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milla-frenchy · 2 months

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Glory O

2k1 | Javier Peña x fem reader x Steve Murphy | ao3 Summary: you work in a brothel, and two guys want to try something new Warnings: 18+ mdni. pwp. Glory hole, sex work, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering, jacking off, spitting, piv, cumplay, creampies, gun threat (not against reader) No age specified. a/n: thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta reading 💕 and @toxicanonymity for the spanish translation🖤

Masterlist

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“Let’s try this one” was the first thing you heard when they came in. You were lying on your back, the upper part of your body was hidden behind a thin wall, leaving your pussy and legs exposed.

A hand rested on your thigh and you shivered. Even though you had been working there for several months, the first contact always made your heart rate accelerate. Hand pressure was often characteristic of how you were going to be fucked. Often, but not always. A gentle caress like the one at that moment, could lead to a rough or painful fucking. Or a boring one.

The hand brushed against your skin, thumb facing your inner thigh.

“What do you think?”, you heard a man with a Chilean accent.

“Yeah, sure. You go first”, a voice with an American accent replied.

“You really like to jerk off while I fuck them, right?”

The other man chuckled, not denying it. The client next to you unzipped his jeans, then you heard the friction of clothes sliding slightly. He probably had his pants pulled down just below his balls. He put his hands on you, and when he positioned himself between your thighs, you felt a warm, hard cock pressed against your pussy. You held your breath, ready to take his cock like this, without preparation. Like you always had to do.

But he hesitated, staying there for a few seconds, his shaft against your folds. Then you heard him tuck his cock in his pants without zipping them up. His thumb spread your folds and you heard “mmmm…gorgeous. Steve, look at that.”

Footsteps came closer, and a low whistle echoed through the room.

“Yep, can’t wait to fill her up.”

You swallowed, waiting for what was going to happen.

You suddenly heard the noises coming from the nearby partitions. For a moment, you forgot that you weren't alone. Other women were being fucked, and you easily recognized the noises feigning pleasure. You always did the same, wanting the fucking to end quickly.

When you felt a warm breath against your pussy and a mustache brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs, you snapped out of your thoughts and whimpered. The man grabbed the back of your knees and moved you towards him as far as the opening would allow, before resting one of your legs on his shoulder. His thumb brushed up and down your folds and you heard him inhale. When his tongue licked between your folds in one stroke, you moaned.

“Already wet”, he murmured.

Two men in the brothel together to fuck you could be intimidating, or degrading, but this time you were slightly less guarded than usual. He was still brushing your folds with his thumb, and you got even wetter. His finger was as sensual as his hand on your thigh, he was good at it. He brushed his finger over your clit, twirling it delicately under his skin.

“Fuck,” you muttered. That was new. They rarely took the time to make you come, and his touch was truly perfect.

“You like that, Cariño (honey)? Gonna come for me?”

His thumbs spread your folds again, then his tongue ran over them, in long strokes from bottom to top, several times.

“Oh my god”, you whimpered in your breath.

He buried his tongue in your pussy, as far as he could, his hands holding your thighs. You felt like in less than two minutes you were going to come and you covered your mouth with your hand of surprise.

“Want a taste, Steve?”

“Not yet.”

The man put your other knee on his shoulder, still fucking you with his tongue, grunting between your thighs. You heard “Steve” unzip his pants, then spit.

The man between your thighs moved up to your clit with his tongue, and he circled it with his lips, sucking gently. His middle finger brushed against your entrance, covering it with your wetness. When he pushed it in gently, the tip of his tongue swirled over your clit. Quickly, he pushed in a second finger, slowly pumping your pussy with his digits. You grabbed one of your breasts as you were already coming. Quickly, so quickly, that you didn’t really understand that it was going to happen. You wondered if the other men fucking the women heard the difference in tone between your moans and theirs.

“That’s good, bebé (baby). I’m gonna fuck you now.” You heard his hand rubbing against his mustache, probably to wipe it. You wondered what he looked like. What they looked like.

He stood up and placed his hand on your hip. His cock in the other one, he rubbed himself against your folds, covering the entire length of his shaft with your wetness, and bringing it up to rub against your clit. Your sensitivity made you gasp every time he touched it. Finally, he placed his tip to your entrance and pushed, making you moan. When the crown of his cock plunged through your entrance, you heard him growl. His dick was thick and you felt your folds part as it passed through them. Both of his hands were now on your hips, he pulled back before hitting the bottom, then thrusted again, all the way in, and you gasped.

“How is she?” asked Steve.

“Good. Fucking good. Chose the perfect one.”

His hands dug into your flesh, his body slamming against yours at a perfect pace.

“Come see this. How her pussy is taking my cock.”

You heard his footsteps, and his proximity allowed you to hear his wrist fucking his cock, too.

“You’re doin’ great, baby. Sucking his cock right in.”

He jerked off faster.

“Shit, all that cream around your cock Javi…you’re giving it to her good.”

You imagined them, their eyes fixed on your dripping pussy. When you felt another hand on your body, you thought you were wavering. Steve caressed your skin, while Javi was still fucking you. Steve slid his hand up to your clit, brushing it gently, and you moaned.

“Shh, you’re ok baby. I’m gonna touch you gently, ain’t gonna hurt you. Ok?”

“Ok”, you murmured, finally giving yourself the right to talk to them.

“Don’t want you to come yet. Can you hold back for me?”, asked Steve.

“I’m…I’m gonna try.”

“Good girl.”

The double stimulation made you clench on Javi’s cock.

“Fuck”, he grumbled. “She’s squeezing my dick. Mierda…(shit).”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna shoot your load already? Her pussy’s that good?”

“Oh, fuck you! Yeah, she’s that good. You’ll see when you are inside her, smartass.”

He kept thrusting in, his cock was hitting your G-spot. Steve leaned down and placed his lips on your clit and this time you thought you were going to faint. His tongue was applying a perfect pressure and they both were driving you crazy. You felt your pussy clench desperately.

“Fuck, fuck…” Still thrusting in, you heard Javi groan louder and louder.

“Then it’ll be Steve’s turn, you’re gonna take both of our cocks, right? Gonna fill that pussy with our cum.”

“Yes, yes please…”

Your pussy was clenching and you couldn’t stop it. You felt Javi’s cock twitch inside you, he grumbled “I’m gonna fill you up” and finally he froze, sending spurts of cum deep inside your walls. The sounds of other men's moving bodies, their grunts, were filling the room.

