about?"
"Easy, tiger. She already told me everything. I found you two by accident on the couch, fucking like the perverts you are," you whisper, bearing down on him with punctuation.
"What the fuck.. you saw that?"
"I did.. and I got myself off to it.. so hard." You swivel your hips just so, still riding him. "You want to fill me up, don't you? Young and pretty thing like me, filled up with you?"
His eyes close as you kiss his cheek, his body reacting way ahead of his brain. "Yeah, I do. Gonna let me come inside this sweet pussy?"
"I have an IUD. You can pump me full of you." You gasp as he dips his head, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking it, swirling his tongue over it.
"You're gonna be leakin' me for days," he warns you, guiding you up and down, thrusting up into you at a relentless pace.
"Fill me up.. use me," you whimper, your walls starting to convulse around him. Joel felt the tremors beginning deep inside you and holds back until you're coming apart on top of him, wet and tight and urging him to spill. His hips stutter as he comes hard, bottoming out as his warm release jets up into you.
"Look at you. All messy." He lifts you off of him, a combination of your fluids already oozing out, glazing his dick and his pubes.
"I'm gonna go to sleep just like this, full of you," you plant another kiss on his lips before you get to your feet and get dressed. "And when I wanna get filled again, I know exactly where to go." You wink at him before going upstairs.
Checking on Katie upstairs you find her still asleep, knocked out from the sleeping pills you crushed into her drink earlier. A little payback for the way she'd drugged you the night before. "See? All I wanted was a taste," you tell her, softly stroking her hair. "You didn't have to be so greedy. We're best friends, after all. And that means we share everything."
if you've made it this far, thank you! follow @baronessvonglitter-fics for updates 💖
taglist: @time-for-my-weekly-spanking | @mcthsman | @ess-evo | @tateypots | @madpanda75 | @aurorawritestoescape | @milla-frenchy | @kokoluwie | @sawymredfox | @joelalorian | @speaktothehandpeasants | @goonersquad101 | @artsymaddie (if you no longer want to be tagged in this please LMK)
I didn't see it coming at all and my jaw probably dropped HARD 🤯😂
ngl, I feel a little bad for Katie (I know, I know, I shouldn't...) but our poor girl is way too innocent, and I can't imagine when she'll find out!!
Reader is a player omg!!!
And Joel... Joel is NOT in love with you Katie 😂😂😂🤣
This was such a good idea 😍😍
"Already?" You tsk-tsk. "Poor guy.. you must really need to get rid of that load." You hear his scoff and decide to go for the jugular. "I bet Katie never lets you come inside her.."
Thank you so much for reading! 💜💜 Katie’s the only innocent one here and though I feel bad for her she does need a wake up call. Hell, I’d be delusional if I was getting the D from Joel too 😂
Summary: Frankie promises to give you what you ask for... but only if you can play by the rules of his game
Word Count: 2.4K
Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n, established relationship)
Warnings: SMUT (18+), this is literally porn with no plot WHOOPS, cockwarming, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, oral (f receiving), cum eating, breeding kink (just really wanting to cum inside- no implications of wanting to get pregnant but use your imagination if you so choose because you know I will🙂 edging, overstimulation (if u squint), praise kink, size kink, feral Frankie, but also sweet soft baby boy Frankie 😭🥺
A/N: Ovulation demons are at it again!!! 🤠 Idk what to tell y'all, this came to me (quite literally whoops) and I couldn't rest until my thots were written down! I know Joel won the voting poll for this one, but honestly it just screams Frankie 😩 Everyone clap for Madeline as she writes something that isn't an explicit pregnancy breeding kink!!!!
Frankie was never the type of guy to spend his Sundays glued to the TV, watching whatever NFL game was on just for the sake of staying up to date on the sports world.
So when you found him in the living room, lounged and sprawled out across your couch with football on in the background, you were sure that now was just as good of a time as any to suggest you spend the rest of your lazy afternoon in a much more enjoyable way for the both of you.
"How much longer until the game is done?" You cooed, crawling into Frankie's lap, straddling your legs across his hips and tracing your fingers up and down the worn cotton of his t-shirt.
"'Bout halfway. Why?" Frankie smirked, the half hard bulge growing in his sweatpants revealing he knew damn well why you had asked.
"Because, I have a game I'd rather play that's much better than football." You teased, leaning down to trail soft kisses along his neck and jaw, subtly grinding your hips down into his.
"Yeah? and what game would that be, quierda?" Frankie's smirk only grew wider, lust pooling in the warmth of his brown eyes as his hands roamed to grope your ass, kneading the plump flesh in his grasp.
"My favorite game. The game where you put your dick inside me."
The two of you couldn't help but giggle despite the palpable tension brewing between you, a desperate and hungry need filling the air as Frankie's grip tightened, feeling you sink your weight over the full blown erection tenting his pants.
"That is a good game," Frankie chuckled, looking up at you with a concentrated furrow in his brow, seeing the gears turn in his mind as his eyes locked with yours. "I'll play. But-"
"But what, Frankie?" You asked, titling your head in confusion at his pause.
"But... We get to play by my rules."
At this point, Frankie's subtle smirk had shifted to a full blown devilish grin, leaving you wondering what kind of ideas he had managed to concoct in regards to your proposal.
"And what rules would those be, Franke?" You mewled, playing along as you traced your fingers along the edge of his waistband, tugging it down just enough to expose the happy trail running down the lower half of his stomach.
"I'll put my dick in you... But I'm not fucking you until the game is done."
You froze in your tracks, the unsure scrunch of your face acting as a silent ask to figure out if Frankie was being serious or not. The sudden shift in the tone of his voice now humming deep in his chest with a hungry desire, made it very clear that his suggestion was more than sure.
"If you want me to fuck you, rules are that you keep me inside you until the game is finished. But you can't move, can't touch yourself, and can't cum 'till I say."
You could already feel the slick starting to pool in the cotton of your underwear from anticipation and excitement, heart pulsing in your chest and cunt at the prospects of Frankie's idea. Because if there was one think Frankie knew about you, it was that you'd never turn down a challenge. And more importantly, you hated losing. So who would you be to deny him a chance to challenge him at his own game?
"You're on, Morales."
It had started off easy- sweet, even- Frankie spooning behind you, gently sliding his cock into your pussy, ass resting against his hips as your bodies melded together, snuggling on the couch.
He had even eased you into it, taking the first part of the 3rd quarter after half time had finished to stretch you out slowly, starting with just the tip notching between your folds and into your heat, sinking himself deeper inside you every few minutes to let you adjust to his size.
Even with how worked up you were, with half of Frankie's length now resting inside you, your confidence in making it another quarter and a half still abiding by Frankie's rules didn't seem too far out of reach.
But then again, you weren't expecting Frankie to play dirty, either.
Suddenly, Frankie was foregoing his subtle pace, trailing hot, wet kisses along your neck as he pushed himself fully inside you, filling you to the brim as his tip nestled against your cervix. A pathetic whimper escaped from your parted lips, catching your breath while your pussy pulsed around his length, feeling Frankie's smug grin pressed against your shoulder between his kisses.
"Oh f-fuck, Frankie!" You moaned, the sweet sting of his stretch already making your eyes roll to the back of your head, trying with everything in you to keep yourself composed.
"There ya go, princesa. Tight little pussy always takes me so well, doesn't she?" Frankie cooed almost mockingly, the hot breath of his words dancing against your skin between sucking at your pulse point. "Gotta relax, baby girl. Still have a ways to go before the game's over."
You took a long inhale in, glancing at the game clock in the bottom corner of the TV frame, finding the small box that read "3rd Quarter- 6:37" and doing some quick calculations in your head.
6 minutes left of this quarter and 15 minutes in the next. Plus game breaks and commercials? You could pull yourself together enough to make it through that without falling apart? Can't be that much longer, right?
For the average person watching football, you were right.
But to you, with Frankie's cock buried in your pussy, painstakingly teasing you to the point of near tears, you were convinced that you were watching the longest football game ever played in the history of mankind.
After sinking his full length to your hilt, Frankie had become relentless. It started off just like he had before, the intensity of his teasing amping up little by little with each minute that passed.
It began with the kisses on your neck, slowing trailing up and down your warm skin, whispering sweet praises into your ear. The tickle of the scratchy hairs from his beard making you shiver in delight, wishing it was buried between your legs, scratching the inside of your thighs as he ate you out instead of your neck.
Next, came his hands, palms that were once innocently splayed across your stomach now reaching under your shirt to palm at your breasts, kneading the soft flesh in his grasp, fingertips gently rolling your pebbled nipples, tweaking the hard buds with just enough pressure that his other hand was holding your hips firmly in place to keep you from grinding against him and taking any more than he gave you.
If both of those weren't enough, the final straw was when the hand lazily groping at your breasts snaked down your front, finding its way to your clit, puffy and aching from its time spent untouched while Frankie's cock lay stiff and full inside you.
At this point, you were absolutely soaked, every inch of your bottom half drenched in your arousal as you leaked around Frankie's length, the pads of his fingers sliding over your sensitive and slippery bundle of nerves with unspeakable ease. Even though he had barley but any pressure over your clit, just the ghosting of his fingertips was enough to make you sob, desperate to chase your high after what felt like hours of Frankie teasing you with his cock.
"Oh my god, F-frankie, fuck- please, baby. P-please touch me." You begged, pathetically whimpering as his fingers traced through your drenched folds, his strong grip holding your hips in place to keep you from pushing your ass deeper into his hips for some sort of relief.
"Shhhhhh, I know, baby. But you can't cum yet, remember? If I touch you, you gotta be a good girl and follow the rules of the game." Frankie smirked, teasing you as his fingers lazily collected your slick, purposefully circling them everywhere but your clit.
"I won't, I promise, p-please, Frankie. P-please."
Giving into your plea, Frankie dragged his fingers up your cunt, making you cry out as he finally began to rub slow circles against your throbbing bundle of nerves, the mix of temporary relief and painful ache to cum making you clamp down around Frankie's cock, wetness gushing from your core.
It was taking everything in you to fight the urge to collapse, biting down so hard on your lip you were convinced it might bleed as you felt the pleasure begin to build in you. Unfortunately for you, Frankie had spent enough time memorizing every twitch and tug of your body beneath his that he knew your tell tale signs, pulling his fingers away to the sounds of your ragged moans.
"Frankie, n-no, fuck- please, baby. I need more, pleasepleaseplease."
"Fuck, you're so pretty when you beg. I know, quierda, but not yet. There's still 4 minutes left in the game. 4 minutes left and then I'll fuck you. Fuck you with my tounge, my cock, I'll make you cum so many times you won't be able to walk straight. But not until this tight little pussy is so wet and ready for me that she can take everything I have to give."
With the way Frankie's filthy mouth was spewing, he might as well be fucking into you at full force, his words shooting straight to your core, fingers digging into your couch cushions for any sort of relief you could get.
"F-Frankieeeee-" His name was the only thing your mind could comprehend enough to get out, practically panting as the sheen of sweat began to dampen your forehead.
"You're doing so good for me, baby girl. I know you can take it." Frankie praised, scooping his hand under your jaw to turn your face towards him, cradling your cheeks in his grasp to force your lips to his, colliding mouths muffling the moans escaping from you.
You were practically drunk off pleasure at this point, trying your best to fight off a dizzying high as you watched the clock wind down at a painstaking pace, your heart skipping a beat as you saw the clock shift to count down from only one minute left.
"Less than a minute left, Hermosa. Think you can make it?" Frankie cooed, his fingers creeping back down to circle your clit, sending a jolt through your body as he rubbed at the slippery and soaked bundle of nerves.
The best you could do was nod your head, too far gone for any words as your cunt clamped tighter and tighter around him, so wet that you were more than positive you'd be cleaning stains of your puddles of slick out of your couch tomorrow.
Looking back at the TV, you were down to 12 seconds left, the winning team already celebrating their inevitable victory, hoping that it would be enough for Frankie to give in and finally fuck you.
"F-fuck me, Fransisco, please. Please, baby, wanna cum around your cock so bad." You whined at a pathetic pitch, pleading with Frankie to give you what you had been so desperate for.
You could hear the sigh of relief as the game clock finally wound down to :00, sensing an immediate shift in Frankie's demeanor as the game came to a close.
"Oh thank fuck this game is done." Frankie groaned, flipping you over onto your back and caging his body over yours, colliding your mouths in a messy dance of tongues and teeth.
While he may not have said it, Frankie was just as wound up as you, the warm and wet walls of your cunt soaking him for the better part of an hour driving him absolutely feral, using every ounce of self-restraint to keep from accepting defeat at his own game.
"Wanted to fuck you so bad, quierda. Do you know how hard it was not to give into you, baby? Not to hear those pretty moans and not fuck this perfect pussy. You did so good for me, so good that I'm gonna fuck you until you're begging me to stop. Gonna fill you up so full of me, I'll be dripping out of you for days."
Frankie sat back, throwing your legs over the width of his broad shoulders, leaning into you so that your thighs pressed against your stomach, stretching you open even further than you thought you could as he began to punch into you at a punishing pace.
His cock rammed against your g-spot, the sounds wet squelching from his length dragging in and out of your soaking heat, balls slapping against your ass and lewd moans had your living room sounding like it was straight out of a porn scene
"Fuckfuckfuck- Frankie- don't stop, baby. Don't stop." You sobbed, Frankie barley 10 strokes in before you could feel the coil in your belly beginning to tighten, so worked up from waiting for this moment that you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.
"Not gonna stop, hermosa. Lemme feel it, baby. Did so good for me. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel you soak me. Wanna feel you before I fuck myself so deep inside of you."
“Ohmygod- oh Frankie, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
It only took a few more strokes and the curly hairs at the base of his shaft rubbing against your clit to send you over the edge, your pent up orgasm crashing through you so hard, you were conviced that you were levitating in pure ecstasy. Every inch of your body was trembling with pleasure, gushing around Frankie’s cock as you came, your velvety walls choking his length as he relentlessly continued to fuck into you, ready to chase his own high.
“That’s my good girl. Let go, baby. Cum all over me. Fuck, your pussy feels so fucking good.” Frankie groaned, admiring you as you rode out your orgasm, jaw slack and mouth hanging open in a perfect “O”, your glossed over eyes and blissed out expression finding a way to drive him even more wild.
Reaching between your legs, Frankie’s fingers found your clit, making you cry out from how sensitive you still were, barely finished cumming before he was already on his way to doing it again.
“Frankie, it’s too- fuck- too much. Oh my god, shit-“ you sobbed, wrapping your fingers around his biceps, his muscles flexing in your grasp as you tried to brace yourself.
“I know you can take it, Hermosa. Need to give you one more. Please, let me give you one more.”
“I- fuck- I c-can’t.” But despite your half hearted protest, you and Frankie both knew that you were already half way to reaching your high again, coil in your stomach tightening with each punch against your g-spot and rub of his fingers on your throbbing bundle of nerves.
