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yellowcry · 7 months

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Deeper through

Chapter 6

"You're saying it belongs to Luisa?" Abuela's voice was firm just like always, as they all listened to what Mirabel's parents had found. She gave them a nervous look; things weren't going too well. On sight, she could tell that the fabric must be the same as Luisa's, at least as far as her own skills in embroidery could tell. Of course, Mirabel would guess better if it was a skirt; after all, she helped stitch it with the pattern of geometric shapes.

Mami nodded. "It's the best thing we've found so far." Her voice was tired, nearly exhausted. It seemed like she hadn't slept well for the last night. Not like Mirabel could blame her; she barely napped as well. Not when every creak of the old shutters sounded like an opening door. Julieta looked like she'd gotten a couple of new gray hairs in the last few days. Her padres returned earlier than Mirabel could wish, and later than she expected. And her big sister still wasn't here.

Isabela huffed, crossing her arms. Her face wrinkled as if she were just bit really sour lulo. "I'm legally an adult." She reminded, for the past few days, Isabela seemed to be really unpleased with the idea of being left out of the search. But it's not like this was strange—Luisa was a grownup too. And this didn't prevent her from getting lost as well. Mirabel just sighed, looking away.

While Abuela started to recall all the searching groups that were currently available, the adults gave each other an understanding look.

"Kids, can you go to your room?" Mom asked, staring at the youngest generation, who looked at what was going on with a different degree of interest. They were all worried for Luisa; even if some of them weren't especially close, they were still one family.

Deep inside, she knew that this entire situation was entirely her fault. If she wasn't so stupid if she didn't run away that evening, then no one would have to search for her. If she wasn't so selfish, Luisa would be sitting with them right now, safe and sound. But Mirabel just had to run away and act like a coward. And now, Luisa was paying the prize. It wasn't fair; Mirabel was the one who should've been sitting somewhere all alone, possibly hungry and weary. Not Luisa.

Luisa probably wouldn't want her to feel like that, but it was true. Mirabel just destroyed all their hopes for an easy reunion. Part of her wondered if this was how everyone felt back when Tío Bruno disappeared. Ten years ago, Mirabel was way too young to understand what happened with her socially awkward uncle, especially when she was frustrated by her ceremony so much.

She didn't listen to what her parents replied to Isabela; the guilt was way too much to fight it. Instead, she did as she was told to, pushing her chair. "I'll go outside.." She mumbled, pacing out of the room. Isabela seemed to be displeased with how easily Mirabel was obeying this time. But she really couldn't do anything to help. Not when her guts weighed more than all the heavy things Luisa ever carried in fourteen years together.

When she was out of the house, Mirabel leaned against the old brick wall and looked into the dark nebulose sky, which was ready to fall down with rain. The clouds looked as heavy as Mirabel's deep guilt at the bottom of her heart. Soon, a raindrop fell on her, rolling down her face. Then another and another.

"Just... Where are you, hermana?" Mirabel asked the raining clouds, they answered with a stronger drizzle. She lowered her head, looking at how drops were splashing against the gray asphalt, filling the cracks with water. Her lower lip trembled, whispering the silent question. She wasn't sure to whom exactly she was talking, probably to this cruel world.

Señora Torres, Luisa's ex-teacher in biology, would probably say that she had to stay calm and collected. All the guides she ever saw told her that getting worried was the worst thing in this situation. But when the danger happened in real life, Luisa found it impossible to do all the things she had ever learned. Maybe the fact that she thought that her gift could easily protect her made it even worse. With her previous strength, Luisa never had to worry about herself, only about others. Well, she surely didn't have any strength right now. She was never optimistic like Camilo or Mirabel, and everything was just too bad to find any hope. And she wasn't Isabela, who, with her seething passion for botany, could tell if any plant on her way was edible or poisonous. Luisa couldn't stop feeling hungry; even right after she ate, she still found herself in some condition between hunger and literal starvation. There was a chance that her gift had made her more resistant to this while she still had it because she never felt that bad and hungry. And her head didn't stop pounding even when it was silent.

***

Things weren't getting too much better. The big nut calmed down her hunger, but Luisa still thought about all the times when she skipped her meals with so much regret, now realizing what a wonderful part of life she ignored so often. And as much as she hated to admit it, she was getting weaker. It wasn't something unexpected; after all, the last days were spent endlessly running through the jungles, all alone. Luisa couldn't believe that it had started just recently; her mind felt like she had been locked here for years, without any sense of time or space.

Luisa held back her quiet growling. "Don't think about it." She reminded herself uneasily. Right now wasn't the time to worry about her newly founded weakness; as much as she missed her leet, losing her life was way worse... She took a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists and focusing on the rough hide and minor scratches. Well, at least she was Luisa, who was used to long and exhausting physical work without breaks. Her mom couldn't heal the pain from the deadbeat, so Luisa was somehow familiar with it, just not that severe.

The sun was down already, but all the nervous energy was bursting through Luisa's veins, making it impossible to actually rest. In the air, she could hear quiet steps of soft paws, hissing and growling, the crackling of branches of mighty trees, and a shrilly owl howl. The sounds were so loud that it was hard to determine from where they came. That's why Luisa hated being in the darkness; you could never tell what, who was hiding in the corner, or how close it was to pierce its canines into her throat. She instinctively squeezed her shoulders, trying to make herself small and insignificant, merge with the thick air so nothing would harm her.

*Splash*

Luisa heard a quiet Jaguar roar, and her heart sank in. No, she knew that those big cats usually never attack humans unless there's a threat. But they could. And just this single fact was enough for her to freak out.

Luisa took a deep breath and looked up. The first raindrop fell on her cheek and went downwards. It wasn't something new; after a few days, she was getting used to it.

Her ears tensed up, breathing stopped as the quiet, almost inaudible noise of splashed water broke through the normal wild ambience. Then another and another. Luisa gasped, her fists unclenched involuntarily as a small, weak gasp went out of her throat. And a second later, Luisa ran, breaking through the branches, ignoring the scary noises around her, focusing only on the sound of dripping water.

Soon she managed to see it—the quiet river flow in the starlight. Water was laving the shores and stones, never stopping. Luisa's breathing got heavy as all her fortitude was used not to let her knees buckle. She put her hand on her heart, staring in front of her without blinking, as if she were scared that if she closed her eyes for the slightest moment, the water would disappear, leaving her nowhere to be found again. Luisa took a few shaking steps, squeezing a leaf in her hand.

Luisa kneeled in front of the arroyo. The cataract kept soaking her hair as her hand froze above the slow flow. A moment later, she carefully put her limb underneath, then another. Cold liquid washed the sore and rough skin of her palms as the monsoon kept pouring down, creating round stains on the water.

Luisa stared at her reflection; even with such a little light, she could tell that she looked bad in the best case. Branches and leaves were stuck in her messy hair, skin was pale from exhaustion. But she couldn't expect herself to look any way normal. It was very unlikely that anyone would look good after days without any civilization.

Mosquitoes were buzzing nearby, but Luisa could only stare at the deep waves. Carefully, she washed her face. It wasn't for the feeling of water or to clean herself; after all, it was still showering right now, but to check that it was real for the last time. The river itself didn't mean that much; drinking water from here was probably an even worse idea than sipping from the rain. But people usually built cities on riverbeds, and it was at least a sore reference point in this endless world where everything looked the same. So maybe, just maybe, she would find the way out of here.

Luisa wiped her nose with the back of her hand and, for the first time in what seemed to be forever, allowed herself to hope.

#encanto #fanfic #ao3 author #luisa madrigal #mirabel madrigal

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the-hinky-panda · 2 years

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Mariposa: Part II

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: This is a four-part prequel to “Dustland Fairytale.” There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You’re a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Warnings: Oh boy, lots of warnings. First 18+ only, DNI. If it was in Narcos, it will most likely be mentioned in here: gun violence, mentions of rape (what happened to Helena), characters dying, grief. Also, Carrillo is married so the relationship between him and the reader is an extramarital affair.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @vanemando15 @1950schick @bellestalesoffiction @frannyzooey @littleone65 @harriedandharassed

They got Gacha.

Your intel about Gacha being in Lulo had been solid. And even though Horacio had come back to you with bloodstains on his uniform and a concussion, he is alive. And Gacha is dead. Afraid of retaliation from Escobar, and with the recent assassination attempt on him, Horacio sends his family to the outskirts of Medellín with three bodyguards, hand picked from the Colombian Army.

The victory is worth celebrating and you do. The first night of his return, however, was spent getting his family to safety while you were being debriefed by the CIA. You rest well that night just knowing that everyone is safe. It’s the second night, when he returns to Bogotá, that he spends with you in the apartment. He has a place to stay thanks to the embassy but it’s too risky for you to go there. Everyone in that apartment building watches everyone else, takes note of who is coming and going.

So he comes to you, in the dangerous neighborhood where no one sees anything and certainly would never report it. He arrives dressed in civilian clothes with an overnight bag and keeps his head down just in case someone might recognize him. But no one pays him any mind and soon he’s safely locked behind your door for three days. You’re not a cook so you grab take out from a corner bar and get a bottle of Malbec wine. You tell him he’s been through enough and doesn’t deserve to battle through your attempt at making sancocho and empanadas. It earns you a rare smile from him.

He’s on a medical leave for a few days for the concussion that he suffered, but you know he will only take this time to review files, listen to wiretaps and strategize for the next strike. You compiled a couple boxes of your own files and notes to keep him busy while you were at the school. Thankful it is a Thursday night when he arrives and you just have to get through Friday before having the weekend with him. He’s back to work on Monday, as are you. There may be no rest for the wicked, but there’s also no rest for those hunting the wicked. But you insist that the files stay in their boxes for the first evening and he doesn’t, surprisingly enough, argue with you.