Once he emptied his balls, he withdrew and spread the cum that was flowing out along your folds with his cock. Then he pulled away, and Steve’s hands were on you. He surprised you too, when he leaned down towards you and twirled his tongue around your clit again. You wondered if Javi had smeared his cum on it, if Steve was tasting him on you. He spread your folds with his thumbs, and you felt some cum leaking down. He stood aside to look. Since they had entered the room, they had behaved differently from all the men who had fucked you so far. The way they were touching you, fucking you, made you tremble.

Steve slid his middle finger over your folds, spreading more of Javi’s cum, making you hold your breath. Then he stood up, and grabbed his cock.

“Look at that Javi. You’re right, her cunt is gorgeous. And even more beautiful covered with cum.”

He ran his cock along your entrance, soaking it with your wetness and Javi’s cum. You were used to multiple creampies, when several men fucked you in a row. But this sensuality, their playful attitude, was new to you. Steve pushed in, and its girth made you gasp.

“Mmmm, it's good, baby. My cock’s covered by both of you. How hot is that…”

You thought you were going to come just from hearing him, and your pussy tightened around his cock.

“Fuck…don't make me come too quickly. Wanna fuck this pussy properly.”

“Sorry”, you murmured.

“Don't be sorry. Love hearing your little moans. Very different from those of your friends, mmm?”

“Yeah…yeah, fuck.”

“We’re fucking you good, you don't need to fake it…is that right?”

“Yeah, you’re fucking me good. Love your cocks.”

He chuckled, “Yeah, I bet you do.”

You heard another voice, neither Steve nor Javi.

“Andale, cabrón. Toman demasiado tiempo. Queremos cogerla también.” (Come on, man. You guys are taking too long. We wanna fuck her too.)

Steve froze, and asked Javi “What did he say?”, who translated to him.

“We’re not done, man. Pick another girl, move!” He raised his hand, to tell them to fuck off. But it didn’t stop the man:

“Voy a llamar al jefe y él va a sacarlos. Nosotros ya pagamos para cogerla. No pueden tenerla solo para ustedes.” (I'm gonna call the boss, he’s gonna throw you out. We already paid to fuck her. You can't keep her to yourself like that!)

This time, you translated for him. He pulled out of you, and tucked his cock in his pants. You heard a loud noise, and guessed that Steve pinned the other man against the wall. He had difficulty breathing, Steve was probably holding him by the throat. You heard a click of a gun: the security was removed.

“Yo soy tu patrón. ¿Sí?” (I am your boss, yes?)

“¡Está bien! Está bien! ¡Yo hago lo que ustedes digan!” (It’s ok, it’s ok! I’ll do whatever you say)

“¿Sí?” (yeah?)

Steve threw the man to the ground, then put the gun back in his shoulder holster before coming back to you.

Javi pointed his finger to the other men who were waiting, and said “Cállanse, todos. Ahora ella es nuestra. Entienden?” (Fuck off, all of you. She’s ours, for now. Understand?)

There were a few murmurs, then footsteps receded.

“Sorry ‘bout that, baby. Fucking animals.”

Steve thrusted into you after pulling out his cock. He was still hard as steel, as if he enjoyed the adrenaline of the fight. Knowing that he had a gun on him while he was fucking you turned you on, even if you couldn’t see it.

He was fucking you harder, faster. Sometimes slowing down to look at his cock digging into you. Covered in Javi's cum. He leaned forward slightly and let his saliva flow onto your clit, before twirling it under his thumb.

“You’re gonna come for me too, baby? Can’t fill you up if I didn’t make you come. That ain’t good southern manners.”

You felt he was close but he didn’t slow down his pace. Thrusting his thick cock in you, his body slamming against yours, his balls slapping against your ass. He spat on your clit this time, and you felt another orgasm building.

“You’re doing great, Cariño. So good for our cocks. Bet you’d like us to fuck you again. Maybe you’d suck our cocks next time.”

He heard you moaning, and chuckled.

“Yeah? You’d like that, one of our cocks in your mouth and the other one in your cunt? Stuffing you from behind, making you choke on that dick?”

“Javi, what the hell…I’m tryin’ to hold on here!”

The last thing you heard before you came was Javi tapping on Steve’s shoulder. Your pussy squeezed his shaft, and that's all he was waiting for to come deep inside your core, mixing his cum with Javi's, as your spasms were milking his cock.

“You didn’t do better than me, smartass.”

They both chuckled, until Steve pulled out, breathing loudly, and the two stood in front of your open, exposed, dripping pussy. Javi spread your folds, and their cum flowed out.

“Fuck, that’s hot, man.”

“Yeah, we fucked her good.”

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Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

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@pascalsanctuary @littlemisspascal @survivingandenduring

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wannab-urs · 5 months

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Title: Something Sweet

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: You’re new to the team in Colombia and all alone on your birthday. Your partner, Javier Peña, decides to do something sweet for you.

Tags: Set vaguely during season 1 before Javi gets extra angsty, canon compliant-ish, reader feeling lonely, sassy!reader, flirty!javi, alcohol (wine), brief mention of a gun bc I feel like a DEA agent wouldn’t just answer the door all willy nilly, kissing, javi asking for consent, but y’all did share a bottle of wine, kissing, fingering f receiving, marking, unprotected PinV, cuddling. I always write angsty Javi, but this is FLUFF, so sorry if it’s OOC, I’m slightly out of my element here.

WC: 2107

A/N: This fic is a birthday gift for @psychedelic-ink. Sil, you’re a wonderful friend and you do so much for the Pedro Pascal Fandom community on top of being an incredible writer. So, with some help from @pedrorascal with the beautiful gifs, I schemed up a little fic for you. I hope you love it! Happy Birthday and Happy Holidays AHHHH.

Moving to a new country two weeks before your birthday, which also happens to be Christmas Eve, is not ideal. You moved to Colombia from Miami after a promotion, earning a spot on the elite team working to catch Pablo Escobar.

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind, trying to catch up on all the facts of the case. You have to learn every sicario by sight and all of their names, aliases, and frequent hang outs. You have to learn about everything Escobar has done in Colombia, all the cartels and how they connect, it’s all extremely exhausting and time consuming.

Which is why you have no friends yet, unless you count your new partners Javier Peña and Steve Murphy. Which you don’t. You barely know them, and from what you’ve seen so far, Peña is an asshole. Steve might be okay, but you just haven’t had time to get to know him yet.

