#willowansweringasks

[kashimos-hajime]

“i fucking love you” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober” with Javi??? I know he would smh 😩✌️

HE REALLY WOULD!!!

warning: mention of alcohol

“I fucking love you.” “Hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober.”

The phone is ringing.

Jesus Christ, why is it ringing? What time is it? 

You groan to yourself, slapping a hand over your face as if that’ll block out the noise as you roll over in bed. Maybe if you ignore it long enough it’ll go away.

Then again, what if it’s the DEA?

That thought alone is enough to drag you against your will out of bed and towards the kitchen counter of your apartment. Your feet are cold and numb, a part of you still not quite awake as your eyes flutter around the dark apartment. No one in here—door’s still closed, gun’s in the drawer. Knives in the kitchen. You’ll be fine.

Occupational habit.

Picking up, you mutter out your last name and what meets your ear is silence, quiet breathing.

“Hello?” You grab the receiver tighter, frowning heavily at whoever the fuck just prank-called you in the middle of the night. “Hello?”

Your name comes out, hoarse and slurred through the earpiece and your eyebrows furrow together when you recognize it, but just barely.

“Javier? Where’s Steve? Are you okay?” A thousand scenarios race through your mind. You had last left them at the office. You wanted to get home early the day before your birthday just so you could go to work well-rested and even leave the office early for celebratory drinks, but… worry seizes your expression and you grab the phone, retreating to your dining table beside the counter and switching on a lamp, adjusting the cord so it doesn’t tug. “Jav?”

“It’s so fucking cold here,” he mumbles, still slurring. “Shit. Why aren’t you here?”

“I told you?” Confusion laced in your words, you sit down in the orange light the apartment is now washed in. Planting an elbow on the table, you rest your face against your hand and closed your eyes. “I wanted to get home early and sleep. Why are you calling me?”

A beat: “Oh, yeah.”

“Javi, are you drunk? What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to call happy birthday, carīno,” he whispers. “It hit past midnight two minutes ago.” Your eyes widen and your eyes dart to the clock hanging by the door. He’s right. Your heart wilts in your chest.

Past midnight and he thought of you? A surge of warmth spreads through your entire body as you pull the receiver away from your ear and press it against your chest, closing your eyes and biting your lip to prevent any teasing remarks on your part.

Drunk Javier Peña. What a sight. One worth getting out of bed to hear.

“Javi, tell me where you are, and I’ll come pick you up.”

“I’m at home.” Another pause where you’re pretty sure he takes another swig. “I miss you.”

“Javi, we work together,” you chide lightly. “We see each other every day.” Lifting your face from your palm, you drop your hand and start tracing the wood patterns in the surface of the table as you sigh. “Plus, we see each other outside of work.” Clearing your throat, you add: “Unofficially.”

“I just… it’s your birthday.”

“I know.”

“I wish you knew how fucking special you are.”

“Javi, don’t say something you’ll regret now.” Oh, they’re treading on dangerous waters, and your heart jumps to your throat as you hear the distinctive clink of glass. “Go to sleep, idiot.”

“Look, I fucking love you.” The words, strung together, a little bit stumbled over, but warm and husky in the Colombian night, shoot right through you. Your eyes widen and you slap a hand over your mouth as he repeats it again before adding, “Don’t think I ever told you, but I do. I do, you know?”

And in some ways, it’s just absolutely fucking hilarious. “Hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober, Peña,” you murmur softly. “But for the record, I love you, too.”

“Te quiero.”

“If you remember this when you wake up, tell me again.”

“I will.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Javi.” And, for the hell of it, because you’re pretty sure he won’t remember in the morning, and hell, it is your birthday, you say it again, too. “I love you.”

“Good.” His voice cracks a bit, in that whispery tone of his, and he clears his throat. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

join my 4k celebration!

[kashimos-hajime]

“You need to sleep” with our golden boy 😌😌💙 ily

ily too!!!

note: with senator!reader ;)

24. “You need to sleep.”