It’s odd, this new domesticity that you find yourselves in that first night. The Gacha raid came very close on the heels of your meeting with Escobar at the school so the last time you and Horacio had seen each other had been in the backseat of the police car. Now, whenever it rains, your mind immediately goes back to how he took you apart and put you back together with far more gentleness than you had ever thought he was capable of having. Now that he’s back in your space, the jangling nerves you felt then on that ride back into Bogota`, have come back in full strength.

You’ve missed him, even though he was only away for less than a week. It should make you feel silly, immature even, but you don’t care. This is your first time being this deep in love and the newness is exciting. He moves around your apartment like it’s his own and that ease brings much more comfort to you than it should. Even more so when, as you’re finishing the bottle of wine, he pulls you against his chest and you both are laid out on the couch. His heart beats steady under your ear, the solid planes of his chest under your hands. You breathe in the sharp tang of his cologne and cigarettes.

He’s alive, and you fight back tears of relief.

“¿Donde esta tu mente, querida?” (Where is your mind, darling?)

“Solo agradecida de que estés aquí, de que estés a salvo.” (Just thankful that you’re here, that you’re safe.)

He hums in response, his hand tracing patterns on your back. “¿No ha pasado nada esta semana? ¿Nada sospechoso?” (Nothing has happened this week? Nothing suspicious?)

“No, nada fuera de lo común.” (No, nothing out of the ordinary.)

His breathing hesitates briefly. “¿Y eso no te preocupa?” (And that doesn’t concern you?)

“I didn’t say it didn’t concern me,” you answer, smiling against the fabric of his shirt. The fact that everything has been so quiet concerns you a great deal.

He sighs but you can feel a low, short rumble that’s a whisper of a laugh. His hand slides under your shirt, skimming across your lower back. “Do you want me to send someone to the school? To keep an eye on things?”

“No,” you don’t hesitate with your answer. “That would look suspicious, a police officer hanging around the school so soon after Escobar’s visit and Gacha’s death.” You can almost hear him thinking, trying to set up some kind of protection for you without raising alarms. You pat his chest. “You can assign bodyguards to your family but not me. I’m better trained to deal with threats than they are though. I’ll be fine.”

“¿Promesa?” (Promise?)

“Promesa.”

“Bueno.” (Good.)

He starts to sit up and you lean up to make it easier for him. He’s still sore and stiff from the grenade that had gone off close enough to lay him out on the sand, rupture an eardrum, and leave a shrapnel injury to the side of his head. But when he raises up, he blindly grabs at the back of the couch and you, his eyes snapping closed as the color drains from his face. You grab a hold of his shoulders to steady him and after a few moments, his coloring comes back but his eyes stay closed.

“¿Mareado?” (Dizzy?)

“Sí.” (Yes.)

You wait until his head tips forward and lands against your collarbone. You gently drag your fingers through his hair, careful of the abrasion that is scabbing over, until the tension in his shoulders disappears. “Who would have thought your hearing was so important?”

The tension comes back immediately. “Mierda. Las escuchas telefónicas.” (Fuck. The wiretaps.)

“Puedo ayudar escuchando esos. De hecho, ya he empezado.” (I can help with listening to those. In fact, I’ve already started.)

He lifts his head and presses his lips against yours, brief and full of gratitude. “¿La CIA tiene más agentes como tú?” (Does the CIA have more agents like you?)

“Si lo hacen, no te los presentaré,” you grin down at him. (If they do, I’m not introducing them to you.)

“Nadie puede remplazarte.” (No one can replace you.)

This is the part where you struggle. The sincerity that drips from his words hits in such an uncomfortable manner and you don’t know why. So you gently pull his mouth up to yours and kiss the truth from his lips. You live your life under a cloak of lies and maybe that is why his unashamed honesty settles oddly in your stomach. But then you remember that his wife thinks that he’s alone in the apartment that the US Embassy has gifted him for when he remains in Bogota` for business. Despite how much you treasure his uprightness, he is just as much a liar as you. But even liars can speak the truth to each other.

“Te amo, Horacio.” (I love you, Horacio.) You whisper it directly into his mouth, a secret between just the two of you, never to escape to the outside world.

“Te amo, mi corazón.” (I love you, my sweetheart.)

You don’t deserve this. Or at least you don’t think you do. This good man with his coffee colored eyes and straight nose and morals claiming his admiration and love for you is a dream that you’ve somehow been gifted. But dreams fade and eventually end so you intend to enjoy this for as long as it will last. You run your fingers through his dark hair, disrupting the neatness before kissing him again. He tastes of wine and cigarettes when your tongue sneaks between his lips. His hands cradle your face, spanning your entire jawline with gentle pressure to hold you in place as he returns the kiss with enough passion to make you thankful you’re sitting down.

One of his hands slips away from your face and starts to unbutton your blouse. As soon as the last button is undone, you shrug it off your shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His hand skims along your ribcage and over the swell of your breast, fingers tracing the lace pattern of your bra. His mouth leaves yours only to continue kissing down your neck and nip at your collarbone.

“Tan hermosa. Tan encantadora.” (So beautiful. So lovely.)

Your breath catches as he unclasps the bra and slides the straps off your shoulders. You don’t have a chance to say anything before he’s drawn one of your nipples into his mouth while his thumb finds the other one. This man is going to kill you, you’re certain of it.

You were no stranger to sex as a tool; you don’t live the life you do without it. Greasing palms was just one way you convinced people to see your side of things and when that didn’t work, getting on your knees usually did. You certainly weren’t proud of it but it was a necessary evil in some circumstances. That’s not to say that there weren’t times when pleasure and satisfaction occurred but they were rare. That is the way it goes when you’re doing all the work to get a payoff. But this, sex with genuine desire and passion, this is something completely different.

“¿Querida?” (Sweetheart?)

It takes you a minute to get your mouth to work. “¿Qué?” (What?)

“Tenemos que mover esto al dormitorio.” (We need to move this to the bedroom.)

“¿Por qué?” (Why?) You whine and start tugging at his polo shirt, trying to get it over his head. Your hands are shaking with desire and the material keeps slipping through your fingers. He lets you fumble for a couple tries before pulling it off himself with a short laugh.

“Porque no te follaré en el sofá como una adolescente cachonda.” (Because I won’t fuck you on the couch like a horny teenager.) He drags his tongue along the underside of your breast and then wraps it around your nipple again, sucking hard before releasing it with an audible pop. “¿Qué tipo de invitado sería si hiciera eso?” (What kind of a houseguest would I be if I did that?)

You’re trembling, that’s how turned on you are at the moment. Your underwear is completely soaked and knowing he’s about sixty seconds away from stripping you down and seeing just what he’s done to you gives you every reason to continue with a fast and quick encounter here on the couch. But even with lust filled eyes, pupils blown almost completely black, there is still sincerity in the look he gives you, and it decimates you.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you’re going to let him.

You knew if he weren’t injured, he would have you in his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. There would be no question about getting you into bed, he would just put you there. But with a ruptured eardrum and vertigo occurring every time he stands up, he probably doesn’t want to risk dropping you. So you stand and take his hand, pulling him down the short hallway to your bedroom.

Your room is not anything special and now that he’s in your personal space, your nerves come back. The room is not large by any stretch of the imagination: a dresser, full size bed and a nightstand on each side of the bed. It’s obvious which side of the bed is yours as that nightstand has a stack of books, a notebook, pen, and bottle of water. The other nightstand is empty except for a lamp. The quilt on the bed you had picked up from a local thrift shop and that’s where he maneuvers you to sit. He pushes you back so you lay down, propped up on your elbows as you watch him kneel at the foot of the bed. He presses open mouth kisses across your stomach as his fingers unbutton your jeans, drag the zipper down and pull them and your underwear down your legs.

You expect him to join you on the bed, to take you quick and fast like he had in the back of the car. But he stays kneeling on the floor, his long fingers dancing up the bare skin of your legs that has been revealed. His mouth finds the side of your knee and starts to travel along the inside of your thigh. You watch as his mouth soon closes around your hip bone and you feel him suck on the skin, marking you there. One of his fingers slides through your folds and slips easily into you, your back arching.

He grins against your hip, near the bruise he’s just made on the thin skin. “Mucho mejor cuando hay espacio para… esparcirse.” (So much better when there’s room to…spread out.)

His free hand gently pushes your legs further open as his mouth moves to where his finger is already inside of you. Realizing what he is about to do, you sit up and push yourself halfway up the bed in a panic.

“What,” you’re panting, “what are you doing?”

He blinks confused and almost black eyes at you. “I was about to-”

“I know, but,” you take a deep breath. “You don’t have to though.”

His fingers curl around your calf. “And if I want to, querida?”

That thought had never occurred to you. You had always thought men just did it out of obligation. Surely it wasn’t enjoyable to them. Was it? No one had ever offered before now. He smiles at your confusion and indecision and then tugs you back down to the end of the bed.

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he tells you. “At any time. ¿Lo entiendes?” (Do you understand?)

You swallow thickly and nod your head. “Okay. Yes.”

He smiles against the inside of your thigh. “ Necesitas relajarte, querida.” (You need to relax, sweetheart.)

Well, that is easier said than done but you do your best to at least release the tension in your leg muscles. His finger slides into you again and you close your eyes, concentrating at the slow but steady motion. Your hands fist into the folds of the quilt when his tongue drags through your folds and passes lightly over your clit. The only thing that keeps your legs from slamming shut is that he has a head injury and you don’t want to hurt him more than he already is. His tongue takes a second flat swipe, applying more pressure this time, and a moan erupts from your throat. There is no way you’re going to last for much longer. A second finger is added, curling like it would around a gun trigger and you almost lose it right then.

“Está bien, cariño. Déjalo ir,” he whispers against you. (It’s okay, darling. Let go.)