You take off your windbreaker and hang it on the back of your chair. It’s kind of ridiculous that you have to work on Christmas Eve, but there’s no rest for the wicked and therefore no rest for you either. You sit down and open the first file on your desk, immediately getting down to business without so much as a greeting for your partners.

A couple hours into the work day, a shadow darkens your desk. “What do you want, Peña?”

“God damn, hermosa. Touchy today? I brought you a coffee.” Peña sets the cup of lukewarm black slop on your desk and leans further into your space, peeking at the files you’re reading.

“Yes, actually. Did you need something or did you just come over here to bother me?”

“I just came over here to compliment your nails, actually,” he takes your hand in his, inspecting your nails, and then looks into your eyes. “I like the color. Suits you.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. Peña is cute. Gorgeous, really, but you don’t make a habit of flirting with your coworkers. “Thanks… They were my birthday gift to myself.” You tug your hand away from him and place it in your lap.

“It’s your birthday?” He asks, still leaning much too far into your personal space. You nod and look back down at the file.

“I have to get back to work now,” you almost whisper to him, all your bitter snark from earlier replaced by a sense of melancholy. There’s not a soul in this entire country who knows it’s your birthday today. Aside from Javier, now, you guess. Javier lingers for another moment before pushing off your desk and leaving you to your work.

You’re starting to pack up for the day when Peña comes up to your desk again, sitting on the corner.

“So what are your plans tonight?” he asks.

“Huh?” You don’t have any plans. A phone call from your friend in Miami and a bottle of Chilean wine maybe.

“Your plans? For your birthday?”

“Oh. I don’t have any. Don’t really know anyone yet so…” you trail off. You feel kind of pathetic, even though you know it’s completely reasonable to not have a group of friends yet.

“Me and Murphy could take you out?”

“Oh um–”

“Actually, Jav,” Steve calls out from his desk. “Me and Connie have plans tonight. Christmas Eve and all,” he gives you an apologetic look.

“It’s fine really. I’m gonna have a nice relaxing night in. Thanks though.” You put on the best smile you can and head for the door.

You hang up the phone after your short call with your friend. It’s expensive to call long distance, but she stayed on with you as long as she could. She told you all about her new boyfriend and that everyone had wished you a Happy Birthday and Happy Holidays. You’re grateful she didn’t ask about your job or your love life.

As you pop the cork on a bottle of wine, there’s a knock on your door. You stare at the door questioningly, as if it will tell you who’s there. Who on earth could be knocking at your door at 8pm on Christmas Eve?

You grab your gun and sneak over to the door, peeking through the peephole. Broad shoulders and a dark head of hair are all you can make out through the tiny lens. Javier? You set your gun on the side table and pull open the door.

“Peña? What are you doing here?”

He turns around and holds his hands out to you. “Brought you something.” He’s holding a birthday cake, clearly store bought, decorated with a generic “Feliz cumpleaños” scrawled on top. A bright smile lights up your face.

“Oh Javi, you didn’t have to!”

“I wanted to. You gonna invite me in for some cake?” He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Oh! Yeah sure. Come in!” You step to the side to let him through and close and lock the door behind him. “Sorry about the mess. I’m not fully unpacked yet.”

“I’ve been here for 7 years and I’m not fully unpacked. It’s fine.” Javi reassures you. He sets the cake down on your kitchen counter and starts rifling around for plates and silverware.

“I can do that,” you try to move him out of the way, but he’s having none of it.

“No, it’s your birthday. Let me. You pour yourself a glass of wine and go sit on the couch.”

“Fine… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You grab a couple glasses and the bottle of wine and carry it to the living room with you. You’re kind of shocked he’s here. He’s always flirty in the office, but he’s like that with everyone. He’s not what you’d call friendly otherwise. Maybe he just feels bad for you.

Javier drops down onto the couch beside you holding two plates with hefty slices of chocolate cake. He hands you one of the plates and a fork. “Happy birthday. I’m not going to make you do the whole candle thing.”

“Thank you, Javier. This is really, really nice.” You feel like you might cry. It’s just cake, but you felt so alone, and it’s like he really saw you. He saw through whatever exterior shell you were wearing and decided to try to make your day better.

“Just Javi is fine. And it’s not a big deal, really. You deserve something sweet on your birthday,” he says looking down at the cake in his hands.

“It is to me. A big deal, I mean,” you say softly before taking a bite of the cake. It’s nothing special, just a plain chocolate cake, but it means so much to you.

You and Javier, Javi, chat about where you’re from and how you came to work for the DEA. You tell him about living in Miami, about the promotion that brought you here. You finish the bottle of wine and a couple more pieces of cake and the conversation doesn’t stop for a long time.

Late in the evening, you finish a story about your 6th birthday, one your aunt always told to the whole family every single year at your birthday dinner. He’s sitting close to you, his thigh pressed against yours despite there being plenty of room on the couch to sit without touching. It makes your heart flutter a little.

You don’t know if it’s the wine or what, but the little crush you have on him is getting pretty hard to ignore. Javi smirks at you, reaches up, and brushes his thumb over the corner of your lip.

“Got a little icing there, cariño,” he says, his voice lower and huskier than it has been all night. He brings the icing smeared thumb to his mouth and sucks it between his lips. Your eyes track the movement, pupils blowing wide. He really is pretty.

You feel yourself lean in toward him, almost unconsciously chasing that thumb to his mouth. He brings his hand up to your cheek and searches your eyes for a moment. He must see what he was looking for because he pulls you closer and presses his lips to yours.

His lips are soft, warm, gentle on yours. You grab his face in your hands, not wanting him to pull away yet. He slips his tongue along the seam of your lips and you part them, letting him in. You’re not sure who makes the move, but slowly, your back is lowered to the couch, Javi a comfortable weight on top of you. Your hands explore his broad shoulders, the muscles of his back, his trim waist, as he plunders your mouth with his tongue.

“Can I touch you?” He rasps against your lips.

“You already are,” you giggle. “Sorry. Yes, Javi.”

He huffs a laugh into your mouth and slips a hand into your lounge pants, fingers finding your dripping seam. “Wet for me already, hermosa?”

Your cheeks heat up in slight embarrassment, but you nod. You’re soaked just from kissing him. By the feel of him against your thigh, he’s not better off. He pushes two fingers inside you and presses his lips back to yours. You gasp into his mouth, hands fisting in the back of his shirt.