"You can, baby girl, I know you can. Can feel how close you are again- so fucking wet and tight, fuck- Give me one more and I'm gonna fill you so fucking full of me- watch my cum leak out of your tight little pussy 'till I can fuck it back into you again, keep you inside me for days." Frankie moaned, his pace now becoming more frantic and sloppy with each thrust, fighting with everything in him to keep from finishing before you did once more.
The combination of the feral thoughts that Frankie found himself spewing, along with the overwhelming and all consuming pleasure was all you needed to tip you over the edge again, this orgasm even more intense than the last. Your eyes were rolling to the back of your head, sobbing and crying out Frankie's name like a broken prayer, body practically going limp as pure bliss overtook you.
"Oh shit- Fuck, you're so good to me, quierda. Feels so fucking good. Fuck, I'm gonna cum too- mierda- give you everything I have, gonna-ahhhhh! Fuck!"
Just like that, Frankie was spilling inside you, hips stuttering with one final thrust as he painted your walls with hot, thick ropes of his spend, balls drawing up into his stomach while he milked himself of every last drop he had to give.
Through heavy breaths and gritted teeth, Frankie carefully pulled out his softening cock, sitting back on his heels to watch the mix of your spend begin to drip out of your hole, awestruck but the wet and shiny mess between your thighs, pussy puffy, swollen and leaking with him.
But for just as animalistic as it made Frankie to watch his cum seep out of your spent cunt, there was an even more primitive part of him that need to make sure that you stayed full of him, to mark his territory inside of you.
Shifting to lay on his stomach, Frankie kept your legs slung over his shoulders, pushing your thighs to your chest to spread you open, watching more of his seed dribble out of your pussy. With a satisfied groan rumbling deep in his chest, Frankie stuck out his tongue, swiping it up to collect the warm mixture of your arousal before pushing it back into your heat, gently fucking you with his mouth as you whined and writhed beneath him.
Once he was satisfied with his cum stuffed back inside you, Frankie couldn't help but look up at you with the most satisfied smirk spread across his face, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up to trap your body beneath his, resting his weight on top of you with his head nestled between your breasts, big brown puppy dog eyes staring up at you.
"Are you okay, baby?" He cooed, reaching up to gently stroke your cheek, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin. "It wasn't too much, was it?"
"No, it was amazing, Frankie." You smiled, reaching down to run your fingers through the messy curls of his sweat-ridden hair, heart swelling with how quickly Frankie had flipped the switch from assertive to soft and sweet. "We should watch football like that more often."
"Baby, if this is how you wanna watch football, I won't let us miss another fucking game the rest of this season."
Tag List: (Sorry if I tagged you and you don't wanna be tagged, just let me know!!)
Summary: Officer Jane Nebble is looking for a change by transferring to another police precinct. She sees this as a great opportunity, but will her new boss feel the same?
Pairing: Tim Rockford x OFC Jane Nebble
Word Count: 1271
Rating: I’m rating this 18+. There’s no smut here, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.
Warning: My warnings apply to the entire series. There is swearing. There is clinginess. There are knees. There is angst. Anxious and angry parents.
A/N: This is a purely fictional story. I don’t know crap about how police departments work internally, so don’t come for me.
“Uh… hi,” he begins shyly, “I’m Frankie… Franny’s dad.”
Tim is stunned into complete silence. He’s never even clapped eyes on the elusive ‘Franny’, yet here is his father… standing at their door. He has to feel for the guy. It takes some guts to walk up to some stranger’s door and introduce yourself.
“You must be LaLa’s dad,” Frankie continues, trying to fill the gap.
“LaLa?” Tim finally finds his voice. The sound of small feet thumping quickly down the stairs comes from within the house.
“Um,” Frankie murmurs confusedly, like maybe he has the wrong house. A plaid-flannelled arm and a small head with messy dark curls appears from behind him.
“LaLa!” the boy shouts, stepping out into the open.
“Franny!” Layla exclaims, tripping her way across the front entryway to throw her arms around him. She grabs his hand and drags him into the house toward the kitchen. Quick chatter between them drifts through the house… are you okay?... did you get in trouble?... is that Officer Matt?... did you get your helicopter back?
“Guess I got the right house after all,” Frankie laughs as his posture eases.
********************************
We sit at the table on the back patio, watching Layla and Franny kneeling in the grass and passing the little helicopter between them while Matt keeps a close eye. Franny is tall for his age, easily towering over Layla, but then, his dad is as tall as Rockford so I can’t say that it surprises me. He could be easily mistaken for being older than he is. Layla is most likely going to take after me in the height department. She looks and acts like me, so why wouldn’t she be short too?
“I came to apologize,” Frankie begins as I hand him a glass of lemonade, “for what happened at the school today. It’s not usually this bad.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Franny’s been having a hard time since we moved here… since his mom took off. I thought maybe putting him in school might help. You know… be around kids his age. It’s been nothing but a headache… especially with that little fucker, Avery,” he pauses, checking his language. “Sorry… I just get worked up about that kid every time Franny says his name.”
“I didn’t hear a fucking thing,” I reassure him with a grin.
“Thanks. I just don’t get what Avery’s malfunction is. Franny barely says two words together most days. And as for starting shit… that ain’t Franny. He ain’t a fighter.”
I look over at the lanky kid that sits hunched over, holding the helicopter in the palm of his hand so Layla can flick the rotor to make it spin. His eyes are dark and intense as he focuses on whatever it is that Layla’s telling him. Then he points to her mouth, and she grins, throwing her head back and laughing.
“I’m glad he has someone like LaLa. He’s been a lot happier lately… well… happier for Franny,” Frankie admits. “Still… I am sorry that she got dragged into that bullshit today. I’ll gladly pay the dental bill for her tooth. It’s the least I can do.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Rockford says at last. “She’s always wrestling with the dog. She was gonna lose it sooner or later anyway.”
A moment passes, and I can’t help myself. “I’m just curious… is ‘Franny’ a nickname?”
Frankie chuckles. “Yeah. That was all my sister Izzy’s doing. I was away for work when he was born, so his mom decided to name him Francisco… after me. Well… Izzy didn’t see the point of two Frankies… or a Frankie Jr… running around, so she started calling him Franny and it stuck.”
Even Rockford smiles. “I could see how that could happen. I can’t tell you how tempting it is to call Layla ‘Jane Junior’ or ‘J.J.’ for short.”
I gasp in mock horror. “Rockford, I’m offended.”
“No you’re not!” he laughs.
“You’re right. I’m not. And that Avery got what was coming to him. He shouldn’t be bullying other kids.” I can see by the look on Rockford’s face that he agrees… but he won’t say it aloud. He just smirks.
“Thank you,” Frankie’s voice gets a little thick with emotion, “for LaLa… I mean Layla… sticking up for him. He’s my little guy… and shit’s been real rough on him… on both of us, really. I know he misses his mom, but he’ll never say it. So, really, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
“Anytime,” I tell him, and I mean it. He’s a single dad just trying his best to do right by his kid.
“Well… I guess we should get going. We’ve intruded on you enough.” He stands and calls out, “Franny! Time to go, buddy! Uncle Benny’s waiting for us at the gym!”
Franny’s expression falls ever so slightly, but he gives a little nod and gets to his feet, not even bothering to brush the grass from his knees. He hands Layla his helicopter and she stares at it for a moment, turning it over in her hands. There’s a brief exchange that we can barely hear… are you sure?... I know it’ll be safe here, where Avery can’t get it… I’ll keep it near my police car. It’ll be extra extra safe. He seems sufficiently satisfied with the arrangement, flashing her a quick smile before jogging over to his dad.
“Hey… uh… if you ever have car trouble… or need any kind of vehicle maintenance,” Frankie says, “the place I work… Delta Motors… just stop in and tell them I sent you. They’ll get you right in.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Rockford assures him as they shake hands.
“I’m ready,” Franny says, grabbing his dad’s hand.
********************************
Franny vigorously waves to Layla from his seat in Frankie’s pickup truck as they rumble away. Tim takes a moment to watch them round the corner, disappearing from the quiet cul-de-sac. Jane picks up Layla and snuggles her close.
“Franny and his dad seem very nice. I like them,” Jane professes.
He hums in agreement. “They seem very down-to-earth.” He then pauses for a moment. “Maybe I should do a little background check… you know… just to make sure.”
“Rockford.” She tilts her head and gives him a look.
“What? I just wanna-” he continues to insist.
“No.” Her eyebrows raise a fraction.
“But I-”
“Ab-solute-ly not,” she says with finality, her tone telling him to ‘keep going… I fucking dare you’. “It has to be enough that Franny is good to Layla. And Frankie? Well, it takes a lot of balls to roll up to a stranger’s house to apologize. That says something.”
He lets out a sigh. “I guess.”
She reaches up to caress his cheek, her eyes softening. “Squish… it’s enough for me,” she brushes an errant curl away from his face, “it needs to be enough for you too.”
“You’re right,” he admits, pressing his forehead to hers.
“And Rockford?”
“What?”
“No secret detective work, okay?”
“I wouldn’t…” he replies defensively.
“You absolutely would, Rockford, and we both know it.”
“I wasn’t…”
“If you want to check into that little jerk-face, Avery, by all means do what you gotta do, but leave Franny and Frankie alone.”
Layla repeats with a giggle, “Jerk-face.”
He straightens up, though his shoulders slump in defeat. The word ‘fine’ comes out making him sound like a petulant teenager.
“And also,” she grabs the collar of his shirt, pulling him back down to eye-level and giving him a smooch, “no asking Dave to do it either.”
Summary: You’re a woman of a certain age and things are changing in your body. Fortunately, you have Joel Miller in your corner.
Warnings: Mature, implied sexual contact, discussions of perimenopause.
A/N: This has evolved from this WIP. Enjoy 🥰
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The fire has burned down to amber coals, throwing low light across the bedroom ceiling, and you lie there staring at the familiar map of cracks in the plaster, trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.
Joel's hand rests on your hip, patient and still, like it has been for a while now.
"We don't have to," he says, the same words he's used three times this week alone, delivered in the same careful register – not cold or resentful, but something more exhausted than either of those things. Like a man who’s learned to keep his voice very level around something that spooks easily.
"I know we don't have to."
You hear the snap in your own voice and hate yourself for it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
"It’s okay."
But it isn’t okay. Not because he’s angry, but because he isn’t and somehow that’s almost worse. You'd prefer anger. Anger would give you something to push against, something to explain yourself to. Instead, there’s just this careful, considered gentleness that makes you feel like a wounded animal being handled by someone who doesn’t want to lose a finger.
You shift onto your side, facing away from him. His hand stays on your hip for a moment longer, then withdraws to his own side of the bed.
The coals tick and outside the wind moves through Jackson in long dark sighs that mirror how you feel.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, because you haven’t always been like this.
You can remember – with a vividness that now feels almost cruel – the way it used to be. The hunger and ease of it. Joel’s not a demonstrative man by most measures. He doesn’t talk about his feelings any more than he absolutely has to or offer reassurance or emotional narration. But in bed, in that particular dark, he’s always been completely present with you in a way that feels like its own language.
His hands know you, have learned you with the patient attention of a man who genuinely wants to learn something and who finds the subject endlessly interesting.
You’ve wanted him just as badly, more some weeks. You've been the one reaching across the space between you in the early morning light, when he makes a low pleased sound and pulls you closer, and it’s been easy. Not effortless, but easy in the way that breathing is easy, the way you don't have to think about it.
Now it feels like breathing at altitude. Like your body has quietly, without consulting you, moved somewhere the air’s thinner.
It started, if you had to name a starting point, maybe eight months ago and it was small things at first. Like when you went to bed on a regular Tuesday intending to reach for him and found yourself simply...uninterested.
You weren’t tired, not upset, not distracted by anything specific. You were just blank where the want usually lives. You rolled over, went to sleep and told yourself it was nothing. That it was a phase, or a bad week or, more likely, the cumulative weight of living in this world doing its usual arithmetic on desire.
But the blank Tuesdays became blank weekends, the weeks between stretching. And when you do try – because you love him and don’t want to lose the thread of this thing between you – there’s the dryness.
You've never experienced it like this, that specific discomfort that makes everything feel wrong, that makes you tense when you've always melted, that turns something that’s been pleasure into something you’re simply enduring and hoping he can’t tell.
Of course he can tell.
Joel Miller has spent twenty years before ever laying eyes on you learning to read threat and deception in the smallest tells of human behaviour. He isn’t going to miss the way you go a little still, or the way your breathing shifts from something good to something controlled.
He pulled back the first time, quietly, without making it a thing and kissed you carefully.
But you saw his face in the low light, saw the confusion there, the careful way he smoothed it back to neutral, and you felt a cold shame settle into your chest that hasn’t fully left since.
****
The hot flashes start in October.
That’s what finally makes you go to Dr Vee.
They come at night mostly, though not exclusively – this drenching, furnace-blast heat that wakes you from sleep damp and disoriented, your heart clattering, kicking the blankets off while Joel sleeps beside you oblivious. Sometimes you get up and stand at the window in the cold air until your skin cools and your pulse settles.
Once he wakes, finds you there and asks if you’re all right. You tell him you’re fine, just warm and that he should go back to sleep. And he does, slowly, with that same careful patient stillness he's been wearing like armour for months.
The sleep disruption makes everything worse. You’re tired in a way that sits in your bones. Your moods become unreliable, small things snagging at you. You snap and then feel terrible and then snap about feeling terrible. Your cycle has gone strange too – irregular, showing up when it pleases and sometimes not for two months running.
The brain fog is the worst indignity. You stand in the kitchen trying to remember what you've gone to get and find the word for it has just – slipped.
Like a wet bar of soap.
Gone.
You’re forty-six years old, you’re falling apart and you don’t know why. And you haven’t told Joel any of this properly because you don’t know how to explain something you don’t understand yourself.
Dr Vee is sixty-something and was a family physician before the outbreak, keeping meticulous notes in a series of composition notebooks and has a memory like a steel trap. She stitched your shoulder up two winters ago after a patrol gone sideways and, in some way, you trust her.
You sit on the paper-covered table, whilst she listens to you with the particular quality of attention that good doctors have. The kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world and your problem is the only problem.
You tell her everything. The libido, the dryness, the hot flashes, the fatigue, the mood swings, the irregular cycle, the brain fog. Your voice stays level and clinical because you’re holding it that way with both hands.
When you finish, she’s quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her notebook.
"How old are you?"
"Forty-six."
She nods slowly. "And these symptoms – all of them, taken together – when did they begin?"
"Eight, nine months ago, I guess. But they’ve come on gradually."
She nods again and sets her pen down. "I'm going to ask you something and I need you to think about whether any of this is new information or whether some part of you has already been thinking it."
You frown.
"Perimenopause," she says. "That’s the transitional phase before menopause. It can last anywhere from a few years to a decade. The hormonal fluctuations account for every symptom you've described – the hot flashes, the night sweats, the sleep disruption etc. The irregular cycle is also textbook." She pauses. "You're not falling apart. Your body is doing something it's been designed to do but just doing it rather loudly."