Between his mouth on your clit and his fingers hitting a spot that has always eluded your own fingers, you follow his command and fall apart. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, when you feel him move onto the bed, hovering over you and pressing his lips against your still racing pulse on your neck. You try to help him pull back the covers on the bed as you both slide under the sheet and quilt. At some point he must have removed the rest of his clothing as you feel him, hard and leaking, pressed up against your stomach.

The light buzz of your orgasm is still under your skin as you wrap your hand around him but he intercepts you and brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm. It gives you a sense of pride to know that you have this effect on him, this stoic soldier who lives a life of perfect control. You roll over to open the drawer in your nightstand and retrieve a condom, open the packet and hand it to him. After he rolls it on, he pulls you under him and his weight presses you into the mattress.

For someone who is solid muscle and strength, he is incredibly gentle with you as he slides into you. The orgasm that you’ve already experienced helps with accommodating him and the slight pain from the first time you did this is nonexistent this time. The soft mattress under you could also help with that since it’s not a hard bench seat in the back of a Jeep. He mouths at the line of your jaw as he moves against you, inside of you. When he runs out of jawline, he pants in your ear.

“Te sientes tan bien, hermosa niña.” (You feel so good, beautiful girl.)

Your fingers press into the roiling muscles around his shoulder blades as you feel a second orgasm building. “Por favor, no pares.” (Please, don’t stop.)

He huffs a laugh against your cheek before claiming your mouth with his. His hand finds your hip and pulls it up over his waist, sliding deeper than before. Your head falls back against the pillow with a loud enough moan you’re certain the neighbors are going to complain about tomorrow morning. His mouth goes back to your jaw and his hand covers one of your breasts. It feels like he’s everywhere and you want to stay in this moment for as long as possible. But his lips find your ear, his breath hot and humid.

“Joder, eres perfecta.” (Fuck, you’re perfect.)

You try to find words to respond, you really do, but this just feels too good to split your concentration between speaking and enjoying what he is doing to you. All you can manage are breathy whines as you bury your face against his neck.

“Ven por mí, querida,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Ven por mí, mi pequeña mariposa.” (Come for me, my darling. Come for me, my little butterfly.)

My little butterfly. That is what pushes you over the edge as you fall for a second time. You know his use of your codename is an acknowledgement of your accomplishments as an informant. He places value on you as an agent, not just another woman to fuck for information. You feel the steady rhythm of his hips stutter as he comes as well, gasping into the space between your neck and shoulder. When he catches his breath, he rolls off of you and settles on his back next to you.

“¿Todas las americanas saben follar así de bien?” (Do all American women know how to fuck this well?)

“Ay, no.” You sigh dramatically and turn to look at him. “¿Todos los colombianos saben cómo complacer así de bien a una mujer?” (Alas, no. Do all Colombian men know how to please a woman this well?)

“No. Soy el único.” (No. I’m the only one.)

You laugh lightly. “Pues que suerte tengo de ser tu gringo elegido.” (Well, how lucky I am to be your chosen gringo.)

There is a flash of something that passes across his eyes when you say that but you don’t catch it before it’s gone. He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest. “Eres simplemente increíble. Te amo mucho.” (You are just incredible. I love you so much.)

The seriousness in the delivery of the words stops your breathing for a moment. Things like that have been said to you during moments like this and they were always meaningless. They were dropped, along with a kiss on the forehead, before clothing was picked up from the floor and life continued as normal. But this man holds your hand to his heart and your eyes to his and the honesty in the sentiment is an expensive gift you never asked for and have no idea what to do with now that it’s your hands. So you blink back tears and fall into the safety of humor.

“Apuesto a que le dices a todas tus informantes eso.” (I bet you tell all your informants that.)

“No, estás pensando en Peña.” (No, you’re thinking of Peña.)

You laugh and he does too, a beautiful, lighthearted sound that sounds so precious from such a serious man. In that moment you know, as a solid fact, that he has completely ruined you. How could anyone compare to this complex man? You know the next words you utter will seal your fate completely and yet you say them with zero hesitation.

“Te amo mucho, Horacio.” (I love you so much, Horatio.)

***

You had warned him before the unit left for the raid on the Copacabana farm. Your intel, along with other intel, all pointed to Copacabana farm as being the location where the journalist Diana Turbay is being held but there is something off about it. That and the fact that this raid didn’t go through all the legal red tape checks adds to the precariousness of the situation.

Be careful. Those were the last words you said to him over the sat phone before he left the Search Bloc headquarters.

“Careful of what?”

“I don’t know,” you told him. “I just have a feeling, something is going to go south.”

“Female intinuation?” he had quipped.

“Something like that. Just-”

“Be careful. I know.”

And he had hung up the phone, you turned on the news, and waited. It only takes a couple hours before the breaking news alert flashes across your screen and that pit in your stomach grows. You sit down, knees pulled to your chest, and your heart sinks when you hear the news.

Diana Turbay is found dead in a cabinet during an unauthorized raid on the Copacabana Farm. The Columbian police are blamed for firing the shot that killed her.

You haven’t heard from Horacio for almost a week after the news breaks. He’s being watched, scrutinized for the mishap. You keep your ear to the ground, as it’s your job, but you listen specifically for his name. The people of Bogotá want someone to blame. Diana’s mother blames the President. The people blame the Army. And based on his silence, Horacio blames himself.

You desperately want to contact him but you need to have intel before doing that and the students at the school have been silent, trying to process the death of a well-loved and respected journalist. You have to remind yourself multiple times that this is not a normal relationship. You can’t just pick up the phone and check on him. You hope his wife is able to offer some kind of comfort to him during this time as you’re reduced to sleepless nights and empty wine bottles waiting for an opportunity to speak to him again.

It’s a Saturday night and you’re grading essays when there’s a knock at your door. You’re not expecting anyone so you pick up your gun and hold it down at your side while checking through the peephole. You almost don’t recognize him, standing in front of your door, head hung low, and shoulders hunched. You flip the locks as quickly as possible and open the door. He’s over the threshold before you can even get words to leave your mouth.

“Horac-”

His mouth is on yours before you finish his name. He takes the gun out of your hand and drops it back on the end table near the door before backing you up against the nearest wall. His kiss is full of violence and passion. His teeth sink down on your lower lip and you yelp at the sting of pain. It’s enough to break whatever spell has come over him and he breaks away, resting his forehead against yours. He smells of whiskey, cigarettes, and rain.

“Te he extrañado mucho, cariño.” (I’ve missed you so much, darling.)

You smooth your hands over his clean shaven face, his neck, and the lapels of his jacket. “I’ve missed you too.” And you have, so much it hurts.

“Lo siento. Debería haberte escuchado. Yo debería…” (I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have…)

You press your lips to his to stop his rambling. “It’s okay.”

“I fucked up.”

His forehead falls against your shoulder and you hold him tightly against you. Those three words he just uttered were a hundred times more intimate than any “I love you” whispered between you two. And now you know what pressure has bent the steel in him: guilt. Your analytical mind kicks into high gear. For him to feel this much guilt means he must have been in the room when it happened. That it may very well have been his bullet that penetrated through the cabinet and took Turbay’s life.

You desperately want to remind him that she wouldn’t have been in that cabinet, in the cocaine lab, if it hadn’t been for Escobar kidnapping her. That he didn’t know where her captors had hidden her. Captors, by the way, were armed and firing off shots that were killing the men under his command. But you know those words will bring no solace to his grieving heart, so you swallow them down.

“¿Qué necesitas, mi amor?” (What do you need, my love?)

“Tú. Solo tu.” (You. Just you.)

“Cuanto tiempo te puedes quedar?” (How long can you stay?)

“Vuelvo a Medellín mañana por la mañana.” (I go back to Medellín tomorrow morning.)

You have him for the night. “Ven entonces.” (Come on then.)

He leans back from you, reaching out and locking the multiple locks on your door while you go to the kitchen. You now keep a bottle of aguardiente on hand for his visits and pour him a glass, setting it on the table for him.

“¿Has comido?” (Have you eaten?)

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

“Is that an honest yes or a ‘I don’t want to risk your cooking’ yes? Because Trujillo said the plantains I made were good.”

A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he raises the glass of alcohol to his lips. “Trujillo lies.”

You smack his arm and it draws a slight smile from him, the first crack in the mask of grief. “You’re sure you’re not hungry?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

You turn the kitchen light off and pick up your wineglass from the table with your discarded grading. “Shower?”

The shadows of grief cloud over his eyes again. “With you?”

“I think that can be arranged,” you smile gently at him. The weekend he had spent with you saw both of you in the shower multiple times. The fact that he asks to join you is telling of just how damaged he is at the moment.

He follows you silently back to your bedroom. Neither one of you speaks as you strip and duck into the warm stream of water in the shower. It’s a small space, with old terracotta tiles lining the walls and floor, and very little light. There’s enough space for the two of you but little else, which is perfect for the situation. It doesn’t take hardly any time at all for his hands to find the curve of your hip and pull you back against him. He buries his face against the side of your neck, his one hand sliding against your wet skin to wrap around your ribcage. You’ve noticed he does this quite often, holding your side, the rows of your ribs expanding against his palm.

“Why do you do that?” you ask him.

“Hm. Do what?”

“You always touch my ribs.” He starts to move his hand away but you quickly hold his hand there. “I didn’t say I minded it. I was just curious.”

The sigh he releases is shaky. “I like feeling you breathe. It reminds me…” he lays his face between your shoulder blades. “It reminds me you’re still alive.”

You can hear the rest of the words without him saying them. It reminds me you’re still alive when so many others are not. You feel hot drops of water hit your back and you realize they are tears. You don’t dare turn around, allowing him this solace. Secrecy is just another language that you are fluent in understanding so you allow him his grief. You let him do what he needs to to cope with the botched mission.

