Summary: When a mission goes a bit sideways, you suddenly find yourself stuck with Din in a hideout that allows little to no movement, leaving you in a precarious situation - between his legs.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, took the locked room trope to its farthest edge, oral (m receiving), praising, the helmet stays on, forced orgasm if you squint?
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Din Djarin & locked room came in second. If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 4.8k
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
This was… a predicament, to put it mildly.
You crouched inside a storage cavity that clearly had not been designed with a human occupant in mind - certainly not two of them. The narrow compartment smelled faintly of machine oil and old dust, the metal walls pressing close on every side as if the space itself resented your presence.
One person would have been uncomfortable.
Two was a logistical nightmare.
Especially when one of those people insisted on wearing an entire arsenal of beskar plates that stole what little room existed.
Every minor adjustment from Din Djarin produced the faint scrape of metal against durasteel.
You clenched your jaw.
“Would you hold still?” you hissed under your breath, trying to shift your position for the tenth time and failing just as miserably as before.
The helmet tilted slightly toward you.
“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.
Very much down.
Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.
He followed a heartbeat later.
The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.
Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.
The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.
Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.
At least he was standing.
You, on the other hand…
You lifted your gaze slowly.
From the floor.
From where you were kneeling.
Directly between his legs.
“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”
Technically speaking, you were right.
Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.
An easy contract, he had said.
Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.
Simple.
Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.
The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.
What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.
Air vents.
Abandoned wastewater tunnels.
Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.
The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.
Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.
Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.
Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.
You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.
Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.
Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.
Not just a few.
Dozens.
The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.
That was when the plan changed.
Getting out immediately had become impossible.
But hiding?
Hiding might buy time.
Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.
At least, that had been the theory.
Which was how you ended up here.
Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.
Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.
Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.
You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.
“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.
You snorted quietly.
“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”
You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.
Your muscles protested.
“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”
Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.
You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.
“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”
The response came immediately.
“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.
Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.
You had seen that smirk before though.
More than once.
Because you have seen his face many times now.
The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.
The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.
The third…
Well.
That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.
Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.
Lately, things had become a little more complicated.
“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”
A faint pause followed.
Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”
Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.
You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.
Something affectionate, you suspected.
Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.
Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”
Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.
“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.
“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”
Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.
Still, both of you kept your voices low.
Better safe than discovered.
“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”
You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.
“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”
Your gaze lifted.
The visor angled down toward you.
“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.
Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.
“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”
“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”
His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.
“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”
You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.
As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly -
- and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.
The reaction was immediate.
Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.
You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.
“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.
And there it was.
A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.
Your mouth curved slightly.
Well. That answered that.
“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.
Except the tone betrayed him.
Half caution. Half something else entirely.
“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”
His breath caught.
“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”
A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.
“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.
Your hand didn’t slow.
If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.
Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.
Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.
“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.
But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.
It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.
Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.
You slipped beneath it.
The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.
A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.
“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”
Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.
The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.
You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.
But this?
This was different.
With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.
Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.
Every small shift of muscle.
Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.
The signals were clearer than he probably realized.
And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.
His length twitched faintly in your grasp.
Yes.
Definitely the right track.
“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”
Your hand moved again.
With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.
Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.
Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.
Now the discomfort barely registered.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.
Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.
Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.
“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.
You smiled faintly.
“I haven’t even started yet.”
Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.
The thing was, you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.
The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.
Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.
You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.
Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.
For a moment the two of you went completely still.
The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.
Din’s breath hitched again.
“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.
“You look… perfect like this.”
The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.
Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.
You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.
Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.
It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.
But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.
For now though, the focus was entirely on him.
Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.
“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.
Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.
You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.
Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.
“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”
You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment -
- but suddenly he froze.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.
The situation became instantly absurd.
You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.
Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.
You felt it.
You understood it.
You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.
The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.
Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.
You didn’t.
Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.
That was all it took.
Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.
The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.
Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.
True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.
His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.
The footsteps faded down the corridor.
Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.
The breath came out slow and shaky.
After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.
“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”
You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.
“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.
With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.
“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.
The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.
“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”
“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”
He glanced down toward you.
“Can you get it open again?”
Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.
You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.
“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.
Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.
“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”
Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.
“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.
The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.
He leaned closer.
“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”
You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.
Pins and needles shot through your calves.
“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”
Din didn’t slow.
“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”
Waiting had been the right call.
The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.
Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.
Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.
Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.
Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.
You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.
Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.
You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.
But the grin on your face refused to fade.
From your pocket you produced the prize.
The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.
“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”
You flipped the shard once more.
Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.
The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.
You glanced sideways at him.
“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.
Still nothing.
A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?
You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.
You tossed the shard again -
- but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.
The motion was so quick it left you blinking.
Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.
Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.
“Bunk,” he said.
Just one word.
No humor left in it.
The tone wasn’t angry.
But it was unmistakably an order.
And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.
You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.
Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.
You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin -
The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.
Your grin widened.
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.
You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.
【in the group】 mamamoo (tag) . solar (tag) . moonbyul (tag) . wheein (tag) . hwasa (tag)
【other connections】 pt/1 . pt/2 . love interests
【tags】 mamamoo tag . connections tag . love insterest tag
【discography】
【pedro eras】 hello . piano man . pink funky . melting . memory . purple . yellow flower . red moon . blue;s . white wind . 4colors . reality in black . travel . other . eras tag
Summary: You moved to Dorne to forget your past. Keep your head down, follow the rules of the bathhouse you just started a new job at, make enough coin to survive. Easy - until a certain prince decides you have “magic hands” and himself having absolutely no self-control around temptation.
Warnings: steamy smut with a very flirty prince, oily massage touches, a lot of flirting, kinda... dry humping, fingering, oral (f!recieving), unprotected p in v (don't do that), no use of y/n
A/N: i might have escaped winter's cold touch and went to a hamam... i might have gotten inspired by that... unfortunately no Oberyn anywhere near me though... and thanks to all the cuties looking forward to this steamy one-shot. Hope you relax 🤍
wc: 10k (sorryyy... but the heat rises quickly!)
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
Dorne was so different from your homelands. That, in truth, had been the very reason you had chosen it as your refuge. A place where no one asked questions, where no one cared for your name or the stories behind the shadows in your eyes. A place far south enough that the heat alone seemed to burn away the past.
But gods, that heat.
You were still trying to make peace with it. Your summers had once meant mild breezes drifting over soft hills, fields humming with bees and crickets, warm days that never turned cruel. Here, the sun was a merciless sovereign. Its glare swallowed the sky, its touch scorched sand and stone alike, and stepping outside for even a few breaths drenched your clothes in sweat. Nothing in your old life had prepared you for the way the Dornish sun claimed the land.
Yet, ironically, it made what you found next all the more welcome.
The public bathhouse - the sudhalla, as the locals called it - was a sanctuary of another kind of warmth: softer, more languid. When you entered for the first time, the rush of moist air had been an unexpected, almost tender embrace. Steam curled in gentle ribbons around the low pillars. Cool stone glistened beneath your fingertips as you trailed after the woman who owned the place, an older matron with strong features and a voice like smooth gravel. You had expected the spaces of Dorne to be harsh, sun-bleached, unforgiving. Instead, the bathhouse was dim and fragrant, with amber lamps casting honey-colored light across mosaics of seashell hues and curling vines.
Here, you could breathe.
“This hall,” the woman said, her tone brisk but not unkind, “is where we keep the heat.” She gestured toward a chamber where the air shimmered with rising steam, the scent of heated herbs and orange-blossom clinging to the walls. You glimpsed bodies reclining on stone benches - men and women wrapped in linen, skin slick with moisture, their souls unwinding into the haze. “They come to sweat out illness, strain, sorrow… whatever the desert sun has baked into their bones.”
You nodded, taking it in. The steam room’s atmosphere was thick, comforting. Quiet. A place where the world seemed to soften its edges.
“And over here,” she continued, leading you past an archway worked with cobalt tiles, “is the cooling pool. For when the heat becomes too bold.”
The pool lay half-hidden beneath a lattice of carved stone that scattered soft patches of light across its surface. Water lapped gently against its edge - inviting, jade-colored, promising a reprieve from the suffocating desert heat.
You paused for a breath, letting yourself look. In your homeland, the healing center you once worked at had been all sharp angles and plain wood, built for practicality above all else. You had never minded it. It had been enough, because healing had been your calling. With your hands, you coaxed tension from muscles, soothed pain with oil and pressure, listened to breath and bone. You had believed that was your purpose.
Until the day the head healer died beneath your hands.
Your chest tightened at the memory - the frantic race of your pulse, the failing breath beneath your palms, the way every remedy you tried slipped uselessly through your fingers. The man had been old, his heart tired, but that mattered little once the whispers began. They said you had killed him. That you wanted his position. That you had used oils to weaken him. Poisoned him. Reached too eagerly for power.
And once a village decided something, truth no longer mattered.
You had fled before the accusations turned to punishment. Fled from the home that had ceased being one long before that day.
Dorne had taken you in without question.
As the scents of heated oils, herbs, and perfumed steam filled your lungs, you wondered - perhaps for the first time - if this place could truly become yours.
“Healer, was it?” the older woman asked suddenly, drawing you back from the depths of memory. You had reached one of the private chambers - smaller, more intimate, curtained with soft fabric dyed in rust and gold tones. A narrow stone bed draped in fresh linens awaited its first visitor of the day.
“Yes, mistress,” you answered, defaulting to a title common enough in these parts. You brushed your fingers over the newly laundered sheets, smoothing an invisible crease. “My work was mostly in the art of hand-healing - pressure paths, muscle loosening, and restorative oil treatments.” Massage felt like too small a word for the craft you had given your life to. “But whatever forms of care you offer here, I can learn swiftly and without complaint.”
To your relief, she smiled - a brief, approving curl of her mouth that softened her stern bearing. Her coloring was odd for Dorne: fair-skinned, hair touched with gold rather than burnt sienna or rich black. Perhaps that was why she looked at you with a kind of knowing sympathy. She, too, must have been an outsider once.
“We shall see,” she said. “Your hands will speak for you soon enough. But first - our ways. There are rules, and they must be held.” She straightened, tapping a finger in the air for emphasis. “Payment is always given before the work begins. You state the treatments you offer, they choose, they pay, then you lay hands. We’ve had too many fools trying to charm their way out of coin.”
She pointed to a small alcove carved into the wall, where a silver bowl rested - its surface etched with serpents and vines.
You inclined your head. “Understood.”
“Good. Now the next.” Her expression hardened, her voice a shade deeper. “This house is one of clean purpose. We mend bodies and spirits. We do not offer the comforts sought in the dockside dollhouses.” She studied you closely, weighing your reaction. “If any patron asks more of you than your craft allows, you refuse. Always.”
You nodded at once. You had never once considered straying from that rule. After everything you’d escaped, the idea of selling your body - even in desperation - felt like another life entirely. You had been gifted a second chance here; you wanted to honor it.
“And lastly,” she said, folding her arms, “should any man - or woman - grow too bold, too rough, too demanding… you remove yourself. Tell them you fetch more oil. Then fetch one of my boys instead.” Her chin lifted. “No healer under my roof is made to suffer disrespect.”
Gratitude warmed you unexpectedly. “I will not disappoint you,” you promised, offering another small smile.
Her sternness did not fade, but something gentle flickered behind her eyes. “We shall see, child.” Then she motioned to the chamber. “Prepare your space. Your first patron will not tarry.”
When she left, the quiet returned.
You stood alone in your new little room. It was simple, but beautiful in its way - stone walls softened by woven cloth, shelves lined with jars of scented oils and salves, a narrow low table displaying heated stones and folded linens. The lamp in the corner cast a warm, amber light that danced along the mosaics embedded in the floor: swirling patterns of the sun, curling waves, desert flowers. No luxury - nothing grand like the noble houses - but undeniably cared for.
To the right, half-set into the floor, lay a shallow stone basin fed by a thin stream of cool water trickling from a carved spout shaped like a sand viper. Its soft, continuous murmur filled the chamber like a quiet breath. The little pool was meant for cleansing - your hands between treatments, your tools after use - and for guests who wished to wash away the oils once your work was done. A set of smooth clay bowls and delicate copper cups rested on a ledge beside it, ready to pour fresh water over shoulders, rinse hair scented with herbal soaps, or cradle a patron’s head while you worked your fingers gently across their scalp.
The surface shimmered faintly in the low light, a promise of cool relief in a land where heat ruled everything.
You began arranging the oils, feeling their smooth clay jars beneath your fingertips. You uncorked one - myrrh, sharp and warm - then another, a blend of citrus and herbs, bright as morning. You breathed them in, grounding yourself.
Then you gathered your hair, tying it back neatly. Straightened your simple robes. Smoothed the folds and orderly placed the oils before you.
You were ready.
And you did not have to wait long.
A single knock - sharp, confident, not at all seeking permission - landed on the door before it swung open. You barely had time to set the small clay flask of oil back on the shelf before footsteps crossed the threshold.
“Welcome to The House of Waves,” you began softly, smoothing your voice to match the tranquility of the chamber. You lifted your gaze -
- and stopped breathing.
The man who entered was not what you expected for your first customer. He was dressed well, but carelessly so, like someone accustomed to comfort rather than ceremony. Loose Dornish silks the color of sunburned copper draped over a lean, strong frame; bracelets clinked on one forearm; a thin gold chain winked at his throat. His hair, dark as desert stone, curled back from a face both elegant and wickedly handsome.
And he smiled at you as if he already knew every secret you had ever tried to bury.
“Sire…” you said, but the word left you with more breath than sound.
His lips curved - knowingly - as he let his gaze travel the room. “Pleasant greeting,” he murmured, voice warm as spiced wine. “Pleasant place.” His attention drifted back to you. “And a very pleasant welcome.”
He stepped further inside, uninvited yet entirely at home. You straightened your posture, clasping your hands in front of you.
“What treatments may I offer you today?” you asked, keeping your tone even, professional.
He hummed low in his throat, strolling leisurely as if inspecting a private chamber he already owned. His gaze swept over the shelves, the table, the pool, the heated stones - then back to you. Unapologetic. Assessing. Far too amused.
“You’re new,” he said. Not a question - an observation sharpened by curiosity. “I know every man and woman who works here. Every pair of hands that’s ever worked on me.” He tilted his head. “I would certainly remember yours.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you kept your chin lifted. “You are correct. I arrived only recently. But I assure you, I can uphold the standards you are used to.” You paused. “Unless you prefer one of your regular attendants - I can have the mistress send for them.”
He halted his casual examination, one hand resting on a carved wooden shelf, his gaze locking onto yours with a glint that warned you you’d said exactly the wrong thing.
Or the right one.
“No,” he said, smile stretching with slow delight. “On the contrary…” He stepped closer. Not invading, but nearing - testing the air between you. “It would be my pleasure,” he continued in a silken tone, “to be your first. Your hands and I… should get to know one another. Thoroughly.”
A pouch appeared in his hand - small, soft leather, tied with a golden cord. He tossed it lightly toward you.
You caught it, startled. It was heavier than expected - too heavy. You loosened the cord to count what was owed, but his quiet click of the tongue made your fingers still.
“Don’t spoil the moment,” he chided lightly. “Consider it an incentive. A little encouragement to make sure I leave here ruined for all other healers.”
You allowed yourself the smallest smile - professional, controlled, but real. Then, without hesitation, you counted only what was required for the treatment, removed it, and gently pressed the pouch back into his hand.
“A fair exchange is tradition, sire,” you replied, your fingertips brushing his just long enough to betray warmth. “But should you desire more time, more services, you’re always welcome to extend the session afterward.”
His brows lifted, impressed, perhaps even amused at being denied the smallest extravagance. You pointed toward the stone bed covered in fresh linens.
“Please disrobe once I step outside,” you instructed gently. “Cover yourself with the cloth provided. I will begin with an assessment of your tensions - your knots, pressure lines, places of strain - and treat them accordingly.”
He opened his mouth - no doubt to coax, tease, or attempt some Dornish charm - but you moved toward the door with a polite, firm bow of the head.
“You can stay,” he offered behind you, voice a lazy purr.
You shook your head without turning. “The privacy of my clients is part of my oath. I will knock. Call for me when you are prepared.”
A beat of silence answered you. Then: a theatrical sigh, like a man denied an indulgence he fully expected.