The Clone Wars rage outside—every inch of the galaxy is ravaged by it.

But in here. In your rooms on Coruscant, it’s hard to believe anything is wrong at all. In fact, in this pristine apartment where not much is out of place, the one mark that could be seen as wrong is the dimple on the bed, the emptiness of the space beside you.

When you wake up, you still see the rare speeders, people rushing home despite how late it is, or early, if one considers this quiet time where the sky is inky black morning. Rising from the bed, you rub at your eyes, glancing again at the empty space and you throw off the blankets, getting up despite the chill sweeping underneath your clothes. You grab the robe off the hook, tying it around your waist with practiced fingers before meandering to the lounge area.

The lights aren’t on, and in the darkness, you can only make out sharp shapes of furniture before you find your footing edging near the set of three steps that would lead to the couches where you welcome guests.

He’s not here.

Frowning, a sharp pang collides with your chest. It’s not unordinary for him to leave without a word, especially during times as critical as these, and even before. After all, how suspicious would it be for a Jedi Knight to leave a Senator’s apartment at the crack of dawn?

But still.

Still, you thought you warranted at least him waking you up to kiss you goodbye.

And that’s when you turn to the balcony.

There, he stands, silhouette outlined in silver as he looks up at the stars and your heart rends at how alone he appears. A sole figure overtop a city demanding peace. He’s only one man, and you…

There just isn’t enough of anything.

You walk to the door, open it with a gentle push of your fingers, and he whirls around as soon as he catches a whiff of your presence. Already, a gentle smile is working around your face and you join him despite the bitter winds that tear through your robe. It isn’t much protection, but it’ll have to do.

“What are you doing here?” Obi-Wan chides gently. “It’s cold out.” He wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close against him, and you’re unsurprised that he’s warmer than you are. Still, his fingers are numbingly cold against your hip. “You need to sleep.”

“Hypocrite,” you shoot back. “You’ve been up for the past three days. I’d say it’s something to do with me except…” Except his countless assurances that it isn’t. And you’re prone to believe the Jedi Master, even if it’s against your better judgement. “Obi-Wan, please. I’m worried about you.”

You rest a hand on his chest, tugging in a silent urge for him to look at you. His blue eyes pale in the moonbeams, outlining the harsh reality of war—the eyebags, the gauntness of his cheeks, the grey tinging the auburn of his hair. He’s lost weight, he looks older than his age and it breaks your heart to know that there’s nothing you can do about it.

Here is not strong General Kenobi, the perfect Jedi as so many claim him to be.

In front of you, he will always only be Obi-Wan.

“Don’t worry, darling,” is all he says after a while. You don’t believe him for a moment, and he knows that. He runs a thumb across the apple of your cheek, sighing as blue eyes linger all over your face. His shoulders sag and a weak smile crosses his face. 

A chill sweeps in again and you try to repress your shiver but Obi-Wan must’ve sensed it because he frowns, running his hand over your head and pulling you closer.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, concern etching onto his features. “Go inside. I’ll be in a moment.” He tries to pull you back but your arms shoot around his waist, latching onto him. Looking at him, their noses brush just barely. His nose is colder than yours is. 

“No. Not without you.” As if to emphasize your point, you tighten your grip on him and he watches you with raised eyebrows, judging your commitment to this little coup to his self-sabotage.

And you’re very committed.

He knows you won’t leave, and you know he won’t let you freeze to death in nothing but your sleeping dress and a robe that does nothing in the elements. In all ways, they know each other far too well.

A knuckle runs down your cheek and his other wraps around your waist as he sighs. 

Then, in one smooth swoop, he hoists you into his arms and you let out a surprised noise as his other hand shoots to your thigh, guiding it around his waist. Locking your legs around him, you wrap your arms around his neck for support, one of your hands lacing through his hair. You watch over his shoulder at the city that moves slowly out of reach as Obi-Wan carries you inside, back into the warmer apartment. 

“You like having your way, don’t you?” he comments wearily, traversing the darkness and towards the bedroom.