You sit with that for a moment.
Some part of you has known. Some quiet, careful part that you haven’t wanted to examine too directly because examining it means acknowledging it, and acknowledging it means – what? You’re not entirely sure what it means and that’s the problem.
"The obvious treatment is hormone replacement therapy," Dr Vee says, "which we don't have."
"Right."
"But there are things we can do. I have some dried black cohosh root which helps some women with the symptoms. There are also things you can do in your overall lifestyle things, which in Jackson, mostly amounts to what you're already doing. A cool sleeping environment is essential and help with managing stress which is, of course, not simple in this world.”
She writes something in her notebook.
"The genitourinary symptoms – that’s the dryness, the discomfort during sex – that's a direct effect of declining oestrogen affecting the vaginal tissue. I have some things that can help with that too. Vitamin E oil and coconut oil for example. It’s not the same as actual oestrogen cream, but they can provide some relief and work on lubrication, externally and otherwise."
You nod slowly.
"This is a normal transition,” she says gently. “It’s not a failing. A lot of women go through this without ever talking to anyone about it because it's been treated as something shameful or taboo for most of recorded history, which is frankly absurd, and I won't have that in my practice." She looks at you steadily. "You doing alright?"
"Yes," you say, your voice only wavering slightly. "I just…I didn't know what was wrong with me. I thought I was…"
"Thought you were what?"
"Losing something."
She pauses for a long moment. “Are you still with Joel?”
"Yes."
"Have you talked to him?"
"No."
She looks at you with the particular expression of a woman who’s seen a great many people avoid a great many necessary conversations.
"That might be worth doing."
****
You hold off for four days, telling yourself that you’re waiting for the right moment, the right mood, the right confluence of evening light and privacy and emotional bandwidth. In truth you’re waiting for the courage to arrive, and it’s taking its time.
The morning of the fifth day you wake before dawn from another hot flash, the searing flush cresting up through your chest and neck, and you sit up in bed breathing through it while Joel sleeps beside you.
You watch his face in the dark – the lines of it, the grey at his temples, the slight parting of his lips in sleep – and you think that this man has has watched you cry, has stitched you up, has held you through nightmares, has seen you covered in mud and blood and worse, has loved you through four winters and the particular relentless grinding difficulty of this world, and the idea that you can keep something from him because you’re embarrassed seems, in this predawn hour, genuinely absurd.
You get up and head to the kitchen. Standing at the window, you watch the first pale light come into the sky over the ridge and put the kettle on. When you hear his footsteps come up behind you, you don’t turn around.
"You're up early," he says casually.
"Couldn't sleep."
He comes and stands beside you at the window. You hear him pour himself a mug of coffee and lean against the counter drinking it quietly. If there’s one thing you’ve learned since you hitched your wagon to his it’s that Joel’s good at quiet. Sometimes it’s the thing you love most about him and sometimes it drives you absolutely insane.
"Joel.”
"Yeah."
You turn away from the window to see him watching you with those dark eyes that always seem to be calculating something, reading something or running some private assessment that you stopped trying to decode years ago. He’s in his undershirt and flannel pants, a crease from the pillow on his cheek, and he’s so familiar it aches.
"I need to tell you something," you say, "and I need you to not make it into something it isn't."
He pauses. "Okay."
"And I need you to not try to fix it immediately."
The pause lasts longer this time, and you can see his brain already working through a million different scenarios. "I'll try."
You wrap your hands around your mug and look at the table rather than at him.
"I went to see Dr Vee."
The quality of his silence shifts. You feel him go still in a specific way – the way he goes still when the information arriving requires him to revise something, to quickly run new calculations.
"When?" he asks, carefully.
"A few days ago."
"You didn't tell me you were goin’."
"I know, I'm telling you now."
You make yourself look up and instantly see that his jaw’s tight.
"I'm okay. It's not…it's not that kind of thing. I'm not sick or hurt. I'm..." You exhale. "I'm going through the change of life. It’s called perimenopause."
The word sits in the kitchen between you.
Joel says nothing. He looks at you with that particular expression that means he’s processing and isn’t ready to respond yet. You’ve learned over the years not to rush that expression because rushing it gets you something defensive and half-formed rather than whatever he actually thinks.
"It's the…it's the hormonal transition before menopause," you say, because the silence is getting heavy and you need to keep talking or you’re going to lose your nerve. "The hot flashes I've been having, those are a symptom. The…the sleep stuff, being tired, the moods…"
You swallow.
"The...the not wanting to. The difficulty with…with being dry when we…when we try."
The last part costs you something and you haven’t known how much until you say it, until the warmth hits your face and you realise you’re actually blushing, actually mortified in a way you haven’t been in front of this man in years.
Joel sets his mug on the counter and stays quiet for so long that you’ve started to construct catastrophic narratives – he's disgusted, he's disappointed, he's realising he's stuck with someone whose body is doing something irreversible and unglamorous and…
"Why didn't you tell me?" he says, his voice low.
"Because I didn't know what was wrong," you reply, "not exactly. Not until I saw Dr Vee. And before that I just thought…" You press your lips together. "I thought I was losing something. Or becoming… less. I don't know. It's embarrassing, Joel. It's embarrassing to not want someone you love, and not know why, and not be able to explain it to them. It's embarrassing to…"
Your voice threatens to fracture, and you hold it level.
"To be lying there while someone you love tries and feeling nothing and not knowing if it's ever going to come back."
Joel looks at you for a long moment. Then he crosses the kitchen, takes the mug out of your hands and sets it next to his, his hands coming to rest on either side of your face, large and warm.
"Look at me," he says and you raise your eyes to meet his. "You thought I'd…what, think less of you?"
You don’t answer, because yes – that is precisely what you thought, and saying it out loud to his face feels even more foolish than it seemed in the privacy of your own catastrophising.
"Hey." His thumb moves along your cheekbone. "I've been worried sick for weeks. I didn't know if I'd…if I'd done somethin’ or said somethin' wrong. I didn't know if you were tired of me, I didn't know if there was somethin’ wrong and you weren't tellin’ me…I've been lyin’ next to you not knowin’ what was wrong, watchin’ you pull away and not…not known how to ask without makin’ it worse."
Oh.
You haven’t thought of that. You’ve been so consumed by your own experience of this thing – the confusion of it, the embarrassment, the quietly devastating sense of your own body becoming unreliable – that you haven’t fully reckoned with what it looks like from the other side of the bed.
Joel, who loves you, can’t fix things, can’t explain things and has been waking up next to a wall he doesn’t know how to scale.
"I thought you knew it wasn't you," you say.
"How was I supposed to know that?"
You close your eyes briefly, because he’s being entirely fair.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I should've…I should've said something earlier. I was ashamed and I didn't…"
"Don't." His forehead comes down to rest against yours. "Don't apologise. I'm not…I'm not angry with you, baby, I just." He exhales. "I just needed to know."
You stand there, and something you've been carrying for months loosens in your chest. Not entirely, but enough that you can breathe differently.
"Dr Vee gave me some things," you say. "Botanical stuff, and some…some preparations that are supposed to help with the physical symptoms. She said it's normal. She was very clear about it being a normal process."
"Good."
"It doesn't mean the wanting is gone forever. She said for a lot of women it adjusts and evens out eventually. Just the transition is…a lot.”
"Okay." He pulls back enough to look at you, his eyes moving over your face in the way they do when he’s committing something to memory or making a decision.
"What do you need?"
The simplicity of the question almost undoes you.
What do you need. Not, what should we do about this or how do we fix it. Just, what do you need.
"I need you not to make me feel like something's broken," you say. "I need you to…I need it to be okay when I can't. And I need you to not…not pull away entirely, just because I've been different. I still need you close, Joel. I still need to feel like you…like you still want to be close to me, even when it can't go anywhere."
Joel holds your face in his hands for a moment longer, and you watch him work through something – that interior processing, the careful assembly of a response that’s actually true rather than just immediately comforting.
"I pulled back because I didn't want to push," he says finally, “not because I didn't want you. Those two things ain’t the same."
"I know that now. I think I just needed to hear it."
He makes a low sound that isn’t quite a word and pulls you into him, one hand flat against the back of your head, your face against his shoulder, and you stand there letting him hold you with the particular solidity he has and feel, for the first time in months, like you’re in the right coordinates. Like you've been slightly displaced and have finally found your way back to exactly where you’re supposed to be standing.
"We're gonna figure it out," he says into your hair. Not it'll be fine, not don't worry, but rather the specific practical commitment of we are going to work this problem together, which is the most Joel Miller expression of love you can imagine, and it breaks something loose in your chest that you haven’t realised was still clenched.
****
The first week after the conversation is its own kind of awkward.
You've spent so long not saying things that having said them leaves you both slightly exposed and uncertain how to proceed. The way you feel after finally lancing something – relieved but also raw and tentative about what comes next.
Joel’s careful in a new way now, a way that’s warmer than the previous caution. He touches you more in the small ways – his hand at the small of your back when you pass in the kitchen, the deliberate way he drops a kiss to the top of your head when you’re reading by the fire. Not loaded touches, not leading anywhere, just present. I'm here. You're here. This is still us.
You keep meaning to use the preparations Dr Vee’s given you and keep finding reasons to put it off. They sit in the small box on your side of the dresser, and you regard them each morning with the complex emotional relationship one develops with necessary but humbling things.
On a Thursday evening, almost two weeks after the kitchen conversation, Joel picks the box up off the dresser and you look up from where you’re taking off your boots to see him turning it over in his hands with an expression you can’t immediately read.
"This what she gave you?"
"Yes."
He opens it and looks at the small, stoppered bottle of vitamin E oil, the tin of coconut oil and the cloth packet of dried black cohosh with Dr Vee’s careful handwritten label. He examines each one with the focused attention he gives to anything mechanical or practical, the same way he assesses a weapon's condition or a vehicle's engine problem – with genuine interest and no apparent judgment.
He sets the black cohosh aside and holds up the bottle. "This one?"
"And the tin."
He nods slowly, sets them both on the nightstand and sets the box on the dresser.
"Okay.”
That’s it – okay. No commentary, no visible awkwardness, no performance of being fine with something he’s secretly weird about. It’s such a profoundly Joel response that you find yourself laughing and he glances over at you.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just…you."
The corner of his mouth moves. "Me?"
"The way you just…filed it."
"What else was I gonna do?"
You don’t have an answer for that, so you finish pulling your boots off, set them on the floor, look at him and feel, quietly and simply, that you love him very much.
****
The hot flashes continue. The black cohosh helps by blunting the worst of them and taking the edge off the frequency. You still wake sometimes in the small hours with that internal furnace blast, but more often now Joel’s awake too, or half-awake, and he simply folds the blanket back without a word, and you lie there in the cool air until it passes. He waits until, eventually, you're cold again and he pulls it back and then settles back into sleep.
He starts leaving the window cracked without being asked. One night you wake up to find it’s cracked, and it always is after that.
The mood swings are harder to navigate cleanly. There are evenings where something small catches at you and becomes enormous without your full participation.
Some hormonal amplifier turning minor friction into something that feels catastrophic. You hear yourself say something sharper than you intend, see his jaw tighten and know he’s choosing to absorb it rather than return it.
Afterward, when the chemical weather has shifted and you feel like yourself again, you apologise and tell him it’s not about him, and he says he knows and means it, you think. Or is at least working on meaning it.
Once he says, almost under his breath: "This what it was like livin' with me for years?"
You look at him.
"The moods," he says. "The not knowin' where it's comin' from."
He’s mapping it onto something he recognises, offering a kind of symmetry that you haven’t expected. A quiet, private acknowledgment that the territory of being difficult and not fully choosing it is not unfamiliar to him.
"Probably something like that," you say carefully.
He nods once, looking at some middle distance. Then he goes back to whatever he’s been doing, the conversation over, and it’s been one of the most unexpectedly intimate exchanges you can remember.
****
It’s a Saturday night in late January, the cold absolute outside, the woodstove doing its best, when things shift.
You haven’t planned it. That’s the thing about desire – when it finally finds its way back through the fog and the flatness, it doesn’t arrive with ceremony. It arrives the way returning feeling arrives in a limb that's been asleep – tingling, slightly shocking and suddenly present.
Joel’s at the table reading one of the battered paperbacks from the community library, and you’re watching him from across the room with a cup of cooling tea and registering, with something like surprised relief, that you want him.
Not a polite wanting, not a decided wanting, not I should try. Just clean simple want, easy as breathing, the old thing returning like a word you've forgotten you know.
He looks up and finds you watching.
"What?”
"Nothing."
He holds your gaze for a moment, and you see him recognise something in your expression, something he hasn’t seen in a while. The particular quality of his attention shifts and he closes the book.
In the bedroom, with the lamp turned low and the cold pressing at the windows, you let him relearn you slowly. Not rushing, not the practiced ease of a routine you can both do without thinking – this is more careful than that, more deliberate, His hands move over you with the genuine attention you remember from the first year and also entirely unlike it because you’re not who you were in the first year, neither is he and the difference isn’t loss.
He finds the oil on the nightstand and uses it without comment or making it a thing, with the same practical and focused care he brings to anything that needs doing right. His hands are warm and unhurried, and you feel the tight-held embarrassment you've been carrying for months release its grip. Because there’s nothing here to be ashamed of, nothing clinical or distancing about it when done like this, in the low light with his eyes on your face and his attention fully and specifically yours.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yes," you say, genuinely meaning it.
"Tell me if it's not."
"I will."
He believes you. That’s the thing – he believes you now, because you’ve finally told him the truth about what’s happening in your body, have let him into the actual territory instead of leaving him to navigate it blind. The trust moves in both directions, and it makes everything different.
It’s slower than it used to be. Some things are different, some sensations subtly altered, some angles better than others. You tell him what you need as you find it and he adjusts without question, without ego in it, which is its own language, its own kind of devotion.
Afterward you lie with your head on his chest in the dark and his arm around you. The woodstove ticks and outside the wind moves and you feel quiet in a way you haven’t felt in months.
His hand moves up and down your back in a slow unconscious rhythm.
"Still with me?" he says. He sometimes asks that, after. It’s never entirely lost the meaning it acquired in the first year – are you here, are we here, is this still the thing we're building?
"Still with you," you reply.
"Good."
You press your lips to his collarbone and think about what Dr Vee said. You’re not losing but rather becoming – which is harder to hold in the mind but feels, in this moment, truer.
"It might not always…"
"I know."
"Some nights it might still be…"
"I know." His arm tightens slightly. "And some nights you'll wake up at two in the mornin’ like you're on fire and I'll open the window and we'll lie there 'til it passes. And some mornin’s you won't be able to find a word you're lookin’ for, and some days the smallest thing's gonna catch you sideways, and I'll figure out which days those are and give you a wider berth."
He pauses.