When the tears subside, his mouth finds that sensitive spot behind your ear. Your heart rate quickens and his lips slide down to close around your pulse. You let him press your chest against the cold tile as he nudges your legs apart and takes you from behind with no warning. It’s a fast and brutal pace, the roughest he’s ever been with you. One hand is wrapped around your hip, pulling you back as he thrusts forward while his other hand has a fist full of your hair at the base of your neck. All you can do is plant your feet and pant against the tile. You’re on the pill, he knows that, so when he does speak, in a voice that you barely recognize from the raw emotion in it, your answer is swift.

“May I?”

“Please, yes.”

And he comes immediately inside of you with a sharp snap of his hips. You rest your forehead against the shower wall as he drapes himself over your back and you feel him drip out of you. He murmurs soft apologies against your damp skin but you don’t know if they’re for you or the ghosts that follow him. When both of you catch your breath, you quickly clean yourselves and rinse the soap from your still heated skin.

He turns off the water and grabs a towel, wrapping it around your body and kissing you apologetically, gently. You do the same for him, taking a second towel and slowly drying him off from head to foot. When you’re done, you stand in front of him and kiss him slowly, reassuring him everything is fine, or at least going to be. You can tell he wants to start apologizing again so you stop him with another brief kiss.

“You said you wanted someone who could understand you, understand this part of your life.”

He nods tiredly. “I did.”

You give him a small smile and reach up to run your fingers through his damp hair. “And I do.”

***

Follow the mistress.

That had been your advice to him when he asked you for ideas on how to get to Gustavo, Pablo’s cousin. Nevermind the fact that the answer came when you both were stripped bare, skin damp, and tangled in your sheets. The irony is not lost on him. This is out of the sphere of your intel, students aren’t interested in the affairs of adults so Horacio has to take it to the people who would be interested. Thankfully, the Ochoas were already being set up quite nicely with reduced prison sentences so when asked where their sister would be meeting Gustavo for their tryst, they eagerly gave up the hotel location.

Time is running out. Soon Pablo would be “in custody” living in his custom built prison and if any justice is to be delivered, Search Bloc needed to get their hands on him before he surrendered. There had been too much blood spilt, too many families with missing members, for Pablo to live out the rest of his days in a prison of his making. So he gathers members of those who had personal stakes in the take down of both Pablo and Gustavo and they did just what you had suggested: follow the mistress.

And it works. Sort of.

They pick up Gustavo and bring him to the abandoned building in Medellín. Horatio tries to reason with him, get him to give up Pablo but Gustavo is stubborn. And loyal to a fucking fault. So when Horacio allows his men to start the first round of the beating, he steps back and waits for ten minutes. He has to keep his hands clean on this one. His superiors are watching him, knowing he’s about to pull some underhanded shit in a desperate attempt to get Pablo before he becomes untouchable.

But there’s another reason why he stands back and allows his men to deliver the beating. It’s a reason that causes him to light a cigarette to help calm his nerves as he watches the spectacle in front of him. It should be him tied to that chair. It should be him getting the shit knocked out of him. He was responsible for just as many deaths as Gustavo. The men that served under him that lost their lives on the streets, in raids, in random attacks and bombings. There was Diana Turbay. He is certain it was his bullet that missed her attacker and went through the cabinet door.

But not only is their blood on his hands, but he too is an adulterer now. That he has a harder time feeling remorse for and he wonders if he’s starting to cross the line of becoming one of the monsters that he is hunting. He justifies his time with you as not being that black of a sin because it doesn’t take away anything from his family. His wife and kids live in Medellín; you’re stationed in Bogotá. You, with your talent for information, remind him frequently of appointments, birthdays, even his anniversary, when work threatens to take over his mind. Your dedication to his family and their well-being stuns him every time it is mentioned.

His wife is not made for this life. They were so young and naive when they married. She thought she was getting a police officer, maybe a lieutenant, who would patrol the streets of Medellín and always be home in time for dinner. She did not expect to be married to the Colonel tasked with hunting down Pablo Escobar and the Medellín cartel. She did not sign on for weeks of him being gone chasing leads, being shot at almost daily, and having to live with bodyguards stationed at their home and the children’s school. But she endures it, for him and the life they’re trying to keep from crumbling around them.

But you, you are made for this life. You lack the timidity, the fragility of Juliana. You are still kind, compassionate but it has an edge to it. You know when you can use it and when you need to be unforgiving. You had cleaned away more blood and gunpowder than Juliana had ever had a chance to see because he protected her from it. Maybe, if he had allowed her to experience it along with him, she wouldn’t hide behind him every time the doorbell rang. But he hadn’t and now he is nothing more than the solid, protective wall between her and the outside world.

When he had returned after Turbay’s death, he had been wracked with guilt and shame. Juliana comforted him as best she could but she didn’t know all the details. How could he admit to her that it was all his fault? He woke up in the middle of the night two days after it happened, shaking and sweating from a nightmare of Diana Turbay pointing a finger at him with the bullet hole in her head, blood covering half her face. Juliana had wrapped her arms around him, soothed him like she had done to their children countless times. But when he had kissed her, hands desperately trying to push aside the fabric of her nightgown to feel as much of her skin as he could, she had disentangled herself from him.

Let me get you something to drink. We both need to get back to sleep. Horacio has a fútbol game tomorrow evening.

And she had kissed him chastely on the lips before heading into the kitchen to fix tea for them both. That was why he blew through your door as soon as it was open. Why he had taken you so roughly in the shower and you had just allowed him to do so. He had tried to make it up to you, laying you down in the bed and spending almost half an hour with his head between your legs, before you were begging for him to stop and let you breathe.

You meant what you said when you told him that you understand this side of his life. That night had proven it. When he woke from a nightmare that night, he had reached for you and you reached back. When he tugged at the oversized t-shirt you wear to bed, you pulled it off immediately. When he moved you on top of him, you guided his cock inside of you and let him set the pace, steady but unhurried. He watched your face as you came in the weak, early morning light that had filtered in through the curtains. When you dropped down onto his chest, his fingers threaded through your hair, holding you to his chest. He has heard you refer to yourself many times as a professional liar but you have only spoken the truth to him.

He’s the liar.

Ten minutes is up and he goes back to Gustavo, giving him a second chance to give up Pablo. Gustavo, bloodied and beaten, rains down threats and curses on all of them, their families, their wives…their mistresses. He gives the order for them to finish him off. He knows it’s an order given out of fear, out of the desire to protect you in one of the only ways he can.

Eliminate the threat.

He has the body dropped off in the Sabaneta area, left on the side of the road. It sends a message but the response is not what Horacio expects.

Pablo surrenders, imprisoned in his fortress.

The Search Bloc is officially disbanded.

Horatio and his family are transferred to Madrid.

You are left in Bogotá, defenseless and alone.

Pablo Escobar wins.

#colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo fic #narcos fic #Mariposa Series #Hinky writes

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casitafallz · 1 year

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Decay AU | A slight lease of life.

Mirabel’s eyes watched curiously as Isabela wandered. It wasn’t vacant wandering but had a slight pattern of weaving through the courtyard banisters with her lulo juice, stop and face the door out then do the whole loop again.

Unusual behavior; sort of like how a puppy waits for it’s owner. It wasn’t hard to figure out; she was waiting for someone to take her out of Casita. Mirabel cocked her head though quickly reconsidered her thought; this was exactly like how a puppy would act.

It was funny but… also kind of sad.

Isabela looked bored and as a social butterfly herself, Mirabel understood the urge to want to leave. To be around people, at least she did. Isabela was more or less an introvert at this point… it was sad to think of all the friends her sister had lost.

It gave her a pang in her chest.

Her eyes followed as Isabela walked away with her empty glass, back to the kitchen before she padded softly down the steps, edging towards the doorway.

Was she nervous?

Yes.

She could feel the upkeep pace of her heart in her chest but she didn’t want to listen to it. She had to start somewhere with her sister… even if Isabela was ignoring her and… also keeping her distance. Mirabel wasn’t stupid and despite Abuela’s assurance; nothing between her and Isabela was right. The family was broken… they needed to heal… that had to start with her? Right?

“You can stop staring at me.” Isabela’s voice called, echoing in the empty space.

Mirabel jumped a little but forced herself to step inwards; a part of her suddenly very aware that…this was the first time in two months that they were alone together.

“Sorry.” Mirabel apologized, her eyes seeking to see Isabela beside the cold room’s doorway, putting away a fresh jug of juice. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Isabela’s hand paused at the handle as she went to close it. “You…see me at breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”

Mirabel shrugged, anxiously wiping her sweaty hands onto her skirt. “I know… that’s not what I meant.”

Isabela didn’t reply, just picked up her glass and leaned back onto the side, and idly sipped it.

“So…” Mirabel tried again, “Did… Tio and Tia talk about decorations for Antonio’s ceremony next week?”

Isabela shrugged, “Not properly. I…plan to do some mock ups for them first before Abuela approves or disproves them most likely.”

There was a sour undertone that made Mirabel wince a little. Yes, Abuela. The restraint of her sister’s gift was… hard. Not just for Isabela but she knew Abuela wanted Isa to keep things basic. Basic was safe in her eyes and…Mirabel wanted to agree with that but… where was the fun in that? Mirabel had heard from Luisa and her mother with worrying concerns about the new plants Isa was now capable of creating.

She had never seen any of it.

Mirabel wanted to.

It had to be amazing.

She wanted to peek into this new room Isabela had but hadn’t dared venture to it and… she wouldn’t get an easy peek in passing either (plus she knew Abuela’s rules forbade her to enter still stood). The movement of Isabela’s door moving up steps worried Mirabel but…it hadn’t escaped her notice that no one had brought it up either.

It was like no one had noticed

Mirabel wanted to mention it… but she knew better than to poke that bear. Once was enough to leave Isabela’s planning to herself.