His fingers immediately find the spongy spot deep in your core. He curls them, dragging the pads of his fingers along your g-spot with every pump of them inside you. You cling tightly to him, burying your face in his shoulder.

“Come for me, baby.”

Your body responds to his command instantly, the tension in your belly releasing into waves of pleasure. Your cunt flutters around his fingers and you whine into his neck as he works you through it. You collapse back onto the couch, and he wastes no time dragging your pants off you.

You hear the clink of his belt opening, the sound of it hitting the floor. You sit up on your elbows to watch him as he strips off the rest of his clothes. You bite your lip, drinking in the sight of the gorgeous man before you.

He takes your hands in his and pulls you to your feet before pulling your tank top off you. “Shit, hermosa,” he whispers almost reverently as he takes one of your tits in his large hand, rolling the nipple between two fingers. “Gorgeous.”

He kisses you again, wrapping his strong arms around your body and pushing his chest flush with yours. “Bedroom, cariño?”

You walk him back to your room, barely separating your lips from his for the entire journey. You fall back on your bed and he follows, settling between your legs. His lips drag down your jaw line to your neck as he lines himself up with your entrance. Javi sucks a mark just below your collarbone as he slowly thrusts inside you.

You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper into you, whining at the stretch. “Fuck, Javi.”

“Working on it, cariño,” he teases as he bottoms out inside you. He pushes himself up on his elbows and stares into your eyes as he pulls out and thrusts back in smoothly. Your mouth falls open, a little huff spilling out as he bottoms out again. He feels so fucking good inside you.

Javi sets a steady pace, thrusting into you hard and slow, eyes never leaving yours. When your eyes flutter shut and your back starts to arch in pleasure, he slips his arm under your back, pulling your hips higher on his thighs. The new angle is everything. You gasp out a moan every time his cock punches deep inside you.

Javi is everything in this moment. Your world narrowed to the feeling of his cock pounding into you at that same maddeningly slow, hard rhythm. You feel yourself tightening around him, feel a coil winding in your belly tighter and tighter.

Javi’s lips find yours again with a kiss that’s more a clash of teeth and tongues than anything as you come hard on his cock. Javi lets out a low groan into your mouth at the way you squeeze him. He thrusts into you a few more times, fucking you through your high, before he quickly pulls out and spills all over your belly.

He rests his forehead on yours for a moment, catching his breath. He kisses you deeply one more time before falling to the bed beside you. Javi pulls you into his arms, not paying any mind to the mess he made on your stomach. He holds you close, kissing the top of your head.

“Happy Birthday, cariño.”

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feelrush · 6 months

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˚ ₊ · ͟͟͞͞ ➳ ❥ PEDRO PASCAL GIF PACK

hi friends! in the source link you’ll find #214 gifs in the size of 268 x 150 of PEDRO PASCAL as silva in strange way of life (2023). please cast accordingly — he's spanish-chilean & peruvian and born in 1975. all the gifs were made from scratch by us. feel free to edit them for personal use, but do not redistribute/repost. REBLOG if you plan on using them or leave a like if this helped you! contains : guns, food, eating, partial nudity.

#pedro pascal gif pack #pedro pascal gif hunt #gif hunt #gif pack #rph #rpc #by feelrush #🥭

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wcrgifs · 2 months

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WCRLDOFRESOURCES PRESENTS: PEDRO PASCAL GIF PACK!

[ public commission ] by following the source link you’ll be directed to #644 gifs of PEDRO PASCAL as JAVIER PEÑA in NACROS SEASON 2. these gifs were made by me from scrach and are not to be added to any gif hunts. please do not resize or use for any taboo content. these can be used for crackships/manip but please credit me. if you’ve found these helpful please like and/or reblog. thanks in advance!

PEDRO PASCAL is a Chilean actor born in Santiago, Chile (1975).

trigger warnings: weapons (firearm), shaky cam, smoking, guns, NSFW (nudity/sexual content)

#pedro pascal gif pack #latineresources #fcxdirectory #rph #usermina #fcsources #supportcontentcreators #gifsociety #userdevon #dearindies #gifpacknetwork

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dead-twink-storage · 8 months

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In depth gun channels need to go back to being ran by boring ass middle aged Tom Clancy-esque accountants who get excited about serial numbers and manufacture dates of shitty Belgian optic mounts for irrelevant Chilean contract rifles that never got adopted. I am so tired some seeing fucking 33 year old dudes knee deep in faggy groyper memes taking up all the space that used to be educational and informative with videos titled "it's da OP gun from cawadoody BLOPs but irl!!???!!" that are somehow 20 minutes long and manage to offer no insight or history beyond some 2 minute garbage meme fest take that might as well be a retarded Mastodon lyric or ripped off /k/ post.

#maybe its because of all the technical manuals and shit I read as a kid but I miss the more dry research oriented gun culture

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sanityshorror · 7 months

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Aside from ASF, what are some of your favorite extreme horror films?

This reminded me, I've actually been meaning to make an extreme horror film tier meme thing lol.

I actually talk about other extreme horror films very often, but I guess ASF becomes what you're known for when people don't understand the reason I watch extreme horror over Hollywood horror. The reason is because I WANT to be disturbed, horrified, and feel uncomfortable when consuming horror media. So with that said. I'm going to list some of my favs that I recommend as well for people who are interested in getting into extreme horror or have yet to see.

Warning SPOLERS

Irreversible is absolutely one of my top extreme horror films. It's an absolute masterpiece and I feel like it truly portrays the reality and trauma and effects of sexual assault. As a victim, I appreciate traumatic things like SA being portrayed realistically, because it's important for people to understand the full extent of the suffering a victim experiences.

Cannibal Holocaust, as stereotypical as that may sound to say, my reasons are probably deeper than one would expect. I appreciate the film because of the political commentary, how it essentially flips what one goes in expecting on its head by showing that the group of Americans who go to make the documentary are actually the true monsters. I also think it's very impressive (and rather rare) to find extreme horror that delivers such a kick to gut without using or heavily focusing on child abuse. I think Irreversible is great for the same reason. The kick to the gut is much more out of left field given how much child abuse is used as a trope.

