Valeria

01

You'd ratted out your entire team. Told them every little thing you could think of while a blade was pressed to your neck. Sure, you probably could have had some restraint—you started to piss yourself halfway through—but you survived for the most part.

When the woman in front of you—your targets personal left hand, as you were told—undid your bindings, she gave you a bit of praise: Que bonito. Muy bien ahí. Well done. Like you were a kid fessing up to an accident.

After that? Led upstairs like a fucking dog. Up a goddamn elevator, to a penthouse. Forced to sit pretty and twiddle your little thumbs while your 'handler' spoke to her boss—the guy your whole squadron was meant to kill. You were basically a sitting duck.

When she emerged, though? Dragging you forward like a puppy on a leash only to throw you into a seat?

Your blood ran cold.

"Wish to speak to the bossman, eh, vaquero?" She asks, circling around your seat like a shark with blood in the water. "Go ahead. He's listening. Somewhere. Tell him about your little... Shadow Company business."

Earlier? When you almost pissed yourself? You were definitely about to do it now.

02

When your team managed to snag Valeria, it was like goddamn Christmas. She was apprehended and in your custody, with the help of the Mexican Special Forces. Their leader—Alejandro—had a bit of history with her. Turns out she and him used to be in the forces together. Valeria was ex-military. Explained the leg muscles, really.

Regardless, she was sitting neat and tidy in a little metal chair in a shipping container, lights outfitting the inside so it'd serve as an interrogation booth so-to-speak. Valeria was barely even reactive, simply crossing her legs and leaning back like it was another Sunday afternoon.

...Her and Alejandro have been bickering for the past ten minutes over the 'moral ethics of running a cartel after killing its leader'.

"I created a power vacuum, and I filled it. Los Almas needs me." She answers easily, shrugging.

He however isn't taking it on the chin. "Las Almas needs soldiers, not sicarios... And you? You disgrace the army."

Valeria barely bats an eye, even daring to lean further back into her chair. The sheer audacity to be getting comfortable during an interrogation is getting under everyone else's skin, and your comrad—Ghost—is already getting snippy.

Your commander shuts everyone up, and points towards the door. Graves immediately barks an order for all of you to leave, and the single file line begins as you all toddle your asses out of the metal box. Well, except for you.

Philip grabs the back of your harness and tugs you back in. "You interrogate her. You're the one who brought her in."

...Ah, fuck.

03

It was a pretty damn good day today, all things considered. I mean, sure. You may have been kidnapped a month ago. Sure, you may be a prisoner of a cartel. Sure, you might be eating off of scraps and poor food.

But, at least your digs were kind of nice! It had minimal roaches. You only saw a few this week—much better than that time you were trapped in a cellar in Brisbane by a national terrorist.

Regardless, your only real entertainment was exercising. You were used to the regiment already from your training, so you just... did it here. You didn't have equipment or weights or anything, but you were capable of squats and pushups and lunges and whatever the hell else you could half-ass recreate in this tiny concrete cube. It was the only thing to do, to be fair.

Hoo-rah... or whatever!

So, when you're mid wall-shove and hear a voice, you don't really flinch—you expected the lack of privacy at this point, you didn't even have privacy during baths (thank God you managed to get those).

"...Te crees muy chingón?" Your warden asks, giving you an unimpressed once over, mostly out of curiosity, and shrugs.

"No mames." Valeria finishes dryly, before waving a hand and beginning to unlock the gated door. "Get dressed, we're going on a little walk."

04

Valeria was going to genuinely kill herself. Why the actual Hell did she save your ass? It wasn't like you were important—far from it, really—but she still (for some ungodly reason) hefted you up and shoved you to safety during a gunfight. You were an enemy. An opposing force. She had no fucking reason to keep you alive.

But right now? Right here in this dingy ass, beaten up, fucked up jeep that she definitely stole from one of your fellow operatives? She was playing nursemaid.

Patching up your boo-boos and bo-bos with a medkit and smearing ointments mixed with blood, sweat, and sand over scars or scrapes on your body. Wrapping bandages around your bicep and your calf and tying them off because she didn't have tape (she checked).

She was mortified by her own actions, but externally wasn't even showing an inch of reaction. Internally, though? She probably thought about killing you—no; she definitely thought about killing you.

"Respire hondo y conténgala." She mumbled half-heartedly, knowing you wouldn't understand her.

With that, she jams her fingers into your thigh and start to rip out the one bullet she let you get hit with. For proprieties sake.

05

Gunmetal and smoke and sulphur. Sweat and blood and tequila. It was a night for fucking kings, baby. Shots go around in the hearth of the estate, the living all draped across sofas and cushions while the dead were... well, dead. Salud!

You however, are currently in a chokehold. Valeria—your boss—was a bit handsy. 'A bit' was perhaps the understatement of the year; she had you pinned into the stairs just out of sight of the others, knee shoved between your legs and liquor dripping from her lips onto yours. She was fisting the front of your shirt in her hand like she was going to strangle you with it, her other hand gripping your chin and digging her nails into your skin hard enough to hurt. You thought she was going to dislocate something.

At this point? She just might. The adrenaline, smell of sweat and dirt, and just sheer luck for making it out of the gunfight alive is enough to completely make her go into some sort of strange, nuclear level of horny.

Valeria doesn't care that you're squirming—she just pins you further and keeps somehow pushing you down and simultaneously up the stairs. Each step digs into your back further, dragging across your skin and bunching up your clothing. When she finally relents on assaulting your tongue with hers, she trails kisses down to your neck. Those are actually quite nice—

And she's biting you. Hard. Nearly breaking the fucking skin, because of fucking course she's a goddamn biter. She's basically mauling you at this point. All teeth, no tongue, no finesse; Valeria is tasting your skin by force, marking you with an ugly indent of her teeth until it stings and makes iron flush in your mouth.

When she relents from that (Dios mío), she starts to genuinely drag you away and up towards the bedroom. Enough foreplay, you were about to get fucked within an inch of your life.

"Cállate." Valeria speaks before you're even able to say anything, glaring down at you as she basically slams you into the bannister.

06

Valeria has had many people in her bed. Gorgeous women, gorgeous men, handsome women, handsome men... Any and all that crawled into her lap—pleased as kittens—and preening at the attention she gave them. All those people rode in her expensive cars, dressed in expensive clothes, laid in her expensive sheets, and all thought that was special to them. That it was all for them. That she was for them.

Maybe, in a way, they were possessive of her. She was powerful—strong, gorgeous, money pouring from the coffers—a kingpin and cartel magnate. She was an iron fist at throats.

She had asked all of them what they wanted and... gave it to them. Laved them in it. She didn't care. They'd play the game a bit longer to see how much further she'd let them cling on; see how far they could milk the teat of her wealth. In the end, though?

She would, eventually, be going to bed alone.

So when she's on her back, staring up at the ceiling with sweat dripping in the crooks of her knees, thighs bruised, and welts speckling along her throat and breasts, she feels... content.

It isn't a soft contentedness—it isn't gentle and fluffy and tender—but it's still relatively pleasant. Her hips hurt, fingers numb, lips raw, but she feels nice. Turning slightly to look at her 'assailant', she simply stares at the scars she dug into your shoulder blades. Her hands itch.

She wants to touch. Dig her thumbs into the flesh and make it hurt, just so it does. Just so she has a reason to enjoy actually having someone stay.

"Mi cielo," Valeria murmurs, instead opting to prod at your back even though she knows you'll turn over and see that disgustingly soppy expression on her face. "Come here."