"And I'll still be here."
You lift your head to look at him, his eyes finding yours with the ease of long familiarity.
"You rehearse that?"
"Little bit."
You laugh – really laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere warm and involuntary – and feel him smile against the top of your head, that rare private smile he only wears when no one’s watching, which means he’s wearing it for you.
"Joel."
"Mm?"
"Thank you for being…" You stop and try again. "For not making it smaller than it is or bigger than it is. Just…"
"Just what it is," he finishes.
"Yeah."
He pulls you back down against his chest. "Get some sleep while you can."
You close your eyes and realise that you don’t feel like something’s ending. Rather you feel, in the particular stillness of this room and those arms and this quiet dark, like something’s continuing – not unchanged, not unmarked, but continuous.
Still yours. Still his. Complicated and warm and stubbornly, essentially here.
Over the Andes | Frankie Morales x ofc/f!reader | 3,9 k
Summary: Santi arrives in Tampa, and reader has an important conversation with Di.
Content warning: Mentions of a breakup and divorce.
Reader here is more of an ofc, written as a reader insert. She will have some description and a backstory but has no name.
A/N: You might feel like not much happens here, but we are getting to know our character a little better, and giving them time to get to know each other.
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
Main masterlist | Series masterlist | Read on AO3
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Di and you are lying down on a blanket, the remains of a picnic around you. The sun is setting, and there is a light breeze caressing the grass around you. It's a quiet spot, a little park Di found one day, a little ways away from both your places, but it's calm, not too crowded, and beautiful. Both of you are happy to enjoy this moment, a quiet bubble in your busy lives. With an arm thrown over your eyes, you feel sleep dragging you down its path when Diana breaks your near slumber.
"Why did you and Eric divorce?" She almost sounds like a child, asking a question that has been bugging her for some time, something she can't make out by herself and finally resolves to ask you.
"Huh?" Yet, for you, the question comes out of nowhere, and it takes you a moment to comprehend the words. Your arms fall off your face, and you blink in the diminishing sunlight, staring at her.
"I mean, I know what you told me, you just drifted apart, fell out of love, yadi-yadi- ya." She isn't looking at you, her face is still turned toward the sky. "It's just… You were such a perfect couple."
"Obviously not." You can't help your snicker. But she turns her head to look at you, and you see something more in her eyes, something almost like betrayal.
"You were my role model."
That stops whatever you were about to say, the way you tend to dismiss the conversation, deflecting with a joke. "Di, I… I don't know what to tell you."
"I mean, it always felt a little strange. One day you two were living together, happy and in love, after probably one of the best weddings I've ever been to, and the next day, you call me and tell me you are getting a divorce."
"It didn't happen in a day, it took longer than that." You frown, grasping an errant thought: that maybe you hadn't really told Diana everything. Not that you deliberately hid anything.
"But what happened? I mean… I always looked up to you both. I know you think I'm in my slut era, that's been lasting for decades," she laughs with something that sounds almost deprecative, and you want to interrupt, but she goes on, "I always felt like, one day I could have what you had. And now I don't know."
"Di, where is this coming from? It sounds so sudden." You sit up, and she mimics you, both sitting with crossed legs, facing each other.
"Benny and I had a fight." Her eyes drop to the ground, and she quickly adds, "Don't worry, it's all good now, but it made me realize how much I care about him, and I don't know… Is it all worth it?" Her eyes look up to you, and you see that child all over again.
"What did you fight about?" You can't help but worry. Diana just shakes her hand, a way of saying it's not important.
"Oh, it's silly; we both kinda got in our heads, because we haven't really been official, you know. And it escalated until we both realized we really just want to be a couple." Her smile betrays her happiness at saying the word out loud.
"Wait, does that mean I'm finally going to meet him?"
"Yeah… maybe." You throw an empty bag of chips at her.
"OK fine! We are thinking of doing it soon. Try to organize something where he could bring his brother and friends, and I could bring you. That way we could all meet each other."
"When were you going to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now!"
A moment of silence follows, while you both share a smile. You know you owe her a better explanation, because you want her to understand, and you also want her to be happy. You take a big breath and start.
"It's true, we did fall out of love. But we also still love each other, just not romantically."
"I don't get it."
"We still have a lot of respect for each other. And you can't erase a decade of being together, of being in love for most of it."
"But that's the thing, you were together for so long, why didn't you... I don't know, try harder?" She looks apologetic as she says this, not wanting you to feel hurt by her words, but also really wanting to understand.
"I know, but we met young and grew apart. It's true!" You exclaim when you see Di roll her eyes, "We just didn't really realize it until it was too late. And we did try, but… but I don't know what to tell you. We became roommates, not lovers anymore. We didn't have the same interests, we didn't want the same things. It was fun when we were younger, but as we grew older, we grew apart. And I think we just didn't notice until one day he mentioned wanting to move to another place, sell the apartment, and buy a house. And I didn't. That started a conversation, one which made us realize how different we wanted our future to be. And that's that. There was no big fight, no cheating, just a slow realization that we weren't in love anymore, and that we didn't really want to fall back in."
"That feels so sad."
"It is, but also, it's not? We were together for more than 10 years, and most of our time together was wonderful. I have so many fond memories of him, and I'll always want the best for him, and him for me. There is no regret, I don't think I wasted years of my life with him." You reflect on what you said, trying to see if there is a better way to explain things, but there isn't. That is exactly what happened. "I maybe wish we had realized a little earlier, and I wouldn't have gone so long without sex." You can't help but add a little joke to diffuse the small tension.
"Really! How long has it been?"
"Well, now it's fine. I did go on a few dates before moving here, at least I scratched that itch." You hear Diana whisper "slut" under her breath, and you laugh before continuing.
"Before that, I don't know, it's like we didn't want to, didn't even think about it. We maybe had sex 2 or 3 times a year."
You sigh. "I don't know what else to tell you, it just happened. What was harder was when I noticed most of my life had evolved around him. And that's partly on me, because I was fine with not having too many friends. And I did make my own and still keep in touch. But I wanted to find myself again."
"And you aren't mad he's with someone again, so soon?"
"We divorced almost a year ago, I'm fine. He met her while we were figuring things out, and he told me right away he was starting to feel something for someone else. Was I thrilled at the time? No. But angry? Never. And she's really great. Not my type, we won't become friends, but she is perfect for him, for who he is now."
"You act so wise, it just feels impossible to be in love and then not be anymore." Her voice is still laced with regret and a little bit of uneasiness. You want to reassure her, want her to understand that it was worth it, whatever the outcome was.
"Diana, while we were together, we were good, happy. We can still be your model. I actually think the way we broke up is also great. And I still believe in love."
"With Frankie?" Her sly smile makes you feel flushed.
"Shush, I don't know. He's fine." You wave your hand, trying to chase the subject away.
"He's fine," Di repeats, mocking you. "So fine that you lent him a book, and are what, texting now?"
"I already admitted to liking him. I just don't know if he likes me. We're just friends."
"Friends, fuck this! The guy is flirting, and you know it." She throws the bag of chips back at you.
"Maybe… But I think I like this part. I'm enjoying the status quo, not really knowing, for the moment. It's like a shy flirt. And if it doesn't go further than this, then it's fine, really. I'm not pursuing him for my next love story, I'm just happy being friends with him, and maybe more."
"Don't you want to fuck him?"
"Of course I want to! Girl! I saw him piloting a helicopter! Can you imagine what it's done to me?" You groan, lying back dramatically and then sigh, "He was so hot, being so competent and all."
Di lies back again and sighs, "I want to see Benny train people, and watch him work out. I would climb him like a tree."
"You are already fucking him."
"Yeah. But not enough." You both giggle like teenagers talking about their crushes.
"¡Holà pendejo![Hello, asshole!]" Frankie exclaims loudly when he sees Santiago coming through the sliding doors after customs. He and Mia went to greet him at the airport, and have been waiting a little out of the way, Mia in his arms, holding a sign they made together displaying "Bienvenido, Tío Santi! [Welcome, uncle Santi!]"
"Frankie, it's so good to see you! Mia, ¡princesa! ¡Has crecido un montón desde la última vez que te vi!"[Princess! You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you]
But Mia is a little shy, she hasn't seen her uncle in 6 months, and even if she remembers him and has talked with him on FaceTime many times, she still feels a little apprehensive.
"Muñequita, ¿puedes decir hola a tu tío? [Sweetie, can you say hi to your uncle?]" Frankie murmurs in her ear when he senses her discomfort, her head buried in the crook of his neck. She starts by shaking her head, but Frankie gently rubs her back to comfort her, and she eventually turns her head to look at the adult standing in front of her with a kind smile and manages a timid "Holà tío."
"Did you make this pretty sign for me? Can I see it?" Santi asks kindly, reverting to English in case it helps the little girl. She hands him the sign, which is now all crumbled from the motion she made to hide in her father's arms, and he compliments her, admiring the drawings she made around the words that Frankie wrote. "It's beautiful. Can I keep it?"
"Yes." Her shyness is slowly ebbing away from the kind words she received.
"I'm going to cherish it. Let me put it in my bag to keep it safe," Santi reverently folds the sign and puts it away.
Frankie can't help the fatherly pride he feels watching his daughter overcome her shyness. He wouldn't have pushed her, but he wants to make sure she is comfortable. And soon, as they walk toward the car, Mia is babbling away while Santi asks her questions, and the sound of their laughs combined makes Frankie's heart swell with content.
After arriving home and putting Mia to sleep for her afternoon nap, the two friends finally settle outside to catch up. They are sitting on the back porch, watching the water, coffee in hand, the sliding doors behind him open, in case Mia calls for him.
"Have you taken Mia on the boat yet?" Santi breaks the silence that until then was only disturbed by the distinctive song of a <type of bird>.
"No, I'm afraid she's too little. I don't think I can sail and watch out for her at the same time."
"What if we went together? Just a small trip on the bay to see if she enjoys it? That way you can finally put your sailing license to the test."
"I've sailed plenty, thank you very much. But yeah, that would be great." It puts Frankie at ease, knowing he can count on his friend for a few weeks. Not that he couldn't have asked Will, Benny, or Tom. But he knows how Will and Benny are busy, and he doesn't trust Tom on a boat yet. And having Santi at home, it's different, it's showing his daughter what true friendship is like, and also knowing she will be spoiled rotten by her tio. Of course, the best way he can show his appreciation is by saying, "So, when are you finally getting your own place?"
"I'm barely here, and you are already kicking me out?" Thankfully, his friend knows exactly what these words mean, especially when they are underlined by a squeeze on the shoulder.
"I have a few places I need to look at, see if the pictures are true." He trails a bit before adding, with something like awe in his voice, "Yovanna wants to go back to school. She started a nursing degree in Australia, and she wants to finish it here and eventually specialize to become a Midwife. She's already in touch with the school, so I'm here to look for a place close by." The smile on his face tells Frankie that his friend is finally letting himself be happy.
"How about the money?" They never really speak about that, and Frankie knows Santi isn't reckless, but he wants to make sure his friend is doing well, see if he can help in any way.
"I'm fine, don't worry. I took plenty of well-paid contracts and barely touched the money. I have plenty to get us a good place, even something for Yov's brother; he still hasn't decided if he wants to come. I have everything sorted immigration wise, so we should be good. "
"What about you? What are you going to do?"
"Honestly?" The sigh Santi lets out holds a lot: uncertainty, even some shame. "I don't know, whatever I can help with. I'm tired of moving around, chasing guys, but I don't know what else to do. Are you hiring?" Santi's eyes turn expectant.
Frankie laughs. "I don't really know what the hell you could do there. But I can look around if I hear about anything that could fit. Maybe ask Will and Benny, they might have an idea. And they know a lot more people than I do."
"Thanks, I need to find something. I can't stay idle, it'll kill me." The desperation in his words is palpable. All of them have had action ingrained in their habits for so long that even if they had the money to do nothing, none of them really could. Frankie was the perfect example.
"Believe me, I get it. It almost did for me." He will always feel shame for the few months when they got back from Colombia, the moment that changed everything, his own life being at the forefront of the list of things he could have lost.
"Mi llave [my friend], I think you were a warning for all of us." Santi squeezes Frankie's shoulder. "But you are also the strongest, Frankie. And I hope you never forget it."
Frankie snorts dismissively. Yeah right, none of you are addicts." But Santi shakes his head, his hand still on Frankie's shoulder, not letting go.
"We all carry something from our years of service, and we all have our own form of addiction. Do you think me running around the world, trying to set things right, was healthy? You and Will are the ones who showed us the way. Showed us there is a life outside of our own trauma. Look at Benny with his fighting. And now his training, he seems to need the adrenaline of the fight. And Tom with his ventures–"
"And his drinking." Frankie cuts in; at one point the guys need to see it's a problem.
"That bad?"
"He says he stopped, but doesn't want to get any help. So I'm not very sure."
"Shit…" Santi shakes his head, but isn't deterred from his speech. "Well anyway, what you overcome is more than any of us could have done. And we all looked up to you when we saw you struggling and succeeding. I know I did. I always will."
Frankie feels his throat constrict, emotions swelling his heart, he's about to deny it, try to say something, but Santi cuts him.
"Don't. It's just the way it is." Frankie nods, finally accepting it.
"So, tell me more about your pretty meteorologist. Have you gotten better at flirting?"
"Vete a la mierda [Fuck off]."
"No? Come on! Tell me!"
"It's just that I'm technically her boss, even if she doesn't know that. And even if I am just a coworker, it can still be an issue."
"Fuck that, don't try to find excuses!"
Thankfully, a loud"Daaaaaaaaad" saves Frankie from finding an answer.
Another week ends, and you are already at Joe's securing a table, waiting for your colleagues to unwind after a stressful few days, the last of the summer storms making everyone's work more difficult.
You know Frankie is flying and will join you soon. Alysha, being on vacation this week, picked up the sunset tour he usually forgoes in the weeks he has Mia, but he mentioned having a friend to help. Colin would join you later, from a meeting downtown. Joan had promised to arrive soon, she wanted to finish sorting out the archives room before leaving for the weekend.
As you are waiting with your drink, sitting at what you now think of as your favorite table, you get a text from Colin saying his meeting is running late and he won't be able to make it. Almost at the same time, Joan announces she has a personal emergency, a friend needing her support. Fred had declined, having already plans, which meant that you were about to end up alone with Frankie. Which makes you feel very nervous. Despite how cool you acted with Di, you are very flustered at the idea of being alone with him. Part of you is excited at the prospect, and part dreads it, wanting nothing more than to run away.
Before you can text him to let him know, wanting to give him the choice to cancel, Frankie shows up, a drink in his hand, and sits in front of you with a large smile. The water to his back, and the light from the setting sun, shines softly, highlighting the brown of his hair and his golden skin. Your heart flutters at the sight, and you are speechless for a second, admiring him in the glow of the evening. Until Frankie asks, "Where is everyone?"