“Just sleep in my arms, Obi-Wan. I promise, I’ll wake you before the sun rises,” you whisper in his ear, and his arms tighten as he presses his nose into your shoulder.

They enter the bedroom and he lets go of your thigh long enough to brace himself over the mattress, setting you down gently. Your hands run over his shoulders, tightening into fists in his tunic and you barely catch a sliver of his blue eyes before a mouth fits against yours, tingling cold. His other hand sinks into the mattress beside your head as he lowers himself against you, and in that moment, you feel Obi-Wan completely lose every wall that’s forcing him to his feet.

His body moulds against yours, and a terrible, heavy weight sets in your chest as he pulls himself away, muttering an apology that shouldn’t have to be said through a voice that breaks.

He tucks his face into the crook of your neck. 

You hold him tight against you, and close your eyes.

You hope he can’t hear your heart shatter in your chest. You don’t want to wake him before sunrise. You don’t want him to leave at all.

All you want is for him to stay here, in their nook in the galaxy, safe.

But that is not who they are.

Tomorrow, you will go to the Senate, and him, to some front line of some planet too far for you to follow.

That is who they are. There is nearly no room for rest.

[kashimos-hajime]

*kicks your door down* BONE JAW! May I humbly request “I know you can be louder than that.” with mr johnny silverhand please (because i'm a hoe, and we know this)

CLOWNERY!!

warning: nsfw!!! no spoilers at all and set in 2020s or whenever you want. johnny’s actually alive so 😀✌️

"I know you can be louder than that."

It’s a challenge. Everything is a fucking challenge with Johnny fucking Silverhand. Fresh off his damn rocker, still furious after another argument with Alt, a clash with Kerry—you know he comes to you because of that. 

It’s the only reason he comes to you. Why else? Because he cares? Fuck no.

It’s a mutual understanding. After all, what would Kerry Eurodyne say when he learns that anti-corpo bastard Johnny Silverhand is fucking the kid of Militech’s head of R&D division? Probably make some scathing remark, enough that it’ll make Johnny knock back some beers and come on over to your place anyway, just to prove a point.

And you—you just need an output.

Every inch of your apartment is a surface and as soon as you open the door, he has his hands on your face, his mouth swooping and warm against yours. You stumble back, barely remember to close the door before he’s ripping off your dress, you’re shoving off his jacket. It’s almost routine in their tangled fury as he pushes you towards the couch, whatever’s closet.

Fucker isn’t even going for your offer for drinks this time. Whatever’s happened is still biting at his nerves and he doesn’t waste any time on pretense before his pants drop to the floor. His thumb presses against your clit, two fingers deep inside you, readying you for what’s to come and you arch your back off the couch as he growls to himself, boxers shoved just down his hips.

“Whatever’s happened,” you murmur, a tightness in your stomach already beginning to twist, “has you riled, Samurai.”

“Shut the fuck up about it,” he grunts, aligning their bodies and there’s a tenderness which he holds your face as he thrusts into you. “Mouthy brat.”

“Fucking asshole. Oh, fuck—“ You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls against yours, his harsh breaths against your collarbone and your hands fly to his shoulders, fingers raking against his jacket. Setting a pace that has even you struggling to catch up on, you let him fuck you into the cushions, your leg sliding off the couch as he lifts his head and presses a heavy, open-mouthed kiss against your lips, their gasps mixing and you can taste the cigarettes and beer on his tongue as he trails a hand down your side, cups your hip. 

A groan tears through your lungs, echoing in your ribs as he angles your body, takes you deeper and deeper, and it’s not long before you’re delirious with bliss, trying to hold onto anything that’s more stable than the rocker boy who fucks the stress out of you on the weekly.

His head falls to your neck, lips feverish, and a shameless, desparate sound spills out of you as soon as the muzzle is lifted and his hand on your jaw falls to your throat.

“Come on, sweetheart. I know you can be louder than that,” he snarls, biting down on your jaw and your stomach cramps, your body flushing. His pace is brutal, destroying every wall you have ever built until you are the base of who you are and as your thighs clench, your breathing hitch, not for the first time do you come to a haunting revelation.

