#BASK IN THE SUNSHINE AND WALK THROUGH A FIELD AND PRAY

[scum-belina]

Spray tans look so bad if you can't be that tan naturally then it's going to look bad on you this needs to be said

[corrupt-fvcker]

Tuesday Mornings (Javier Peña x fem!Reader)

Tuesday Mornings ( Javier Peña x fem!Reader )

Warnings: NSFW, unprotected sex, fluff, pining, curse words, arguing, soft beginning and ending, domestic life

Word Count: 5.8K... this was supposed to be 800 words.

Author's Note: this was supposed to be all fluffy and cuddly but then it turned into a smutty five thousand word treasure. i don't write smut often so pretty please tell me what you think 🥺

Rain patters softly against the bedroom window, the foggy glass striped with droplets that left transparent streaks in their trail. The heavy rainfall pelts against the roof, resulting in a heavy, rhythmic, rapping sound that incessantly echoes through the bedroom, rousing Javier from his sleep.

A gravelly groan reverberates from deep in his chest as he stretches his arms above his head, his back arching slightly as his muscles flex and his eyelids tightly scrunch shut before melting back into the plushness of the pillows. With a twinge of reluctance weighing in the back of his mind, his eyes flutter open, his blurry vision stubbornly sharpening after a few lazy moments. The bedroom basks in a dim gray light, courtesy of the dark thunderclouds looming over the city.

He feels you shift bedside him, one of your legs curling up at an angle by your side.

His eyes flit over to your side of the bed and you're still sound asleep beside him, lying on your stomach with your face buried in the pillows. And you're naked... which is, y'know, nice.

But a little disappointing because it's Tuesday and you're lack of clothing raises his hopes before he realizes its the middle of the week.

So he glances over to the alarm clock and silently prays that it isn't set to go off for another hour so that he can simply exist next to you before having to go to work and pretend that you and him are just work friends.

But he has no such luck. Ten minutes to spare before the cube-shaped clock shatters the peaceful aura of the bedroom and forces the two of you to get up from the safety of the covers and move on with the day.

Could he work with ten minutes? Honestly, probably. But he decides against it, you need as much sleep as you can get, and thanks to his horny ass, both of you fell asleep at ungodly hours last night.

Also, he's glad you're still asleep. It's domestic. Waking up beside you brings a sense of normalcy to his life, stability that only you can offer him. And he doesn't want to even admit it to himself but warmth swells in his chest every time he thinks about how lucky he is because he's the only person in the whole world that gets to wake up next to you in the morning. And he's also a little proud because you chose him. Javier Peña — the DEA agent that had a publicly bad reputation with longterm arrangements and was honestly a bit of an ass to you.

He deeply regrets the latter, because at the time he didn't have a clue that he would be absolutely smitten with you by the end of your first year in Columbia. At first, he was abrasive towards you because you were new. And even though you were no rookie, every hotshot DEA agent that tries their luck in Columbia always either discover that they're in way over their head and leaves or get killed by the end of their second month.

But then you didn't quit, and then you didn't die.

Which is a surprise. A pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless.

And Javier realizes that, yeah, he's been kinda an ass to you and he should probably ease up on completely ignoring you until he's barking orders in your direction. Because if you're going to have a breakdown it might as well be because of Pablo Escobar and not a grouchy DEA agent that has had really no plausible cause to treat you like shit.

But apologizing isn't really his thing so he opted to just ignore the fact that he's been an asshole towards you for the past four months and instead buys you a cup of coffee as some sort of olive branch gesture.

Which he quickly learns is a mistake. A big one, at that.

Because you really don't like him, which is warranted because he has really only been a dick to you. And you're smart enough to realize this. You know he has the decency to at least treat everyone else in the building with some level of fairness. His manners are decent, you've seen him open up doors for passing secretaries and thank them when they drop files off at his desktop. He's confident, but he's not a cocky asshole that treats other agents like they've got a total of two and a half brain cells.

But he doesn't treat you like everyone else, he treats you like you're no better than last week's trash, waiting impatiently for the garbage truck to come lift his burden and haul you out of his life.

So when you basically tell him to go fuck himself, he can't really be too all upset about it. Because, as usual, he deserves every word of it.