“Very well,” he conceded. “But do return quickly. I am a man who hates being kept waiting.”
You stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind you, pulse ticking at your throat. Leaning lightly against the cool stone wall, you drew in a steadying breath.
You had asked the gods for work. Not trouble.
But judging by the heat curling low in your stomach, this man might prove to be both.
You only hoped - quietly, fervently - that he would follow your instruction and cover himself properly.
Because with a man like that…
You suspected your resolve would be tested sooner than you wished.
The gods had heard your prayers.
When you knocked and reentered, your customer lay exactly as you had begged him to: on his stomach, face turned to the side, arms relaxed, towel draped perfectly from his hips down to the middle of his strong, sun-warmed thighs. He looked sculpted by desert winds and arrogance alike - the kind of man who expected the world to arrange itself comfortably beneath him.
“Do your magic,” he hummed, pleased with himself already.
You exhaled quietly, gathering your composure. “Any preferred aromas you want me to work with, or shall I choose for you?”
“I am giving myself fully to your services,” he replied, voice muffled by the pillow, but the flirt was unmistakable - rolling off him like heat off sun-baked stone.
You nodded to yourself, trying - failing - not to linger on the breadth of his back. The muscles there held tension like they were trained to carry it: shoulders drawn tight, knots buried deep beneath smooth skin the color of poured bronze. He had a crease between his brows, too - one that told of thinking too much, fighting too much, wanting too much.
A mix of herbs and flowers, then. Something to sharpen and soften at once.
“Tell me if my touch is too cold,” you murmured.
You submerged your hands into the little stone basin - water washing over them, warming them just enough. When you lifted them, the lamplight turned the droplets into sparks, and the oils you chose trailed down your palms like liquid gold.
The first touch made him tense - only a fraction, barely visible - but you felt it. Practiced instinct. Trained sensitivity.
You pressed your hands into the slopes of his shoulders, fingers digging just deep enough to coax rather than command. He made a tiny sound - barely a sigh, barely a release - but unmistakably sweet.
“Heavens,” you breathed softly. “We will definitely spend time here today.”
You circled the shoulder rotator, kneading into the tight band of muscle, sliding down the line of his upper arm. Your fingertips grazed the curve of his biceps - firm, warm, unfairly pleasant beneath the excuse of professional touch.
“I have all the time you need,” he answered, voice already strained with the beginnings of relief. “I will not leave until my body feels as loose as a Water Garden dancer after a festival night.”
You huffed an involuntary laugh through your nose - quick, small, unprofessional - and prayed he hadn’t heard it. You continued your assessment in silence, working down his spine vertebra by vertebra, thumbs circling with growing pressure. You found the creases in his lower back, then moved down to the broad sweep of his thighs, brushing over the towel’s edge with the side of your hand.
He wanted pressure - more than most. A man who preferred intensity.
“You know,” he drawled, “you can use force. I would actually like to feel something of your work.”
“It is only my first day,” you answered with a thin smile he fortunately could not see. “I’d rather not damage my first customer.”
“Oh, I assure you,” he purred, “I am very hard to damage.”
You hummed instead of answering, placing both hands firmly on his shoulders and leaning your weight into the knead. You felt the ripple of his breath beneath your palms - shuddering out, satisfied.
“You carry tension as if it is part of your occupation,” you observed, still soft, still professional. “But you do not seem the type of man who spends his days on… manual labor.”
His head tilted slightly toward you. “Is that so? And what type of man am I, to your eyes?”
You cursed yourself silently for stepping into that trap - he had dangled it, and you had walked straight in. But your tongue found its footing quickly enough.
“Confident enough to believe he has no tension,” you said lightly. “And surprised when his body says otherwise.”
He laughed - quiet, low, pleased. “Sharp tongues are a specialty where you come from, petal?”
The pet name hit you like a warm breath across the back of your neck. You ignored the flutter it stirred in your stomach, reaching for more oil and letting it pool in your palm before warming it between your hands. You trailed your fingernails lightly down his spine first - just enough to raise goosebumps - before returning to deep, focused pressure.
“It is a specialty I brought with me, that much is true,” you answered.
“Intriguing,” he murmured.
You moved down his right arm this time: kneading the thick muscle of the upper arm, then the more delicate lines of the forearm, finishing with his hand. You threaded your fingers through his, lifting each knuckle, massaging the base of each finger separately. Most healers rushed hands - they found it awkward or intimate.
You knew better.
Hands held stories. And his held many.
You pressed your thumbs into his palm, slow, steady, controlled.
A long, soft exhale escaped him - almost a groan, almost something dangerous.
You barely allowed yourself a smile of professional pride before it happened: his fingers curled around yours. Not forceful. But deliberately enough that you felt every warm line of his grip.
“You are doing magic already,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “A gift, certainly. Too young to have decades of practice behind you.”
He released you before propriety forced you to snatch your hand back, and you used that moment to slip to his other side, collecting yourself.
“I can read my clients well,” you replied, keeping your tone careful, steady. “It helps to know what they need.”
“And what is it you think I need?” His voice held a question and a challenge both - wicked curiosity wrapped in silk.
You slid your hands down his left arm before answering. He felt warmer now. Looser. Less guarded. Too easy to enjoy.
“You need intensity,” you said quietly. “Pressure. Precision. Someone unafraid to handle what you carry.”
He shifted just enough that the towel pulled tighter around his hips, the outline beneath it shifting -
- and heat fluttered low in your stomach, quick and unwelcome.
“And you,” he said slowly, “do not sound afraid at all.”
You swallowed, breath quickening despite yourself.
“It is my job,” you managed.
“But it is my pleasure,” he countered.
And the room suddenly felt much, much warmer.
You could feel his eyes on you - heavy, perceptive, unmistakably lingering - while you continued working along the delicate structures of his left hand. His attention clung to you like heat, almost tangible on your skin. You took in a slow breath, forcing your focus downward, letting his fingers slip gently from your grasp as you moved toward his legs.
“You tell me how far I can move for you to be comfortable,” you offered in your most professional tone, though it betrayed a softness around the edges. Your fingertips had already begun gliding up the inside of his thigh, and you knew exactly how he would answer.
“You already said it yourself,” he murmured into the cushion, voice thick and dangerous. “You know what I need better than I do. So you’ll know when to stop… and when to go further.”
A warning flickered through your mind - rules, boundaries, the expectations of the house - but the thought dissolved as quickly as it came. He intrigued you. More than that - he unsettled you in ways you hadn’t felt in years. So you said nothing, letting silence stand in for agreement.
Your hands crept to the towel’s edge, brushing beneath it just slightly as you worked the point where thigh met hip. Normally, this was nothing. A practical place for pressure. A common request from clients burdened with travel, sparring, or labor.
But with him…
It felt wicked. Forbidden. A sin with warmth and pulse.
“I’m going to apply more pressure here,” you said softly. “You tell me the moment it’s too much.”
You leaned in, using the sharp angle of your elbow to dig into the deep-set knot in his gluteal muscle. A rough, breathy “Ouch -” escaped him before he could contain it.
“Too much?” you asked quickly.
He chuckled breathlessly, shaking his head against the cushion. “No. But you should know - not everyone can press their elbow into me like that and walk away unpunished.”
You let a small, knowing smile tug at your lips. “That’s why I keep talking to you. To get to know your limits.”
“Oh? And here I was thinking you simply enjoyed my company.”
You laughed silently and finished your work along the slopes of his backside before retreating a step to give him space.
“Turn over, please.”
He shifted, and you held the towel in place, shielding everything you were supposed to block from view. You fixed your gaze firmly on his chest - his very toned, very distracting chest - and nowhere lower.
He saw the effort you put into not looking. And he enjoyed it far too much.
Because the moment you dropped the towel to drape over his hips again… your gaze slipped.
Just a fraction. Barely a blink.
But long enough.
His outlines were… impressive.
And you hated yourself for reacting. To feel a knot in your belly and wetness building up.
“See something you like?” he asked, smooth as silk, dark amusement curling through each word.
You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. “What I see,” you countered, lifting your chin slightly, “is a great deal more tension. And -”
Your voice faltered as his fingers brushed your forearm. His hand slid down, slow, purposeful, then circled your wrist with a gentleness that burned. He guided your hand to the center of his chest - warm skin, steady heartbeat, impossible closeness.
“Then continue,” he said. “That’s what I’m paying for, isn’t it? Or were you too busy admiring the view, petal?”
You truly didn’t know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him senseless. So you chose neither and focused on his collarbones instead, letting your hands glide along the defined lines with practiced ease.
He closed his eyes, the arrogance melting into pleasure. For a blissful moment, you worked in silence - his breathing slowing, his chest lifting beneath your touch with an unguarded ease that made your own pulse stumble.
“I must say,” he murmured, voice thick with relaxation, “you are quite the piece of work.”
You stopped for just a heartbeat, preparing for whatever teasing jab would come next. “I’ll have you know,” he continued, tone dripping with mischief, “it took far less time for your predecessors to be straddling me by now.”
The words struck you like a slap and a shiver at once. Your fingers tightened unintentionally, nails grazing his skin.
He sucked in a sharp breath - but followed it with a low, hoarse laugh.
“That is certainly against this house’s rules,” you replied, though the steadiness in your voice betrayed the warmth coiling in your stomach. He heard it. Of course he did.
“I asked you to sit on me,” he clarified lazily, “for a better angle. Not to be fucked by me.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the undercurrent of heat was unmistakable.
You swallowed. Hard.
Your gaze drifted - traitorously - to the towel over his hips again.
“You’re telling me how to do my job now?” Your voice was soft, a whisper dipped in challenge. Your fingers skimmed the line of his hip as if weighing the idea.
“It seems to be my nature to be…” he paused, eyes flicking open, dark and glinting, “…a bit demanding. If it gets you a good review on your first day, I recommend you follow.”
You stared at him - half-exasperated, half-thrilled, entirely undone.
You could walk out. Call a steward. End this.
And yet…
You didn’t.
Instead, you reached for fresh oil, warming it between your palms before smoothing it across the planes of his chest. His breath caught - not obvious enough for him to lose his composure, but enough for you to feel it.
He expected hesitation.
You gave him none.
In one fluid movement, you climbed onto the stone recliner - onto him - knees bracketing his hips, carefully keeping your weight lifted so no part of you touched the towel or what lay beneath it. You straddled him just enough to reach him properly, but not enough to cross a line you could not uncross.
His eyes widened - surprise for a fleeting heartbeat - then melted into a slow smirk, pleased and amused in equal measure.
“What kind of service worker would I be,” you whispered, leaning forward, palms pressing into his chest, “if I denied a client’s reasonable request?”
His smirk deepened into something sinfully appreciative.
“Oh, petal,” he murmured, voice a dark purr, “you’re going to make this a very memorable first day.”
You concentrated on your hands again - because if you didn’t, you’d fall headfirst into the gravity of him. You leaned forward, following the familiar path along his shoulders, the press of your palms steadier than your pulse. Your loose braid slipped forward with you, strands falling over your shoulder and brushing his bare skin on his arms.
A soft, accidental sweep - nothing you could control in this position - but the reaction it drew from him was anything but accidental. His muscles tightened under your touch, a slow ripple beneath warm skin.
Your fingers traced the line of his shoulders again, then glided up along his collarbones. You kept your breathing measured, professional, but the moment your fingertips ghosted up his neck, just a feather-soft brush, something in the air changed. You followed the line of his jaw gently, the pad of your thumb sweeping upward -
- and then he turned his head.
Just a fraction. Just enough that your thumb no longer followed the cut of his jaw along the line of his neatly trimmed beard but slipped against his lower lip instead. Soft. Warm. Unmistakably intentional.
You froze. A thousand apologies rushed up at once - too close, too much, too intimate - but before you could speak, he caught your thumb with his mouth, a kiss so soft it barely counted as one. A boundary crossed with exquisite precision.
And then he looked up at you.
Not a joke on his lips this time. No lazy smirk. Only the heat of his breath on your skin and an expression so dangerously sure of itself that your knees weakened instantly. Your balance faltered. You sank, hips settling onto him because your legs simply refused to hold you.
His sharp inhale as you landed on his lap snapped reality back around you. The linen separating you did nothing - absolutely nothing - to hide the firm outline of his cock pressing against you. Wanting you. Claiming space against you with unapologetic intent.
Mortified, you tried to rise, tried to salvage the last sliver of professionalism left in the room - but his hands slid up, firm and warm, settling around your hips. Not forceful. But certain. And hungry enough that resistance felt foolish.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice rough as desert stone. “You certainly know when and where to apply pressure.”
His fingers rode slowly up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, palms warm and calloused on your skin. The contrast made you shiver hard enough that he felt it.
He shifted his hips just slightly - barely a breath - and the pressure aligned perfectly with your center.
You choked on a gasp, your head tipping back, hands flying to his chest for balance.
“Well?” he asked, amusement curling low in his voice. “Continue your work, petal. What did I pay you for?”
The word petal hit you deeper than it should. Too soft. Too well-fitted to the way he was looking at you. You forced yourself to breathe, to find your hands again even as he pushed you closer into his lap, making your focus fracture.
But you managed. Somehow.
In between sharp exhales and the slow, deliberate grind of his hips - and with that his length pressing into you - you traced his skin again, his jaw, the tension at the base of his neck - your fingers slipping up into the short hair there, releasing something tight in him with practiced pressure. You felt the way he exhaled because of you, the way his pulse quickened under your fingertips.
His hands weren’t idle anymore.
They roamed freely, boldly, sliding under the layers of your skirt until his fingertips brushed over the heat at the center of you. Not quite touching. Teasing. Observing every twitch, every breath you tried to swallow.
“Look at you,” he chuckled darkly, low enough to vibrate against your hands. “Fighting so hard.”
His fingertip brushed your most sensitive point and your whole body jolted. Heat shot up your spine. You bit your lip, breath trembling.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping like silk over steel. “Better not let them hear.”
“Please,” you exhaled, the word slipping out before you could catch it. You weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Not freedom. Definitely not distance. Just - something. More. Closer. Now.
“Begging doesn’t work on me, petal.” His hand gripped your hip harder, rolling your body over him again in a way that made your breath stutter. “Only following orders.”
You felt yourself building - fast, embarrassingly fast - pressure coiling inside you with every subtle tug of his hand and every slow drag of your body against him. You clung to him helplessly now, fingers slick with the remnants of your oils, searching for any anchor you could find on his chest, his shoulders, his skin.
“Now…” His voice was a quiet command against your throat. “Come for me, petal. So we can continue.”
His fingers slipped beneath your last thin layer of clothing, finally touching you where you needed it most. Not roughly - no. Gently. Expertly. With just enough pressure to push you right to the cliff’s edge. He guided your movements with his hands on your hips, helping your body find the rhythm that made thought impossible. The fingers of his other hand grazed your slit, sliding just so to collect your wetness and applying pressure on your clit again to help you tilt over.
Heat tightened low in your belly, spreading fast, igniting everything.
You swallowed every sound that tried to escape - every cry, every plea - because some part of you still remembered the thin walls. But you couldn’t hold everything back. Your breath hitched. Your thighs trembled. Your grip on him tightened to the point of desperation.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s right. Let go.”
And you did.
You unraveled in silence, in shivering waves that pulled you tight against him, your head fell back and you pushed yourself harder onto him. His hands held you steady, guiding you through the tremors as though he’d known your body far longer than the handful of minutes you’d given him.
When it passed, he didn’t let you go.
Didn’t loosen his hold.
Didn’t let you slip away.
His hands kept you exactly where he wanted you.
Right there.
On his lap.
Still trembling.
“My, my… what a beautiful sight you are.”
The words slid over your skin like the warm oil of your craft, but they did nothing to ease the bloom of embarrassment rising up your throat. You shouldn’t have been doing any of this. You knew that. Knew it with an ache that pulsed right alongside the sweet aftershocks still echoing through your limbs.
And yet.
His gaze moved over you slowly, taking in your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your thighs, the way you were still trying - and failing - to gather yourself with dignity. He wore amusement like a second skin, lounging beneath you with infuriating ease.
“So,” he went on, tone light as if he were discussing the weather, “what comes next in this little ritual of yours?”