"Oh, they just all texted to cancel. I was about to tell you in case you wanted to…" You let your voice trail, not knowing how to finish.
"Oh!" he seems a little caught off guard, but soon an easy smile spreads on his face. "Their loss, I'm happy to have a drink after the week we had."
"You mean the weather? Or is there something else?"
"My whole life! As I mentioned, I have a friend over for a few weeks. I love him, and it's great to have him over, but he spoils Mia and makes my life difficult." You can tell from his tone that he is, in fact, very happy and loves every moment.
"I'm sure you hate it." You tease, and he answers in the same tone.
"Yeah, it's really the worst." He grins at you and starts regaling you with tales of the latest mischief Mia and his friend, whom he calls alternatively Santi, Santiago, and Pope, until you have to ask him if it is indeed talking about the same person.
"Sorry, Pope is his call sign, from the army, his name is Santiago, Santi is what we usually call him."
"You have a call sign? What is it?"
"Catfish." He seems a little embarrassed, which prompts you to ask more questions.
"Why? Because you are a good swimmer? For the whiskers?" Each time he shakes his head, smiling, but refusing to give you any indication.
"It's a whole story, and maybe one day you'll earn it." Frankie finally relents, but refuses to say more when you beg and even ask what you need to do to earn the privilege of hearing the story.
It feels like the best date you've had in years. Except it isn't one. It's just a drink between two colleagues who are maybe also friends, and who might both be attracted to each other.
You know your attraction is getting stronger, but on his side? It's still hard to know. You suspect there is, by the way he looks at you, something. But the conversation always stays on safe topics, such as work, books, movies, food, his daughter. Never about past relationships, never any innuendo that would be borderline flirting. Yet you can feel something in the air, it's almost tangible. There is attraction, you are almost sure. It makes you want to seek more, leave the status quo, and see if there is something and where it could lead you both.
But it's getting late, so tonight won't be the night. Tonight you enjoy the end of your drink, laughing and saying goodbye a little awkwardly by your cars, a hand wave, almost turning into a handshake, when it's clear both of you wanted to hug.
"Have you met up with the guys yet?" Frankie asks Santi over dinner.
"Not yet. I had both Benny and Will on the phone. Benny mentioned there was a fight next week, a guy he's been training for some time. He said we could all meet there."
"When will it be?"
"Saturday night, fight starts at 8 PM."
"Sounds good, I can make it. Mia will be with her mom that night."
"Great! Just like old times."
Frankie can't help but remember the last time they all went together to a fight, when Benny was still competing. The moment when Santi came to ask them for their help. And judging from Santi's face, he is also remembering that same moment. When asking for help for a recon mission turned into
And even if they are mostly all doing well, sometimes Frankie wonders if he had the chance, would he do it again? Is money worth what happened to them? The guilt, the way it broke the dynamic of their friendship? He doesn't have an answer.
"What are you doing next Saturday?" Di doesn't even say hello when you answer your phone, straight to business, as always.
"Eating pizza while I watch a movie probably. Why?"
"Do you want to see two men beat the shit out of each other?"
"That sounds very appealing."
"Yeah, I know, but think of the smell of sweat and stale beer!"
"You know the way to my heart."
"Benny will be there."
"Now you got me interested!"
"I told you he was training a guy, well, next Saturday is his first fight since he got into training. I know it's not really our scene, but his brother and his other friends will be there. I thought it could be a good opportunity for everyone to meet. Without the pressure of a dinner or a drink at the bar."
"Of course I'll come! I'm not letting you have all the fun alone. Plus I'm curious, I've never been to a fight. I don't know if I'm going to like it, but at least I'll have tried!"
"Great, I'll send you the details!"
Spanish translation:
muñeca/muñequita: literally doll, sweetie
Mi llave: my friend (literally my key), Colombian
Vete a la mierda: Go to hell, Fuck off
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Hi!! I adore your writing❤️❤️ I see ur requests are open so I was wondering if youd be interested in writing something where Joel fucks the attitude out of reader?? Maybe she’s angry and stubborn for some reason and then she feels better afterward.
Three days since you accidentally saw Joel's truck pull into Tommy's driveway at two in the morning. Three days since you then watched some pretty woman with long hair and a laugh loud enough to wake the neighbours, climb out of the passenger seat, while resting her hand on his shoulder like she had the right to touch him.
Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly.
The thought made you want to break something.
So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right?
He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes.
"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.
Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"
"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?"
He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down.
Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."
"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"
Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"
"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."
"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper.
"It ain't your concern."
"It is my concern when—" and louder again.
"Enough."
He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down.
Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.
"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."
"Don't you dare—"
"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."
The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.
"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."
The words landed like a bucket of cold water.
You blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"
You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment.
"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering.
"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"
"But you didn't tell me."
"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."
"I'm not a cat." You pouted.
"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"
Now what.
You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid.
And still so, so fucking wound up.
"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.
Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.
"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.
"I don't know what I am."
"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."
"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."
Suddenly he turned you.
The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.
"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."
You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days.
Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent.
"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.
"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.
"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.
"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."
He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.
Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.
"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."
Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine.
The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.
"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.
"You—Joel—only you—"
"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."
Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him.
But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.
"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."
He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands.
Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt.
"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.
You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"
"Please what?"
"Don't stop—need you—"
He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you.
Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.
"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."
You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you.
Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely.
He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you.
After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.
"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"
You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."
Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."
some people will be like “I wonder why fanfic writers don’t share their works anymore😔” and then this is them when a writer is kind enough to share something they write — as a hobby, for their own enjoyment — with them for free.
some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free
“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.
you people let tiktok rot your brains to the point you see everything as content farm and engagement. not a piece of art created by the artist’s love and passion. it’s dystopian.
established relationship. unspecified age gap. m!masturbation. use of a sex toy. dirty talk. praise kink. edging. voyeurism.
a/n: taking a short break from hold on to me because this wouldn't leave my brain.
It’s quiet in the house.
The kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones, humming beneath your skin like a dull, familiar ache. The sun’s just started to set, casting long gold shadows through the windows. Dust floats through the air in lazy spirals, catching the light. The house is still.
But Joel isn’t.
He sits on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, staring ahead at nothing in particular. He’s in his head, battling between what he should do and what he wants to do. There’s a silicone sex toy on the nightstand — a fleshlight. He hasn’t picked it up, hasn’t used it. He just looks at it for a moment, jaw tight, tongue pressed into the corner of his cheek.
He had purchased the toy ages ago — long before he met you. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t a dare, it was an act of pure desperation. Four years of fucking nothing but his hand, craving to be inside a woman, but feeling so emotionally numb he couldn’t allow himself even a one-night stand.
While the toy offered a different feeling than his hand, it felt cold and lifeless whenever he would try to use it. So, he stashed it away, deep in his nightstand, behind overdue bills and a mess of cords. He met you three months later and hadn’t thought of the toy since. Until today.
You’ve been away at a conference. Some 10-day training halfway across the country. You’re in a different time zone and your schedule is so packed that Joel’s barely gotten a single text from you, much less been able to hear your voice.
You’re not supposed to be back in town until tomorrow. But, he’s felt on edge since he woke up.
He should’ve waited. He should’ve poured himself a drink and taken a cold shower or distracted himself with some project in the garage. Maybe called Tommy to check in. But instead he’s here. Warm skin under a thin shirt. Loose sweatpants. Nothing underneath.
He grew restless around 3pm, feeling want clawing its way under his skin.
Three hours later he still can’t shake the tension that has settled in his shoulders. His cock's been half-hard all day. Your voice is stuck in his head — playful, daring, that low murmur you use when you’re teasing him. The photo you sent yesterday didn’t help. You, in one of his worn T-shirts that hits just below your waist, fresh-faced in some hotel room. He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose.
Fuck it.
He reaches into his nightstand, finding a bottle of lube, and clicking it open, letting it spill over his fingers. He doesn’t need to work the toy open, much to his dismay, so when he slides his fingers inside, he’s doing it for functionality’s sake rather than pleasure.
Joel leans against the pillows you usually sleep on, your scent clinging faintly to the fabric, and lets his eyes fall shut.
His hand is a little shaky as he grips the waistband of his sweats and pulls them down around his thighs. His cock slips free, thick, flushed, already glistening with precome. His breath catches when the cool air hits and he’s all of a sudden too aware of the heavy heat between his legs.
The slit of the silicone toy stares back at him — open, soft, and waiting.
But he doesn’t just slide in. Not yet.
Instead, he lets the tip of his cock nudge against the entrance, not quite pushing inside. He presses into it, just enough to feel the give of the silicone, then pulls back. A low, involuntary groan slips from between his lips.
He keeps to similar movements; the swollen head of his cock kisses the slit, then withdraws. He does it again and again, each time a little harder. The soft thwap of skin on silicone echoes faintly in the quiet room.
“Shit,” he mutters, his hips twitching forward.
It feels so wrong but surprisingly good. If he jerks himself off, he doesn’t tease himself like this — not like you. His hand flexes as he changes his grip, slow and shallow, dragging the tip up and down the toy’s split without pressing inside. The slide makes everything worse in the best way possible. His cock throbs, desperate to be buried deep, to be held tight, milked and ruined, but he holds back.
“Bet you’d fuckin’ laugh if you saw me like this,” he mutters, talking to the empty room.
He groans and shifts until he’s propped up against the pillows, angling himself until the head of his cock catches inside. This time, he doesn’t stop. The silicone stretches, then parts, swallowing him inch by inch, until the thick base of him is grinding into the open end and the head of his cock is poking out the other side — slick, flushed, dripping. It’s filthy. The way his cock looks with lube smeared down the length of him, the toy flexing around every inch, and he can’t fucking stop staring at it.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
Images of you flash in his mind. Your hands. Your mouth. The little gasp you make when he pushes into you.
His hips jolt forward, instinctive and hungry, and the toy gives just enough resistance to almost make it feel real.
“Miss you,” he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, I miss you.”
There’s something about the helplessness of saying those words that makes him feel his age in ways he doesn’t like to admit. It’s not just sex with you, not even close. He misses the way your lips pull into a smile when he kisses you at 4am when he has to leave on a job. He misses the way your body fits perfectly against his when you’re asleep. He misses hearing his name when he kisses that spot right behind your ear that makes you fall apart.
Joel opens his eyes, and pulls off from the toy, watching as the suction pulls at him. He scrambles for his phone on the nightstand and quickly pulls up the picture you sent yesterday.
“Baby…”, he whispers. “Look at what you do to me. Fuckin’ desperate for you to take my cock.”
Joel tosses his phone on the mattress and then sinks into the toy again — harder this time but still slow. His thighs flex, abdomen tightening. Another thrust and his breath leaves in a ragged moan.
“Goddamn.”
The toy’s squelching now with each thrust of his hips. He twists his wrist just slightly on the next stroke, grinding the toy down against his groin. He can feel the need coursing through his body, can feel his nerve endings catch on fire.
“That what you want, baby?” he murmurs under his breath. “Want me to fuck you slow like this? All stretched out… beggin’ for more?”
He says it to no one. Says it to you. You’re not there — but in his head, you are. On your back, legs parted, pussy lips swollen and wet from teasing.
Joel groans and drives his hips up again, the slap of skin getting louder as he quickens his pace. He braces one hand on the mattress and lets the other keep working the toy, thrusting into it like it’s not just molded silicone but you, real and warm and throbbing around him.
He sets a rhythm. Slow grind in, faster pull back. He starts to roll his hips instead of snapping them, chasing that drag, that pressure, that almost-too-much squeeze that makes his toes curl.
“You’d take it,” he grits out, thrusting harder. “Fuck, baby, you’d take it all. Know you would.”
Joel’s breathing picks up, mouth falling open around quiet yet guttural groans. The pace is messy now. No more teasing. He’s so fucking hard it hurts.
“Look at you,” he grunts. “Makin’ a mess on my cock, baby.”
He imagines your hands fisting the sheets, your thighs shaking as he drives into you. His fist tightens on the toy, his thrusts getting sharper.
“Say it,” he pants. “Say you need it. Say you want this cock.”
He grinds up harder, thighs burning with the effort, holding himself just at the edge. He chokes on a sound, a half laugh, half groan and buries himself to the hilt, holding there, toy pressed so tight it trembles in his grip.
“Fuck. Fuck. Slow down—” he mutters to himself.
The line between fantasy and sensation blurs. All he knows is that you’re not here, and it’s not enough.
He’s soaked. His cock’s flushed red, tip shining with a mix of lube and precome as it stares back at him from the far end of the toy. His muscles are tense, twitching from holding himself back.
He forces himself to slide out slow. His chest heaves and his free hand grips into the mattress beside him, trying to anchor himself.
“Not fuckin’ yet.”
He lowers the toy again, this time just pressing the lips of it to his tip. Just small, circular strokes right against the most sensitive part of him. It makes him grunt, his hips canting upward like he can’t help it.
“That what you want, baby? Want me beggin’ to come?”
He’s so close he’s shaking.
He pushes into the toy letting it slide all the way down until he’s buried to the hilt again. The silicone clutches him tight, like it knows how bad he needs this.
“S’got nothin’ on you. Fuckin’—need to feel you wrapped around my cock.”
The confession tears out of him before he can stop it. Not dirty, just real — desperate, aching, raw.
Still, he doesn’t stop moving. He pumps into the toy with deep, dragging thrusts, letting the pressure pull him right to the edge and keep him there. It’s almost too much. And still, not enough. Still not you.
“You’d let me,” he pants, lips parted. “Let me fuck you just like this. Take my cock like such a good girl.”
His hand flexes hard around the base of the toy, pulling it tighter as he drives up into it again.
“That pretty little pussy’s so greedy for me, huh?” he breathes. “Got you drippin’ all over the fuckin’ sheets… whinin’ for me to fill you.”
His stomach tightens. “You want me to come inside you, baby?” he murmurs.
His breath is ragged now. Hair damp with sweat. The veins in his neck stand out as he thrusts into the toy.
“Yeah, you’d take it,” he growls. “You’d fuckin’ take every fuckin’ drop.”
He chokes on a moan, hips moving in sharp, desperate jerks.
He’s barely aware of the room anymore. He can’t think of anything but the searing heat building in his gut and the ache for something real.
And that’s when he hears it. Soft. Barely there. His name.
Joel.
It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a whispered exhale.
His eyes squeeze shut. He groans low, thinking it’s just in his head. “Yeah,” he rasps, hips driving up. “Say my name like that…”
Then he hears it again. Not a word this time, a sound, a whimper — high, broken and real.
His eyes fly open and he turns his gaze to the bedroom door. He stiffens, chest still heaving with breath he can’t quiet. His brain’s still scrambled from the edge he was just on, from how close he came to letting go.
You’re there. Backlit by hallway light, standing frozen, your fingers tucked between your thighs beneath the hem of one of his old T-shirts.
You’d been watching. You’d been touching yourself. And now, both of you caught, there’s nowhere for either of you to hide.