You’re human. Just like him

Just like fucking him.

And when you fall apart in his hands, he follows a moment later and they lay against each other, panting, detesting every inch of the other pressed closer than close against one another. But they don’t move. Your hand is still in his shaggy hair, he’s still thrusting lazily into you, his flesh hand on your hip, and you can feel the cold shiver of his rings. Their other hands are joined above your head, fingers interlaced, and you almost want to tell him to let go of your hand.

But then, why don’t you let go of his?

“You fucking kill me,” he murmurs, kissing your breastbone, your chin, and finally your mouth. You hum, eyes half-mast, and he sighs, holding onto your jaw and squeezing gently. “Fuck you.” You smile against his grip and he shakes your head gently before letting go and sitting up. He sighs, grabbing his pants and you sit up, your knees shaking a bit as you twist to put your feet on stable ground again.

“You still want that drink?” you try, wiping at your face. “Stay the night?” He sits down beside you, leaning back and pulling his pants back up and zipping them back up. Meeting black eyes, you raise an eyebrow. “I have whiskey.”

A grunt and a clear of a throat later, he finally nods. “Yeah, fine.”

Patting his knee, you get up and move to walk in front of him, and you almost make it before he snatches your wrist, tugging you down and a smile barely splits your mouth before his mouth finds yours, his metal hand on your neck, his fingers running down your chest, and he palms your breast, squeezing teasingly.

Your smile only grows as you kiss him back but you push his face away when he tries to pull you into your lap. Standing upright once more, you push his hand off your body with a coy smile.

You know his eyes linger after your ass, despite how much he wants to be repulse by you and you him. It’s a struggle they fail at every time.

Everything’s a challenge.

[kashimos-hajime]

are you willing to show a sneak peek of house of memories part 2 🥹🥹 i cant wait for it to come 😭

yes yes of course!! take your pick ;)

[kashimos-hajime]

"I like seeing you smile" with Spencer Reid

note: SEASON 8 SPOILERS of criminal minds

"I like seeing you smile."

You know of her. Derek had told you her name was Maeve, that Spencer’s completely shattered about it—that he needs space—and that whatever happens, it doesn’t mean Spencer cares any less about you.

You don’t know what to say. 

Spencer’s been coming to your little corner bookstore for years—since he’s joined the BAU it feels like, and you know what books he likes, when he comes in. You always have a stack of books you recommend to him just in case, and he in turn writes you books you should read, and more than once, he lingers after your shift so they can retreat upstairs, hide amongst the shelves to read.

You can’t read as fast as Spencer, but… but it’s nice.

So, the first time you see Spencer Reid after Maeve dies, you’re crushed at what you see. He looks disconcerted, like he hasn’t left his apartment in weeks. The sun seems too bright, the air too thick, and he approaches you with a quiet sadness you don’t recognize.

“Hi, Spencer,” you say, putting on a smile and bending under the desk to retrieve the books you have for the day he returns. It seems that day’s today. “I have your recommendations. It’s been a while, so I wrote them down,” you add. “I couldn’t get all of them.”

He looks at you and you’re startled by how gaunt he looks. His eyes are bigger than you remember, his cheeks hollow, and your heart is grabbed by an invisible hand, squeezed tight, and it nearly bursts.

“Thank you,” he says at last, voice raspy, creaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

“It’s okay. I don’t know how much you know, but… Derek told me what happened.” That only makes Spencer’s features screw up more and you look down at your hands. “We don’t have to talk about it, but I miss you. And I’m really, really sorry.”

They stand there at the counter for a while, and then Spencer says he’ll take the books.

He pays in crumpled bills and doesn’t linger.

He starts coming back around again, though. He’ll retreat upstairs, read until it’s time to close, sometimes help you with new stock. You let him because it must help to keep that mind of his off Maeve, and it’s two months before you see him again, looking more like himself.

Less haunted, brighter, even smiling.