You wanted the dim lamps to burn out entirely, to spare you from his eyes. “The pool,” you managed, just as he rolled his hips in a teasing jolt that struck your oversensitive center with unholy precision. You gasped, the air hitching sharply.
“I… I continue with the washing. Rinsing off the oils. And…” You swallowed. “Tending to your hair, if you desire.”
Your voice was hoarse, raw around the edges, but slowly steadying again.
“Well then,” he said, softened into something almost gentle as he sat up suddenly - bringing you close to him. You caught your breath when his face hovered unbearably close, the shadows of the room flickering over his expression. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him for a heartbeat - just long enough to make you feel him again, unmistakably aroused and entirely unashamed - before he lifted you off his lap as though you weighed nothing at all.
You barely had time to process the loss of his warmth before he stood, the towel sliding from his body and falling soundlessly to the floor.
And then he was simply there.
Uncovered. Unbothered. Stunningly confident, with no attempt to hide how your presence hardened him - how he pulsed with it, how his body betrayed every controlled breath he took.
You snapped your gaze away from his cock instinctively, cheeks burning, trying to gather every ounce of professionalism you still possessed.
He strode to the pool with the slow certainty of a man entirely comfortable in his own skin, sinking into the warm water. Ripples shimmered across the surface, catching the lamplight in glints of gold.
He leaned back against the tiled rim, arms stretched along the edges, waiting.
You exhaled shakily, grounding yourself in routine, in training, in anything that wasn’t the way he had looked at you.
Kneeling behind him, ointments and soaps within reach, you steeled yourself and let your fingers gently rake through his hair to ready him. His body reacted instantly - head tipping back, a low sound escaping his throat that sent heat spiraling low in your belly again.
“So - you prefer fingers in your hair, sire?” you asked quietly. “Some clients don’t care for it.”
A short grunt rumbled from him, deeper this time, undeniably approving.
“It seems,” he said after a moment, voice thick with pleasure, “that every touch of yours is its own kind of magic.”
You bit your lip, uselessly trying to will away the flush that warmed your cheeks.
You dipped the silver bowl into the water, pouring it slowly over his curls, careful to keep from wetting his face. Warm droplets ran down the back of his neck and shoulders, chasing the path your hands would soon follow. When you applied the soap, he sank a little deeper into the pool, exhaling a sound that was entirely too sinful for someone pretending innocence.
You had to lean forward to reach him, close enough that the heat of the water shimmered against your skin, close enough that your breath stirred the curls you were lathering.
Your knees were still unsteady. The aftershocks hadn’t faded fully, and your focus wavered.
So when he shifted - only a little - it was enough.
Your fingers slipped. Your balance tipped. You grabbed for the stone rim, missed completely, and plunged into the water with a full, ungraceful splash.
You came up coughing, hair plastered to your face, disoriented and mortified. “By the gods - I am so, so sorry!”
He laughed. Not mocking - just delighted.
You tried to scramble away, water sloshing softly as you attempted not to brush against him, but he reached out in the gentlest, most disarming way - fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked soaked strands of hair behind your ear.
“More subtle attempts have been made on my person,” he said, amusement tugging at his mouth. His hands slid from your hair to cradle your face, warm even under the water.
“This is unacceptable,” you insisted, horrified. “Truly, you should get your money back. Please, consider this a free -”
A sharp tsk, tsk cut through your babbling. “All I see is the best entertainment I’ve had in months.”
His gaze dipped - slowly, blatantly - down your soaked dress. The fabric clung intimately to your body, outlining every curve, every soft line. Your nipples stood sharply against the thin material, and heat flared in your cheeks, crawling down your throat.
“This is inappropriate,” you whispered, trying to gather scraps of composure. “We shouldn’t - I can’t -”
“And yet,” he murmured, drawing you the slightest fraction closer, “here we are.” His eyes fell to your mouth, lingering. “I’d wager you taste as sweet as you sound.”
Before you could breathe, his lips met yours.
The kiss was fire and velvet. Not rushed but measured. The kind of kiss that claimed without force, that demanded without cruelty, that pulled you apart and put you back together with every slow drag of his mouth.
Your resolve crumpled instantly.
His tongue slid against yours, coaxing a soft sound from you that he swallowed greedily. The contrast of your soaked clothing against his bare, warm chest made your head swim, made everything sharper.
His grip changed. One hand slid into the wet hair at your nape, tightening just enough to make your breath catch. The other wrapped around your waist, guiding your body with disarming ease as he turned, pressing you back against the cool stone of the basin’s edge.
“This… is…” you breathed between stolen kisses, “…forbidden…”
“I prefer,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw and down your throat, “to write my own rules.”
The hand in your hair tightened; the other slipped under your drenched dress, gliding up your thigh, caressing warm skin and the outline of your curves.
“Take off your clothes,” he said quietly.
Not cruel or demanding.
Just certain.
An order from a man accustomed to being obeyed - and for a second you questioned what rank he held to be so used to giving them.
Your hands trembled as you reached for the knots and ties of your uniform. Each loosened piece floating away like shedding not just professionalism but distance itself.
And when you finally stood bared before him in the water - nothing between you and his gaze but a shimmer of lamplight and the steam rising from the warmth - you felt something inside you unravel entirely.
His eyes dragged over you slowly, but with an appreciation that felt almost reverent. He took his time - far too much time - mapping every inch of bare skin with a gaze so warm it made your breath hitch.
“A sight worthy of the gods,” he murmured.
You had no chance to process the compliment. His hands slid to your waist and in one smooth motion he lifted you, setting you onto the cold rim of the pool. The shock of chilled stone against your backside made you hiss softly, thighs tensing. But he gave little time for adjustments.
“Show yourself to me,” he said.
An order again.
You obeyed before thought could catch up, legs opening for him. The boldness of it struck you a second too late, but he was already stepping closer, the water rising around him as he leaned in.
His palms settled on your thighs, thumbs drawing slow arcs across your skin. He positioned himself so that when he bowed low, his lips were a breath below your center, his face half-submerged in the warm haze rising from the pool.
“Now,” he purred, “you get your moment of relaxation, petal.”
His breath touched the sensitive flesh he’d already teased to raw awareness, and a tremble ran through you so sharply you had to bite your lip to keep quiet. He hadn’t even kissed you yet - just breathed you in - and you could already feel the coil of pressure tightening again.
When his lips finally brushed your skin, you nearly jolted. He didn’t rush. He didn’t devour. He traced first - slow, soft lines, almost lazy in their precision, as though he were tasting a secret he intended to memorize.
Your hands dug into the tile behind you as you arched into the sensation, your elbows trembling with the effort of holding yourself upright. His tongue moved deliberately, sliding up and down your slit, collecting every trace of warmth he coaxed from you, letting you drown in the low, controlled hum of his breath.
A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.
He made a pleased noise in response, the vibration against your skin adding a dangerous new layer. One of his hands slipped away from your thigh and drifted lower, closer, fingers brushing lightly before finding their path.
You braced - but it did nothing to prepare you.
His finger eased into you with unholy slick, your body giving way for him like it had been waiting, wanting, the entire time. Your breath shuddered out of you.
“Oh… gods…”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Divinity has nothing to do with it,” he said against your skin, tone soaked in amusement, while giving your clit a little flick with the tongue. “These are earthly delights. I am just very good at them.”
Another soft stroke with his tongue nearly undid you.
Your knees trembled. Your chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. Your hand - without permission - slid into his curls, gripping for something to hold on to as he continued these slow torments.
Then he added a second finger.
Your breath caught hard, the intensity doubling in an instant, a slow burn that climbed higher and higher. His mouth worked in a steady rhythm - controlled, practiced, maddening - while his hand matched it with movements meant to coax rather than overwhelm.
He guided you with expert finesse, each motion tuned to the way your breath stuttered, to the tightening of your thighs, to the tiny sounds you kept trying to swallow down. He could feel you trembling beneath his touch, clenching around his fingers, climbing toward that edge again -
And then -
He stopped.
He withdrew his fingers, his mouth, everything - leaving you gasping and blinking in disbelieving frustration. The sudden absence was a shock, leaving your skin sensitized and empty, your pulse thrumming impatiently.
“What…?” you breathed, dazed and desperate, though you knew you had no right to demand anything from him.
He looked up at you with a devil’s grin, droplets of water clinging to his lashes, his lips glistening.
“We must keep the balance, remember?” he teased lightly.
His fingers - shining from you - drifted lazily through the water again as he examined them with almost academic curiosity before flicking his eyes back to you.
“I’m simply making sure you’re ready for what happens next.” The promise in his voice made your entire body tense in anticipation, heat blooming low and sharp.
Still too unsteady on your feet, too wrapped in lingering heat and the fog of his touch, you let yourself sink back into the chest-high water. He guided you with an easy, confident steadiness, his palms warm on your waist as he drew you toward the center of the pool where the steam rose thicker, cloaking you both in something that felt stolen from a dream.
Before you even fully registered the movement, he pulled you into his embrace - slick skin meeting slick skin, your breasts brushing his chest, his body radiating heat against yours in a way that made your breath catch. The lap of water around your chest was gentle compared to the pressure of his hands. He angled his face down, searching yours.
His fingers cupped your cheeks again, thumbs brushing over damp skin. The scent of oils hung heavy in the air. You already knew you’d never work with this mixture again without feeling the ghost of his hands on you.
“This is by far the most relaxing massage I’ve had in a very, very long time,” he murmured, his voice a low purr that vibrated against your throat as he leaned closer. His breath grazed your lips, and the gentle sway of the water pushed you even nearer.
“And you haven’t even had the pleasure of my scalp treatment yet,” you whispered back, unable to steady your own voice as the closeness scrambled every functioning thought.
His mouth brushed along the line of your neck, warm and searching. When his fingers threaded through your hair and tightened, you nearly melted in his hold.
“We are far from finished,” he murmured against your skin. “Still plenty of time. Afterward.”
“After… what?” you breathed, though you already knew, teasing him because it delayed the moment you might drown in it.
Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling yourself flush, letting the soft drag of his body against yours say the things you didn’t dare. His hips shifted, and the length of him pressed, unmistakable, against your lower belly. That sudden, intimate pressure sent excitement sparking through your limbs.
He chuckled into your skin, amused, pleased, far too confident. His lips trailed slowly along the base of your throat, depositing kisses that made you swallow hard - especially when he paused to lick away droplets of water.
“Just promise me to be quiet, petal,” he said, “I’d like to come back to you once in a while.”
A shiver rippled down your spine. You curled your fingers into his hair, guiding his face up, making him meet your gaze.
“That depends on you,” you said, giving him a small, daring smirk. Then you pulled him to your mouth.
He followed instantly. Eagerly. A man very used to control - relinquishing it for you, if only for a heartbeat.
The kiss was slow only in the first second. Then it turned hungry. His lips moved with purpose, tasting every breath you offered. He pressed you closer with each passing moment, his hands sliding along your back, over your hips, pulling you into the solid heat of his body as if the water wasn’t even there.
Your fingers tightened in his curls, not to pull him closer - he was already impossibly close - but simply to stay grounded. The sensation of his mouth moving against yours, the soft drag of his slick skin, the warmth of his chest under your palms… it was an overwhelming symphony of sensation.
You hooked one leg around his hips, not even thinking about it - just seeking more of him, opening yourself instinctively. The movement drew a low, satisfied sound from deep in his chest. He shifted, sliding his cock against your center in a way that made heat ripple through your entire body, slowly gliding through your folds.
In a desperate moment of trying to steady yourself, you caught his lower lip lightly between your teeth.
His fingers tightened in your hair just a fraction - barely enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you were teasing.
“Careful, petal,” he growled softly, voice dark as rich wine. “I only tolerate so much defiance.”
“And yet,” you returned, breathless but still daring, “you’re the customer here. You should be grateful I’m willing to bend the rules for you at all.”
If you knew who he was, you would have never dared to speak to him like that. But ignorance came with its own kind of bravery.
Instead of arguing, he laughed - low and pleased - and slid a hand down your back, settling at your hip. His other hand drifted lower, guiding himself at your entrance with an intention that made your pulse stutter.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and anticipation -
And then he pulled you toward him in one smooth, claiming motion, sliding into you and filling you up with a rush of sensation that forced all air from your lungs.
You pressed your forehead to his chest, biting your lip to stifle the sounds that rose, but a soft, trembling whimper still slipped out. Your nails dragged along his back in an instinctive attempt to hold on.
He gave you barely a moment - barely a heartbeat - to adjust. He was already moving again, his breath catching sharply at the reaction he drew from you.
“Where is that sharp tongue now?” he murmured against your hair, mockery dripping from each word even while his own voice trembled with the effort of restraint.
You took a breath, or attempted to, your mind fogged beyond clear thought.
“Busy,” you managed, voice thin but still faintly teasing as he thrusted into you with force again, “being… completely overwhelmed by a very arrogant man.”
The water moved with you - first in gentle spirals, then in faster ripples that echoed the rhythm he set. Each motion sent tiny waves slapping against the mosaic edge of the pool, the sounds merging with your shallow, uneven breathing. You tried to stay quiet for his sake, and for yours, but every exhale threatened to break into something louder.
It became harder for both of you to stay steady in the center of the pool. You felt it in the way his hands tightened on your hips, in the way his control began to blur at the edges. Without warning, he steered you backward with firm, guiding pressure, until the slick stone rim met your spine.
The brief press of your back against the edge grounded you just long enough for a few hard thrusts - his hands braced on either side of you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, opening yourself with need. The movements grew more deliberate, more demanding, his breath mixing with the steam as he leaned over you, chasing your reactions.
But before you could lose yourself completely, he slipped away from your body. The absence was sharp, shocking, stealing your breath in a different way. You nearly protested -
- but his hands were already on you, flipping you with effortless strength and guiding you forward. The cold floor met your chest in a sudden, biting contrast that tore a small, involuntary cry from your lips - too loud for comfort, loud enough to make your heart seize.
His answer came instantly. His fingers traced down your spine in a soothing, deliberate stroke, calming and commanding all at once. He followed that line lower. The warmth of his touch spread through you, chasing away the sting of cold. You felt his hand slip beneath the water, between your thighs and in between your folds. The slow, intentional strokes meant only to steady you, to coax you into relaxing for him again.
You breathed out, tension melting. Then he nudged you open with gentle insistence, positioning you for him with knowing hands. He gave you a mere second to anticipate him, then he drove is cock back into your warmth with the same force he used before.
Your palms slid on the slick floor as you searched for purchase. You found none - but you didn’t need to. You let yourself give into him, cheek pressed against the chilled stone, breaths fogging the wet mosaics with each exhale while water splashed over the rim obscenely.
His hand traveled up your spine again, fingers weaving into your damp hair. He pulled your head up just enough to arch your back, lifting your sound, tightening your breath - stealing the chance to make any noise louder than a choked whisper.
You clung to the pool’s rim, fighting for balance as he found his own rhythm behind you - stronger now, more controlled than before, the movements punctuated by low, satisfied sounds in his throat.
“Always such a beautiful sight,” he breathed, voice warm and dark against your ear. His free hand drifted over the curve of your hips, your waist, your backside - claiming, appreciating. He squeezed once, firm enough to anchor you in the moment. “And completely at my mercy.”
The next thrust forced a broken whimper from you, muffled only by your bitten lip.
Heat built inside you with unmistakable inevitability - too fast, too intense to push down, impossible to resist. You could feel it rising with every shift, every pull of his hands, every tremor running through you.
He noticed.
Leaning over you, his chest brushed your back, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. One of his hands reached around, covering your mouth - just enough to trap the sounds that threatened to escape. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, as if he wanted to feel every little tremor rippling through you.
His whispers found you there, low and rough, urging and coaxing, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beside your ear.
"Look at you, petal. So beautifully undone for me..."
You trembled in his hold, the moment cresting -
- your climax taking you in a sudden, shuddering wave that stole every sound except the muffled ones he captured against his palm.
He followed you into it, breath hitching, movements faltering for the first time. You felt the tremor of restraint in him - the way he fought it, the way he mastered it - pulling away from your body at the last heartbeat, the water rippling violently around you as he spilled into it with a low, ragged exhale.
He didn’t let you fall.