Trauma (2017) [nicknamed A Chilean Film]. I went into this blind and OH LORD I WILL ADMIT I WAS CAUGHT OFF GUARD AND EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE MORE THAN ONCE. definitely lived up to the nickname it's been given. There's an endurance test scene that is Irreversible tier and the fact the girl puts the gun in her mouth after experiencing that (only to be shot by Juan instead), shows how truly horrifically SA affects victims. I also appreciate the fact that Juan's own trauma was shown in flashbacks, giving an explanation but not an excuse of how he ended up the way he did. The end scene smacked me like the hand of God. Its a movie that does a good job at showing the cycle of abuse.

Salo, I wouldn't say is one of my top extreme horror films, but I'd say it's a must watch at least once. The commentary on fascism being horrid... 🙏

Now, this last one I'm going to mention, is not extreme horror but by far the movie that has left me the most disturbed and to this day: Threads (1984) you will be left very, very, very numb and never quite the same: "You cannot win a nuclear war!" -Threads, before nuclear war.

On a final note, I also am looking forward to rewatching August Underground again soon, I haven't seen it in YEARS and it's recently been officially distributed by the AMAZING @unearthed-films !!!

Psst if y'all like extreme horror books, you should check out The Man with the Scarred Neck (splatterpunk genre) you won't be disappointed ;) (I don't apologize for mentioning this)

#extreme horror #a serbian film #irreversible #cannibal holocaust #trauma (2017)#120 days of sodom #threads 1984 #august underground #unearthed films #horror #horror movies #horror movie recs #splatterpunk #the man with the scarred neck

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morallyinept · 6 months

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Shoot: Shortlist Magazine, issue 485, 24th August 2017.

Photographer: Tom Oldham

Interviewer: Chris Sayer

Grooming: Karen Alder

Full interview, behind the scenes, outtakes & shoot photographs below.👇🏻

Jett's Pedro's Shoots Masterlist

• Cover shot, magazine clippings & original shots used in the magazine.

• Outtakes.

• Full interview.

We've lost Pedro.

He was right there, moments ago, obediently standing on his mark at the centre of our makeshift hotel-room-photo studio, giving our photographer a display of facial dexterity you’d expect from a caffeine-jacked children’s presenter.

“More teeth! Wide eyes! Eyebrow! Eyebrow!” - The photographer effortlessly pulling the puppet strings of Pedro Pascal’s boyish, happy-despite-a-case-of-chronic-jetlag face.

Then he’s gone. And the screaming hen-party in the room next door is one uninvited guest up.

Rumours that a male stripper is sending the women on the other side of the wall into a frenzy have got the better of him. While the rest of us, shackled to the set by our polite British sensibilities, titter and giggle at the thought of a greased-up strong boy thrusting the buffet table, only the Chilean in the room has the cool brass cojones to unstick from his mark and storm one door over to get an eyeful.

Those cool brass cojones, we’re about to find out, are an inherited asset to which Pascal owes a lot more than just a cheeky peek inside a hen party.

The Exile

Pedro Pascal has led a life punctuated by tyrannical, blood-soaked despots, and of them all, Augusto Pinochet, the Chilean dictator who called for the heads of Pedro Pascal’s parents, seems like as good as any for us to kick off with. But first, booze

“Tequila’s one of the things that’ll keep me awake,” 42-year-old Pascal says, now sitting across from me at the hotel bar, confirming he’s still in the fog of mixed time zones. He reaches out for the waiter, who promptly mistakes Pascal’s request of Herradura Anejo for Kahula, before they both agree on a Don Julio.

“With fresh lime juice, on the rocks,” he adds. “Tequila to stay awake, fresh lime to avoid scurvy.” My ‘make that two’ gesture may well be the most transparent and desperate to please Pascal’s ever had to endure. But blindly following suit soon pays off. If I hadn’t ordered the hard stuff before hearing him recount the tale of how his parents were forced, and miraculously managed, to flee Chile with a 9-month-old Pedro in their arms, I sure would have done afterwards.

“They were activists,” he begins, starting a story that hasn’t had any of its honor diluted by the years since 1976. “The story, as I understand it, is that there was a gun fight. Somebody had been shot in the leg, and a priest, knowing my father was the resident doctor of Santiago’s Catholic University, brought the wounded man to our home to tend his wounds. After my father patched him up, he was hidden in our home for a number of days. In that time, the priest had been captured, taken into custody, and tortured for information. He gave names, my parents’ identities were added to a list, and the regime came looking for them.”

Pascal raises his drink to his lips, his ice cubes clinking, a pre-emptive toast to the bravery, luck and gravity of what followed for his parents.

“They were forced into hiding for 6 months. In that time, they staked out the Venezuelan Embassy and worked out the miniscule window of opportunity they had to vault over the embassy walls to claim asylum, and find safety. They knew that, during their shift change, there was a moment when one guard would leave his post for the bus, as the entering guard was stepping off the bus. That was their tiny window, and they went for it. They climbed over the walls with me and, even with the guards inside trying to kick them out, managed to explain how their lives were in danger and knew the protocol for claiming asylum. It was pretty smart, and fucking lucky to be honest with you.”

Successfully escaping the terrors of Pinochet’s torture camps and a fate similar to that of fellow activists - which, according to US government documents declassified in 2015, included being burned alive - the Pascals were gifted asylum in Denmark, before a Chilean doctor 1 year later offered Pascal’s father a position at his laboratory in San Antonio, Texas.

“It’s strange, because in a weird way there’s something so removed about the dramatic elements of the story. They exist more as ghosts in my experience of growing up, because I was a baby when it all happened. And it’s a story I've only really managed to unpack as an adult. When the subject was approached, I wouldn’t say I got much resistance from him, it wasn’t off limits, but clearly, it was something that was a little too fresh to talk about.”

I ask him how he feels about us being in a country - one he called home for 4 months earlier this year while filming Matthew Vaughn’s upcoming Kingsman: The Golden Circle - governed by a political party that still idolises Margaret Thatcher, a woman who openly named Pinochet as a “true friend” and actively lobbied against his prosecution for war crimes.

Pascal closes his mouth, conjures an invisible key out of thin air, uses it to slowly lock a padlock on his lips, and then tosses it away. His gesture speaks volumes. It’s a firm but fair full-stop to question, until…

“I can’t talk shit about her in the UK, can I?”

I assure him that whatever he’s about to tell me, someone else is probably saying something far worse right now.