Smiling. You never thought you could ache to see something so much.

“I like seeing you smile,” you tell him as they close the bookstore. You feel like you haven’t seen him smile in forever. In response, his grin only grows and your features soften. “I missed you.”

He frowns in confusion, then and you already miss it. “You saw me last week.”

“I know.” You pick up another stack of books and begin to shelve them with a tilt of your head. “Still miss you, Dr. Reid.”

And by his own timid smile, you wonder if he understands what you mean.

[kashimos-hajime]

I crawl into ur askbox. I leave u brat taming carillo w the prompts “bite your lip once more, i dare you” + “come on. i want the neighbours to hear you scream” What do u do

ALOS. Once more. I love u and congrats on 4k!!!!!!! 🥶😈❄️💖

i scream at the gods, “I AM HORNEEEEEE!!!@!@!@!” they do not answer. i write 1.2k of smut.

HI MAAM you are braVE FOR REQUESTING THIS TO ME OF ALL PEOPLE AND I KINDA wanted to continue so badly but um LKMASDKLNASD THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FREND, I LOVE YOU!!!

warning: NSFW LMAOOO (18+), choking, mentions of edging, overstim, marking, subtle sir kink, sub/dom elements, girl you just getting your brains FUCKED OUT 

some translations (correct me if im wrong please!!):

tengo una cita=i have a date mi alma=my soul corazón=heart hermosa=beautiful

“Bite your lip once more, I dare you.” + “Come on. I want the neighbours to hear you scream.” 

Your eyes roll back into your head as a hand wraps around your throat, a ragged, starved mouth claiming yours once more as hips jerk against your own, skin to skin, heat on heat. Everything is burning and you can’t even see as he tears himself away from you, pulling you away from the edge that you’re so wound up on. A coil tightens and you just want to be free. To just fall apart but no. No, you don’t deserve that today. 

Not when he’s been railing you, teasing you with his fingers, fucking you and eating you out, for the past two fucking hours and has no intention on stopping. 

“I had plans and I just thought you were tired.”

“Tired?” Carrillo squeezes your neck gently and leans down. “‘Tengo una cita’ was your excuse not to come home with me?” he growls into your ear “Try that again the next time you want to play coy, and see what happens.” He grabs hold of your hair, fists it tight and yanks it back, exposing your neck and your mouth opens in a gasp as he sucks a mark right underneath your ear, smirking. “Come for me, corazón. I want the neighbours to hear you scream.” 

He bites at your jaw, your neck, mark you until you’re shown as his for days before he noses his way back up to your panting mouth. Another sharp thrust sends a jolt of euphoria and your eyes flutter shut as he grabs your jaw. 

“It was true, sir,” you manage to snipe at him. “He was young, handsome, tall. He liked me, senōr…” He squeezes your face, a warning, and brushes a thumb over your swollen lip, eyes scanning your face. Your tongue teases the pad of this thumb as his hips still against yours and an impatient moan escapes your lips. Your hands trace the swell of his chest, the bulging biceps of his arms, and there is raw power thrumming underneath his skin, golden and hazy in the barely lit room. His thumb pushes into your mouth and you wrap around it diligently but he simply shakes his head, disgusted, ripping his hand away before you can coax him deeper with your tongue.

“Using men to make me jealous is below you. We both know you only want one thing.” His other hand on your hip angles and he sinks himself to the hilt once again, your over-sensitized walls tight around him and he snarls against your cheek, moving his hand back to your throat as he thrusts into you. Eyes slipping shut, your mouth falls open shamelessly.

“Horacio.” His name slips from your lips, your chest heaving and his dark gaze snaps to yours, filled with lust and one of your hands cradles his face as his pace increases until wave after wave of bliss begins to overwhelm you once again. Thighs clenching, you feel them begin to slip against the sweat-slick skin of his waist but he reaches down with the hand on your hip, keeping you steady. Your muscles are melted and you thrash your head to the side, biting your lip and trying to stifle the groan begging to rip free but an index finger gently nudging your jaw warns you. Clutching onto the bed sheets, you try to remember how to breathe.