Instead, his hands slid to your hips, pulling you upright with a command that felt almost effortless. Your body followed before your mind caught up, rising from the wet floor as he guided you back against him.
Your spine curved at his insistence - an elegant, instinctive bow. Your backside met the warmth of his hips, your slick skin fitting against him as naturally as breath. His arm came around your waist, drawing you tighter until you could feel the faint tremor still running through his muscles.
With his other hand, he caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up and back. Not roughly - just enough to open you to him, to expose the long line of your throat, to hold you in that perfect, helpless arc.
He lowered his head.
Slowly. As if savoring the anticipation more than the kiss itself.
You could feel his breath first - warm and steady, brushing your parted lips. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, guiding your gaze up to meet his just before his mouth touched yours.
The kiss wasn’t hurried.
It wasn’t greedy.
It wasn’t the kind that tried to claim what it could before the world intruded.
It was a kiss that took its time with you.
Decadent and intentional. His lips molded to yours with a certainty that stole whatever breath you had left.
It was a kiss meant to be remembered.
A kiss that promised he wasn’t done with you.
Not on a long shot.
His hand slipped from your chin in an unhurried glide, tracing the line of your throat before settling over your breasts. He cupped you there - almost reverent, almost careful - thumb sweeping across your nipple in a gesture that sent another shiver down your spine. Then he shifted, guiding your body with an ease that felt instinctive, turning you to face him again. This time the kiss he pulled you into was gentler, unhurried, a settling after the storm. You leaned into him, pressing your soaked body closer, chasing the warmth he offered in contrast to the cool stone around you.
His length pressed between you, still heavy, still unmistakably present. He seemed amused by your reaction, by the way your hips shifted despite yourself.
“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each syllable. “If you keep pressing into me like that, we’ll be here long past your working hours.”
A breathless laugh escaped you. “Thought you had all the time in the world,” you teased, emboldened now that the line between customer and forbidden indulgence had been thoroughly erased.
“And yet,” he countered, voice dipping low, “we both must return to our days.” The words should have felt like a parting blow, but instead they landed soft - an unspoken suggestion that this wasn’t an ending, merely a pause.
He eased back from your embrace, and you let him go, though your skin protested the loss of his warmth. He stepped out of the pool, water dripping from him in a slow cascade, catching the lantern light as it travelled the lines of his body. You followed more reluctantly, retrieving your drenched uniform from the water, squeezing it out with little success. It would dry eventually… long after your shift ended.
He took up the linen cloth resting on the stone recliner and dragged it over his torso, then extended it to you, gliding it down your arm, across your hip, a final indulgence. He tossed it aside, eyes fixed on you, still the most fascinating sight in the room.
His fingers brushed your chin again, lifting it just enough to force your gaze to meet his. “I see a prosperous path ahead for you,” he murmured. “Your hands are a blessing… they’ll ease many tensions.”
“You’re only saying that because I let you fuck me,” you shot back with a crooked grin, tightening your grip on your soggy dress.
His laugh was low and rich. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your lips. “Perhaps. Or perhaps next time I’ll allow you to focus solely on your craft and make a cleaner judgment.”
“Next time.” The words echoed in your head as he dressed, every layer settling with practiced elegance. Too elegant for someone who should be here. But the question of who he truly was dissolved into the steam as he pulled on his final piece.
You glanced around at the chaos the two of you had made - the water sloshed onto the floor, the oils streaked across the recliner, your dripping clothes. It would take a while to make this room look respectable again.
He paused at the doorway and turned back, eyes sweeping over you with that same slow-burning interest. “Until we meet again, petal. Try not to break any more rules in the meantime.” A smirk. “I’d hate to lose you so soon.”
Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the echoes of heat, the scent of oils… and the unmistakable promise of return.
-------‐---------
This was it. You felt it in your bones before anyone spoke a word. Your end. You had been so careful - obsessively so - scrubbing every tile, wiping every ripple of water, rinsing away every trace of oil, even airing out the room so the scent of him didn’t linger. Your wet clothes you had explained away as a clumsy slip after cleaning. The mistress had believed you. Or at least she had pretended to.
And yet here she was, days later, staring at you with eyes sharp as cut glass.
“Follow me.”
No warmth. No explanation. Just clipped footsteps and a back you dared not question.
You followed her through the crowded streets of Sunspear, each step heavier than the last. Maybe he had spoken. Maybe your rule-breaking had spread through whispers, servants passing stories like stolen figs. Maybe she was marching you to the brothels, deciding that your place was among those who used their hands for entirely different services.
But then… why were you walking away from the docks?
The roads grew cleaner, wider, brighter. Pale stone shimmered under the sun. You swallowed hard when the walls of the royal courtyard rose before you. The gates opened with a deep groan, guards in polished armor standing sentinel. The mistress pushed a small satchel - your pathetic collection of belongings - into your arms. She didn’t look at you when she said, through clenched teeth, “This might be the shortest employment I’ve ever overseen.”
You opened your mouth, too many responses fighting to emerge - a question, a plea, a thank you for the opportunity, something - but you were swept forward by the guards before you could form a single syllable.
You were led through the royal gardens, and even in your confusion, awe found you. Lush greenery spilled over marble pathways. Fountains danced in the sunlight. The air smelled like citrus and honey and sea wind. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, a world you had never even hoped to see from afar, let alone walk through.
Inside, the palace swallowed you in cool shade and opulent beauty - vaulted ceilings painted with suns and spears, pillars carved with curling vines, and floors that reflected your nervous face back at you in polished stone.
The guards left you standing in the center of a grand reception hall, then stationed themselves at the door, unmoving. You clutched your satchel to your chest as though it might hide how woefully underdressed you were.
A door at the far end opened sharply. Footsteps echoed - poised, confident, rhythmic. And then a stunning woman appeared.
Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous - soft curls cascading over sun-kissed skin, jewelry that seemed part of her rather than worn, eyes that took you in with deep, perceptive interest. Not a trace of disdain. Only curiosity.
“So,” she mused as she circled you slowly, fingertips grazing your shoulder in passing, “you’re the one with hands that can coax miracles from muscle and bone.”
You swallowed, unsure how to respond. She tilted her head, evaluating you like a rare artifact.
“Well,” she said, tone light but eyes sharp, “we shall see if the reputation is deserved. Welcome to House Martell, you shall know me by the name of Ellaria Sand. Do you know why you’re here?”
You shook your head, gaze dropping out of instinct.
Ellaria slipped a finger beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your eyes to hers. “Obedience is appreciated here,” she said softly. “But do not mistake it for servility. Submissiveness has its place - and its moments.” Her lips curved. “He said your talents were wasted in a common parlor. I’m inclined to believe him. Whether he is correct… we will discover soon enough.”
She turned and swept forward, expecting you to follow without needing to ask. You hurried after her through a side corridor until she opened a smaller chamber.
Smaller - yet breathtaking.
Warm golden walls hung with silks. Carved wooden screens filtering sunlight into honeyed patterns. A raised stone pool fed by a trickling fountainhead, water steaming gently. Tables with bottles of oils, brushes, soft linens. A padded reclining couch embroidered in golden colors. It was a sanctum for luxury, comfort, and indulgence - a version of your old workspace elevated into royalty.
“This room is yours to prepare,” Ellaria said, already halfway toward the door. “If anything is missing, call the guards.”
“My lady,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “Why… why am I here?”
She paused, then laughed - an open, warm, utterly disarming sound. “You are here, child, because from this day forward you will serve as the physical healer of this house.” She smiled, hand resting casually on the doorframe. “For Prince Oberyn Martell. He will come to you soon enough - so do make yourself ready.” Her fingers tapped against the wood. “And who knows… perhaps I will join him if the mood strikes.”
The flutters in your chest turned into a dizzy storm - intrigue, panic, anticipation.
When she left, silence swallowed the chamber. You set your satchel down, inhaled deeply, and began to arrange the room as you once had in your humble parlor, though your hands trembled slightly. You barely had time to breathe in your new reality when a sharp knock jolted you to stillness.
You bowed instinctively as the door opened and shut.
A quiet chuckle answered your posture.
“Look at you, petal.” Your head snapped up. He leaned against the door, smirking, eyes full of that same molten amusement. “I trust you’ve warmed those magical hands,” he said, stepping toward you with unmistakable intent. “I’m carrying a great deal of tension today.”
Hope that could ease your tensions a little... if you crave more: my Masterlist is right this way.
Summary: Trapped in a surveillance van with Javier on New Year’s Eve, you’re counting down the minutes until midnight - while the sharp banter flows like tequila and he has some very distracting ideas to kill the time.
Warnings: +18, MDNI!, enemies-to-lovers smut, just needed a set up for a filthy NYE porn, forced proximity somehow, banter is my love language, alcohol and smoking (javi and reader), playful power struggles, mild spanking, protected p in v, Javi being a menace waiting for you to beg (hence the title)
A/N: an early christmas gift and a countdown to NYE, to end 2025 with a... bang 🤭
wc: 8.1k (won't say sorry for indulging in smut :D)
The heater in the surveillance van rattled like it was dying, blowing out air that was warm only in theory. You sat hunched over the narrow dash, binoculars pressed to your eyes, watching the dark mouth of the warehouse across the street.
Nothing.
Just the sagging fence, the flicker of a busted lamp, and a gust of cold wind stirring trash along the curb. A thrilling New Year’s Eve assignment if there ever was one.
Next to you, Javi Peña rustled the paper of a vending-machine snack with the same level of tact he brought to every part of his job: none.
“You know,” he drawled, “you’re gonna give yourself back problems staring through those things like that.”
“You know,” you returned, not moving, “I wouldn’t have to if someone else in this van at least pretended to work.”
He chuckled - the low, warm kind that told you he found you amusing, which only made it worse. “I am working,” he said. There was a pause, then another loud crackle of the snack bag. “Fueling up.”
You lowered the binoculars just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. He sat slouched in the passenger seat, boots kicked up onto the console, jacket half unzipped, looking infuriatingly comfortable. A man who had no right to be that relaxed on duty, in the cold, on the night everyone else got actual food and indoor heating.
“I hope you choke on that,” you muttered.
“On the chips?” he asked. “Or on your attitude?”
“Either.”
He laughed again. “You wound me, cariño.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He held up his hands in surrender, though the smirk didn’t budge. “Fine. Agent Attitude.”
You turned back toward the warehouse, jaw tight. The binoculars fogged at the edges from how close you were holding them. Stay focused. You told yourself all the things that usually worked.
But Peña had been assigned as your partner for the entire night, and the universe clearly wanted you to suffer.
Radio static buzzed from the console, a half-garbled update from HQ. Nothing yet. Suspects expected sometime between now and midnight. The big, thrilling life of drug enforcement: a whole lot of waiting.
You scanned the empty street again. In the distance, someone tested fireworks - faint pops echoing against the buildings, early celebrations from people with better plans.
“Bet you wish you were out there,” Javi said, voice warm with that too-knowing tone.
“No,” you said, eyes narrowing on the warehouse door. “I just wish I weren’t in here with you.”
He whistled softly. “Good thing the night’s still young and we can change that.”
You hated that it sent a small, unwanted spark through you - irritation, heat, something tangled.
You ignored it and kept watching. The binoculars were practically glued to your face at this point, the rubber edges beginning to bite into your skin. “I don’t get it,” you muttered, breath fogging the lenses. “They should’ve shown up hours ago. But it looks… dead.”
You finally lowered them - and caught Javi mid-motion, tipping the last crumbs of his snack bag directly into his mouth like a man with no shame or self-preservation.
He froze, glanced at you, and shrugged. “Maybe it’s a dead lead. Wouldn’t be the first time we got sent on a wild goose chase by our beloved Commander Ruiz.”
You opened your mouth to counter him, to insist that Ruiz wasn’t always wrong - but Javi had a point. Commander Ruiz did love his dramatic intel drops. Always sold like breaking news, always delivered like lukewarm leftovers. Half threat, half tantrum, rarely precise.
Still. That didn’t change the situation.
You were on assignment until HQ cleared you.
Which meant - unfortunately - you were stuck.
Or, more precisely, you were stuck with him.
“At least Ruiz actually tries to do his job,” you shot back, placing the binoculars down on the console with more force than necessary. Your eyes strained into the dark across the street. Nothing but shadows and cold wind.
“Relax,” Javi said, drawing out the word like honey. “You can stop kissing his boots. I won’t tell him how loyal you are.” He tossed the empty bag aside. “Pretty sure he’s not speaking to me anyway.”
You turned to him fully, brow raised. “Do I even want to know how you managed to get on his bad side again to end up stuck in this van tonight of all nights?”
He met your stare with that infuriating smirk that never, ever seemed to slip. “Hard to say. Depends. Do you want the long version or the fun version? We’ve got hours.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and reached over to check the transmitter log - the signal timestamps, the battery levels, anything to avoid engaging with him directly.
Javi stretched his legs out further, boots knocking lightly against the glove compartment. “But seriously. Why you?” he mused aloud, like the thought had just bloomed in his head. “Little Miss Rulebook herself? Didn’t you earn yourself a warm night off? A party? A drink? A single spark of joy?”
You cleared your throat, focusing very intently on settings that did not require that level of focus.
And then - the inevitable click of realization.
“Oh,” Javi breathed, and his grin widened, turning beautifully wicked. “No way. Don’t tell me…” He leaned forward with delighted disbelief. “You volunteered?”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck - irritation, not embarrassment - but he saw it. Of course he did. He smelled vulnerability like a shark smelled blood.
He let out a low whistle. “Damn. I’m flattered, cariño -”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Fine,” he said, not meaning it for a second. “But really, sweetheart… if you wanted to spend New Year’s Eve alone with me in a car, you could’ve just asked me out.”
Your death stare could’ve melted steel. “I volunteered,” you said through clenched teeth, “because someone had to make sure this mission doesn’t go sideways.”
“Sure,” he said, reaching over to pat your shoulder in the most condescending way possible. “Whatever story helps you sleep at night.”
You jerked back, about to snap at him - to demand he get his hands and his ego and his everything away from you - when -
A noise outside.
Not loud. Not alarming. Just… movement. The soft crunch of gravel shifting under heavy tires.
Both your heads snapped toward the windshield.
You leaned forward slowly, heart tightening, the van’s interior lights off, windows just dark enough to keep you invisible if you stayed still.
A hulking delivery truck rolled past your line of sight, inching into the alley like it owned the place. No labels. No markings. Just a flat gray container box and a cab with foggy glass.
It swung wide, too wide, and then -
It stopped.
Right across your front bumper.
“Ah, come on,” Javier muttered under his breath.
You held up a hand to silence him.
The driver climbed out - a tall guy in a padded jacket, cap low, whistling some tune you couldn’t place. He didn’t look around. Didn’t check the alley. Didn’t even glance at the clearly occupied van he had just wedged into a dead end.
He popped open the rear doors of the truck.
Crates. Big ones. Heavy enough to hit the ground with dull thuds as he pulled them out one by one and set them in a sloppy line… directly behind your only exit route.
You swallowed. “Please tell me he’s just unloading for five minutes.”
“Sure,” Javier whispered, “and then Santa’s gonna roll up and give us matching pistols as belated christmas gifts.”
“Shut up,” you hissed.
But Javier wasn’t wrong.
The man kept unloading. Two crates. Three. Five. Seven. No pattern, no urgency - just a lazy efficiency that said he did this every night. He stacked the last one, dusted his gloves, and - without a single backward glance - wandered off. Whistling. Hands in pockets. Completely oblivious to the federal agents he’d just trapped.
You watched him leave the alley and vanish around the far corner.
Silence returned.
A thick, heavy kind of silence.
“Well,” Javier exhaled, lounging back like this was a comedy show he’d paid good money for. “We are officially screwed.”
You shot him a glare. “We could call out. Get his attention.”
“Yeah,” he said, raising a brow, “and announce ‘Hello sir, we are absolutely not undercover agents sitting illegally in this alley, could you un-block us so we can resume our totally-not-a-sting operation’?”
He had a point. A very irritating, very correct point.
You glanced at the crates. They were too heavy to move without noise. Too visible to climb over without exposure. And the truck had pulled in at such an angle that you were boxed in on both sides - driver’s door nearly kissing the alley wall.