“Okay, I’m going to put it this way. I remember seeing The Iron Lady. I got really upset about how soft, charming and cute the movie was. And, as great as Meryl Streep was, I was very uncomfortable, not with her portrayal, but the movie as a whole. That movie. That movie was full of shit. Let’s leave it at that. You’re sure I can’t get into trouble by talking about Margaret Thatcher, right?”

States of Safety

I pull him up on how English his accent has suddenly become.

“Oh, it’s embarrassing. It’s because I’m hanging out with you. The instant I hear it, I can’t help but emulate it.”

Pascal’s mimetic abilities no doubt came in useful during formative years in the US, primarily in Orange County, California. He’s visibly embarrassed to admit they were filled with “the white privilege the world suffers from to a degree”. He tells me about the time he got drunk at a roller derby and saw a young up-and-coming local band called No Doubt. He talks about cable TV. Spielberg films. He talks of doodling on his hand in class - a doodle that would later become a permanent fixture as a bullseye tattoo at the corner of his thumb and forefinger. He talks as if he’s lived the perfect posters-inside-of-your-high-school-locker US existence that was beamed around the globe in kids’ TV shows like Saved By The Bell. Chile was every single one of the 5,800 miles away for Pascal.

Even so, he still managed to fall into the clutches of his second tyrannical despot. Although, this was one that would leave an impression on his childhood from the pages of his favorite book, in the shape of a villainous rabbit.

“It’s very anti-communist that book, isn’t it.” He says of Watership Down, a book he classes as a defining read and, unarguably, should have been more relatable and real to him than any of his fellow classmates.

“I do remember a traumatising experience as far as the movie was concerned. My dad took me to see what he thought was a cartoon, and he was faced with rabbits ripping each other apart in fields of blood. After that, I got around to reading the book for assignment, and I remember it being so thrilling that I’d often catch myself standing up without realising to read it.”

The Long Game

If Pascal’s first 9 months are the basis for an Oscar-winning political thriller, and his childhood in Orange County a script for a mid-morning children’s sitcom, his years before hitting the Game Of Thrones payload is the grafting-actor-done-good biopic. It’s a classic, with 20 lousy restaurant jobs quit in favour of small-time TV parts and commercials leading up to the crack at the Big Time.

“Oh, it was more than 20,” he admits, taking us back to the time long before growing a top-shagger ‘tache for Game Of Thrones’ Oberyn Martell, and later the cartel-crushing ‘tache of DEA hero Javier Peña in Netflix smash Narcos.

“First, I wasn’t very good at it. Second, I would always prioritise acting over waiting tables, and third, I’m just not very good with authority.”

Which brings us neatly to tyrannical despot three, and maybe four, or Lord knows how many depending on what cliff-hanging marker you’ve reached in George RR Martin and HBO’s claret-soaked fantasy universe. The story of Pascal’s acquisition, shall we say, of the Oberyn role and set up to the diving board hanging over stopped-in-the-street success, is a well-trodden tale and one that can be condensed down to: Pascal helps his graduate mentee prepare for his first taped audition; realises this was the role he was born to play; calls in huge favour from friend Sarah Paulson, who knows how to get a shoddy Pascal iPhone video script reading to the right people; right people are wowed by Pascal and his riff on his father’s accent for the part; Pascal help bags himself a life-changing role that includes the most-re-enacted-down-the-pub death scene in the history of Game Of Thrones.

“That was the best part,” he says, his lime and tequila now nearing its end. “It was really hot in Dubrovnik during the 4 days that it took to shoot that fight scene. Having my eyes gouged out meant I was lying down on my back and having cooling rivers of blood put on my face. And then I had to lay there with chunks of prosthetics on my face, which were all very cool to touch, too. They had to do take after take, apologising for it. But I’d just say: ‘Hey, you take your fucking time.’“

Cartel Crusher

By the time this interview finds its way into your hands, Pedro Pascal will be days away from the world that brought him face to face with his most recent tyrant. Netflix will be opening the hatches and preparing to drop another bomb into the faces of fans all over again, all prepared to see Pascal’s DEA agent Javier Peña bring the Cali Cartel to its knees, all intrigued to see how the smash-hit can carry on beyond the death of its bulbous Colombian cocaine baron, that dare we say, we’re all going to miss. How could we all fall for such villainous shithead?

“Oh, there definitely is a machismo fascination there. But I never felt it. I grew up afraid of drug dealers. It’s not that I judged them, I was just afraid of them. So I’m not seduced by the golden guns and the mountains, the chesty company and the suitcase of cash. I understand the appeal, but it didn’t appeal to me. But I never felt I should demonise these guys either. And that was a worry for me. With the DEA, we’re dealing with a kind of, uh, vehemently conservative culture. I was real worried about the [the real life] Steve Murphy and Javier Peña finding out how liberal-minded I actually am. I was very self-conscious about it. But that thinking, it’s just in my blood.”

Right on schedule, Pascal’s ‘people’ appear, ready to whisk him away from his now-empty tequila glass and off to see Andrew Garfield star in the 7 ½ hr play Angels In America - the last place anyone jet lagged would want to be. I use his slow rise from his chair as an excuse to get one more question in. I begin to ask how someone who’s come from a background so deep-rooted in the left, from parents who risked everything for a liberal belief system, feels in this time of xenophobic politics and right-wing White House clownery. But he cuts me short.

“To be really candid about that, I carry around a certain amount of shame in terms of not doing more. Like I said, liberalism is in my blood. As hard work as it is to be in the arts of any kind, or to make a living from something that you feel passionate about, just posting something on social media isn’t enough. Yeah, I marched with my sister against the Iraq war in ‘03. Yes, my family and I have always been sort of, I suppose, very liberal doers, when given the opportunity. But I don’t have the balls to give up my career and dedicate everything I have to any particular cause. And yes, right now, I feel guilty about that.”

Jett's Pedro's Shoots Masterlist

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal shortlist #pedro pascal interview #pedro pascal shoot #pedro pascal photo shoot #pedro pascal speaks #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal magazine #shorlist magazine #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal photos

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venticuliao · 9 months

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In the aftermath of Pinochet's coup in September 11th of 1973, a 23 year old Civil Registry worker called Hector Herrera was ordered to take the fingerprints of the bodies filling up the morgue, and came across the corpse of Victor Jara, an emblematic folk singer, teacher, theater director and activist who had been tortured and executed by Pinochet's soldiers with 44 machine gun shots, then thrown on the bushes outside the local cemetery where Hector worked.