You—” he starts, voice hoarse. “You’re not supposed to be here till—”
You don’t speak.
“How long’ve you been there?” he asks, voice cracking, rougher than you’ve ever heard it.
“Long enough to know you’d rather be fucking me.”
He doesn’t know what this is, this shift in the air, but it’s got him by the throat. He swallows hard as you step into the room.
“Baby,” he whispers. “Please…”
You know what he wants, what he’s asking for.
You shake your head slowly. “I want you to keep going.”
He blinks, stunned. “What?” he asks, barely audible.
You take another step, stopping just at the foot of the bed, voice steady now. He can smell your shampoo now. Feel your warmth.
“I want to see you finish.”
He groans, head tipping back into the pillows.
“It’s not the same,” he says, hips twitching. “I want you, baby. Wanna feel you on my cock.”
Your mouth curves into a wicked smile.
“I know, but I want to watch. You’ll give that to me, won’t you?”
That’s what breaks him. Not the words, not exactly. But the look in your eyes. Curious with something darker underneath.
He nods slow, mesmerized by the sight of you.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Anything for you.”
He goes to reach for the toy but finds your hand already there, wrapping around him. He lets you take it.
“Let me.”
He moans like that alone could undo him.
You start slow, sliding the toy up, then down, working him in long, wet strokes. The base of the toy presses against his groin. His cock is still poking through, swollen and slick. He jerks beneath your touch, gasping.
“Fuck, baby…”
His hands grip the sheets beside him, knuckles white. He’s twitching with every drag, his hips lifting, chasing it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“You like that?” you whisper.
“Jesus,” he groans. “Feels good. Feels so fuckin’ good—don’t stop—”
You don’t. You keep working the toy slow and deep, dragging it almost all the way off before pushing it back down again. The noises it makes are wet and obscene.
“This what you think about when I’m gone? Me with my hand on you?”
Joel pulses in your hand.
“Or are you thinking about my mouth…or my pussy?”
He groans, broken. “All of it,” he says, gasping.
Joel’s chest heaves. “Baby,” he chokes out. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
You squeeze the toy just a little tighter and slow your pace, making him writhe.
“Please—fuck, I need it—need you—”
You lean in close, letting your breath skim his jaw. “I’m right here. Come on, baby. Let me see you come.”
And he does. His body arches, eyes rolling back as he cries out your name.
His cock jerks violently inside the toy, thick ropes of come spilling over your hand as you fuck him through it, wringing every last drop until his entire body sags.
He’s wrecked. Panting. Shaking.
And when you finally ease the toy off, his come leaks onto his stomach.
Without hesitation, you climb up onto the bed and press your head to his still heaving chest.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “That was…” You hum in agreement.
Five minutes go by and neither of you speak. He lets you run your hand over his chest in lazy, soothing lines until eventually, he shifts.
“Missed you so goddamn much.”
You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “Missed you too. When do you think you can fuck me for real?”
He swallows hard, his eyes darkening, his spent cock twitching against his thigh.
summary: everything falls apart and blood is shed on both sides.
contents/warnings: Mature/Explicit (18+ MDNI!) - canon violence, raids, alcohol, drugs, and smoking, cartel and DEA talk that's probably inaccurate, family problems, angst, original characters + some from Narcos, me and my homies hate Jerónimo, feelings, Sara lore, character death(s), grief, doubt, using sex as an emotional release, f!receiving fingering, rough unprotected sex, creampie, no uses of y/n, did i mention angst? Apologies if I missed anything.
wc: 9000+
song: salvatore by lana del rey - "by the hand of a foreign man"
a/n: the part that created this series in the first place is here and oml. from the start, this part was the only thing i had outlined for this series. it's inspired by salvatore by lana del rey and i was on the verge of TEARS while writing this shit. please don't hate me and thank you kat for proofreading and translating *kisses kisses* gif credit
♱ part 6 | series masterlist | soundtrack | read on ao3
Voices of your family fill Javier’s ears, the bug you planted in your father’s office finally being put to use and listened to. For a while, they got absolutely no information from it. Jerónimo was rarely in his office after Andrés was killed, and when he was, it was for a few minutes and he didn’t say anything.
Now your family is planning a party to do damage control. Something like this is typical; a party is thrown to show that everything within the cartel is perfectly fine even when it’s not. When it comes to this world, it’s all about appearance. If your cartel name is being slaughtered in the newspaper, you throw a big expensive party and invite other cartels to show that it’s not getting to you.
Everyone knows about it and no one speaks on it.
Your father is constantly using vulgar language to describe everything he thinks you’ve been doing behind his back. Most of it is conspiracies he’s heard from extended family, while a sliver of it is factual.
Honestly, Javier has to give props to you for standing your ground and not letting your father scare you out of the house. Based on the things this man is saying alone, he knows it must be difficult for you. The way he speaks about you gives Javier a nauseating feeling in his stomach, knowing that no father should ever talk about his daughter in this way, regardless of differences.
His contact with you has been sparse yet again. He doesn’t blame you for taking a step back. He shouldn’t have pushed you to stay with him in the first place. To him, right now it feels like everything you were doing is on pause. His entire life is consumed by you – both at work and his apartment.
It makes him feel like a lovestruck teenager that never gets over their first crush.
Maybe in another life, the two of you won’t have to live in secret; but for now, this is the way things have to be.
He focuses on the conversation at hand, headphones over his ears, the setting sun painting golden rays along the desks in the room. The station funneled out a while ago, something about a celebration at a bar. He wasn’t really listening.
Now it’s just him, Steve, and the linguist, Edward Jacoby: a scrawny white guy with glasses. Javier isn’t necessarily friends with the man but he admires his work ethic. He’s been able to get a few hits but nothing too solid.
As he listens, he taps his thumb against his pointer finger, putting together the pieces in his head. The name ‘Botero’ is mentioned and he and Steve share a glance.
“No quiero lidiar con ese cabrón esta noche (I don’t want to deal with that fucker tonight),” Jerónimo states firmly, voice slightly muffled from the placement of the bug.
The fake senator that was stopped in Cartagena eventually gave up the location of Sebastián. They haven’t had probable cause yet to storm his place, but they could tail him to the party tonight and figure out where your family is held up.
The sun licks at your skin, beading sweat down your torso. You’ve been laying out all day on a chaise, reading a dark romance book you picked out from the library. To say it’s kept you entertained is an understatement… and it makes you miss Javier, that’s for sure.
With everything that’s been going on, there’s been no time to stop by at his place for a late night booty call, or even please yourself. You haven’t been in the right headspace for any of that either.
A particular scene gets too hot and heavy, making you put the book down on the side table before you actually do consider slipping your hand into your skimpy bikini. For now, you relax, using your arm as a pillow and soaking up the mid-winter sun.
You close your eyes, easing your nerves by listening to your surroundings. The water in the pool laps gently in the whispering breeze, birds fly by, tweeting in harmony, and heavy footsteps… that couldn’t be anyone else’s but your father’s.
Just when you were starting to get comfortable.
You peek one eye open, doing a double take when you notice his appearance. He’s cleaned up, looking exactly like he did when you were younger. His hair is shorter, beard shaved but he still has that annoying goatee, his precious gold jewelry on his fingers and wrists; looking the part of a drug lord perfectly. A blue button down hugs his chest, white stitching giving it depth and personality.
It takes your eyes a second to adjust to the sunlight when you push your sunglasses down, eyeing him over the rim. “¿Por qué te ves así? (Why do you look like that?)”
“¿Cómo qué? (Like what?)” he questions, taking a step closer and casting a shadow over you.
Your eye twitches, pushing your glasses back in place and standing up. You grab the towel you were lying on, wrapping it around your body to cover yourself before he comments on how much skin you’re showing when your younger cousins are just inside.
“Como si realmente fueras a trabajar (Like you’re actually going to work),” you respond, watching him shift his weight onto one foot.
Jerónimo chuckles lightly, resting a hand on his belt buckle, gripping the bulky piece. His presence is irking your soul right now, wondering why he’s bothering you when he’s been pretending like you don’t exist.
“Nosotros vamos a tener una fiesta aqui esta noche (We’re throwing a party here tonight),” he announces, “Tenemos que guardar las apariencias después del desastre que provocaste (Have to keep up appearances after the mess you caused.)”
You raise your brows slightly, “Is that right?”
“Yes,” he nods, “I expect you to crawl out of your hole for once.”
A tight smile stretches across your face, silently telling him that he’s made his point and you don’t want to have this conversation anymore. He’s crawled out of his, so now it’s time for you to crawl out of yours.
“Don’t entertain any whores that you’re paying tonight,” you walk past him, tilting your head up to look at him. “Wouldn’t want mom to turn over in her grave.”
A muscle tics in his jaw, “Shut your mouth.”
Javier’s grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are nearly white. Steve sits in the passenger’s seat, eyeing the front gate of Sebastián Botero’s million dollar mansion. The sun is long gone, the sky as dark as the shadow they’re idly sitting in.
He doesn’t have an explanation for it yet, but he feels like something is going to go wrong. All they can do is follow Botero to the house. If they tried to ambush the party, too many people would get away and they’d be killed. There’s no doubt about it.
He knows that, so why does all of this feel so unsettling?
The metal gate slowly opens, two sleek black SUVs and a limo pulling out and gliding down the street. He waits a few seconds before he turns the key, starting up the engine and trailing a few cars behind.
Steve glances at him from his peripheral vision, deciding to ask something that’s been bothering him. “Why are you sticking your neck out for this girl?”
Javier tenses slightly, rolling his tongue over his teeth. Right now, he doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not when the stakes are so high and they could possibly be driving towards nearly every sicario in the city. It’s not a topic of conversation he wants to have with his partner, but he feels like he has to. If he doesn’t speak about it now, it’ll eat him alive in the future.
He shakes his head faintly, taking a slow left turn, keeping his eyes on the limo in the distance. “We were wrong about her,” he murmurs, “She actually has a heart… unlike her family.”
“Do you think you’re really in love with her or the idea of her?” the blonde man probes, his voice even.
He clenches his jaw, his mind running a million miles a minute. He never really thought of it that way. What if it’s not love and instead, the idea of being with someone that he can’t and isn’t supposed to have? The thrill of the chase could be getting to him and clouding his judgement. He doesn’t want to think that it’s that – they’re intrusive thoughts – but he also knows deep down that the chances of it lasting are slim to none.
You remind him of a flower sometimes; all you need is water, love, and sunshine before you can reach your full potential. He’d be appreciative if you allowed him to be the person to nurture you, but he also feels like he knows you well enough to know that you deserve better than himself.
Javier’s not a very attentive partner. He is in other aspects of his life but he lacks that quality when it comes to relationships. It’s a lot easier to just have one night stands with no strings attached; then, no feelings are involved and no one gets hurt.
You’re more than that, and it scares him shitless.
What you have going isn’t something that he wants to mess up, but he knows that he will eventually, even if he doesn’t have the intentions to.
He’s been fighting himself since he last saw you, letting his thoughts swim. You’re right about everything – he knows that – but it doesn’t make it any easier. Maybe the best thing for him to do is let you go. All he’ll do is hold you back in the future… if there is one.
His brown eyes flick over to Steve’s blue ones for just a second but it says enough.
It’s complicated.
Eventually, the SUVs and limo turn onto a winding road that leads towards the country: quiet, isolated, out of sight from the main road. Javier doesn’t turn, instead driving a little further up and parking on the side of the road. The two of them get out, walking up the steep hill the winding pavement follows.
The view they’re met with takes Javier’s breath away. In the distance, a hacienda sits on the plot of land. At least 50 different cars surround the water fountain in the driveway, lush greenery outlines the circular platform, the mansion’s beautiful Spanish-colonial architecture: cream stucco and terracotta roofs. Faint rumba beats reach his ears, knowing this is the right spot and there has to be handfuls of drug lords here.
Inside, you finish getting ready in your room. The music blares through the house, chatter and laughter filling the space. You’re not in the partying mood but at least you look good. Francisco took you shopping beforehand and you managed to find the perfect dress. The black dress accentuates your curves, lace with floral designs along the length of it. It stops mid-calf, black red bottom Christian Louboutins to give you a bit of height and diamonds from your mother’s jewelry box to complete the look.
Jerónimo shot daggers into the back of your head while you went through Sara’s things yet again. When he sees you wearing his late wife’s clothing and jewelry, it’s like seeing a ghost from his past. He’ll never talk to you about it, but you know he hates it.
That’s part of the reason why you love doing it. Though, it’s really because it makes you feel closer to her; like you’re keeping her spirit alive just by wearing what she used to.
Frankie stands post outside your room, following you down the spiral staircase once you exit. The voices get louder, men in tuxedos and women in expensive dresses scattered all over the place. One by one, eyes land on you. Some people admire your look, others reek of envy.
It feels weird having so many people in your home, but you know your father needs to save face.
You find him in the living room, a cigar between his lips while he laughs at something someone said. When he spots you, he throws his arms up, pretending to be happy to see you. “Ahí está mi princesa. (There’s my princess.)”
The sudden affection makes your skin crawl, a tight-lipped smile tugging at your lips when he pulls you in to kiss your temple. “¿No se parece cada día más a su madre? (Doesn’t she look more and more like her mother everyday?)” as he asks, he gives your upper arm a tight squeeze, presenting as a loving gesture to everyone else but you know it’s a warning squeeze to play nice.
You give Frankie a subtle look, a silent plea for help. All he does is nod faintly, reassuring that you’ll be fine. You know you won’t be. You already want to lock yourself back in your room and pretend like none of them exist.
Just then, at least 8 rugged looking guys walk through the front door; tall, well-built, clad in black from head to toe. Murmurs die down, heads turn, jaws drop. A tall, burly figure slips between all of them, puffing out his chest as he buttons the middle of his blazer. His dark curls are gelled back, thick shaped mustache hiding his top lip, wearing a tuxedo with a bowtie.
It takes you a moment to recognize him, but once you do, you move towards him. “Seba!” you call out to him, opening your arms for a hug.
Sebastián’s expression softens, meeting you halfway for a big bear hug. He grunts as he squeezes you tight, pulling back to look at you. “Eras mucho más pequeñita la última vez que te vi, pequeña. (You were so much smaller the last time I saw you, babygirl.)”
A small chuckle leaves you, feeling the warmth of his palm when he cups your face. “De eso hace ya una década. (That was a decade ago by now.)”
Your father interrupts the moment, clearing his throat to get your attention. He exhales the smoke from his cigar, narrowing his eyes at Sebastián in challenge. “¿Qué estás haciendo aquí? (What are you doing here?)”
He blinks in surprise, lips twitching underneath his mustache. In your opinion, Jerónimo has always been a little jealous of the relationship you have with Sebastián. You’ve always seen him as more of a father than your biological one and he hates it with a passion.
“No hay necesidad de ser hostil, papá (There’s no need to be hostile, dad),” you try to ease the tension, “¿No eran amigos en algún momento? (Weren’t you guys friends at some point?)”