“Maybe,” you whispered, “he’s not connected. Just some random delivery guy.”
“Maybe,” Javier echoed. “Or maybe he’s got friends inside with guns. You wanna gamble it?”
You breathed out slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
Javier tapped the dashboard lightly, his grin returning like a dangerous sunrise. “Well, sweetheart… looks like we’re ringing in the new year together.”
“Shut. Up.”
He sighed - a long, theatrical exhale that carried equal parts defeat and your very obvious wish for his demise. “Look, cariño,” he said, as if the endearment wasn’t calculated to get under your skin, “the way I see it? We’ve got two options. Be stuck and miserable about it…” He pointed loosely toward the windshield. “Or make the best of the situation.”
You stared at him. Flat. Unmoving. Pure deadpan.
He knew exactly why.
Javier raised both hands like you were holding him at gunpoint. “Oh for fuck’s sake - not that kind of best.” He paused. One eyebrow started to lift. “Unless…”
You didn’t even let him finish the thought - the binoculars landed squarely in his lap with a pointed thunk. He let out a very dignified oof.
“Okay, message received,” he muttered, rubbing his thigh. “But come on. We could at least try not to hate each other.”
You sighed. Hard. You’d examined every possible escape route outside the van: no alley gap big enough, crates too heavy, truck too close, nowhere to squeeze out without blowing cover. Nothing but shadow and bad luck.
You turned back to him.
“Fine.” You tossed your hands up. “Tell me, Javier… how were your holidays?”
“Javi’s fine,” he said instantly, flashing you a grin that could probably get him out of international crimes. “And really? Out of everything in the universe, that’s the question you’re going with? Holiday small talk?”
Your jaw tightened. “I am making an effort here.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding back a laugh that did nothing to soothe your murderous instincts. “Holidays were… great, I guess.”
You gave him a long, knowing look. The raised eyebrow. The one that said: I don’t believe a word of that bullshit.
“What?” he asked.
“No nice family gathering waiting for you?” you drawled. “Let me guess. You drowned yourself in tequila at some bar until closing, then got yourself a little holiday treat in one of those brothels you pretend you don’t frequent?”
His laugh burst out - loud, warm, incredulous - but there was a spark of wounded pride under it. “That’s what you think I do in my free time?”
“That’s what I’ve been told you do in your free time,” you corrected sweetly. “And the evidence is quite compelling.”
Javier clicked his tongue, gave you a long, slow look - the kind that started at your eyes and ended in a smirk like he’d just caught you lying to yourself. “Even if that were true - which it isn’t, by the way - still beats sitting at home alone, eating takeout and crying about a shitty Christmas movie.”
You glared so hard you could have shattered the windshield.
He grinned, shameless. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are,” you snapped. “I cooked. A full meal, actually. And I watched Die Hard.”
Javier blinked. Then let out a low whistle that somehow made heat curl low in your stomach.
“Well damn. Wouldn’t’ve pegged you for an action girl.” He leaned a little closer, voice dipping into that dark honey tone he knew you hated because of how your pulse reacted. “What else you hiding under that hard little shell of yours?”
You shot him the coldest, slowest smile you owned. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pendejo.”
His answering grin was downright sinful.
And worse - the van suddenly felt entirely too small.
A sharp noise outside snapped both your heads toward the windshield - a clatter, quick and hollow, like something knocked over in the alley. Your breath stilled. Javi’s hand hovered near his holster out of reflex.
You both waited.
A stray cat darted out from behind a trash bin, its tail bottle-brush high as it bolted into the shadows again.
Javi exhaled, dragging a palm down his face. “Jesus. Jumpier than a rookie tonight.”
You slumped back into your seat, letting your heart settle. “At least you react like you actually work now.”
“I’ll take the compliment,” he hummed, stretching his legs out until his boot nudged your side of the floorboard. The van felt even smaller now, the stale heater air thick between you.
You let your head thunk back against the seat. “This stakeout is a complete waste of time. Nothing’s going down tonight - at least not on this street.”
A slow grin crawled across his face. “Something could go down.”
He leaned just slightly in your direction - not truly hitting on you, but making the idea of it obnoxiously clear.
Heat shot straight into your cheeks before you could stop it.
“Javier,” you warned. “Back off before I remember I’m due for a refresher on my self-defense certification. And you? Would make excellent practice.”
“Ooh, feisty tonight.” His voice dipped low in mock appreciation. “Wouldn’t mind knocking you around a little. Get you to behave.”
Your glare sharpened - and he sensed it, shoulders easing back, smirk softening by a hair.
“But honestly?” he added, tone losing its edge. “Wouldn’t you have had any plans anyway if it wasn’t for this grand assignment?”
Something in the frankness made you pause. Your arms loosened, uncrossing a little. You shifted in your seat, pressing your heel into the rubber floor mat.
“I think New Year’s is overrated,” you said, choosing your words slowly. “Resolutions, reinvention, pretending everything resets because the number changes. If you want something, you don’t wait for a calendar. You start now.”
You felt his eyes on you - too perceptive, too aware - and it made your throat go tight.
So you added, quickly, “Also? Fireworks are the worst.”
As if summoned by spite, a sudden burst lit up the sky a few streets away. The sharp pops ricocheted in the air, and both of you twitched reflexively - years of conditioning from places far less festive.
“Yeah,” Javi murmured. “They look pretty from a distance. But the sound… not worth it.”
You nodded, gaze drifting to the distant glow reflecting off the van’s windshield.
“And you?” you asked quieter this time, willing to ease the temperature of the conversation. “I can’t picture you at the precinct party. Drinking weak punch. Wearing a stupid tinsel crown. Counting down the seconds with Ruiz.”
Javi snorted hard. “Can you imagine that sad shit? Me and Ruiz, arm in arm?” His grin widened. “Nah. Better stuck in a frozen van with an agent who despises me.”
“I don’t.” The words came out faster, harsher than expected.
His eyes cut to yours, head leaning just a bit to the side. “Sure as hell feels like it, cariño.”
You clenched your jaw. You wanted to tell him to stop with the pet names - to save them for people who actually wanted to be charmed - but you knew he’d just use that as another way to poke at you.
“Despise is a strong word,” you said finally. “But you? You definitely test my patience.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back like he’d just won something, hands folding casually behind his head. “But that’s part of my charm.”
You didn’t dignify that with a reply.
The van fell quiet - not peaceful, but charged. The kind of silence that hummed against your skin. You watched the empty street outside, scanning for any movement that could salvage this mission. But deep down, your instincts knew better.
Dead lead.
Dead night.
The radio cracked to life with a burst of static, slicing clean through the dense quiet of the van. You jolted upright. Javi was faster - grabbing the mic with one hand while the other silenced the volume dial with a sharp flick of his thumb.
“Unit Four,” a voice buzzed through, distorted. “Status check.”
Javi pressed the button. “Four reporting. Still eyes on the warehouse. Still nothing. Street’s dead.”
“Copy that. Our guys confirm no movement expected anymore tonight.” A pause. “You two might’ve pulled the short straw.”
Javi’s jaw flexed. “That’s one way to put it. Also -” He leaned over you to peer past the dashboard, thumb still on the transmission button. “Be advised we’re blocked in. Delivery truck boxed our exit. Driver walked off. Van’s pinned.”
Static. Then a sigh you could practically see through the radio.
“Understood, Four. Stay put. Disguise team will mobilize and meet you. ETA… could be a while.”
Javi straightened, disbelief pulling his brows together. “They’ll what? There’s no reason, we can slip out, pop the lock, move the truck ourselves -”
“No.” The reply cut him off, firm enough to slap. “You stay in the vehicle. Copy? If the truck’s being monitored, we don’t risk you two being seen outside. No broken cover. No surprises.”
“But -”
“That’s an order, Peña.”
Javi’s knuckles went white around the mic. But he released the button and set the thing back in its cradle like he was afraid he’d break it.
“It’s gonna take them hours to get here!” You slumped back hard, frustration punching your spine against the cold seat.
“At least they’re coming.” Javi lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, though annoyance flickered sharp across his features. He shut off the radio with a final, irritated twist.
“Still don’t get,” you muttered, staring at the darkened windshield, “why we couldn’t sneak out and do the exact same thing.”
A grin pulled at his mouth - slow, crooked, mocking and amused all at once. “Look at her. Miss Rulebook turning into Miss Break-In-And-Enter. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Don’t test me, Javi.”
His grin widened - not because of the threat, but because you used the short version of his name. Your eyes flicked to the glowing red numbers on the radio clock.
22:37.
A very long night ahead.
And a cold one.
The December chill seeped through every seam of the van - through your boots and coat. It crawled under your sleeves and down your spine, worming its way into your bones. Tiny clouds escaped your lips with each exhale.
Javi noticed. You felt his eyes on you even before you heard the shift of his arm.
“Got something to warm you up.” He nudged the glove compartment with his knuckles when it didn’t open. Then, with a muttered curse, smacked it. It popped open, and a half-full bottle of tequila tumbled out into his waiting hand.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” You groaned. “Drinking on the job? Peña, you’re even more -” you searched for a word “- ethically bankrupt than I thought.”
“You have no idea,” he said with a grin that had no shame in it whatsoever.
He reached in again and retrieved two shot glasses and set them on the console. He filled both, right to the rim.
“Come on. You take one, and in exchange?” His eyes glinted in wicked challenge. “You get to call me every name your prim little conscience won’t let you normally say out loud.”
“I’m this close to doing that without tequila,” you snarled - though you took the glass anyway.
“Mhm. Thought so.” He lifted his own. “Salud, cariño. Let’s make the best of being trapped in this tin can.”
He downed half his shot immediately. “Alright. Hit me with your best.”
You took a careful sip. Grimaced. Cleared your throat violently.
“You’re reckless and dangerous,” you said.
Javi made an offended face. “That’s it? That’s your big opener? Agent, I asked for an insult, not a character reference.”
“Your ego’s big enough. Doesn’t need my help.”
“There she is,” he laughed. “She’s warming up.”
He tipped back the rest of his glass. You followed with another sip - too big this time - coughed, and his grin broke into a delighted bark of laughter.
“Oh, fuck you, huevón!”
He laughed harder, grabbing the bottle to refill his glass and - without asking - topping off yours, which was still half full. “You’re hitting the sweet spot now. Go on.”
You felt the warmth spread - blooming in your chest, your limbs, under your skin like a slow burn. You took another swallow, larger, bolder.
“You’re a creep,” you snapped. “Because of you I stopped wearing skirts to work.”
That made him still - just for a second. His eyes dipped, slow and deliberate, down your legs.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I noticed. Shame, though.” He clicked his tongue, feigning regret. “Would you put them back into rotation if I promised not to look?”
You didn’t answer - just swallowed another mouthful of tequila, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Your ego,” you continued, “gets in the way of you making rational decisions.”
He nodded as if that were fair, pulling a cigarette pack from his jacket. He slid one loose with his fingers. Held it out in silent offer.
You shook your head, but your eyes betrayed you - following the cigarette to his lips, to the flick of flame from his lighter, to the first long pull he drew in. The ember glowed. Smoke curled like something alive.
“Go on,” he said, voice like smoke itself. “That last bit felt like foreplay.”
The innuendo crawled over your skin - sharp, embarrassing, and traitorously warm.
“You’re a good agent,” you countered, lifting your empty glass toward him impatiently. He refilled it, cigarette dangling from those maddening lips. “But a shitty partner.”
“Yeah?” He refilled his own, took a sip, then a drag. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’d put your own needs above the mission. Above your partner’s.”
The word partner hit the air heavy. Weighted. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was him.
His tongue clicked softly. “See… that’s where you’ve got me all wrong.”
“Oh please,” you scoffed. “You’re selfish. I’d have to watch my back twice with you out there.”
His grin stayed, but something behind it shifted - a flicker of something not entirely amused. He inhaled slowly, exhaled smoke directly toward you. It stung your eyes, but not enough to make you look away.
You’d smoke once in a while. Only dialed back for health reasons.
He leaned in slightly - just enough that you felt the warmth of his breath through the smoke.
“Querida,” he said, voice dipping into something low and molten, “if it were you and me out there…” His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes. “…I’d watch your back so closely you’d start wondering whether I was protecting you…” His voice lingered - smooth, dark, edged with something that made your pulse stutter. “…or staking a claim.”
“Fuck you…” you muttered - more breath than voice - and before the smarter part of your brain could catch up, your hand darted out, plucking the cigarette from his fingers with a practiced little theft. You dragged on it hard, the smoke burning just enough to steady you.
“That an offer?” Javi’s voice dropped, amused and low, his gaze tracking the shiver that ran through you. And he knew - oh, he knew - that it wasn’t the cold.
You kept the cigarette pinned between your lips as you shrugged out of your coat. Heat rolled through you in slow, syrupy pulses: tequila lingering on your tongue, irritation in your blood, and something molten pooling low in your stomach.
Hot ash flaked from the cigarette, landing on your thigh.
“Shit -” You brushed it off, and Javi’s laugh filled the cramped space, warm and infuriating. Before you could snap at him, he leaned in, thumb and forefinger gripping your jaw, turning your face back toward him.
He plucked the cigarette from your mouth, taking it back without looking away from your eyes. “Be polite next time,” he murmured, letting the smoke curl lazily out of his mouth. “Ask.”
You finally wrestled your coat free and shoved it aside, breath short, pulse annoyingly high. “You done now?” you bit out. “Or did you still have more filth to spit in my direction?”
“Oh, querida…” His grin sharpened. “If you only knew.”
You threw back the last of the tequila, the burn hitting your stomach like a spark meeting kindling. You reached for the cigarette again, but he lifted his arm above his head, impossibly casual.
“Ah-ah. Told you. Ask.”
“Just give me the damn cig, Javi.” You lunged across the console, fingers brushing his shirt - only for him to stop you with that same irritatingly precise grip on your jaw. You started to shove his hand away, but he brought the cigarette down slowly, nudging it against your lips until instinct made you part them.
You inhaled, smoke filling your lungs, his fingertips brushing your mouth. Too soft. Too intentional.
“Let’s practice the begging again,” he murmured.
You blew the smoke straight into his face, eyes locked on his. “Calláte.”
His grin split wide, wicked and pleased. He brought the cigarette to his own mouth, taking a long drag like a challenge. “Make me, cariño.”
The word hit you like a spark to dry tinder.
He exhaled, almost done with the cigarette, one brow arching. “Let’s try again. Want another drag?”
Your jaw clenched. Your pride wrestled with your need. And your mouth betrayed you first.
“Yes,” you ground out. “Please.”
His eyes darkened with victory. “See? Good girl.”
You barely had time to process the way those words shot straight through you - sharp, unwanted, electric - before he leaned in.
He didn’t blow the smoke away this time. He held your jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath your chin, and exhaled a thin, warm stream directly into your mouth - slow, intimate and indecently controlled.
Your breath caught. Reflex had you taking it in. Leaning into him. Want without permission.
And then - his mouth brushed yours.
A soft, precise kiss. Barely pressure. Barely contact. But it detonated through you like a landmine.
You jerked back, coughing once, heat flickering across your skin. Javi just watched you, smug and intent, before flicking the cigarette out through the cracked window without breaking eye contact.
“You done now?” he asked, voice gravel-dipped and low enough to vibrate through your bones. “Because it’s my turn.”
He grabbed your glass and his at once, the bottles clinking softly as he tipped the last of the tequila into both. Liquid gold pooled, the last drops of bad decisions and worse timing.
“You wanna tell me what, exactly?” you snapped, reaching for your glass - but he lifted both out of range again, arm long and annoyingly steady. “That I’m what? Annoying? Uptight? Unbending?”
His brow arched slowly, like he was savoring the word. “Are you?” His gaze dragged down the length of you. “Unbending, I mean.”
“Watch me.”
Before the moment could break, you moved - quick, decisive, fueled by heat and irritation and something that felt too much like want. You pushed off your seat, climbed over the console, and dropped onto his lap with a confidence that surprised even you. His breath caught; his hands twitched. And in that flicker of surprise, you snatched your glass clean out of his grip.
Triumph shot through you. Still holding his stare, you tipped the tequila back in one smooth, reckless swallow.