He'd eventually contact Joan Jara, Victor's wife, and together were able to rescue the body for proper burial so he didn't end up another forced disappeared victim of dictatorship.

Fragment translated from the investigation program En La Mira

Hector: They didn’t even give me a mask. I was stepping on blood and brain matter that day. There was a huge gate in the back that made a horrible sound, when it opened some kind of alarm went off. The door would open as the military trucks moved in reverse into it, the soldiers would open the doors and then dump the bodies there in the back. I saw how they piled people up. [There was] a mother with a baby. The baby had a gunshot wound, so the bullet must have gone through the mother. She was holding him very tightly. Her expression was of horror, she must have seen the bullet coming at her and her baby. Victor’s figure emerged among the corpses of chileans and those of blond foreigners with shaved heads on the morning of September 16th, which the court wrongly established as Victor Jara’s date of death. Hector: The body was very cold, so it had been a while. The blood he had stuck to his face, matted, was not from an hour prior because it was dry, mixed with dirt. The fingerprints taken by Hector in a file he hid allowed to confirm his [Victor Jara’s] identity with another worker from the Civil Registry. Thus he’d find the address of the house where Joan lived in uncertainty with her young daughters. Willing to take the risks, two days later on September 18th, Hector came by to visit her. Hector: She took my hands and hid her face in them, then cried. I felt her tears falling on my hands. All those images of young blond foreigners came to me, those I saw with shaved heads. In relation to this blond woman I had in my hands. And thought, she’s in danger. They’re going to kill her, I thought. I told her I’d help her, we’d go get her husband’s body. Joan: He warned me it was a horrible place, and that I had to control my feelings. I couldn’t be expressive, there was a certain danger… Hector: [I warned her] she would see all kinds of bodies. Men, women, children. We’d step on brain matter, blood —there was a lot of blood on the floor. Her husband would be among all those corpses and he was very dirty, covered in dirt. And she couldn’t cry there, nor scream, least of all faint. Joan: I was in a huge state of shock when I saw Victor’s body. I keep the image of his body full of wounds, machine gun bullets. And an enormous wound he had… Hector: She kneeled, kissed him, hugged him. Crying, she cleaned his face with her tears. With so much love, she made this gesture several times [wiping her tears with her hands, then using them to clean Victor’s face]. She kissed him many times, hugged him, held him, trying to remove that dirt. Joan: There were other bodies, centimeters away from him, everywhere. In that moment I was rather in a state of pain and anger against this massacre. [They were] young people, workers. Some were even wearing their safety helmets [for construction work]... In those moments, the knowledge was sinking in that it wasn’t just Victor, it was everyone’s tragedy. Hector: We started with that trolley [that they used to transport Victor’s body out]. Joan makes a gesture with her hand as we’re walking out, because a truck with bodies was entering. The back [of the truck] was filled with bodies, you could see it through the wood planks. Fabric, vests, pieces of dresses. Joan: We were in a tunnel, the exit tunnel from the cemetery. That’s what I remember, I remember my determination in that moment to not give in before that military ambulance that brought more and more bodies. Hector: She makes a gesture, the soldiers pull back, and we make it out of the avenue. We lifted it [the body] and pushed it in by ourselves [into the mausoleum wall]. Joan: That constant noise [of the trolley’s wheels], that long walk towards the back of the cemetery… It's something that stayed with me for a long time. Hector: Those bodies I was taking fingerprints from, they had looked at me. I thought they were telling me please, go to my home, say that I’m here. Symbolically, through him [Victor] I buried all those bodies.

#chile dictatorship #victor jara

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generalcrazyhorse · 3 days

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History Primer 195: Chilean Mauser Carbines Documentary | C&Rsenal

youtube

#c&rsenal #oldgunshow #old guns #documentary #candrsenal #7mm mauser #7x57 #chilean rifles #chilean mauser #Youtube

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lc-mrbrownstone · 10 months

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SLASH FANART

[muak]

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alieneen1 · 1 year

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ஐ pedro pascal gif pack

here is the link which will redirect you to #175 medium gifs of Pedro Pascal as Joel Miller in The Last of Us episode 9. All gifs were made from scratch by me so please don’t claim them as your own and credit me if you use or repost it

tw : violence, zombie apocalypse context, guns, fire, death flashing lights, shaking camera, wound, blood, murder, shooting, knife, choking

pedro pascal’s ethnicity : chilean, spanish, basque, indigenous, french, welsh, remote portuguese, argentinian, bolivian, mexican, panamanian, peruvian

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal gif #pedro pascal gifs #pedro pascal gif hunt #pedro pascal gif pack #pedro pascal gif page #the last of us #joel miller #gif #gifs #gif hunt #gif pack #gif page

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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Take You Home

December 3: Shopping/Snow - Undercover (Horacio Carrillo x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts by the lovely @youvebeenlivingfictional, found here)

CW: Convoluted plot; barely any snow (sorry); slightly angsty; talk of past sexy-times; nothing explicit but 18+ anyway to be safe, I dunno, I’m not the MPAA.

Word Count: 1670

AN: There is a sequel, found here!

AN2: Requested by anon!

It was his idea, so he can’t complain about it now: send two DEA agents undercover to help route out a key distributor linking Escobar to the United States. Cut off the demand, Carrillo thinks, and disrupt the system a bit.

It was his idea, so he has to bite his tongue. One of the DEA agents, a man named Perez, is based out of Miami, unknown to him but vouched for by Murphy. Solid, used to UC work. The second agent, though?

Well, the world of the narcos turns the same as any other rich and powerful sphere, so Perez is paired up with you. You’re young and you can pass for the trophy girlfriend of an ambitious and ruthless dealer who wants to set up a route into the eastern seaboard of the United States. Besides, you’ve been stationed in Colombia for a year now, and you can help while you play out the fantasy of being vapid eye-candy.

It was Colonel Carrillo’s idea, this UC ploy, so he has to swallow down the sick fear that bubbles in his guy when you leave to meet up with Perez.

Carrillo can’t even talk to Javi or Steve about it. His thing with you—undefined, casual—is also unacknowledged, a secret thing. When you wave goodbye to them and leave without a backwards glance, Carrillo has to keep his expression stony to keep up the ploy.

Waiting for you and Perez to make contact and ingratiate yourselves with one of Escobar’s lieutenant…it’s the longest three months of Carrillo’s life.

-----

The next time he sees you, he almost doesn’t recognize you.