They were, but it was only out of obligation. Both of them live and work in the same world. There’s never been any need for bad blood, which is why they work very closely together… in two completely different cities.
Jerónimo glances at you sideways, just about ready to send you back to your room for getting involved in business that doesn’t involve you in the slightest. You tilt your head as you look at him, “Be nice,” you whisper, patting him on the shoulder before you walk away; giving him the privacy that he wants to talk to Sebastián alone.
Later, you find yourself at the bar, watching the two men bicker. You’re on your fourth martini, mind starting to get a little fuzzy. Frankie watches you from the corner, noticing your intense stare on your father specifically.
He’s seen you and Botero interact a handful of times when you were younger. The appreciation you have for him over your father speaks volumes… in his opinion. He also remembers how close Sara and Sebastián were before she passed. The man checked on her frequently, just about the same amount as Jerónimo did.
If Frankie didn’t know any better, he’d think that the two of them had something going on behind Jerónimo’s back. But he also knew how loyal Sara was and she never would’ve done anything to break up her family.
You down another glass, popping the olive into your mouth. When you look back over, the two men have disappeared from your sight. You shoot up, almost losing your footing and prompting Francisco to appear at your side. He steadies you, anchoring you to reality.
You give him a small nod, grateful for his practicality. Without much of a second thought, you make your way through the crowd, unintentionally listening to the conversations around you. All of Sebastián’s guards are still standing around but you catch a glimpse of him and your father heading towards the office.
The station has been lively since this morning. Javier and Steve stayed a little while after finding your family’s safehouse, scoping it out and coming up with a gameplan. They’re going to need a lot of firepower before they can even consider raiding it. And he has to make sure you’re not in the house when it happens.
Their newly appointed boss, Claudia Messina is flown in to oversee the operation, working closely with Carrillo and his team.
This is it, Javier thinks. Years of work is finally being put to use to stop this cartel once and for all, and he couldn’t be more relieved. The only thing is, he can’t get a hold of you right now. He’s paged you constantly since early this morning.
Your father and Botero had a very long conversation in his office last night, and Javier needs to make sure that you’re okay. Steve keeps reassuring him that you’re fine but he’s not convinced.
The man ratted you out to his partner without hesitation and they spoke about business. A discreet location was mentioned and if they get the upperhand and surprise them, both Jerónimo and Sebastián can be arrested by nightfall.
Everyone meets in the communications room, Edward informed Javier that he got a match on a voice and gathered everyone up. He messes with the wiretap reels, a little intimidated by Javier’s frame hovering near him. It’s obvious to everyone that he’s on edge today and he doesn’t want to do anything to tip him off.
Distorted voices fill the space, not really audible at all. “This was recorded about five minutes ago.”
“You can barely fucking hear it,” Javier fumes, bringing his hand up to his mouth to rub your thumb over your bottom lip.
“Alright, let me clean it up,” Jacoby utters, rewinding the tape to clear it up.
Javier can see Messina eyeing him in his peripheral vision, spinning her pen in her hands. He feels like she’s had it out for him since she got here, reprimanding him for the way he’s handled things without the proper authorization. Honestly, he has nothing against his boss being a woman… he just doesn’t do well with people of authority telling him what to do.
The tape begins playing again, Jerónimo’s voice filling the space. “Todos apagan sus teléfonos satelitales. (Everyone turn off their satellite phones.)”
Steve throws his hands up, a faint triumphant look on his face. Your father isn’t alone it seems, but he’s also not at home. It’s now or never.
“That’s Cruz,” Javier states.
Carrillo speaks up, voice carrying command. “We have to move now.”
As Javier and Steve begin to move, Messina stands up. “You two are staying here.”
He almost scoffs, knowing that they’re getting sidelined because of his own actions. Everything he’s done has got them to this point and he’s tired of taking shit. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“No,” she starts, “You have caused enough damage for the both of you alone. Search Bloc can handle this without you.”
“Javi is the reason we’re standing in this room in the first place,” Steve defends his partner, snarling at the woman.
“It’s not negotiable,” she states firmly.
Silence stretches for a moment, both Javier and Steve silently fuming at her audacity to make them sit this raid out.
Carrillo presses his lips into a fine line, “We’ll be in radio contact.”
Javier scoffs, shaking his head. “Jesus.”
You stand against the wall of the poorly lit room, unsure of why you’re even here in the first place. A black long sleeve hugs your torso, gray slacks and black heels to complete the look. Your father told you this is a "business meeting,” Sebastián, your Tía Luciana and Tíos Luca and Alberto, and Francisco in the room with you.
The shirt stretches as you cross your arms over your chest, already wanting to go back home. You have a bad feeling about this, remembering the last time you were forced to tag along on a “business” trip. You know what kind of business Jerónimo means.
“Todos apagan sus teléfonos satelitales (Everyone turn off their satellite phones),” your father instructs, not speaking again until everyone has done so.
He looks over at you, raising his brows expectantly. “You too.”
You furrow your brows, bewildered by the request. You don’t own a satellite phone – you never have. “No tengo uno de esos. (I don’t have one of those.)”
Jerónimo stares at you for a moment, a muscle in his jaw tensing as he takes a deep breath. From the look on his face alone, you can tell he’s already regretting bringing you here.
He doesn’t say anything else to you, going on about things that need to happen within the cartel now that Andrés is dead. Confusion settles over you once again. This should’ve been something that was discussed right after his death, and you know for a fact that it doesn’t involve Sebastián.
Still, you stay silent, mulling over everything in your head. Frankie nudges you with his elbow, picking up on your dismay and your father’s impatient tics. He constantly looks up at the clock on the wall as he speaks to everyone, standing up and starting to pace.
You watch him closely, narrowing your eyes by a fraction. He’s waiting for something. What it is, you don’t have the slightest clue. You don’t think you’ve seen him this antsy since your mother’s funeral; he didn’t sit down for hours on end that day, making sure that everything was perfectly in order because that’s the way she would’ve wanted it.
You’re about to open your mouth before a loud explosion sounds down the street, rumbling the building. Your heart drops, barely processing when everyone moves to grab their handguns.
“¿Qué carajo está pasando? (What the fuck is going on??)” you ask Frankie, being pulled to his side and protected by his body.
“He was waiting for it,” he murmurs, earning eyes from your father.
For a single second, Jerónimo studies the way Francisco guards you like his life depends on it. Sure, it’s his job, but it’s the comment that was murmured that catches him off guard. He has no time to think about it before multiple rounds of shots are fired.
You cover your ears, hiding behind your bodyguard’s frame like a scared little girl. Your father and everyone else step outside, walking straight into the chaos. All the air leaves your lungs, your breathing shallow and frantic. An unsettling feeling washes over you, your body suffocating being between the wall and the hard planes of Frankie’s body.
The shots go on for what feels like hours before they die down, making you raise your head and Frankie takes a step forward, still holding out a hand behind him to silently tell you that it’s not safe yet.
Ignoring him, you push past his body, bolting to the door and nearly twisting your ankle in the process. The sight you’re met with outside makes your breath hitch; smoke fills your lungs, fire reflecting off of buildings and puddles on the asphalt. At least a dozen police squad cars are scattered: windows shattered, blood splatters across them. Men in green uniforms lay on the ground, pools of crimson red underneath their lifeless bodies.
You do a 180°, frantically breathing in a weak attempt to get air back into your body. Why would he bring you here? To show you just how much of a monster he is?
He always promised your mother that he would never get this close to authority because his public view would change and people would turn on him; resulting in him getting caught. If she was still alive, all of this would feel like a punch to the gut. Not only would he have lied to her, but he would’ve put yours and her life at risk just because he felt like they deserved it.
A shuddering exhale escapes you, eyes wide as you take in the scene. Frankie grabs your arm just as you look over, spotting your father standing over Horacio Carrillo’s body. His handgun weighs heavily in his hand, your ears straining to hear what he’s saying over the crackle of the fire.
“Esto es para mi hermano, Andrés (This is for my brother, Andrés),” Jerónimo growls, cocking the chamber of his gun and unloading the entire clip directly into the man’s chest.
His body jerks with every bullet that hits him, laying out on the wet pavement.
Francisco cradles your head against his chest when a choked sound leaves you, bringing one of your trembling hands up to cover your mouth; too stunned to speak or move. Everyone’s heads turn towards you, Sebastián’s expression softening slightly and Jerónimo’s still cold as ice.
Sirens wail in the far distance, backup and ambulances already on their way. You don’t cry yet, keeping your unsteady hand over your mouth to keep your emotions at bay and the bile that threatens to come up.
Jerónimo removes the empty clip, handing it and the gun to your Tío Alberto so he can hold you instead. He may be a heartless bastard but he seems to still know when to comfort you. “Cariño,” he murmurs, waving a hand to beckon you to lean against him.
Something in you snaps at the term of endearment. You glare up at him, standing up straight and letting your hand fall to your side. Frankie shifts, when you pull away, taking a step back to give the two of you space.
You take in your surroundings – everything that he caused – and that’s when you come to the decision that this has to end. You’ve played this game for long enough and you’re tired of your life being like this. Bloodshed is not something you should be surrounded by and you don’t want to be.
You already wanted him dead. Now you have even more reason to.
Instead of leaning into his “comfort,” you take a slow step back, glass crunching underneath your heel.
Jerónimo says your name once, voice tight with warning. He has a feeling that he knows what you’re doing, following the steps that you take. “No lo hagas. (Don’t do it.)”
You don’t listen. When have you ever listened to him, really?
Defiance gleams in your eyes, etched all across your face as you pull back physically and emotionally. This isn’t your family, and it never will be again.
He says your name again, and you swear you hear an edge of pleading in his tone. It’s not enough to get you to change your mind, though. Everyone around you waits with bated breath, the sirens getting louder and closer. If you wait a little longer, you can get all of them arrested but you know you would be alongside them.
You retreat fully, turning your back on your father and walking into the darkness of the night. “Déjala ir. Déjala ir. (Let her go. Let her go),” you hear the scuffing behind you, Sebastián keeping him from going after you. “Ella volverá. (She’ll be back.)”
There’s no time to chase after you or think about it before they have to disappear into the shadows as well.
Javier’s not sure of how many traffic laws he breaks driving to the site. Him, Steve, Messina, and Jacoby heard everything go down on the comms. His palms are sweaty, jaw clenched, mind racing as he tries not to think the worst.
Fuck, who is he kidding? He heard the explosion and all the shots that were fired before he slammed his hand down on the machine and stormed out of the room.
Now, he watches the medics put a white sheet over his friend’s body, rolling the stretcher towards the ambulance. His hands feel useless at his side, mind betraying him and telling him that he’s responsible for Horacio’s death.
“If you hadn’t gotten so distracted with her, Carrillo would still be alive.”
It’s bullshit.
It’s all just a bunch of bullshit that he has no control over. Except this time, he did. Javier has failed someone yet again. And this time it ended in death.
He has to let you go. If he doesn’t, you may end up just like the people around him. To him, he feels that it’s best if he has no one close in his life because he always ends up hurting them in the end.
He has disappointed his father by leaving Texas and never calling, he’s pissed off Lorraine’s entire family because he left her at the altar (regardless of if they knew about her fake pregnancy), he betrayed Steve’s trust by getting involved with you when he told him countless times that it would end up horribly. And now he’s gotten a good friend killed over his selfishness and greed.
His partner stands next to him, arms crossed with a cigarette between his fingers. “I’ll go back to Bogotá with the body until the funeral.”
Javier doesn’t answer for a second, Steve stubbing out his cancer stick after taking one final drag. “They call his wife?” he asks, watching them place the stretcher inside the back of the truck.
“Yeah, she’s on her way from Madrid,” Steve turns around, watching the firefighters behind them tame the fire. He places his hands on his hips, leaning in slightly. “This ain’t on you, Javi. It’s on Cruz. And one way or another, he pays.”
He stares at nothing in particular, spotting a familiar figure appearing from the shadows. “We all do. Right?”
You assess the damage, stumbling in your heels. From his place, he can see how red-rimmed your eyes are, like you’ve been crying or throwing up nonstop.
For a second, he chastises himself in his mind, knowing that he doesn’t have the energy to be dealing with this right now. But then you freeze when you spot him, the tension in your shoulders dropping almost immediately.
How the fuck is he going to explain this to you when it’s all over?
You and Steve cross paths. You don’t notice him glancing at you sideways, too busy getting to Javier to wrap your arms around his neck.
The second you’re in his arms, you break down completely. “I’m so sorry,” you murmur into his shirt, tears streaming down your face.
He runs a soothing hand down your back, his head in the crook of your neck. He shouldn’t be mad at you; it wasn’t you that did it, it was your father. But that’s the problem. You’re associated with them whether you like it or not, and right now, he can’t seem to separate the two.
Steve watches the two of you from the back of the ambulance until the doors close, noting the distant look in his partner’s eyes. You’re oblivious to it, your trembling body clinging desperately to Javier’s.
He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands and murmuring things that are meaningless to him right now.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Everything’s gonna be okay.”
“I got you.”
You explain everything that happened once he takes you to the DEA safehouse, sitting in a chair at the dining table with your knees up to your chest, cradling yourself. You smell of his bodywash: cedar and sandalwood, hair still damp from the shower that you took. One of his faded t-shirts drapes over your frame, swallowing you whole.
It feels weirdly domestic as he gazes at you, elbow resting on the table with his hand over his mouth. Lazy tendrils of smoke escape from his unfinished cigarette, sitting in an ashtray of old butts. He reaches for the crystallized glass he’s been pouring whiskey into, downing the rest of the brown liquid. It burns his throat, making him grit his teeth.
The dull ache remains, knowing that all of this could’ve been avoided if he just left you alone. He stares at you, watching you shrink into yourself and gaze at the floor. He balls up his fist, resting it against his cheek and pressing his fingers against his palm repeatedly.
It’s a losing battle – he knows that. He’s buried his emotions under a stoic mask for so long that it feels like an elephant is weighing down on his chest.
Absentmindedly, he reaches for the closest part of you to him, unsure of what he even needs right now. A shoulder to cry on? A warm body to hold? Or a different kind of emotional release.
You stand slowly, padding over until you’re between his legs. You stroke his hair back so gently, even though he doesn’t deserve it. For a moment, he lets you soothe him the way you want, pressing his forehead against your stomach and closing his eyes. When he feels your grip at the nape of his neck, he surges from his chair, the object scraping across the floor before he crashes his lips against yours.
A low moan leaves you, being swallowed eagerly by his mouth, slipping his tongue past your lips. He doesn’t ask for anything, he just takes, hoisting you up and carrying you towards his bedroom.
He kicks the door shut behind him, falling into bed with you. No time is wasted, his warm palms already guiding up your thighs and underneath the shirt you’re wearing. A growl leaves him when he slips his hand into the waistband of your panties, already finding you slick for him.
You tip your head back when he circles your clit, pressing your thighs together. He mouths at your exposed neck, nipping and sucking on the sensitive skin.