“Querida,” he murmured, equal parts impressed and hungry. He mirrored you, throwing back his own shot, glass thunking somewhere behind him. His now-free hands slid immediately to your hips, fingers settling with a grip that made your stomach tighten.
“I said quit it with the pet names,” you whispered, razor-edged despite the warmth curling through your veins.
“And I said” - his hands tightened just enough to make your breath hitch - “ask nicely, and I might listen.”
You slapped his hands away, but he just let them fall back to your hips as if magnetized, claiming you again with more certainty. You made a half-hearted attempt to climb off him, but he held you in place and you didn’t push as hard as you should have.
He sat up straighter, bringing your bodies closer, closing the air between your faces until you could feel every syllable against your lips.
“Come on, do me the favor,” he murmured, the words brushing your mouth. “Give me a little plea. Just one.”
His breath was hot, tinged with smoke and tequila, and it slid right down your spine like a hand.
“Fuck you, Peña.”
His low laugh vibrated through your chest. “Close enough.”
And then he kissed you - hard, hungry - claiming the space you’d refused to give him with your words. His mouth pressed to yours like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse, for the moment the bickering snapped and something far more dangerous broke loose.
For a heartbeat, you forgot everything you were supposed to be.
The van. The mission. The rules. The voice in your head that told you to shove him away, to pull back, to create distance instead of closing it.
You didn’t.
You leaned into the kiss.
Not softly. Not cautiously. You met him with the same hunger, the same reckless heat that had been simmering under your skin all night. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up - hips shifting instinctively, closing the last of the space between you. He made a low sound against your mouth, half laugh, half breath, and the faint scrape of his mustache against your skin only made you more aware of how close he was. Of how real.
“There she is,” he murmured near your lips, voice rough with satisfaction. “Don’t tell me you’ve been pretending this whole time.”
“Talk less,” you breathed back, words breaking between kisses. “Do what you’re actually good at.”
A beat of silence - then the corner of his mouth curved.
“And what would that be?”
One of his hands slid firmly to the small of your back, grounding you, pressing you closer instead of letting you drift away. The other came up to your neck, tilting you exactly where he wanted you. His touch was infuriatingly precise, like he’d memorized the way you’d react before you even did.
“You need instructions now?” you murmured, breathless despite yourself.
“I need you to ask me,” he replied, voice low, steady. “Nicely.”
A laugh escaped you, bitter and soft all at once. “Best I can do is ask meanly.”
His fingers tangled lightly in your hair, tipping your head just a fraction as his mouth trailed from your jaw to your throat - a line of heat, of breath, of barely-there touch that made your grip tighten in his shirt.
“I’ll take the upgrade when I can get it,” he whispered, lifting your chin again so your eyes met.
You didn’t soften your voice. You sharpened it.
“Fuck me already, pendejo.”
Something darkly delighted flickered through him. His breath hitched, a rough laugh leaving him as his hand moved from your back to your waist, to the button of your jeans, opening it with practiced ease.
“Finally some orders I can work with.” With that he pulled down the zipper and slipped into your panties without warning.
Your reaction betrayed you before you could swallow it down - breath breaking, body tightening, a small sound slipping from you that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with proximity. His fingers slipped through your middle, parting you slightly and exploring the wetness that had already pooled there. He collected some, sliding up just to give your clit a flick.
He paused only long enough to murmur, almost amused, “Look at you,” his brows knit, “soaked already at the thought of it.”
His touch turned exploratory instead of rushed, learning the language of your body while you fought and lost every battle at once. Without wanting to you whimpered, trying to look down to him, but his hand in your hair held you firmly in an overstretch. As your hips grinded against him again, wanting more, trying to guide his fingers deeper, you could feel his hardened cock pressing against you, eliciting a small grunt from Javi.
“Easy,” he breathed against your skin, tone changing - less teasing, more controlled now. “We’ve got time.”
You felt it anyway - the way your body responded to his touch, the way his sharp inhales betrayed just how close his restraint sat. The heat between you coiled tighter. His grip in your hair loosened a little and you fell forward finding hold in his shirt. “First I want to see you come on my lap.”
He slid his fingers deeper into you, palm pressing against your clit and holding you in a forbiddingly good angle. Then he moved with slow, impossible accuracy. Not hurried or careless. Like he was determined to make you fall apart slowly.
You bit down on your lip, refusing to give him the sound he clearly wanted from you.
It didn’t stop him from noticing.
“Mírame,” he murmured, voice softening for the first time. “That’s it. You’re doing beautifully. Riding my fingers like this.”
The praise hit harder than anything else. Heat climbed fast, fast enough that your fingers curled tighter in his shirt, breath turning uneven against the side of his neck.
He adjusted, sharper now in his movements, like he could feel the moment approaching even if you tried to deny it. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, voice strained but controlled, “Just like that, cariño, make yourself come.”
You stopped fighting.
Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, the fabric of his leather jacket cool against your overheated skin. Your breath fractured, clenching around his fingers as the tension finally snapped. You pressed closer without thinking, a broken half-sob caught somewhere between relief and surrender.
His hand steadied you, firm and warm.
“Perfect,” he whispered against your hair. “Let go. Give yourself to it.”
He didn’t move away, held you through your orgasm, while you pressed yourself into his movements.
For a moment, he simply stayed where he was, letting you breathe against him.
Then his hands slipped from your center out your pants, but not fully away - one settling at your ribcage, grounding, steady, thumb brushing small, lazy circles as your pulse slowed.
“Still got a mouth full of curses for me?” His voice was low, pleased, warm with the kind of satisfaction you hated how much you liked it.
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “Even more than before,” you said breathlessly.
A slow grin stretched across his mouth. “Good.”
His hands moved with intention again - sliding under the hem of your long sleeve, warm palms tracing the bare skin of your waist and ribs. It felt less like urgency and more like claiming space. With a gentle tug, he helped you out of it, fabric slipping away and landing somewhere forgotten.
In return your fingers hooked into the collar of his jacket, dragging it off his shoulders, nails grazing along his neck and into his hair. When his mouth dropped to the warm skin between your collarbone and your chest, his kisses weren’t rushed - they were purposeful. His hands worked at the clasp of your bra with the kind of confidence that told you exactly how familiar he was with this.
The cold air inside the van bit where fabric disappeared, making your nipples hard.
He noticed.
A soft, amused exhale left him. “Poor thing,” he murmured with mock pity. He lowered his lips onto the soft skin of your breasts, closing around one nipple, first caressing softly, then sucking, teeth grazing.
Your hands drifted down his front without thinking, finding his hard cock beneath the jeans and cupping it with firm grip. His breath stuttered against your skin and he froze only long enough to warn you, voice rougher now. “Giving you a heads-up now: I won’t be gentle unless you ask.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “What’s with you and begging? Didn’t get enough manners growing up?”
His head tilted, eyes dark. “Find out.”
You leaned into him, softening your mouth into something dangerously close to innocence. “Oh, please,” you said, mock-sweet, the word dancing between teasing and challenge. You shifted on his lap deliberately. “Please take care of me.”
Your lashes fluttered. Your hands tightened.
Something about his expression changed. Interest sharpened into something dangerous. He shook his head slightly, almost to himself.
You barely had time to realize what you’d triggered before he moved you off his lap entirely.
Your knees hit his seat; your hands found the cushion of your own seat for balance. The space in the van shifted. The mood sharpened into something heavier.
He positioned himself behind you - one knee braced between your legs, nudging them open just a bit, the other leg grounded - and his hand traveled up the line of your spine. When it reached your neck, he guided you down firmly onto your forearms, arching your back without asking.
“Keep mocking me,” he murmured. “I dare you.”
You stayed quiet.
The waistband of your jeans slid down in one smooth motion. Cool air kissed newly bare skin. He made no effort to hide the sound of his breath as he took in the sight of you from that angle.
His hand traced over your ass once.
Then, without warning, the sharp heat of his palm landed against you.
You jolted, a broken sound leaving your throat before you could stop it. “Fuck -” you started, breathless, furious, unfiltered.
Another slap - not cruel, not entirely, but a tad harder even.
His hand returned to your neck, grounding you, pressing you forward.
“Been wanting to knock that attitude out of you all night,” he said quietly, voice tight. “Now behave.”
You heard fabric move. A zipper. The subtle shift of his weight. Then: the shuffle of clothes and the tearing of plastic, which landed on the floor of the van moments later, while he took his time, rolling the condom over his length.
Anticipation climbed too fast, too hot.
You felt him hesitate - right where your body wanted him - nudging his tip at your entrance, just enough to make your breath stutter. His hand loosened at your neck, fingers sliding back into your hair, not gripping but grazing.
You understood instantly.
“Peña,” you breathed, frustration and need tangling.
“Yes?” he answered, maddeningly calm.
“Just -” Pride twisted in your chest. Dignity clawed its way back up. He waited patiently, while dragging his cock up and down your slit.
His touch softened at your scalp. “Just say it.”
Your eyes squeezed shut.
“…Please.”
A quiet laugh vibrated behind you. “Didn’t catch that.”
You hated him. You wanted him. You melted anyway. You had a thousand swearwords ready to spit at him. Instead: “Please,” you repeated, softer, more honest than you wanted.
“With pleasure.”
The moment shifted - no more teasing delay, no more waiting. He closed the final distance in one smooth motion, and the breath left your lungs all at once as heat, tension, and frustration finally turned into something that felt dangerously close to relief as he bottomed out.
But he didn’t move at first.
That was the cruelest part of it.
Instead of giving in to the momentum you’d braced for, he stayed exactly where he was - close enough to steal your breath, close enough to make your muscles tighten around the unfamiliar stretch of him. Your body had to adjust in its own time, every sensation sharpening instead of blurring.
You bit down on a sound that had nowhere to go.
“That your plan now?” you muttered, breath trembling. “Make me beg for every thrust?”
A low chuckle vibrated behind you.
Without warning, he pulled out nearly completely - just enough to make the loss sting - and then returned with purpose, stealing the rest of the air from your lungs in one sharp motion. The words you’d prepared collapsed into nothing but a broken sound.
“Not a plan,” he said, voice tight, controlled. “Just not rushing the part I’ve been imagining.”
“Then imagine faster,” you managed, the edge of heat and defiance still clinging to your voice.
That earned you another sharp slap on your ass, before he caressed the now oversensitive spot.
“Let me have this,” he murmured. “Might be the only time I ever get to fuck that attitude out of your system.”
You laughed breathlessly, words caught between uneven breaths. “Definitely will be.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, and his hands slid from your waist only to come back stronger - gripping, guiding, pulling you closer into the motion that finally started to build a rhythm. “You’re not exactly fighting me. Kinda get the feeling, you enjoy it, too.”
“Would help,” you snapped weakly, nails digging into the fabric beneath you, “if you stopped talking.”
Instead of another jab, he laughed - soft, breathless - and his hand curved gently to your throat. He pulled you more upright, creating space between your body and the seat in the cramped little space of the van.
Your breath broke. Sounds slipped out wrong, fractured.
But finally - finally - he gave in to the rhythm instead of hovering at the edge of it and his thrusts became more frequent. His other hand moved with quiet certainty, steadying your hips, tracing the line of your body like he wanted to anchor you there.
When a sound betrayed you, he leaned in, chin ghosting your shoulder, placing slow, deliberate kisses along whatever skin he could reach. You felt the shape of his smile against you.
“You like it,” he murmured. “The way you finally let go. Let someone else hold the control for once.”
“Only thing…. i feel…,” you answered through gasps, refusing to soften even when your voice did, “you doing exactly what you always do... Looking out for yourself.”
The smile faded. Not anger - something sharper.
“Can’t have that now, can we, querida?” he said quietly, and suddenly there was no teasing left in the way he moved. His hand wandered from your breast he had just cupped down your belly, sliding between your wet folds and circling your clit. More patient. Like he had something to prove. “Cannot have you keep that picture of me either,” his voice was harsh, underlining his movements that became more erratic. “You can call me lazy, you even may call me a pendejo. But”, his next movement was hard and unrelenting, “you don’t get to call me selfish.”
His movement sharpened after that, rougher and a little more careless.
Your eyes fell shut without permission.
Your body betrayed you again, arching into it, sending silent signals before your mind could stop them. And he could feel the small spasms around his cock.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re not running. You’re not fighting. You’re right here.”
Your breath fractured when his name slipped from your lips without planning.
“Javi…” A plea. A beg.
He froze for half a heartbeat - just long enough to catch it.
And he remembered exactly what he’d done to get it.
He stayed in that motion. That pressure. That exact pace. He kept you right there - no more teasing, no more delays - until the tension coiled too tightly to hold. Until your hands slipped forward and caught your weight on shaking arms, and your forehead dipped toward the seat.
Your breath broke completely.
Your muscles tightened and then fell apart, wave after wave, the release rushing through you with no more room to resist it.
He followed you a heartbeat later.
You felt it in the way his breath gave out - no longer controlled, no longer careful. His grip tightened, then steadied. A low sound slipped from him as he spilled into the condom, snapping his hips sharp against your backside.
His hand moved up your spine again, slower this time. Less claiming. More grounding.
When he finally pulled out, the absence felt louder than the noise of your breath - a hollow, lingering echo that your body noticed immediately. But the way he guided you upright was different now. Not rough. Not rushed. Careful, almost considerate.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t have it in you to bite back. Not when your limbs still felt like they belonged to someone else - or nowhere at all. Instead, you tipped your chin over your shoulder and caught his eyes in the dim. A small, tired nod. Honest.
Denim dragged back into place as you righted yourself, fingers fumbling with buttons, hips shifting awkwardly as you wiggled back into your jeans with a soft huff of breath.
He did the same - the sound of zippers, fabric, the low rustle of leather in the cramped space.
Then, like bodies finally registering gravity again, you both dropped back into your seats at nearly the same time.
The laugh that left you wasn’t planned. Neither was his. It spilled out of both of you - unsteady, breathless - not from humor, exactly, but from the absurdity of it. The shock, the relief, the quiet “what the fuck just happened?” echoing between you.
You fumbled blindly for your shirt, dragging it over your head without bothering for your bra first. You just needed warmth, a layer between your skin and the cooling air.
As you smoothed your hair back into place, your eyes flicked sideways.
He already had a cigarette between his fingers, lighter clicking.
As his eyes met yours, he held the package to you. “Want one?”
You leaned over without answering, plucked his straight from his mouth, and took a slow drag.
“I’ll take this one,” you murmured.
He huffed a laugh through his nose. “You’re something,” he said. “No point pretending otherwise.”
“Surprised?” you asked, eyebrow lifting as you exhaled.
“Intrigued,” he replied immediately - like he’d been waiting for the word.
He reclaimed the cigarette from your fingers, took his own slow drag, and your eyes stayed on him a beat too long, because you were trying to figure him out and failing in real time.
You opened your mouth to return fire -
When the sky detonated.
Color burst through the windshield. Light stuttered across the interior of the van. Sharp cracks split the air.
Both of you flinched on instinct - muscle memory - before reality caught up.
Fireworks.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“Happy New Year,” he said, voice warm as the van filled with flickering reds and blues. The cigarette glowed between his fingers. He glanced sideways at you, grin slow, familiar. “You know what they say. Start the year right.”
You leaned closer - not rushing - until your face hovered inches from his. The fireworks lit your profiles in bursts and shadows, coloring your eyes with borrowed light.
“We didn’t start it,” you said softly. You leaned closer still. “We ended the old one right.”
His gaze dropped to your lips. Just a flicker. Just long enough to prove the thought was there.
“You still think you’re always right?” he asked, voice dipping.
“I know I am,” you said, voice smooth.
A slow exhale left him through his nose. “Careful, querida. I like a challenge.”
You smiled - real this time.
“Looks like you found one.”
Outside, the fireworks kept singing. Blooms of color filling the dark sky. Reflected in the windshield. In his eyes.
The truck was still there. Sealed you in. Trapped you both. You leaned back slightly, glancing toward the blocked alley.
“You think our rescue team’s taking their time on purpose?” you asked.
He lifted the empty tequila bottle, tilting it. The glass clicked softly.
“Hope not,” he said. “Can’t even do a proper New Year’s toast.”