Three months with no contact beyond the handful of words from your handler, and Carrillo is practically climbing the walls with worry. But when he finally catches sight of you through the window of the surveillance outpost, he can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s you polished to a high shine: designer dress hugging your curves, designer shoes adding height to you and pushing your ass into a perfect heart shape. Hair and makeup perfectly done as you climb out of the hired car and gather up an armful of glossy shopping bags from the designer boutiques of Buenos Aires.

Carrillo knows he should like you like this. Isn’t this the fantasy, a beautiful woman whose only job is to look perfect, an ornament to adorn the arm of her rich and powerful man?

But he doesn’t like it. There’s something brittle about your beauty like this, something inelastic and ugly under the slick veneer.

Maybe it’s because he’s seen you as the opposite: grimy and sweaty from running across Medellín with your gun drawn.

Maybe it’s because he’s had you as the opposite: not salon-perfect hair but your ponytail gripped in his fist, damp with sweat. No manicured nails but your ragged, gnawed down nails biting into the meat of his shoulders. No expensive perfume but just the scent of you, smoky and bitter gunpowder, the fruity gum you chew, the clean smell of your soap.

It’s only a glimpse of you now. You carry your shopping bags into the rented penthouse where you and Perez are staying, and then you are out of sight.

-----

The bust is planned: a week later in the Chilean Andes at a ski resort that is playing at being a sort of South American Aspen. It’s full of expats and LATAM people alike, the same because they have too much money to know what to do with. For some, like who you and Perez are playing at being, it’s ill-gotten money. Blood money.

Carrillo greases the skids with the Chilean government, works with their local force to help secure the villa where you and Perez are staying. Where Escobar’s lieutenant, the one they call El Toro, is meeting you to finalize plans for a new distribution network.

-----

He knows the DEA gives out awards for bravery, for excellence in the field, but Carrillo thinks they should hand one out for acting—because you fucking nail your role in the third act.

When they bust into the villa, you shriek. You clasp your hands over your ears at the yelling, at the sudden noise. You reach for Perez (a gesture that makes Carrillo’s jealousy flare up, questioning if you’ve grown too close to your UC partner in these months), and when Murphy points his gun at you, you start to cry.

Carrillo’s never seen you cry before. He’s seen you teared up and close to it—bleary-eyed from exhaustion, tears threatening after a civilian gets caught up in the war with the narcos. But never full-on crying, and it makes his protective hackles go up. He fights the urge to go to you. He has to keep up the façade.

“I don’t understand!” you cry at the Spanish flying around you. “What’s happening?”

“You’re under arrest, that’s what’s happening,” Javi helpfully tells you in English, and the fresh torrent of wails is so pitch perfect, so natural that you could win the Oscar if you took your talents to Hollywood.

-----

It’s a long night: they lead the men away first, including Perez. You make a final swan song by calling out to your pretend-boyfriend, telling him you love him. The Chileans take the low level thugs to for their own processing—it was the deal Carrillo cut with them, a boost to their own fight against the narcos, a bit of good publicity to their ongoing success.

El Toro is put on a plane back to Colombia. Perez is put on a plane back to Colombia too, in theory, though he’s really on his way to States for his debriefing and his return to his normal life.

Javi cuffs you to keep of the charade as the men are filed out of the room, and you slump against the couch as you watch them. Your makeup is ruined from your histrionics—sooty black mascara runs down your cheeks, and your coral-colored lipstick is smeared at one corner of your lips. Still, Carrillo can barely get enough of the sight of you. He catches you out of his peripherals, tries not to openly stare and only half-succeeds.

It’s Javi that helps you up off the couch. Still cuffed, still playing along in case anyone is lingering outside and catches a glimpse of the would-be narcos’s girlfriend, he hoists you up by gripping your upper arm. He starts to frog-march you out of the villa, but Carrillo steps in finally. Unable to let another moment pass without touching you, he gives Javi a terse nod and takes your other arm in his. He leads you out of the room and to the waiting Jeep.

There’s a handful of voyeurs, workers and guests alike standing in the parameter. Watching. Some may be taking notes. So Carrillo shoves you forward lightly, mutters sorry from behind his clenched teeth as you stumble in your heels in the crust of snow and cry out—which pulls some jeers and taunts from the assembled crowd, so at least it’s a good show.

-----

He gets you into the backseat and gets down the side of the mountain. Neither of you talk beyond his own low-voiced murmur, asking if you’re okay, and you whispering back that yeah, you are fine.

There’s chatter on the radio, and he keeps his ears tuned into the talk as everyone is sorted out to where they belong: Javi and Steve on the plane with El Toro, Perez on his way back home. And you with Carrillo.

He keeps his eyes on the road only half of the time. When he’s on a straightaway, he glances at you in the rearview mirror. You have your head back against the seat, eyes shut. You look exhausted, but he knows you aren’t sleeping. Your face still holds its usual tension that only disappears when you’re asleep.

Once off the mountain, he pulls off onto the side of the road. He scans the area—there’s no one around. The handful of buildings at the base of the mountain are dark, quiet. He climbs out of the driver’s seat and opens your door.

Your eyes are open now, and you fix him with an unreadable expression. He shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over your shoulders, and when you lean forward to let him, you press your forehead against his chest for the briefest of seconds.

He reaches out and cups your face between his hands. It’s more tender than any touch he’s ever given you before; your coupling always had a rough, fervent edge to it. Pulled hair, scratches, bruises the size of his fingertips mottling your hips and waist.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, and he peers into your eyes to see if you lie to him. See if you pull on your tough-girl act and joke away any pain or fear or discomfort.

Three months away from everything familiar. Three months on edge, waiting to be discovered. Waiting for a bullet to end your life, but you know the narcos all too well—it’s never just a bullet.

“I’m tired,” you whisper back to him and he can see the truth in your words. And he can see the larger truth too: the tears that fill your eyes, how you try to blink them away before they fall in earnest.

“I’ve got you,” he replies, and he does. He pulls you into an awkward hug, gently presses your face back against him. He can feel your hitching breaths, how you’re trying to hide your crying, but he rubs your back. Tells you it’s fine, to let it out. Tells you that you’re safe again.

“Let me take you home,” he says, and that’s what makes you finally break. You shudder against him and start to sob, and he only holds you on the side of a dark road in the Andes and promises that you’re finally safe with him.

#colonel Carrillo #colonel horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo x reader #narcos #tropes-and-tales #winter prompts 2022

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