“Well… I hope Abuela likes them. It’d…be nice to see more of your plants around.” Mirabel encouraged though she gave her a soft look before she made to turn and retreat before Isabela’s voice echoed and made her pause.

“Mirabel…” there was an echo of hesitation. A hesitation she hadn’t heard since Isa had apologized last month after the whole shouting thing.

“Si?”

Isabela set her glass down, “Can… can I borrow a needle and thread?”

“Needle and thread?” Mirabel hadn’t expected that question. “I thought you had a set.”

Isabela blinked. “A three centimeter barbed metal…huge room. You can do the math there.”

“Ah.” Let’s hope she didn’t find it two am when going to the loo barefoot. “What...what sort of thread?”

“Any. I just need something that works.”

“What…do you want it for? You need to patch up a hole in your dress?” She could do that for her…maybe. Save her the effort and… it would be a good start.

Isabela hesitated, “It’s… a personal project.”

And one she wasn’t going to share, it seemed but Mirabel supposed it didn’t matter. Let her have her secrets…

“I can drop some off later at your door.” Mirabel decided. “Do you want a thimble as well?”

“Thimble?”

“So you don’t wind up stabbing yourself repeatedly with the sharp end.” Mama had made her learn with a thimble given her own habits in her early days of otherwise giving herself acupuncture in her left hand. Isabela hardly sewed so…she had a feeling Mama was going to feed her if she slipped up.

Isabela shook her head after a moment. “No, I’ll be fine.”

Mirabel seriously doubted that.

Dolores smiled softly, her head tilting towards the direction of Casita with fondness she hadn’t felt in a while amongst the stress and noise.

Isabela and Mirabel interact… without argument. Without any fear of augments either on either side. A simple…small exchange. Not too pressing on Mirabel’s anxiety, given she had now walked away and in her room sewing and Dolores hoped that… it would open a door.

“Good news?” Her head turned to Mariano as he helped Mateo and his father load down logs from their more recent cut-down. His sleeves were pushed up and his collar more open and…Dolores couldn’t deny it made him look…good. Very good.

“Yeah.” Dolores smiled, “Isa’s talking to Mirabel.”

Mariano’s eyebrows raised but he too wore the same smile as he read her expression. Relieved just as much as she was at the possibilities of improvement. “That’s good to hear.”

Heavy steps behind her pulled Dolores’s attention to see Luisa standing with a huge pallet of bricks above her head, a heavy frown on her face that indicated that she had heard what she had said.

“Dolores…who’s in Casita with Isabela and Mirabel? Abuela made it clear that she’s not allowed to be left alone with her or seek Mirabel out.”

Dolores’s smile wiped away quickly at that. The clear implication of the suspension right there that she would have thought that Luisa would drop. Dolores…had forgotten about that bit in Isa’s punishments in all honesty and hoped Isabela’s good behavior would be enough to show she wasn’t going to hurt her sister again.

“You don’t need to be worried, Luisa.” Dolores hoped to assure, but the thundering fast heartbeat from Luisa’s chest only spoke of a shot of anxiety. “It’s fine. I’m about to head up there now.” She’d have to cut her trip short… Abuela wouldn’t be pleased but she’d make it up elsewhere. She’d rather get in trouble about that than her slip up at Casita.

“No. I’m going to check on Mirabel.” Luisa set the pallet down and walked back up the street in strides Dolores knew she couldn’t meet. Luisa would outwalk her easily drunk.

Dolores’s shoulder’s sunk.

“Why don’t you go and warn Tia about this?” Mariano suggested, slinking beside her with a light touch to her arm, “then head off to Isabela or your Abuela and let them know… to avoid any conflict.”

“Okay…”

“Ah fuck.”

Isabela sighed heavily around her fingers, sucking softly the coppery taste which was the ever reminder of her inability to sew. One of the few things she could envy about Mirabel was her ability to sew and not only that, have the patience to do so even with sticking herself a ton.

Suffice to say, Isabela was not having a good time.

Maybe she should have taken that thimble?

How did people learn how to do this and come out of it unscathed? How did Mirabel, who inherited their father’s accident-prone nature master this without giving herself stitches?

She eyes the metal barb with disdain before opting to put it all aside for now and ask for the thimble later. That seemed prudent.

Beside her, Bubo was sitting happily in its plant pot she opted to confine it too, still stupid as ever but this was a piece of veg so she never had high hopes of intelligence given it was making soil angels, cooing, and trying to shove dirt into its incision from its belly-flop onto her gardening tools. She had covered that ‘injury’ with a leaf but it seemed Bubo found a way to get rid of it and sat otherwise naked.

She had wanted to change that; a little hat or a ruana would have been better… but her lack of sewing skills seemed to make that a near impossibility.

Her finger still stung before she rose to her feet so she idly sucked to keep the blood away, letting her mind mull on options as she padded out of her room for a snack to make herself feel a little bit better about her inabilities.

They still had pan tres leches in the cool room from yesterday. A worthy snack for failures such as herself and Isabela was pleased to find that Camilo hadn’t snuck in either during the night. So she happily pulled it out and cut herself a nice, small slice before looking around for more fruit to put on top. A few washed strawberries and Isabela began to cut the tops off before—

“Mirabel!”

“Fuck!” Isabela dropped her knife, jumping away with hisses of pain before she felt the thumping heat down the back of her thumb, rushing to the sink as blood quickly pooled and dripped down her skin. Casita immediately turned the tap open, washing the red away quickly.

Isabela turned angry to see Luisa striding into the kitchen looking very tense as she looked around and found her there alone.

“What the hell, Luisa!” Isabela snapped, “I almost cut my thumb off!”

“Where’s Mirabel?” Luisa asked, reaching to one of the cupboards swiftly. “Dolores said you spoke to her?”

“I don’t know!” Isabela sucked in a breath, wincing at the cold water that ticked painfully. “Fuck, this is deep. Why did you come in like that!” She reached blinding for one of their mother’s rags before a disposable wad of tissue was pressed into her hands by her younger Hermana. Isabela took it, pressing it into her hand, the water and blood absorbing into it.

“You’re not allowed to be alone with her. Abuela’s rules.”

“That’s not my fault you lot left me here.” Isabela bit back, “Mirabel can come and go as she pleases. I can’t.”

Luisa’s jaw remained tight. Arms folding across her chest. “And whose fault is that?”

“Oh, swinging low I see.” Isabela deflected, “So very unlike you, Luisa.”

“I’m just trying to protect our younger sister, Isa.” From you, rang in a bitter subtext.

Isabela said nothing but she felt the ache at that but lifted the tissues with a wince but the rapid beading of blood meant she either had to go to Mama or Lopez. This wasn’t something a Band-Aid was going to fix. She could already start to feel a light shake in her hands.

“I need you to take me to Mama,” Isabela asked, giving her younger sister a look. “She’s in the plaza, right?”

“Isa—“

“No, Luisa. If your next sentence isn’t a ‘yes, I’ll escort you to get medical attention at the very least’ then I fully expect you to explain to our mother why you’re letting me bleed out in the kitchen.” Isabela interrupted. “You did this. You help fix it.”

“What is going on this time?”

Abuela’s voice echoed in the open space, a little less demanding than expected though Luisa jumped the most, Isabela flinched a little but both of them spun around to see her standing in the doorway.

“Luisa startled me when I was making myself a snack.” Isabela spoke before Luisa could. “I need Mama.”

Abuela’s head turned before she entered in and, passing a glance at what she had been putting together and pulled up the side of the red tissue to peek then pressed it down more tightly and forced her hand up in the air above her shoulder.

“Keep the wound elevated. That’ll reduce swelling and pain.” Abuela instructed, grabbing the rag and tied that around the tissue as well, making Isabela wince as it put more pressure against the cut. “What are you two arguing about? Aside from the injury.” As soon as it was done and checked, Abuela hurriedly washed her hands.

“Isabela and Mirabel were left alone together.”

That paused Abuela’s hand-washing. “I thought Camilo was in Casita.”

“No. Tia Pepa asked him to take Antonio to school and I saw him pranking a few people in town with his friends.” Luisa replied.

Abuela reached for a clean rag to dry her hands. “Why didn’t you let Dolores know, Isabela?”

“I was busy in my room and I had no idea Mirabel was there until she began stalking me around Casita.”

To her relief, the girl of the topic seemed to appear, popping her head into the kitchen and pushing up her glasses that slid down her nose.

“What’s going on? I heard my name?”

Abuela let out a softer sigh. “Mirabel, did we leave you alone in the house?” the shift was subtle though it took everything to not scowl at how Abuela’s suspicious undertone vanished as she addressed Mirabel directly. “I do have…certain rules in place for a reason.”

“What’s this about?”

“Did you speak to Isabela alone today?”

Mirabel glanced around though the nervous look was easy to see. “I…might of.”

Abuela tittered with a soft shake of her head. “Mirabel… Isabela isn’t allowed to be alone with you right now, let alone seek you out…. For your sake.”

Mirabel swallowed thickly but Isabela didn’t meet her eye as she looked her way, angling her elbow over the sink as the escaped red seeped further down her skin.

“She didn’t seek me out, Abuela… I followed her. I just… wanted to talk to her and she wanted a sewing kit.” Mirabel shrugged, trying to sound a little upbeat but it fell flat quickly. “Please don’t blame this on Isa… I went to her.”

“Why did you not let me or anyone else know? You should have left.”

Mirabel looked down, “Abuela… I have the right to stay home during the day as anyone else. I don’t know when everyone else comes and leaves when I go back to my room to sew and… well normally Isa has someone escort her out but... no one’s been about to do that so she can’t leave. Can’t you…get rid of her escort punishment and let her leave without another person? Surely that’s the solution here.”

Isabela look sharply at her younger sister in surprise, Luisa also had that expression on her face though, while a little light headed, Isabela felt a little shocked to hear such a suggestion would leave her lips… well, not really—she vaguely recalled Mirabel had been against some of her punishments.