His eyes flicked from the empty bottle to you just as you stole his cigarette again, drawing slow from it.
“But,” he added, voice dropping, “we could still start the year right. Keep tradition alive.”
You let out a soft, incredulous laugh, smoke slipping from your lips. “You can’t be serious.”
His smirk answered before his voice did. “Just killing time,” he said, leaning closer. “Honoring tradition. What do you say, querida?”
You stubbed the cigarette out in the console ashtray, the faint hiss sounding louder than it should have. He moved closer as you leaned back, letting the seat creak under your weight - casual, deliberate, giving him room.
His hand found your waist.
Slow and unhurried.
“Maybe,” you said, eyes holding his as he hovered over you, breath close enough to steal. A sharp little grin pulled at your mouth.
Pairing: dark!Priest!Joel x college student!reader
Summary: You are a diligent student at St. Augustine's Catholic College and are determined not to stray from God's path. If only Headmaster and priest Joel Miller didn't make sin look like salvation.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, dub con, religious topics, implied virginity, inexperienced!reader, dark!Joel, bandwiths of smut with little plot (each part has its own warnings)
A/N: this is by far the filthiest unholy smut I have written so far, time for confession i guess... initially a one shot that somehow turned into the unholy trinity of sin.
Summary: Undercover as a couple, you and Javier play your roles a little too well - until blurred lines, close calls, and ten stolen minutes reveal that maybe none of it was ever just an act.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, fake relationship for the plot and porn, fingering, unprotected p in v (the heat of the moment is never a good reason, dont do it), Javier being a menace and kinda possessive with you, kinda "you fell first" trope, too?
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Javier Peña & fake boyfriend came in third place. If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 6.8k
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
To his defense, it had not been his plan.
To yours, it had been the only option left on the table.
Neither of those truths did much to improve the situation you currently found yourself in.
Agent Javier Peña stood at your side, his arm slung around your shoulders with an ease that felt almost practiced, his fingers resting just a fraction too comfortably against your upper arm. The room around you thrummed with low music and layered conversations, a steady hum of laughter and clinking glasses weaving through the dimly lit space. Bodies moved in close proximity, brushing past one another, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and something sharper underneath - money, influence, danger. Exactly the kind of place where deals were made without ever being spoken aloud.
It was a welcome change, in theory. No screeching tires, no adrenaline-spiked chases, no suffocating weight of a vest digging into your ribs while bullets flew. Just observation. Blend in, identify potential connections, take mental notes, and leave. If you played it right, you could even walk out of here with a free drink and no bruises to show for the night.
Simple.
It would have been, at least, if not for the way you had to exist within this space.
As a couple.
Your suggestion. Thrown into the room half-heartedly during briefing, more as a strategic afterthought than anything else. It had made sense - less suspicious, easier access, natural cover in a setting like this. Your supervisor had agreed almost immediately, sealing your fate before you had even fully considered the consequences.
Before you had realized who you would be paired with.
Javier Peña.
Of all people.
Your gaze flickered briefly to him now, watching the way he tipped his glass toward his lips, the faint curl of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth as he reacted to something the man in front of you had just said. He looked entirely at ease, like this - like he belonged here, like this was just another night for him. His thumb shifted slightly where it rested against you, a subtle pull that drew you closer into his side, the motion so fluid it barely registered to anyone watching.
To anyone but you.
Because this - this version of him - did not match the reality you knew.
Reality had looked very different back at the precinct.
Reality had been the way he hadn’t even tried to hide his reaction when the assignment was handed out. The groan, low and unrestrained. The tight clench of his jaw, teeth grinding together as if the mere idea of this partnership was already testing his patience. And then the way he had left the room the second he was dismissed, not sparing you so much as a glance.
If anything, that had been consistent.
Your interactions with him - few as they were - had always followed the same pattern. Brief. Minimal. One-word responses if necessary, silence if not. Not unkind, not openly dismissive… but not welcoming either. As if you occupied a space somewhere just outside of his concern, not worth the effort of forming an actual opinion.
You had been fairly certain, at one point, that he barely registered your existence at all.
Which made this - his arm around you, his body angled toward yours, the occasional brush of his fingers that felt far too deliberate to be accidental - all the more disorienting.
Especially considering his reputation.
Javier Peña didn’t do indifference. Not with women. Quite the opposite, actually. The man flirted like it was second nature, like breathing. You had seen it often enough, the way his attention lingered, the way his voice dipped just slightly when he spoke, the way he knew exactly how to make someone feel like they were the only person in the room.
Just… never with you.
Not that you had cared.
Not really.
You had noticed him, sure. The first time you had crossed paths months ago, something about him had caught your attention - sharp edges wrapped in charm, something restless underneath the surface. It had been enough to make you look twice.
But that was it.
Mostly.
Still, you couldn’t deny that it had… irritated you, just a little, that he seemed to extend that effortless attention to practically every woman in the precinct - except you.
Which was ridiculous.
You didn’t want him to want you.
God, no.
Well.
Maybe - only in the sense that it would have been satisfying to turn him down. To be the one exception. The one person he didn’t get.
Probably.
Either way, it didn’t matter.
Because tonight wasn’t about any of that.
Tonight was about the act you were both playing, about maintaining the illusion well enough to avoid suspicion while you did your job. And that alone required enough focus as it was.
No need to complicate things further with one-sided interest - real or imagined.
“Wouldn’t that be something for our next holiday, cariño?”
The endearment slipped in so smoothly it almost didn’t register - almost. It caught somewhere between your ribs instead, sharp enough to pull you clean out of your thoughts. For a second, you weren’t in the room anymore, weren’t tracking faces or exits or the subtle exchanges happening in the corners of your vision. You were just… there. Aware. Of him.
“Iceland, maybe?” Javier added, his tone easy, conversational, clearly picking up on something the man in front of you had been rambling about. His attention, however, shifted - down to you, expectant of your reaction.
You forced yourself back into the role, smoothing over the brief disruption as if it had never happened. The irritation the pet name had sparked settled somewhere deeper, masked beneath a soft curve of your lips as you met his gaze.
“I think I’d pass on that,” you said lightly, your voice warm in a way that wasn’t entirely meant for the conversation partner anymore. “I prefer somewhere with a bit more sun.” A slight tilt of your head, a subtle emphasis. “You know… something hotter.”
The act. That was all it was.
You knew it. He knew it.
You leaned into it anyway.
The dress you wore clung in all the wrong - or right - places, depending on perspective. Short enough to draw attention, tight enough to hold it. Your hair, left open in loose, unruly waves, brushed against your bare shoulders every time you moved, a deliberate departure from the practicality you usually favored in the field. Even the lipstick - deep, almost sinful red - felt like part of a costume you had stepped into for the night.
You played your part.
Even if Javier Peña had, up until now, given no indication he had noticed.
“Is that so?” the man across from you drawled, his grin stretching just a little too wide as he leaned in closer than necessary. You could practically feel the calculation behind his eyes, the way he assessed, measured, reduced. He was exactly what you had expected - sleazy, self-assured, the kind of man who thought proximity alone was permission.
Unfortunately, Mateo Vasquez was also the contact. Weeks of dead ends had led here, to this moment, to him.
Which meant you couldn’t afford to react the way you wanted to.
Still, before you could respond, Javier’s grip on your shoulder shifted - tightened. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that you felt it, the pressure of his fingers digging in just slightly, anchoring you in place.
Possessive. Unnecessarily so.
And yet, it sent a flicker of something sharp down your spine.
“There’s always room to try something new,” Javier cut in smoothly, his tone laced with an easy confidence that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Whatever you prefer, mi corazón,” you murmured, letting yourself lean into him just a fraction more, playing into the dynamic, into the picture he was painting.
It was a mistake.
At least, your body seemed to think so.
Because the closer you got, the more aware you became - of the heat radiating off him, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your arm, of the faint, familiar scent of his cologne. You had noticed it before, in passing. Lingering in a room he had just left, catching on the air when he brushed by you in the precinct without more than a passing glance.
But this - this proximity - was something else entirely.
It settled under your skin, distracting in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
Your breath hitched. And to your utter discomfort you felt something else too. A dampness in your panties that had no right being there.
“Lucky man,” Mateo muttered, his gaze dragging over you in a way that made your stomach tighten. “Where’d you find her?”
The phrasing landed wrong immediately.
Not how did you meet. Not even a half-decent attempt at politeness. Just that. As if you were something picked up, acquired, owned.
For a split second, you considered stepping in, redirecting, salvaging the moment before it tipped too far.
But Javier moved first.
His hand slipped from his pocket with an unhurried ease, coming up to your face - fingers brushing your skin before settling beneath your chin. He tilted your head up just slightly, forcing your gaze to meet his.
“Pure luck, I guess. You’re something else, you know that?” he said, his voice dipping just enough to feel private, despite the company. The smile he gave you was almost unfair - too easy, too warm, too convincing.
For a second, you forgot it wasn’t real.
“Yeah?” you shot back, a grin pulling at your lips as you leaned into the moment, lifting your chin just a touch higher under his touch. “Still not sure how you got this lucky.”
“You know,” Mateo went on, his grin widening as he leaned back just enough to look between the two of you, “there are a few… unused rooms upstairs. Big house like this, always something tucked away.” He let out a low laugh, pleased with himself. “I know the host. I could arrange something for you two tortolitos.”
That was what made both you and Javier actually look at him.
Not the offer itself - no matter how deliberately you tried to shove that implication somewhere far, far out of reach - but the casual way he dropped that connection. Being invited to a place like this was one thing. Moving in circles where you knew the host, where you could casually offer access in a house owned by someone high up in the regional narco structure… that was something else entirely.
“That right?” Javier asked, tone loose, almost disinterested.
Mateo puffed slightly at the question, pride slipping easily into his posture. “Yeah. We go way back,” he said, lifting his glass as if that alone proved it. “Got history.”
“Do you?” you echoed, your voice light as you tipped your head, lashes lowering just enough to soften the edge of your gaze. “And where did you find him?” The words came sweet, almost playful - his phrasing turned neatly back on him.
Javier’s reaction was immediate, a flicker at your side. Not disapproval - no, not quite. Something closer to surprise, threaded with the faintest hint of amusement.
Mateo, however, didn’t take it quite as smoothly.
The irritation flashed across his face for the briefest moment, gone almost as soon as it came, replaced by that same slick grin he seemed to default to.
“Careful,” he muttered, though his tone stayed light. “Sounds like someone still needs to teach you some manners.” His gaze slid back to Javier. “Like I said - room’s there if you want it.” He raised his glass in a lazy half-salute. “But I’ve got a few more friends to see. And who knows…” His eyes flicked to you again, lingering just a second too long. “Maybe I’ll get lucky myself tonight.”
The wink he threw your way made something in your stomach turn.
You held the smile anyway. Just convincing enough.
And the second he turned his back, it dropped.
“Pendejo…” you muttered under your breath, the word slipping out before you could stop it.
Beside you, Javier’s grip loosened slightly - but didn’t disappear. His hand still rested against you, grounding, present in a way that felt… intentional.
“But we got something out of him,” he said, quieter now, his voice losing some of that performative ease. “Thanks to your… act.”
You blinked.
That was more than he had said to you in the last week combined.
“Not exactly difficult,” you shot back, the defensiveness rising before you could check it. “Men like him make it easy.” You pressed your lips together briefly, holding back the rest of what you might have said.
Javier hummed, a small nod accompanying the sound, his fingers shifting against your skin almost distracted. You prayed he did not register the goosebumps it caused.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you -”
He stopped mid-thought. Something beyond you had caught his attention.
You followed the shift instinctively, watching as his expression tightened, the ease from moments ago replaced with a sharper, serious focus.
“Fuck,” he muttered, barely audible.
Your body reacted before your mind caught up, instinct urging you to turn, to follow his line of sight - but he moved faster. His hand slid from your shoulder, guiding - no, turning - you with a firm urgency that left no room for argument. You stumbled slightly into him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.
“What?” you asked, low. “What is it?”
“It’s not what,” he said through clenched teeth, already moving, already steering you through the crowd. His hand found the small of your back, pressing you forward, the touch controlled but insistent. “It’s who.”
You let him guide you, adjusting your pace to match his as you wove through bodies and voices, away from the center of the party. The shift was subtle enough not to draw attention, but fast enough to matter.
“Cristian Romero.”
The name meant nothing to you.
“Who?” you pressed, glancing back at him as you hit the base of the staircase, your steps quickening as you started up without fully understanding why.
“A nobody,” Javier said, scanning ahead, his focus already shifting beyond the conversation. “Small-time dealer.”
That did not explain the urgency.
“So?” you asked, turning more fully now even as you continued upward, forced into a backward step to keep your eyes on him.
“I had him in a room two weeks ago,” Javier replied, his voice pressed. “Questioned him for hours. Pretty sure he remembers the face of the cop, that had bodyslammed him to the ground.”
He didn’t need to spell it out. It clicked into place all at once.
“Oh, shit…”
“Yeah,” he exhaled, catching up to you in two quick steps. His hand closed around your wrist. “That about covers it.”
At the top of the stairs, the atmosphere shifted. The noise of the party dulled, fewer people lingered here, the space stretching out into dim hallways and half-lit corners. A couple stood pressed together in the shadows, oblivious to anything but each other, their closeness suggesting they were seconds away from crossing a line they wouldn’t walk back from.
Javier didn’t slow.
He guided you past them, deeper into the quieter part of the house, his grip steady, his movements purposeful. The light thinned the further you went, shadows swallowing details until the hallway ahead lay mostly in darkness.
“Javier -”
No answer.
Just movement.
And then - an open door, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
He didn’t hesitate.
One sharp pull, and you were inside before you could protest, the shift from dim hallway to near-dark room swallowing you both whole. The door shut behind you with a quiet click, sealing off the noise, the light, the world outside.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the sound of your breathing and the faint, muffled pulse of music drifting up from the party below.
“What now?” you asked quietly, more to ground yourself than anything else, your mind already running through the options. None of them were particularly appealing. Having your cover blown in a place like this wasn’t just inconvenient - it was dangerous. Walking out now, risking a direct encounter with someone who could recognize Javier, felt like stepping straight into a trap. And yet… staying carried its own risks.
“We wait,” Javier said, his voice low.
He moved through the darkness, crossing to the window and slipping two fingers beneath the curtain just enough to glance outside. The fabric fell back into place almost immediately after. His gaze flicked over you then - quick, assessing - lingering just long enough to make his conclusion obvious.
Climbing out wasn’t an option.
“Party’s still filling up,” he went on, already turning away from the window. “Give it a little time. More people means more cover. Easier to disappear.”
You nodded, even as your pulse refused to settle, thudding a little too fast against your ribs. You told yourself it was the close call, the narrow miss of being recognized. Not the fact that you were suddenly alone with him, shut away from everything else.
You pushed off the door, letting your attention drift through the room instead. Even in the dim light, its purpose - or lack thereof - was obvious. A fireplace dominated one wall, framed by towering bookshelves that stretched up toward the ceiling, filled more for show than use. Two armchairs sat arranged in front of it, positioned just so, as if someone had once imagined quiet evenings here but never quite followed through. Across the room stood a heavy desk, polished to a shine, cluttered with decorative pieces that leaned more toward expensive than tasteful.
A room built to impress. Not to live in.
You pulled a random book from one of the shelves and sank into one of the armchairs, draping yourself across it in a way that felt far more casual than the situation warranted. One arm rested along the side, your legs shifting over the opposite edge as you flipped the book open without really reading.
Javier lingered by the door for a moment longer, listening, before a quiet chuckle slipped from him.
You glanced up over the edge of the book. “What?”
“Just thinking,” he said, pushing off the wall and crossing toward you, “about Mateo’s face if he’d seen us slip up here.”
A small huff escaped you at that, the image coming together easily. “He’d probably think you’re the luckiest man alive.”
You dropped your gaze back to the page, missing the way Javier’s eyes settled on you, lingering just a fraction too long.
“Yeah,” he muttered, quieter now. “Something like that.”
The tone made you look up again, a question already forming -
But a sharp knock at the door cut it off.
Both of you were on your feet before the second knock landed.