“Bite your lip once more, I dare you,” he whispers huskily, open mouth panting against your jaw. Your hip jolts with his next thrust and he hits the spot that has you keening, clenching so hard you think you might scream as he lets out a harsh, gritted groan against your jaw. “Shit. Fuck, are you close already? Again? You feel—so tight.“

“I am, mi amor. I’m close. I’m so close,“ you breathe, nonsense ramblings spilling out of your chest. “Please, please, I’m so close. Don’t stop—no! No, please don’t stop.” Your fingers fly to his arms, sink into his skin and your stomach clenches. Dragging himself through your slick, Carrillo grunts and hips snap against yours again, jackhammering until you reach that precipice once more and he knows you so well that he can tell when you can take one more deadly push, when you can’t. You haven’t cum in what you feel like has been days as he lowers your leg back to the mattress, reaches down with his free hand to press a thumb agains your clit and your vision nearly blacks out as your arch up against him, head digging into the mattress, his name torn out of your throat in a wail.

But you don’t cum.

No, he knows your body more intimately than you do. He knows all he has to do is just command you to, and you will.

But he doesn’t.

His unforgiving pace slows and you let out a furious groan of frustration, turning your head to look at him, wanting to sob, and you catch his grin as he soothes your ravaged lip with a finger, a gentle teasing touch.

“Ah, now I am your lover?” he murmurs severely, their noses just barely brushing, raising his eyes to regard your face with pupils blown wide enough to swallow his irises. “What happened to having a date tonight, hermosa? Someone stronger, taller, more handsome. Younger.” You squeeze your thighs weakly, muscles gummy, scowling at him in retaliation as you try to get yourself to the finish line but then his hand leaves your clit, he pushes with one huge hand down on your navel and keeps you still with the sheer force of his command alone. 

The waves recede—your stomach stops cramping, and you can start catching your breath again long enough for the disappointment to settle in.

And when he doesn’t budge, merely looms over you, you know you’re fucked. He lifts the hand from your abdomen, settles it by your head, holds himself up. His bicep glistens and you swallow at the sheer force in that arm alone. 

Your hands find his face and you cradle him in your palms, just… looking at him. Soaking him in.

Jesus, he’s so handsome. The air smells of sex, his cologne, your perfume, their sweat and their love, and in the light that’s made edges go blurry, you’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.

“You should know by now I want no other man besides the Colonel of the Search Bloc.” Your thumbs brush over his cheeks and he lifts his hand from your throat to hold onto your wrist. He kisses your pulsepoint, eyes sliding shut. “No other man I’ve met can fuck me half as well.”

His grip on your wrist tightens. 

Your free hand goes to his neck to pull him down just as you raise your head, and their lips barely brush as you whisper, “Now, fuck me, Colonel Carrillo. Or I’ll find someone who will.”

He slams your wrist to the bed. A raw, dark desire lingers in his eyes as he kisses you gently, an incinerating heat hiding behind the last piece of tenderness you will get for the night.

The neighbours hear more than your screams well into the morning. 

Carrillo, you believe, has never slept better.

.

Your two favourite DEA agents visit Medellín that next afternoon while you’re visiting the office, dropping off coffee for Carrillo.

“Late night?” Peña laughs when your buttoned-to-the-collar shirt slips to reveal a peek of a completely bruised collarbone and neck, marked every inch. 

Murphy’s more concerned by the fact that you can’t walk straight without your face screwing up.

Carrillo hides a smirk behind his newly delivered coffee.

You wonder if they’ll ever connect the days the Colonel’s in a good mood to the days you look like someone dragged you to aphrodisiac hell and back.

Probably won’t, but they’ve surprised you before.

join my 4k celebration!