If… if she got the escort dropped, she’d have full freedom to go to the pond and start her project… and drop a note to Mateo about it and let him know about a third party friend—she just had to convince Lopez to be a little more open minded but that was later-her’s problem.

Abuela’s lips pursed and remained quiet for a long, tense moment of papule silence.

“If I drop the escort, I expect all the other rules to be upheld.” Abuela turned to face her with a stern look. “I also expect your chores to not change on that basis either, Isabela.”

“Si, Abuela.”

After a moment, Abuela nodded, “I will inform the others.” And with that, a high head and a tightening of her black shawl, Abuela swept out of the kitchen.

“Isabela?” Mama’s voice echoed before Isabela felt the buñuelo pressed to her lips. Isabela took it off her and happily took a bite, feeling the haze in her mind vanish and the stinging in her hand vanished, letting her hand drop from the air before pulling away the mess and washing her arm and hands of blood with a swift, thankful nod to her mother who looked somewhat confused at the scene.

But she felt a shred of relief… she had some freedom back.

#encanto au #encanto #drabble #isabela madrigal #mirabel madrigal #luisa madrigal #alma madrigal #dolores madrigal #mariano guzman #julieta madrigal #blood tw

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florasearlethirdyear · 2 months

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FMP: Dreamland, Margate. LO1

Easter Week 3

Considered to be one of the oldest-surviving amusement parks in Great Britain, the site of Dreamland (as it was re-named in 1920) dates back to the British railway boom of the early 1870s when, in its original form, the ‘Hall by the Sea’ was operated by the famous circus impresario ‘Lord’ George Sanger.

Description:

In tune with the seasons, from spring through to summer, you can strap on some roller skates and enjoy a spin in the Roller Disco, or get interactive with art exhibits and treat yourself to all the classic seaside food favourites from our vendors, and of course enjoy all the vintage inspired rides and amusements! Whilst in the winter months, you can enjoy a jam packed line up of live music and events at our indoor venues.

Having an explore of their website, their mode of address is very informal. They provide in-depth detail into their history and each individual ride!

Inspiring Visuals:

Studio Moross were responsible for the 2017 summer relaunch campaign of Dreamland. The studio worked on posters and print advertising, as well as on-site wayfinding and maps, and sub-branding for food outlets at the park. The new campaign materials use sans-serif, “clean” typeface Lulo, a “bright, young” colour palette focused on orange, yellow and pink shades, and illustrations by Mica Warren.

“We try not to get bogged down in demographics,” says Moross. “We just tried to make something that someone will look at and think ‘that’s cool’ – whether they’re five or 45. We wanted to keep it slightly weird and fun, but not patronising.”

It was interesting to see the comments on this article, with sign writer Nick Garrett saying:

Dawood, S. (2017). Studio Moross creates “weird and fun” relaunch campaign for Dreamland Margate. [online]. Available from: https://www.designweek.co.uk/issues/31-july-6-august-2017/studio-moross-creates-weird-fun-relaunch-campaign-dreamland-margate/?cmpid=dwweekly_3757325&utm_medium=email&utm_source=newsletter&utm_campaign=dw_weekly&adg=7752c532-4615-4be2-ade6-aec0a2ee88b4 [Accessed 29/03/2024]

Reflection, LO4:

A major part of my project has been looking into traditional forms of design and though Dreamland has taken a contemporary stance, I feel there's an opportunity here to combine traditional typographic forms with more modern, colourful illustrations. In this way, it combines both of what I enjoy in design.

#fmp

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justfornowokaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa · 5 months

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The uber talented @leorajames tagged me and for once ill not wait an eternity to do this.

Are you named after anyone? Yes my mothers childhood best friends, Alexandra.

When was the last time you cried? A few weeks ago? I don't know. I am not much of a crier honestly.

Do you have kids? Nope. I always assumed i'd have some but the older I get the less I think it's going to happen and that's fine.

What sports do you/have you played? Nothing officially but as a kid i played soccer and basketball and was an action kid! now I occasionally go to the driving range and hit golf balls.

Do you use sarcasm? Much much less as I age. The older I get the more I feel like my words should be more direct and sarcasm sometimes feel like the opposite.

What is the first thing you notice about people? I have been told, and I know from experience, that I can really feel out people really well. I just meet people and something in me goes "yeah cool dude" or "oh no, not a cool dude" and it tends to work out a lot for me.

Whats your eye color? Brown

Scary movie or happy ending? both? those two seem really unrelated. One is a genre, while the other is an outcome.

Any talents? I am a half okay writer and I can take not awful photographs

Where were you born? Los Angeles, California

What are your hobbies? as of late electronics

Any pets? Mr Lulo Duran, and just maybe a new little fellow by weeks end

How tall? 5'9

Favorite Subject in School? Here is the thing, there is not a subject in school i disliked. Sit me in a class about anything and I will thoroughly enjoy it. Feed me knowledge please.

Dream Job? Rich patron to a bunch of artists. My true dream job. I tag like everyone ever. For real, all of you and tag me when you do it. I AM NOT KIDDING ALL OF YOU!

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decafcoffeebeans · 6 months

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Decaf Coffee Beans: Unravelling the Rich Flavour of Caffeine-Free Delights

Coffee is a globally cherished beverage known for its rich flavour profile, and there are various types of coffee blends depending on the caffeine content. Decaf coffee beans are widely popular for their taste while most of the caffeine has been removed. Coffee has been popular since time immemorial and with widespread cultural significance in various societies throughout history. Even though all coffee is produced from the roasted seeds of the coffee plant there are different blends of coffee that are produced by changing the caffeine content during further processes.

A coffee bean roaster is quintessential because based on it final flavour and aroma of the coffee is produced as the roasting process means carefully heating the coffee beans to bring out their unique characteristics. In the roasting process, various roast profiles like light, medium, and dark roasts are generated. Leading roasters can supply the perfect blend of coffee for businesses and commercial enterprises and when one buys in bulk then they can get the best prices. Coffee blends are carefully crafted combinations of different coffee bean varieties, creating distinct taste profiles that cater to diverse preferences, whether it's a bold and robust espresso blend or dark roast blend leading coffee producers offer the best.

Let’s Have a Look at the Inventory of Leading Coffee Roasters & What They Offer

Coffee Gear: The leading roasters apart from supplying coffee blends also offer products like coffee dosing cups, milk jugs, reusable cups, airtight containers, etc. The leading companies offer products that are superb in quality and hence one can rely on the products and get great discounts as well.

Single Origin Coffee: Single Origin Coffee is sourced from a specific region or a single farm, and thus the flavours and characteristics are unique to that particular area. Single-origin coffees offer coffee enthusiasts a chance to explore different tastes from the fruity and floral notes of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe to the chocolaty richness of Colombian beans like Colombian Lulo, each single-origin coffee brings a delightful journey for the taste buds.

When it comes to coffee for use in cafes, retardants, or other hospitality places for serving customers the quality must be superb. Get in touch with the leading coffee roasters and get a wholesale supply of coffee for your business.

Source

#decaf coffee beans #coffee bean roaster

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happy-lemon · 2 months

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A little no screenshot update...

Back before Lola moved to Tomarang, I'd relocated Hina Wells to Sulani, figuring it was much closer to her native Hawaiian culture. And when Lola was transferred from San Myshuno to Sulani, I loved the idea of her being able to spend more time with her grandma. It worked out that way...at first. Lola's cat even bonded with Hina and spent most of her time downstairs.

But after a while, I started to notice that Hina was homesick for Tomarang. She rolled wishes to eat Tomarangi food and she missed the culture. So, I decided to send her back. And because she adores the cat, Lulo went with her.

Then I moved Keone and his family into the downstairs duplex because in my head, Hina didn't approve of them raising babies in a wrecked boat. I set the lot up as a residential rental, so Keone and Zhafira can raise their babies without me being tempted to help.

And David...I don't even know what to say about him. I thought Lola would have a sweet and sexy little romance like she did in Tomarang. But David has no idea where to put his dick. Every random WW encounter ended up with him rubbing himself against her in the weirdest places. Will she end up with someone else in Sulani? I guess we'll find out, but it won't be that freak.

And with that note, we now return to the story already in progress...

#ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #no screenshots update #lola wells #generation lola

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walks-the-garden · 2 years

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August 10th, 2022, I remembered to take the daily pictures, but forgot to post until after midnight. Ah well.

Solanum Quitoense, aka Lulo or Naranjilla!

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leylinefiction · 2 years

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Mariposa: Part II

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: This is a three-part prequel to "Dustland Fairytale." There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You're a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @vanemando15 @1950schick @bellestalesoffiction @frannyzooey @littleone65 @harriedandharassed

They got Gacha.

Your intel about Gacha being in Lulo had been solid. And even though Horacio had come back to you with bloodstains on his uniform and a concussion, he is alive. And Gacha is dead. Afraid of retaliation from Escobar, and with the recent assissanation attempt on him, Horacio sends his family to the outskirts of Medellín with three bodyguards, hand picked from the Colombian Army.

He’s alive, and you fight back tears of relief.

“¿Donde esta tu mente, querida?” (Where is your mind, darling?)

“Solo agradecida de que estés aquí, de que estés a salvo.” (Just thankful that you're here, that you're safe.)

He hums in response, his hand tracing patterns on your back. “¿No ha pasado nada esta semana? ¿Nada sospechoso?” (Nothing has happened this week? Nothing suspicious?)

“No, nada fuera de lo común.” (No, nothing out of the ordinary.)

His breathing hesitates briefly. “¿Y eso no te preocupa?” (And that doesn’t concern you?)

“I didn’t say it didn’t concern me,” you answer, smiling against the fabric of his shirt. The fact that everything has been so quiet concerns you a great deal.