Javier moved before you could think, his hand firm at your side as he pushed you subtly behind him. The shift was instinctive, protective in a way that felt far too natural for a man who, up until tonight, had barely acknowledged your existence. Your own body followed suit just as quickly, your hand drifting toward where your firearm would usually rest at your hip - only to meet nothing but fabric.
Right. Not tonight.
The handle turned before either of you could adjust and the door opened. One of the evening’s security filled the frame, broad shoulders blocking out what little light spilled in from the hallway. You felt the change in Javier immediately. The subtle shift in his stance, the tension coiling beneath the surface. One wrong move away from action.
“That part of the house is off-limits,” the guard said, his tone flat and final. “I’ll have to ask you to return downstairs.”
Javier took a step forward, already preparing to handle it - but something in the air sharpened, the edge of the situation turning just enough to make your pulse spike.
“We just had -”
So you moved first.
“- we were just looking for somewhere quiet,” you cut in smoothly, slipping your arms around Javier from behind before he could react. The contact was intimate at best - and for the briefest second, you felt him still beneath your touch.
Your cheek hovered near his shoulder, your body pressing into his back in a way that sold the picture effortlessly.
The guard’s gaze flicked between the two of you.
“That’s not the place for it,” he replied, unimpressed.
You let a soft pout pull at your lips, your fingers drifting idly over the front of Javier’s shirt, toying with a button as if you had nowhere better to be. Then, just enough to push the line -
“You sure?” you murmured, your voice dipping lower, suggestive without tipping into anything overt. “You can stay... watch, if you want.”
That got a reaction.
From both of them.
The guard’s expression shifted first, something uncertain slipping into his posture. Javier, however stiffened even more - then he recovered faster than you expected.
“Mateo sent us,” he added, stepping into the opening you’d created without missing a beat. “Said we might find a little privacy up here.”
The name landed exactly where it needed to.
The guard hesitated, his attention pulled right back to you as your fingers traced a slow line along the skin just visible beneath Javier’s open collar. You felt the warmth there, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing - felt, too, the way it changed, just slightly, under your touch.
“Could get in trouble for this,” the man muttered, though his voice had lost some of its earlier certainty.
You slipped out from behind Javier then, letting the movement carry you naturally into his space, turning so that you fit against him instead of hiding behind him, hips pressing into him. His arm came up around you - whether by instinct or intention, you couldn’t tell - but it completed the picture.
“Wouldn’t want that,” you said lightly, your gaze lifting to Javier as if he were the only one that mattered. “We’ll find somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” Javier agreed easily, a grin tugging at his mouth as he looked back at the guard. “Wouldn’t want to cause problems.”
He was already starting to guide you toward the door when -
“Ten minutes.”
The words came quick, almost reluctant.
You both stilled.
The guard glanced down the hallway, then back at you, a faint, conspiratorial smile breaking through. “Been there once,” he added. “Fresh love, I mean.”
You let out a small, delighted sound, the reaction easy to play.
Javier clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Knew you’d understand, amigo.”
The man waved it off, already stepping back, pulling the door shut behind him. His footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving you alone again in the dim quiet of the room.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then reality snapped back in.
You shifted, instinctively trying to step out of Javier’s hold, the awareness of him suddenly too much - too close, too present. Your fingers still tingled faintly from where they had touched his skin, your mind unhelpfully replaying the moment.
You didn’t get far.
His hand caught your wrist, pulling you back before you could fully withdraw. The motion was quick - turning you, pressing you back until you felt the solid surface of the door at your back and him in front of you.
Caging you in.
“The hell was that?” he asked, and the first thing you registered was the edge in his expression - irritation that bordered on anger.
But it didn’t quite match the rest.
His voice came out rougher than usual, breath just slightly uneven, something tight threaded through it that didn’t sit cleanly with anger alone.
“Relax,” you shot back, lifting your chin despite the position he had you in. “It worked, didn’t it?” You tipped your head faintly toward the door. “Bought us time.”
“That’s not -” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply as his free hand dragged over his face, thumb and forefinger pressing briefly at the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I meant.”
Confusion flickered through your irritation. “Then what… I’m sorry,” you said, the words coming out a little more uneven than you intended. “For… that. Getting that close. It was just part of the act that we...”
You trailed off when he looked at you again.
“Was it?” he asked quietly.
His hand shifted, leaving the door beside your head - only to settle at your neck instead, enough to guide, to tilt your head upward just slightly. The movement sent a sharp awareness through you, your own hand lifting to his chest to hold space that felt increasingly fragile.
“You sure about that, cariño?” he added, softer now, the petname placed deliberately.
Your breath caught.
You were certain he saw it.
The way your pupils widened, the way your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
His grip adjusted, just enough to bring you a fraction closer as he stepped in, closing what little distance remained between you. Heat pressed into you again, familiar now, overwhelming in a different way.
“Just an act?” he murmured, his voice dropping low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “Tell me it didn’t do anything.”
Your thoughts tangled, words catching somewhere on the way out. “I - Javier, we should -”
You lost the rest when he leaned in, close enough that his warm breath brushed along your cheek.
“Tell me,” he continued, quieter still, “you didn’t want him to stay. That you weren’t hoping I’d have to keep playing along.”
Your chest tightened.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, waiting.
And when your gaze flickered - betraying you for a split second, dropping to his mouth before snapping back up - you felt it. The moment it slipped.
“I can’t…”
“I know…”
The words barely had time to settle before he closed the distance.
Whatever line had existed between you snapped clean the second his mouth found yours, his body pressing into you with an urgency that knocked the air from your lungs. The kiss was all heat and intent, nothing tentative about it - like he had been holding back for far too long and had finally decided he was done with restraint.
You answered him without thinking.
Your lips moved against his just as fiercely, your fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him closer, grounding yourself in something that felt both overwhelming and undeniable. His hand slid along your side, anchoring you, while his mouth worked over yours with a hunger that should have startled you more than it did.
It didn’t stop the confusion from clawing its way through though.
Your brows drew together, even as you leaned into him, even as your grip tightened. It was too much, too sudden - too far removed from everything you thought you knew about him.
You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead nearly brushing his. “The - fuck, Javier…”
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look apologetic, either.
If anything, there was something almost assured in the way he watched you, like he had expected this reaction - and decided it didn’t change a thing.
“How - why…?” The questions tangled together, barely formed before he was kissing you again, cutting them off at their root. Your protest dissolved into a sharp inhale as his mouth moved from yours, trailing along your jaw, down the line of your throat, each brush of his lips pulling your focus further away from whatever point you had been trying to make.
“I thought you hated me,” you managed, the words uneven, slipping out between breaths that didn’t quite steady.
A quiet sound left him - something close to a scoff.
“Hate you?” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm where it followed the path of his mouth. “How the hell would I manage that, cariño?”
His hands moved as he spoke, tracing along your sides, mapping you in a way that made your grip tighten on him in response. You hooked one leg around his instinctively, needing the balance, needing something solid to hold onto, while his crotch pushed into your center.
“You avoid me,” you insisted, though it came out weaker now, less certain. “Barely talk to me -”
He cut you off again, his mouth returning to yours, stealing the rest of the argument before it could fully form.
“Because,” he said between kisses, each word brushing your lips, “you made it damn difficult for me to concentrate at all.”
The shift came fast.
One arm slid around your waist, the other braced beneath your thigh, and before you could fully process it, he lifted you, turning with you in a single motion. The world tilted for a second before you felt the solid edge of the desk beneath you as he set you down.
Something clattered softly as a piece of decoration was nudged aside, but neither of you paid it any attention.
Not when his focus was entirely on you.
“All I wanted,” he said, stepping back just enough to take you in, his gaze dragging over you, “was this.”
There was something raw in it now. Less polished. Less controlled.
“Just you,” he added.
You let out a breath that sounded almost like a scoff, though it lacked any real bite. “Funny way of showing it.”
Still, you didn’t stop him when he stepped back in, pushing your legs open with his. Didn’t stop him when his hands found you again, when he shifted closer, pressing into you just enough to pull another unsteady exhale from your lips.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice roughened at the edges. “I’ll give you that.” His hand came up, fingers brushing along your jaw, guiding your attention back to him. “Let me fix that,” he murmured.
You didn’t answer.
You just slid your arms around his neck, pulling him down into you again, your lips meeting his before he could say anything more.
Javier braced himself with one hand against the desk, steadying both you and the precarious edge you were balanced on. The other moved with far less restraint, sliding up along your thigh, gathering the fabric of your dress as it rode higher against your hip. You shifted instinctively, helping him along, your breath catching.
For a moment, he pulled back - just to study you.
“Look at you…” he exhaled, something almost disbelieving threading through his voice. His gaze dragged slowly over your body, taking in every detail like he had been waiting for this exact moment. “We’re not going to need the full ten minutes.”
A breath of laughter slipped between you, light but edged with something sharper. “Shame,” you murmured, your lips curving.
Javier’s focus snapped back to you entirely, his hand moving with quiet certainty to your center, cupping you before hooking into the side of your panties and unceremoniously pulling it aside.
“Guapa…” he murmured, his voice threaded with something almost reverent now as he slid two fingers along your seam, collecting your arousal. “All this… for me.” He grinned against your lips. “If only i had known earlier.”
You could do nothing but moan softly as he sank two fingers into you, letting your velvet walls pulse around his digits. Instinctively your hips worked against his movements, pushing you further to the edge of the table.
He watched you - closely. Every shift, every reaction, like he was committing it to memory.
“As much as I’d like to hear you,” he continued, his lips brushing along your jaw before he stilled, catching your gaze, “you’ll have to keep it quiet.” There was no room for argument in the way he said it. “Can you do that for me, cariño?”
You tried to respond, but whatever words you meant to form slipped away, replaced by a sharp intake of breath as your head tipped back, your lips pressing together in an effort to contain the sound threatening to escape, all because he pushed his fingers deeper, knowing exactly what he did to you with that.
His thumb meanwhile started slow circles at your clit and you could swear you had trouble remembering being this fast this close to a climax in your life.
“Dios…” he breathed under his breath, almost to himself. “How I would love to taste you. But again”, without a warning he pulled his fingers from you, leaving you gasping for air, and clenching around nothing, missing his touch dearly already, “clock’s ticking.”
He stepped back just enough to adjust, to free himself from his pants, letting them hang low on his hips. You had barely time to take him in, see him giving his cock a few lazy strokes, before he positioned it against your waiting center.
“Look at me, guapa.” His hand found your neck again, guiding your gaze back to him, making sure you were there with him, as he pushed in slowly, inch by inch.
Your breath caught, the sound barely more than air as you felt him filling you up, the pressure a delightful mix of lust and discomfort.
He stilled for a brief second, like he was grounding himself, like he needed that moment just as much as you did.
Then he moved.
Not rushed - but not slow either. A steady rhythm, controlled but edged with restraint that felt like it could snap at any second. Every thrust sent a shudder through you, the desk beneath you shifting slightly with the impact, something clattering softly to the floor again, forgotten as quickly as it fell.
“You feel…” he started, his voice rougher now. “Perfect.”
Your name might have been there, or maybe just his - something breathed out between you as your arms gave way slightly, your body leaning back against the desk, surrendering to the moment despite everything in your head telling you this was insane.
“Javier…” you exhaled, your voice barely holding together.
He followed with movement, adjusting without breaking rhythm, hooking your legs over his arms so he could fold you and lean over you - the angle sharpening even more as he drove deeper into you. The air left your lungs in a rush as you turned your head, your hand flying up to cover your mouth, stifling the sound that wanted to break free.
“I’m -” you started, but the words barely made it out.
He caught it anyway.
“Hey - ” His tone shifted again. “Look at me.”
His hand moved, guiding your face back toward him, then resting softly over your mouth, forcing the quiet from you. “I want to see what I do to you.”
And he did.
He saw it all. Every flicker, every reaction, every shift of your body beneath him as he pushed you closer to the edge with his thrusts, hips snapping against yours.
The final moments blurred - you muffled against his fingers, eyes rolling back, as you clenched around his cock and the climax took you fully.
The sight of you coming so purely undone, moaning his name between his fingers, let him follow shortly after. In one final thrust, Javier’s hip snapped forward, pushing deep and spilling into you, both your pulsing muscles twitching against the slightest sensation or movement.
The room fell quiet again, the only sound left your uneven breathing, the faint echo of the party below reminding you that the world outside hadn’t stopped.
For a second, it didn’t feel real.
“Fuck, cariño…” Javier’s voice came out rough, low against your skin as he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath still uneven. His body hadn’t quite settled yet either, his hips shifting in a slow, absent rhythm like he hadn’t fully come back to himself. The sensation pulled a quiet, lingering response from you, your legs tightening around him almost instinctively as your fingers slid into his hair, threading through the dark strands and holding him there for a second longer.
You exhaled, somewhere between a laugh and a breath you were still trying to steady. “Think we’ve got time for another round?” you murmured, your voice light but edged with something that betrayed you.
He lifted his head, just enough to look at you properly, something amused flickering in his expression. “Yeah?” he muttered, a hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “You really asking that?”
There was no real answer to that - only the shared awareness of what had just happened and how easily it could tip right back into it.
Instead, he pulled out slowly, carefully even, helping you sit up properly on the desk. The shift brought the room back into focus - the scattered objects, the quiet, the faint pulse of music below.
You slid off the desk, your legs unsteady for a second before you found your balance again. The fabric of your dress followed your movements as you adjusted it back into place, smoothing it down your thighs like that might somehow erase the evidence of the last minutes. The cum dampening your panties certainly played a good part as a reminder of it.
Javier wasn’t far behind. He straightened himself with the same efficiency he brought to everything else, though there was something less composed about it now as he puled his pants back up.
Before you could step away, his hand found your chin again, tilting your face up just slightly. His thumb brushed over your lower lip.
“Careful,” you murmured, a small grin tugging at your mouth as you reached up, mirroring the gesture, wiping the faint smear of your lipstick from his lips. “Wouldn’t want to get caught because of that.”
He huffed out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s not push it.”
You stepped back just enough to create space between you. “We should get out of here.”
He nodded once, already moving toward the door.
You followed, acutely aware now of everything - of your body, of him, of the lingering heat that hadn’t quite faded yet. It made your steps feel just slightly off, your movements not as controlled as they usually were.
Javier noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand found yours without hesitation, fingers threading through yours, grounding you as he eased the door open. He checked the hallway first, before pulling you along with him.
The difference ten minutes made was almost staggering.
Where before the party had been busy, now it was packed - bodies pressed together, voices louder, movement tighter. The kind of crowd you could disappear into.
Javier pulled you closer again, guiding your arm around his waist, keeping your joined hands in front of you as he navigated through the mass of people. To anyone watching, it looked natural.
Only you could feel the tension still coiled beneath it.
You scanned the room as you moved, your focus sharp again despite everything. Faces blurred past, voices blending together -
And then -
A flicker.
A man turning.
For half a second, your pulse spiked.
Cristian Romero.
You reacted before you could confirm.
Your hand tightened around Javier’s, pulling him sharply, turning him toward you and into you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that came out of nowhere but landed seamlessly into the role you’d been playing all night.
Javier huffed a quiet laugh against your mouth, the sound warm and amused. “Careful,” he murmured. “I might start thinking this is part of the job now.”
You pulled back just enough to glance over his shoulder, checking again.
Not Romero.
Just someone who looked close enough to set your nerves off.
“All clear,” you breathed, more to yourself than him.
This time, you took the lead.
Your hand slid down to his wrist, tugging him after you as you cut through the last stretch of the crowd, past the entrance, out into the night.
The air hit differently outside, cutting through the haze of heat and noise you had just left behind.
You didn’t stop walking. Not until the sounds of the party dulled behind you, until the cluster of waiting cars and taxis fell out of immediate reach.
“Next time,” you said over your shoulder, a grin slipping back into place as you glanced at him, “maybe we skip the hiding and the countdown.”
Javier caught up easily, falling into step beside you before his arm slipped around you again as he had done so many times tonight. Only difference was that the act could easily end here. It didn't though.
“Don’t know,” he replied, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “Kind of liked the pressure.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning into him, enough to feel the shift in him.
You tilted your head, catching the glint in his eyes under the streetlights, something darker settling there now.
“What do you say...,” you asked, “debrief at my place?”