So instead of getting all defensive and trying to explain himself like you thought he would, he stands silently from the other side of your desk for a few moments before nodding slowly, like he's actually processing and accepting your two-minute-long speech about how much of an asshole he is, and then he sets the cup of coffee on the edge of your desk and leaves.

He doesn't really make an attempt to interact with you after that, maybe because he's guilty about the whole situation or maybe because it's just not worth it.

You hate him, so why try to cross an already burned bridge?

So instead, he just continues on with life — chases Escobar, bickers with Steve, fucks informants, smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, and drinks a little more whiskey than he probably should. Though he does make the effort to begin treating you like everyone else, which may not mean that he's all sunshine and rainbows towards you, but he's fair. He's equal, and you appreciate it more than he realizes.

It takes a little over a month, an entire bottle of wine, and some deep contemplating before you finally decide that if Javier can treat you fairly, you can do the same. No more ignoring him when he walks into the room, no more only meeting his gaze when your eyes are narrowed into a glare, no more uttering out one-word responses to his questions. Just treat him like you treat everyone else.

Which you soon realize is not as easy as it sounds. Because the morning after you release your five-month-old grudge and you politely thank Javier when he holds open the door to the office for you, the man nearly chokes on his coffee. He stands dumbstruck in the doorway for a few seconds too long, staring at the space you had stood even though you're already halfway down the hall.

Were you messing with him? He figures, yeah, you probably were.

And if he knew better, he would've just dropped it. He should've just shrugged and continued on his life because what you thought of him really didn't matter. You didn't matter, not to him at least.

And he most certainly shouldn't let some random rookie agent distract him when he's so close to taking down Escobar.

That's all you could possibly be to him, a distraction. You didn't matter, you shouldn't matter.

But that's the thing.

Javier Peña doesn't know better. And you do matter — even if he interprets it as just not wanting to see you on the side of the road dead. Because even if you're in a little over your head in Columbia, you're still fighting just as hard as any other agent in the field. And it most certainly doesn't help that you have a set of pretty legs and an even prettier set of eyes.

So Javier comes to a few conclusions while nursing a glass of whiskey. You don't hate him; you're not completely worthless; he shouldn't treat you like you're worthless; and damn, you have some nice legs.

So instead of treating you like he treats everybody else, he treats you like he treats everybody else and then some. Which is a little bit of a step backward because you instantly notice that now he's being friendly, but you try your best not to react to his shift in behavior because it's always going to be better than him being an ass to you.

But then he asks you out.

Well, not really.

He asks you if you want to go to the bar with him and Steve after work, which is strange because he's never expressed any interest in getting to know you before. But thankfully when you politely decline his invitation he takes your rejection gracefully and returns to his own office room.

But then no longer than ten minutes later Steve Murphy pops into your office, and you don't mind because Steve has been nice to you since the very beginning and you might actually consider the two of you friends. You might've even hung out with him in the past if it didn't consequently mean spending time with his asshole partner.

Well, former-asshole partner.

And you almost smile when you see Steve but then he starts pressing you to come hang out with him and Peña after work. Teases you about being a stick-in-the-mud and not having any friends in Columbia, and then about how both he and Javier really want you to come. And you're about to kick him out of your office when he adds that he will pay for all of your drinks — you're out of booze at home and today was no walk in the park. You crack, agreeing to go to some dingy bar with two of your co-workers as long as there will be free and endless drinks.

The night surprisingly goes well. You're pleasantly buzzed but not drunk enough to share some embarrassing secrets that sober you would regret in the morning. You sit next to Steve in a booth, across the tabletop from Javier, which isn't exactly ideal because you realize the more you drink, the more you stare. But then again, you figure it was better than sitting next to him on the cramped bench.

They ask you a lot of questions, which is weird because you've grown so used to not talking about yourself after spending now six months in Columbia without making a friend besides Steve.

Does Javier count as a friend?

You decide that no, he doesn't. You're just co-workers going out for drinks. He probably didn't even want you to come, Steve probably made him ask you first because he knows that there's some sort of turmoil between the two of you.

But regardless of who wanted you here and who didn't really care, you had a good time. And it soon became part of your weekly routine, working hard from nine to at least six and then going out for drinks with Steve and Javier. And it takes a few outings but you finally decide that your friend's list could double into two by adding Javier.