“¿Promesa?” (Promise?)

“Promesa.”

“Bueno.” (Good.)

“¿Mareado?” (Dizzy?)

“Sí.” (Yes.)

The tension comes back immediately. “Mierda. Las escuchas telefónicas.” (Fuck. The wiretaps.)

“Puedo ayudar escuchando esos. De hecho, ya he empezado.” (I can help with listening to those. In fact, I’ve already started.)

He lifts his head and presses his lips against yours, brief and full of gratitude. “¿La CIA tiene más agentes como tú?” (Does the CIA have more agents like you?)

“Si lo hacen, no te los presentaré,” you grin down at him. (If they do, I'm not introducing them to you.)

“Nadie puede remplazarte.” (No one can replace you.)

“Te amo, Horacio.” (I love you, Horacio.) You whisper it directly into his mouth, a secret between just the two of you, never to escape to the outside world.

“Te amo, mi corazón.” (I love you, my sweetheart.)

“Tan hermosa. Tan encantadora.” (So beautiful. So lovely.)

“¿Querida?” (Sweetheart?)

It takes you a minute to get your mouth to work. “¿Qué?” (What?)

“Tenemos que mover esto al dormitorio.” (We need to move this to the bedroom.)

He’s going to ruin you.

And you’re going to let him.

He grins against your hip, near the bruise he's just made on the thin skin. “Mucho mejor cuando hay espacio para... esparcirse.” (So much better when there's room to...spread out.)

“What,” you’re panting, “what are you doing?”

He blinks confused and almost black eyes at you. “I was about to-”

“I know, but,” you take a deep breath. “You don’t have to though.”

His fingers curl around your calf. “And if I want to, querida?”

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he tells you. “At any time. ¿Lo entiendes?” (Do you understand?)

You swallow thickly and nod your head. “Okay. Yes.”

He smiles against the inside of your thigh. “ Necesitas relajarte, querida.” (You need to relax, sweetheart.)

“Está bien, cariño. Déjalo ir,” he whispers against you. (It’s okay, darling. Let go.)

“Te sientes tan bien, hermosa niña.” (You feel so good, beautiful girl.)

Your fingers press into the roiling muscles around his shoulder blades as you feel a second orgasm building. “Por favor, no pares.” (Please, don’t stop.)

“Joder, eres perfecta.” (Fuck, you’re perfect.)

“Ven por mí, querida,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Ven por mí, mi pequeña mariposa.” (Come for me, my darling. Come for me, my little butterfly.)

“¿Todas las americanas saben follar así de bien?” (Do all American women know how to fuck this well?)

“No. Soy el único.” (No. I’m the only one.)

You laugh lightly. “Pues que suerte tengo de ser tu gringo elegido.” (Well, how lucky I am to be your chosen gringo.)

“Apuesto a que le dices a todas tus informantes eso.” (I bet you tell all your informants that.)

“No, estás pensando en Peña.” (No, you’re thinking of Peña.)

“Te amo mucho, Horacio.” (I love you so much, Horatio.)

***

Be careful. Those were the last words you said to him over the sat phone before he left the Search Bloc headquarters.

“Careful of what?”

“I don’t know,” you told him. “I just have a feeling, something is going to go south.”

“Female intinuation?” he had quipped.

“Something like that. Just-”

“Be careful. I know.”

Diana Turbay is found dead in a cabinet during an unauthorized raid on the Copacabana Farm. The Columbian police are blamed for firing the shot that killed her.

You haven't heard from Horacio for almost a week after the news breaks. He’s being watched, scrutinized for the mishap. You keep your ear to the ground, as it's your job, but you listen specifically for his name. The people of Bogotá want someone to blame. Diana’s mother blames the President. The people blame the Army. And based on his silence, Horacio blames himself.

“Horac-”

“Te he extrañado mucho, cariño.” (I’ve missed you so much, darling.)

You smooth your hands over his clean shaven face, his neck, and the lapels of his jacket. “I’ve missed you too.” And you have, so much it hurts.

“Lo siento. Debería haberte escuchado. Yo debería…” (I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have…)

You press your lips to his to stop his rambling. “It’s okay.”

“I fucked up.”

“¿Qué necesitas, mi amor?” (What do you need, my love?)

“Tú. Solo tu.” (You. Just you.)

“Cuanto tiempo te puedes quedar?” (How long can you stay?)

“Vuelvo a Medellín mañana por la mañana.” (I go back to Medellín tomorrow morning.)

You have him for the night. “Ven entonces.” (Come on then.)

“¿Has comido?” (Have you eaten?)

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

“Is that an honest yes or a ‘I don’t want to risk your cooking’ yes? Because Trujillo said the plantains I made were good.”

A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he raises the glass of alcohol to his lips. “Trujillo lies.”

You smack his arm and it draws a slight smile from him, the first crack in the mask of grief. “You’re sure you’re not hungry?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

You turn the kitchen light off and pick up your wineglass from the table with your discarded grading. “Shower?”

The shadows of grief cloud over his eyes again. “With you?”

“Why do you do that?” you ask him.

“Hm. Do what?”

“You always touch my ribs.” He starts to move his hand away but you quickly hold his hand there. “I didn’t say I minded it. I was just curious.”

The sigh he releases is shaky. “I like feeling you breathe. It reminds me…” he lays his face between your shoulder blades. “It reminds me you’re still alive.”

“May I?”

“Please, yes.”

“You said you wanted someone who could understand you, understand this part of your life.”

He nods tiredly. “I did.”

You give him a small smile and reach up to run your fingers through his damp hair. “And I do.”

***

Follow the mistress.

And it works. Sort of.

Let me get you something to drink. We both need to get back to sleep. Horacio has a fútbol game tomorrow evening.

He’s the liar.

Eliminate the threat.

He has the body dropped off in the Sabaneta area, left on the side of the road. It sends a message but the response is not what Horacio expects.

Pablo surrenders, imprisoned in his fortress.

The Search Bloc is officially disbanded.

Horatio and his family are transferred to Madrid.

You are left in Bogotá, defenseless and alone.

Pablo Escobar wins.

#colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo fic #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo x reader #narcos fic

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ilikethesickness · 2 years

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well now I gotta know

is having juice with milk a thing where you live???

because I have never heard of it and the thought of fruit and milk together just doesn't sound good to me BUT maybe I've been sleeping on deliciousness and I don't wanna miss out

yeah when you go to a restaurant or bakery you can get juice and they ask you what you want it in. ideal breakfast is pandebono or buñuelo and jugo de mora en leche. you ARE sleeping on deliciousness. so go to a Colombian bakery and get juice in milk they usually have mora, guanábana, maracuyá and lulo.

#u can get mora in water but the rest is better in milk

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warriorsoftwiggenstein · 2 years

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A late night in Yanxia, fireflies flickering in and out in the garden. The Warrior of Light and the Lord of Doma sat together by the window in the room she picked out herself. All of the threats averted, there was nothing to do now but enjoy the peace. So there they sat, drinking sake after a filling meal, simply talking until they decided to retire for the night.

"...it was very exciting, but...terrifying. I'm surprised I could still be terrified."

Twiggen had just finished reprising the events of her latest adventure. She had been recounting her whole journey for Hien whenever they had time. As he had asked multiple times and there was nothing else to do. But as she reached the end, she was brought to remember the way it felt. Watching her closest comrades sacrifice themselves just so she, the only person capable of it, could save everyone else. She hadn't wanted to think about it again, but now that they were here, she felt her throat close. She was left alone. So alone. No protest could stop them. Even if she cried and begged. She was left alone at the edge of the very universe. Her hand raises to her chest, fingers twisting in the collar of her yukata.

Hien notices almost instantly, he recognized that look, it had come across her face a few times as she recalled her tale.

"Twiggen, please you need not force yourself. Deep breaths, remember where you are now. You are safe." placing a hand against her back, he tries to help ground her. Having been through this a few times before, he found that physical contact was a good start.

Twiggen's eyes close, she felt like she was being pulled at all ends. But the warmth against her back helped her refocus. Deep breaths, she took a few slow breaths, filling her chest to capacity and then letting it all out. She opens her good eye to look up at Hien, who was ever steadfast by her side. Seeing his smile, recognizing that she was safe in this place, she felt herself finally come down.

"I'm...sorry."

"No no, no need to apologize. I should not have made you talk about something so recent."

He remembers what it was like when she talked about her first interaction with Zenos. That one took much longer to work through. He hadn't made her talk much about the Doman Liberation, as he was there, but...if he had...would she have such a reaction? Had he put her through something so scarring?

The thought alone left a pit in his stomach, the only solace he took was that in all the places she could have retreated to, she chose the Enclave. She must find this place soothing, or else she wouldn't put herself through it.

"Tell me something else, not about your adventures, but about yourself."

Twiggen looks up at him, confused, had he grown bored of the previous talk? He always seemed eager to hear of her adventures. No, clearly he wants to help ease her, a weak smile on her lips, she relaxes her hold on her yukata.

"What is there to say? I'm a gambling adventurer with little else in her life, save her brother and her friends."

"A brother? This is the first I've heard of him."

"Is it...really?" she was more shocked than she should be, had she really never mentioned Lulo?"He's my younger brother, the only time I remember seeing my father around at all was when Lulo was born. I've no doubt he was around when I was born as well, but I would have no memory of it. He's a bright young man, employed by the mining guild of Ul'dah. He's the whole reason I became an adventurer, just so I could take care of him after our mother died."

It seemed as though she was speaking of a stranger's life. She no longer felt like she shared the life of Lulalu Lalu. She was Twiggen Stein, a name taken to honor her mother who died in the Calamity. But it was less a name to honor her and more who she just was now.

"...I haven't spoken with him since I left for the Enclave. He doesn't know where I am...I don't know why I didn't tell him...maybe I just...wanted to be no one for a while."