Is it wrong to use you like this? Yes.
But he can tell that you want it just as much as he does by the way you moan his name when he buries two thick fingers inside you, curling them relentlessly against the sensitive spot that makes you see stars.
“Suenas tan linda, princesa (You sound so pretty, princess),” he purrs, catching your bottom lip between his teeth.
The kiss is messy, hungry, and tender all in one, stealing the air from both of your lungs. He pulls back just to slant his lips against yours again. Your sounds grow louder and more frequent, waves of arousal crashing over you unexpectedly.
Javier slows his fingers to a gentle caress, massaging your fluttering walls and prolonging your pleasure until you’re a puddle beneath him. It’s only then that he brings his hand up to his lips, holding the back of your neck with his other hand to make sure you’re watching him suck your creamy release off his fingers.
The sight shoots a fresh wave of heat through your body, pupils blown wide with desire. Without a second thought, you lick into his mouth, tasting your slick on his tongue. Your hands nimbly work the buttons on his shirt, tossing it across the room before cupping the prominent bulge straining his jeans.
He groans against your mouth, hips bucking into your hand to chase the friction. Hastily, you remove the rest of each other’s clothing, needing to feel each other the proper way.
Javier easily manhandles you, flipping you over onto your stomach and yanking your hips up. The bulbous head of his cock probes at your mouthing entrance, thrusting inside in one smooth motion. He doesn’t give you time to breathe or adjust to his girth before he sets a punishing pace; slamming into your tight cunt over and over.
You and your pussy sing for him, fresh slick washing over you when the curve of his dick hits just the right spot, his heavy sack slapping against your swollen clit. You can’t catch your breath and you’re not sure if you even want to. Every nerve end lights on fire, another peak already beginning to rise.
He wraps one hand around your hair, using it as leverage to fuck you harder. The bed creaks from his movements, headboard tapping against the wall. Neither of you care right now. Not when he’s pounding into you relentlessly.
Blindlessly, you reach back for his hand on your hip, needing some sort of anchor to reality. He responds immediately, grunting as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you straight up against his sweaty chest. You cry out, the change in position allowing for deeper penetration that has your velvet walls tightening around his length.
Javier buries his head in the crook of your neck, teeth nibbling on your ear as he fucks every coherent thought out of your mind. You moan out unashamedly, his name spilling from your lips again and again when you finally tip over the edge, squeezing him so tight that it pulls his own release from him.
He slams into you one last time, grunting loudly as he paints your walls white, hips stuttering and burying his cum deeper inside you. You exhale contently, feeling his teeth on your earlobe; still needy after just having you in the most intimate way.
You lay in his arms afterwards, back in his t-shirt and tracing the callouses on his hand. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, soothing your mind. Javier strokes your hair with his other hand, staring up at the ceiling as he replays tonight over again in his head.
He realizes now that it was wrong of him to blame you for something you had no part in. Even if he didn’t outright tell you that’s what he thought. He hates being the slightest bit mad at you, always longing to have you by his side regardless of if the two of you are fighting that day.
That scares him, yes. But it’s also refreshing to know that it is possible for him to be loved by someone as perfect as you.
The silence isn’t awkward, it’s safe and calm. It’s needed after the shitshow that tonight was, but it can’t last forever. Something always comes up to make it worse.
“He never wanted me,” you whisper, breaking the stillness in the room and intertwining your fingers with his. “Having children in his kind of world…” you trail off, shaking your head.
Javier stays quiet, giving you the space to speak freely and get everything off your chest.
“I’ve always been a liability to him, and he’s trying to shape me into somebody that I’m not.” Your voice wavers a bit, curling yourself against his side.
He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and resting his cheek atop your head.
“I know I’ve said it before,” you start, your voice small, “but I can’t live if he’s still around. I don’t see how it’s possible after everything he’s done–”
The dam finally breaks and you fall apart in his arms for the second time tonight. Seeing you like this tugs at his heartstrings. Personally, he doesn’t know what it’s like to not be wanted by a parent but he can imagine that it’s hell – especially in the drug world.
Kids become your one weak spot if you’re a drug lord. Enemies will do anything in their power to gain the upper hand, and sometimes that includes going after children.
“I could’ve stopped it,” you choke up, wiping your face, “I could’ve stopped him tonight and I just stood there.”
The guilt of Carrillo’s death visibly eats you alive, causing his protective instincts to flare up; even if he’s protecting you from yourself. He turns on his side – careful not to jostle you too much – and props himself up on his elbow. You wipe away your tears as you lay on your back, composing yourself to keep talking.
“That makes me just as bad as them,” you sniffle, avoiding direct eye contact.
Javier frowns, taking your chin between his pointer finger and thumb to turn your head towards him. His deep espresso eyes are soft, searching your face and patting your face dry. “You’re nothing like them,” he states.
You shake your head slowly, expression hardening slightly. Just by looking at you, he can tell that you’re not used to being this vulnerable with somebody. It hurts him to see you this upset and he wants you to know that you’re safe with him… and you will be safe in life.
“Mírame (Look at me),” he murmurs, waiting until you do. His pupils dilate when you meet his gaze, yours doing the same despite the look on your face. “No eres cruel como ellos. (You’re not heartless like they are.)”
“Dejé que mi padre matara a tu amigo esta noche. (I let my father kill your friend tonight),” you weakly protest, all the fight actively draining out of you. “¿Qué clase de persona me hace eso? (What kind of person does that make me?)”
“Human,” he answers like it’s easy – because it is easy. You had no control over your father’s decision to kill Carrillo; it is not on you. “You were shocked and didn’t know what to do. That’s a normal reaction to seeing something like that.”
A scoff leaves your mouth, sitting up and crossing your legs. “How can you say that? How can you even look at me right now?”
Javier looks up at you, not reaching for you yet because he can tell you’re trying to pull away.
He should let you, but his feelings are stronger than his willpower. “You know why,” he whispers.
You tilt your head slightly, needing to hear him say it. He understands the silent gesture – of course he does – a smirk tugging at his lips before he leans up. The warmth of his palm cups your face, thumb rubbing your cheekbone.
“Because I love you.”
For the next week, you stay with Javier while Steve is gone. The funeral happened pretty fast, the blonde man doing damage control there and helping with appointing a new Commander for Search Bloc. Unfortunately, they need to have the proper authorization… otherwise they would’ve stormed Jerónimo’s place a long time ago.
All you can replay in your head is everything you’ve seen your family do. You’ve seen two people killed in front of you, and it was two too many.
To keep yourself safe, you never gave Javier the new location you moved to. It was better that way and it kept some of the blame off of you about snitching. Javier and the cops broke through the tough exterior shell your father built around himself and now it’s time to get to the middle.
He barely hears you when you mutter the neighborhood it’s in: your back towards him in bed. Your voice carries through the dead of night, sex still faintly lingering in the air.
The bed dips behind you when he props himself up, “What?”
You turn over to look at him, “I think it’s time for this to end.”
He and Steve work like a dream team once he’s back in the city, and it’s not long before they get everything set up. But to your surprise and against your will, you have to be a pawn. Javier reassures you that you’ll be bugged and they’ll listen the entire time; it still doesn’t ease your nerves. The idea of going back into that house after everything haunts you. Surely by now, your father has figured everything out and doesn’t trust you one bit.
That would be the worst case scenario.
When you’re dropped off, to your shock, the front door is unlocked. It creaks faintly as you open it, your heels in one hand, still wearing the last thing everyone saw you in. Your mascara is a bit smudged under your eyes from not having the proper makeup remover to take it off, adding to the visible exhaustion in your face.
Thankfully, you don’t see any of your younger cousins running around the house today; but everyone else freezes when they see you. It’s eerily quiet, cardboard boxes stacked up in the corner. You ignore them and slowly climb the stairs. Voices trickle down the hall and catch your ears while your eyes catch more boxes.
The family must be in the process of moving again, you think, that nauseating feeling returning. Your gut is telling you that this is a horrible idea, but it’s too late to turn around when Luciana steps out of your room, bristling past you and shoulder checking you. You take the sudden impact, closing your eyes to keep yourself from grabbing her by the hair.
You have a task to do, and she’s not about to fuck it up with her pettiness.
With a deep breath, you continue down the hallway to your room; only to find your father hunched over the floor. The floorboard you hide everything under is off to the side, nearly everything you had under there scattered across the floor.
You see red, stepping into your bedroom and yelling at him. “¿Qué coño estás haciendo con mis cosas? (What the fuck are you doing with my stuff?)” It doesn’t even bother you that he found everything you’ve been using to contact Javier. What bothers you is the invasion of privacy.
Jerónimo scowls at you, licking a stripe over his teeth; which leads you to believe that he isn’t sober right now. He shoots daggers at you with his eyes, finally seeing you for what you’ve been this entire month and lied about. “Realmente quería creerte (I really did want to believe you),” disappointment drips from his words, tilting his head to the side slightly as he scolds you.
With a shake of his head, he continues, “Has estado trabajando para los gringos todo este tiempo. (You’ve been working for the gringos this entire time.)”
“No, I…” you stagger, trying and failing to come up with an excuse. There’s no point in attempting to convince him anymore, he’s not going to believe a word that comes out of your mouth.
His tall frame shoots up, stalking towards you and making you take a step back. The look on his face – twisted with rage – is a look you’ve never seen on him before. And for the first time in your life, you feel the fear that everyone that has ever crossed him felt before they met their utter demise.
“No te hagas la tonta conmigo, niñita (Don’t play dumb with me, little girl),” his voice seethes with anger, spreading goosebumps across your skin. “¿Te volviste contra tu propio y maldito padre para qué? ¿Para tener una vida mejor? (You turned on your own fucking father for what? A better life?)”
You nearly stumble backwards when he takes another step forward, looking up at him with glossy eyes. “Papá–”
“No!” he bellows, making you startled. “Debería haberme deshecho de ti cuando tuve la oportunidad. (I should’ve gotten rid of you when I had the chance.)”
That hurts more than you’ll ever admit, though your face dropping tells him everything. He truly has never wanted you, and you regret staying in his bubble for as long as you have. The only reason you haven’t tried to leave again is because you feel some sort of obligation towards him since he’s your father.
Clearly, he feels a completely different way.
Despite yourself, tears prick at your eyes and you feel like a little girl again. Your lip faintly quivers, accepting the fact that you were never wanted and you never will be.
A quiet, dark chuckle leaves his lips, raising his brows. “¿Ahora quieres llorar? (Now you want to cry?)” he taunts you, “Deberías haber pensado en lo que pasaría antes de abrirle las piernas a ese estadounidense. (You should’ve thought about what would happen before you went and opened your legs for that American.)”
God, you wish you were born into a different life. People who are going to throw their kids to the side should never have them in the first place. It makes you miss your mother tremendously. Despite how much of a sweetheart she was, she would cuss him out for the way he speaks to you and treats you.
You only ever felt that unconditional love with her, and despair towards your father.
“I hate you,” it leaves your mouth as a low whisper, composing yourself just long enough to stand your ground. “Te odio (I hate you),” you repeat, louder.
A muscle in his jaw ticks, fingers twitching at his sides. You don’t have time to move before his hand whips across your face, snapping your head to the side. Immediately, your cheek blooms with pain, your skin turning red and stinging from the impact.
You look back up at him with teary eyes, cupping your cheek. For a split second, you can see the regret flash across his face before it’s gone in a heartbeat; his face hardening once again.
Heavy footsteps run down the hallway, nearly pushing past you to get to your father. “¡Nos encontraron! (They found us!)” Luca announces, prompting your father’s gaze to land on you once again.
Before he opens his mouth, the front door blows open and the chaos starts. They were supposed to wait for you to get out of the house before they raided it, but you know Javier. The second he heard the slap, he ordered everybody to move in.
Jerónimo manhandles you, grabbing you and dragging you down the hallway. You kick and scream in his hold, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“If I’m going down, you’re going down with me.”
For months, you’ve told yourself that you would be fine dying at his side, because at least he would be dead too. But now that it’s staring you in the face, you know you’re not ready for your life to be over.
Because of your father’s antics, you haven’t been able to live like you’re supposed to. There are still things you want to do; you want to go to school and get your degree, you want to look into starting your mother’s fashion line up again, you want your dream house, you want to marry Javier and grow old and grey by his side.
Still, Jerónimo wraps his arms around your middle, your back against his chest as he carries you down the stairs. Luca protects the two of you, shooting men in uniforms until they drop like flies.
The gun fight is loud. This is the closest you’ve ever been to one, and it’s right in your home.
When he reaches for his gun in his waistband, you break free, heading for the front door only to be grabbed by your uncle. He pulls you back by your hair, your scalp stinging as your body falls back completely.
The impact to the floor knocks the wind out of you, holding your pounding head before Luca wraps his hand around your ankle to pull you closer. He lifts you up and pushes you right back into your father’s arms.
Bodies lie everywhere: both cops and family members. Blood turns the rug crimson, Francisco being placed in handcuffs with his eyes on you.
Jerónimo swings you around, yelling at the authority and pressing the barrel of his gun against your temple. You cry out, closing your eyes tightly when the safety clicks off. His forearm is a bar of steel across your shoulders, putting pressure on your throat.
You grip his arm with both hands, desperately pleading. “Papá, soy yo. Papá, soy yo, por favor. (Dad, it’s me. Dad, it’s me, please.)”
“¡Cierra la puta boca! (Shut the fuck up!)” he shakes your whole body, screaming in your ear.
Javier’s voice reaches you, making an attempt to calm your father down. They yell back and forth, Jerónimo pointing his gun at him before holding it back up to your head.
You’re sobbing at this point, trembling in your father’s grip. You had a feeling he’d take you down with him; you just didn’t expect this. You guess the movies are right when they say that your life flashes before your eyes, because that’s all you can picture right now.
Sara will be waiting for you on the other side, you know that–
A shot rings out, shattering the window behind you and hitting your father in his side. He lets out a guttural roar, doubling over and taking you down to the floor with him.
In a flash, Javier moves, pulling you away from your father while cops swarm Jerónimo’s bleeding body. You cling to your love, hands shaking where they grip him, eyes wide with shock and horror as you watch the scene unfold.
He cradles your face, brushing your hair back. You can’t hear a word he’s saying – not over your father’s screams and the ringing in your ears. Steve stands nearby, gun still in hand while he stares at the fallen drug lord.
Your vision blurs around the edges, a panic attack creeping in like ocean waves. Javier says your name, concern etched across his face when your lashes flutter. Something’s wrong, you assume, watching him search your expression desperately.
His eyes dart around your frame, landing on your side where blood is seeping through your black shirt. At first, he assumes that it’s your father’s, but the spot is too wet for it to be his. Carefully, he bunches up your shirt and lifts it, discovering that the sniper bullet didn’t just hit your dad, but it hit you too.
Before you know it, the world goes dark; the fear in Javier’s voice being the last thing that you hear.