But then one night Steve brings Connie along and somehow that changes everything. Because it's no longer three work friends drinking together to forget the troubles of the workday. Now it's a married couple and two single idiots sitting side-by-side in a cramped booth. And it no longer felt like going out to a bar for drinks, now it felt like an awkward double-date.

And if Javier didn't feel the same tension that had your muscles rigid and your grasp around the amber beer bottle tight, he certainly did when Connie gestured between the two of you.

"So how long have you two been together?"

Steve chokes on his beer, droplets dribbling down his chin and Connie jumps at his reaction, you and Javier both frozen like deer in headlights.

You try to save the evening, you really do. "We're, uh— we're just— not together..."

Connie quirks a confused brow. We're just not together?

Javier's brain seems to start working a few seconds too late.

"We're not together," he clarifies, his voice sounding surprisingly impassive despite his strained posture.

You pray that the bar is too dim for Connie and Steve to see how mortified you were, and thank god Javier was too busy staring off into the distance and nursing his beer to crane his neck to look at you. Though you weren't totally saved because both Steve and somehow Connie could see how fucking humiliated you are, but they spare you the mercy to not say anything or, heaven forbid, stare.

And thanks to Steve's small talk and Javier's decision to leave the booth to go hit on some brunette making eyes at him from the bar, the night resumes as normally as it could've gone. Steve and Connie leave together, Javier leaves with the brunette, and you leave with a headache because you had a little too much to drink.

The next few days are off. Steve apologizes in private for any discomfort that Connie's comment caused you, even though you assure him that it's fine because it's really no big deal.

And you believe it because it was just a simple mistake and Javier didn't seem to care, which consequently means that you don't care.

But that's where you're wrong, about both statements actually. Because firstly, Javier did care — he cared a whole lot, actually. And secondly, Connie had only said something because Steve had been telling her how he thinks the two of you are going to get together for months now. And when Javier and you sat beside one another and talked together with such ease and chemistry, Connie had assumed that the two of you had finally gotten together and that it was a double-date.

But none of that mattered now because Javier wasn't talking to you. He was giving you the classic cold shoulder treatment like you had done something wrong. Reverting back to his old ways of treating you like a piece of shit because Connie had made a mistake. Could you possibly negotiate him redirecting his disdain and resentment towards her? Probably not.

And after an entire three months of being treated like absolute garbage, the tension between you snapped, like a tautly drawn back bowstring just before the release of an arrow.

You followed him out of the building when he got up to leave, the two of you being the only agents left in the office. When you called out his name just before he unlocked his car door, his head dropped back as a frustrated groan heaved from his chest.

That only pissed you off a lot.

"What the fuck's your problem, Peña?" You snarl, marching up to him, eyes narrowed into a threatening glare. You're not entirely sure what possessed you, but the next thing you know you're so close to him that you can feel his controlled breaths fanning against your face as he stares down at you with an expression of indifference — staring down at you like you're not even fucking there.

"Go home," he drawls out dismissively through an exhausted sigh, the keys in his hands jingling as he turns unlocks his car door. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

"Oh, fuck off," you snap, your fury raising in your stomach like a swelling ocean, growing and building itself up until it crashes down on your trembling form.

He shifts, the keys in his hands forgotten as he slowly turns on his heels to face you. "What's your problem?"

Your jaw drops, because he has the audacity to ask you what your problem is? No, he's out of his fucking mind.

"No, what's your problem?" You retort, jabbing your finger into the firm muscles below his shoulder as you gradually lose more and more of your self-control. "You've been treating me like a piece of shit for the past three fucking months. What the hell did I do to you? I thought we were friends but now you act like you want nothing to do with me."

Your words are harsh, tone hardened, and confused. Javier can hear it in your voice and it makes his heart ache, but as soon as you touch him — index finger pressing against chest — his resolve shatters.

"Don't touch me," he utters lowly, his once impassive expression morphing into a darker glare.

You shove him, which is a little disappointing because he doesn't fucking move. Doesn't even stumble back half a step, your actions only hardening his glare. "No, you don't get to fucking ignore me. You don't get to treat me like garbage. And I'm not gonna stop until you tell me why you hate me so fucking much."