[kashimos-hajime]

hi! i remember you stating that there should be more reader fics of gojo that expand on his trauma, do you have any recommendations of the sort? kinda tired of seeing the gojo x reader tag be full of smut or just fics that dont feel like him 😭 i read all ur works abt him and they’re SPECTACULAR masterpieces by the way! its so refreshing reading ur fics u get him down so accurately!!

nah literally i feel you FNKSDLFKFDS its so draining !! and i made that post precisely because i didn't see it at all!! i dont really read fics reader x gojo for the same reason as you stated, so i can't help you too much but i know of this fic by @silkylious !

i'm glad you enjoy my work! thank you so much and it means a lot <3

[kashimos-hajime]

“Really? You wanna have sex….here? Now?” with Javi 👀👀👀👀👀

OH WORM??

warnings: tiny mention of nsfw, drinking, but otherwise its chill

“Really? You wanna have sex….here? Now?”

“Javi?”

“Hm.”

“Javi.”

He finally looks at you, tearing his eyes away from the traffic as they drive to the office. You’re wearing a pair of slacks, a sensible blouse buttoned up respectably, yet still, there’s a certain glint in your eyes as you adjust the seatbelt across your chest.

“What is it?”

“We need to make a stop.”

“What? Why?” He has a hand on your thigh and you place a hand atop his, squeezing meaningfully as he studies your expression behind his yellow-tinted sunglasses. Your thighs press together, tight enough that he can feel your muscles tensing as you cock an eyebrow. “Really? You wanna have sex…here? Now?”

“Not now. That’s why I’m saying we make a stop and do it then,” you say as if it were obvious. Javier’s grip on your thigh tightens and you smirk, looking out the window.

“Last night wasn’t enough?”

“Last night, someone decided to fall asleep,” you shoot back teasingly, tossing a glance at your driver and he lets out a sigh. “I know you were tired. I’m so glad you got some sleep, so I’m not angry.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not. Do you want coffee? I can just… pull off the road. We’ll get coffee, tell Steve that’s why we’re late.”

Smiling, you reach for his face and he turns just as your fingers brush over his cheeks.

Columbia when it’s not bloody with bullets and bodies is gorgeous. Vibrant, alive. It’s brought Javi to life, too. Even though Escobar is still free, Javi’s sleeping more. Drinking less, smoking less. He’s relying less on crutches, and comes to bed earlier.

At the next stop, you lean over and press a kiss against the corner of his mouth and he turns to return it in full, smiling when your own grin pulls at your mouth.

“Needy girl,” he rasps, and you lift your lips to press a kiss against the tip of his nose. His hand on your thigh trails inward, squeezing and a shiver shoots up your thigh. “Sit back down. We’ll have some privacy soon enough.”

“Oh, privacy doesn’t stay private for long when I’m with you, Javi,” you purr, crossing your legs and trapping his hand between your thighs. His thumb twitches and his eyes flit to you before he has to focus on the road again. “Do you think Steve knows you fucked me on his desk a few weeks back after the lights shut off and it was just us?”

“I’m warning you. Mouth off and you’re the one paying for it.”

“Or that time in the closet by Centra Spike…” you trail off innocuously and his lips pull into a scowl as his grip on your thigh strengthens, his pinkie rubbing against the crotch seam of your pants. A shiver shoots up your spine and you try to hide it but you grab his arm on reflex, freezing him before he can do anything more. “I think we almost got caught that time. I know that turned you on—”

“Cariño, please. Just, give me a fucking moment.” He pulls a hard turn into an alleyway that’s completely empty—a rarity—and twists off the ignition, letting go of your thigh to adjust his pants. You suck in a breath, already knowing the deal. Pulling your shirt out of your pants, you open the door and get into the backseat of his car as Javi climbs out himself, unbuckling his belt and glancing down the way to the street. 

No one’s around. Somehow, Javi’s worked his magic and they have probably ten, fifteen minutes.

You can work with that. You settle yourself in the backseat and reach forward, tugging Javi forward by the belt loops and their lips meet in furious, reckless abandon. Heat searing between their bodies, hands find buttons, fingers undo zippers, and you smile as he pushes you down onto your back and climbs up on top of you.

You’re pretty sure Javi can work with it, too.

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