"...Then...why not go somewhere no one would truly recognize you? Why come here?"

It was where her heart wanted to be. She felt she could recover here.

"I just...wanted to be here..." With him. "...with you."

Had he heard her right?

"With...me?"

"I don't know why, but I'm more easily relaxed with you around. I suspect we may have been good friends in a past life."

Ah, of course that is what she meant. Getting ahead of himself will only cause misunderstandings.

"I am glad I can provide a comforting presence."

A silence falls between the two, both taking the other's words into consideration.

A strange tension grows, Hien stretches and lets out a sigh.

"I think I will retire, my friend. It is getting rather late."

"Ah...um...yes...thank you for spending the night with me."

"As always, it is a pleasure. Next time I will hear the rest of your gripping tale of adventure. Goodnight, Twiggen."

"Lulalu." The name came from her lips before she had time to think, eyes widening at the realization.

"...Lulalu?"

"That...that was my name, before I became an adventurer. I don't know why I just...blurted it out like that. Don't think too much about it, please. I think...some part of me had forgotten. And I just remembered it."

He had suspected for quite some time that her name had been chosen, while naming conventions were not law, he was a bit surprised when her name did not rhyme with itself in some way.

"Lulalu. Goodnight, Lulalu."

Hearing him speak it, so softly and earnestly. She felt her heart sputter in her chest. She didn't know if she would be able to bear hearing it out of the blue.

"P...please don't feel forced to use it. I think it will confuse everyone."

Seeing her flustered so, it brings a smile to the Lord's lips. The fearsome Warrior of Light acting...so cute.

"Very well, only when we're alone then."

He winked and made his exit before giving her a chance to respond. Chuckling quietly as he made his way back to his room.

Twiggen sat by the window, still reeling from the shock and embarrassment. Her face flushed as the conversation played in her head over and over, like some sort of cursed echo vision. Regardless, she feels she'll need to prepare for future teasing, well two could play at that game, Shun.

#Twiggen Stein #I know I titled this file 'i wish i could write hien confidently'#as anytime I try it feels...lacking.

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hopelikethemoon · 4 years

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Breakfast in Bed (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: Breakfast in Bed Rating: PG Length: 1300 Warnings: None. Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. Set December 1992 between ‘Used to Be Lonely’ and “Merry Christmas, Baby’. Summary: Javier surprises reader.

@grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @beccaplaying @thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow @plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501 @fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut @snivellusim @lukesrighthand @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts @awesomefandomsunited @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @exrebelshocktrooper @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @ah-callie @swhiskeys @exrebelshocktrooper @u-wakatoshii @space-floozy @cable-kenobi @cool-ultra-nerd @himbopoes @findhimfives @pedrosdoll @frietiemeloen @arrowswithwifi @cinewhore @random066 @uncomicalhumour @heather-lynn @domino-oh-damn @cyarikaaa @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl @yabby-girl @xqueenofthecraziesx @punkass-potato @coredrive @pascalesque @theduchessofkirkcaldy @queenquazar @sabinemorans @buckstaposition @holkaskrosnou @yespolkadotkitty@seeking-a-great–perhaps @kochamcie @jaime1110 @katlikeme

The smell of frying bacon roused you from your sleep. You rubbed at your eyes as you stared at your bedroom door, wondering how it was that you could smell the food cooking across the hall. It had to be your neighbors, because you certainly weren’t cooking bacon — unless you had started sleep cooking.

“Bacon does sound good, doesn’t it?” You questioned as you ran your hand over your rounded stomach. Did you even have bacon?

You had meant to stop at the market yesterday, but the sudden evening rainstorm had convinced you that the better decision was to go home and curl up under the covers.

Alone.

Javier had already left the office by the time you clocked out — you hadn’t even had a chance to discuss whether he’d be over this weekend. A contact had reached out last minute and threw them into a stakeout on the other side of the city.

“Maybe he’ll come over tomorrow.” You mused, tracing your fingers over your stomach, drawing little shapes and patterns the way he always did.

You jolted upright when your bedroom door started to open, years of training kicking. The quiet sleepy reverie of the morning came to an abrupt halt as you reached for your bedside table to grab your gun.

“Baby, it’s me—“

Your fingers went slack around the gun, letting drop back into the drawer as you stared at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“We wrapped up the stakeout around six and I was nearby.” Javier explained as he stepped further into your room with a tray in his hold. “Breakfast?”

You blinked at him slowly, before a small smile spread over your lips. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” You countered, sitting upright and leaning back against your headboard.

Javier shrugged a shoulder as he carried the tray to your bed. He sat down on the edge with it, smiling at you. “Yeah, probably.” He chuckled. “But I’m wide awake.”

“And making me breakfast?” You reached out and brushed your fingers through the hair that fell across his forehead. “I thought I was going crazy when I smelt bacon.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, “I should’ve called.”

“No,” You shook your head, running your hand down his shoulder and bicep. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Javier gestured to the tray on his lap, “I stopped by the market and picked up some shit I thought you’d like. You do like lulos, right?”

“I love them.” You bit down on your bottom lip as you met his gaze. You loved him too — but you still hadn’t reached a point where you felt like you could say it. “Thank you, Javi.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, cupping your cheek. “Eat.”

“So demanding,” You teased, accepting your fate that he was going to fuss over you.

Javier settled the tray on your lap, taking the cup of coffee off the tray and sitting it on your nightstand. “It’s decaf.”

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed coffee. Where did you find it?”

“I picked it up last week,” Javier told you. “It’s been sitting in my Jeep ready to give you.”

“You’re too good to me.” You told him as you took a bite of the bacon. “Did you eat?”

Javier gave your knee a squeeze through the covers, “I ate a slice of toast.”

“Not good enough,” You shook your head, picking up a slice of bacon and waving it in front of him. “Eat.”

“I’m not the one who needs to eat,” He gave your stomach a pointed look. “My body doesn’t recognize that it’s morning.”

You hummed curiously, “Eat the bacon.”

“Baby, I’m not hungry.” Javier rolled his eyes, taking the slice from you and eating it anyways. “I’m running on coffee and nicotine right now.”

“That’s what I figured.” Your brows rose upwards, shaking your head as you forked up a bite of the lulo, “Did Chris drive you crazy?”

“He never fucking shuts up.” Javier complained, rubbing at the crease between his brows. “I blew through a pack.”

“I’m not surprised.” You licked your lips. “You made it what? A week?”

He dragged his hand over his face, nodding. “Yeah.” Javier pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “I’ll get there.”

“This was a nice surprise.” You told him, tearing off a piece of toast and eating it. “I was laying in bed wondering if I was gonna see you this weekend.”

“Of course you were.” Javier rested his hand on your stomach, “How are you feeling?”

You shrugged, wiping your mouth off. “I ate leftovers last night and they didn’t agree with me. Had some heartburn and finally crashed around eleven.”

“At eleven I was—“ He hesitated, his lips clamping shut.

“I bet I know,” You arched a brow at him. “Was Chris thrilled.”

“He stayed in the car,” Javier smoothed out his mustache as he stared at you. “Nothing happened.”

“Alright.” You glanced down at your breakfast, plucking up another slice of bacon and chewing on it.

It had only been a month since he’d told you that he loved you. A month since he realized he couldn’t keep playing the game the way he had been. You had no reason not to trust what he’d said, but at the same time you knew him. You understood the temptation.

And could you blame him, really? If something did happen. You hated that you even considered the idea that — ‘well you’re pregnant could you blame him?’ Because that wasn’t him and that sure as hell wasn't you.

You’d made it clear that you’d jump ship at the first sign that this thing was taking on water. You couldn’t set yourself up for trouble — your baby was depending on you.

“Nothing happened.” Javier insisted, his fingers fanning out over your stomach. “It was the most uneventful trip to a brothel.”

“I trust you.” You said quietly as you finished off your fruit and stacked the dish onto your plate. “Now, give me that coffee.”

Javier grabbed it off the nightstand, sitting it down on the tray.

You scooped it up and brought the cup to your lips, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. “You’re my new favorite person for getting this for me, Javi.”

“Who was your other favorite person?”

You smirked at him, “It may have also been you.”

He snorted, “I figured.” Javier dragged his fingers through his hair, “I meant what I said the other day—“

“Don’t.” You shook your head, giving him a warning look. “All that matters is you’re here.” You told him, leaning forward as you reached out to ruffled his hair. “I’m glad you finally used the key.”

“Seemed like a good time.” He cracked a small smile. There was something unspoken in his gaze, but you weren’t ready to address the elephant in the room.

You loved Javier Peña, but it was easier to keep that love at an arm’s length.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

“What are your plans today?”

“Making you sleep for at least three hours.” You said as you took another sip of coffee. “After I finish this coffee, I’m gonna brush my teeth, and join you in bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

You narrowed your eyes, “Your bags tell another story.”

Javier rubbed at his eyes, “That bad?”

“You’ve been up for twenty-four hours.” You poked him in the arm. “Get these clothes off and join me.”

“Gotta clean up the kitchen first.” Javier shook his head as he rose to his feet, leaning down to pick up the tray. “Where’s your stash?”

You scrunched up your nose, “Kitchen cabinet by the saltine crackers.”

“Thanks.” Javier clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll step outside.”

“Or you could clean up the kitchen and come back to bed.” You offered, “You can do a week again. And then two.”

“You’ve got more faith in me than I do,” He retorted, sitting the tray down on your nightstand.

“Well, I happen to know you pretty well.” You met his eyes. “I expect you in my bed in ten minutes.”

Javier chuckled, shaking his head. “I suppose that’s an offer I’m just gonna have to take you up on.”

You sat your coffee aside and watched as he walked out of your bedroom. You hoped that he knew that you loved him too — even if you hadn’t said it yet.

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

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