"Jesus," he scoffs, his head dipping back as he takes a step back and eyes flitting to the sky like you're some ridiculous, immature child that he can't wait to get rid of. There's a pause, his chest heaving up and down. His hands are on his hips as his eyes avoid your stare, he doesn't want to escalate the situation further. He doesn't need to make an even bigger scene. He doesn't need to create yet another memory that plays on his head in a loop, distracting him every minute of the day. This is the last thing he needs.

After a moment he sighs, dropping his head and breathes for a moment. And as you see his hostile composure shift, you feel the storm of rage that you're drowning in lessen.

"I don't hate you," he answers lowly, his eyes still settled on somewhere other than your face. "Just... just don't take it personally."

You shake your head, your voice just as angry but quieter. "No. Not taking it personally was when you didn't talk to me for my first four months in Columbia because you thought I was just some dumb rookie."

"Look..." He's drained, weakened, and has little fight in him left. And he can see how you're trying to stop yourself from crying, he can hear your throat straining from holding back a sob that's painful trying to rack through your chest. He can see how much pain he's caused you, and he knows that you deserve none of it. "We should just... stop."

Your eyebrows raises. "What?" It's merely a whisper, the malice in your tone melting away as a wave of confusion crashes down on you.

Javier ignores the pang of hurt that sears through his heart at the sound of your voice. "We— we shouldn't... it's better if we're not friends."

You swallow thickly, your tongue heavy in your mouth. "What do you mean?" You ask, unsure of yourself.

"Just..." he tries, his hand running over his exasperated features as he struggles to string a sentence together. His mind is blank, any words rising in his brain not seeming right and leaving him scrambling for a single coherent thought. It's embarrassing being speechless when you're staring up at him with wide, glistening eyes. He's never rendered speechless, nobody has ever made him feel so helpless. He isn't sure when his smooth composure cracked, words came so naturally to him. He could charm the shoes off of anyone else.

Fuck, when did it become so hard to speak?

Probably when he realized you weren't like everybody else.

He forces himself to speak because if he's quiet any longer he's scared you're going to give up on him and leave, even though that's what he should be wanting. He should be hoping that you just learn to distance yourself from him, even if it ruins him. And he has a feeling that if you tear yourself away from him it'll ruin you too, but only for a little while. You'll move on, heal over time no matter how much it hurts now, you'll learn to be okay without him.

Or maybe you won't, you may never get the chance to learn to live without Javier Peña. Maybe the cruel universe would consider it an act of mercy to kill you before you ever got the chance. Maybe you'll get gunned down by one of Escobar's men or die in a car crash on your way home from work. Or maybe Javier will finally slip up and get himself killed. He's not exactly sure what will happen to either of you, but he knows it's bound to happen.

With this job, it's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when.

Fuck.

Speak, you fucking idiot.

His feet shift against the blacktop, gravel crunching beneath the soles of his boots. His hands are still firmly placed on his hips, his eyes finally tearing away from the streetlight shining in the distance to look at you.

His gut clenches, chest tightening. "It'll be easier if you hate me."

Oh.

You don't need to ask what exactly would be easier if you hated him. You know the fears that plague every DEA agent's mind. You live your life in the line of fire, the closer people get to you, the more likely they're going to get shot.

But something breaks inside of you, shatters into a million pieces. A part of you that cannot be repaired, no matter the amount of tape or glue.

You slowly drag a breath of air into your lungs, trying the shake the heavy feeling that was going to suffocate you as you stare into his eyes. And you know your bottom lip is quivering and tears are threatening to spill from your eyes.

"But I don't hate you."

And I don't think I ever could.

Your words crack through a broken whisper, and you almost cry at the confession because it just hurts so damn bad.

Javier darts his gaze away from you, knowing that if you start crying he's going to break.

"Then you need to stay away from me," he replies, his voice low but firm. He keeps telling himself that he's not going to lose this argument, he's not going to be selfish and ruin you both for good.

"Why?" You inquire, stepping forward. His eyes flit over at your sudden movement, watching you cautiously as you invade his space one more. "I don't see you pushing Murphy away."

Javier huffs out a soft scoff. Maybe he would've even chuckled at your comment if he was able to breathe. "You know you're not Murphy."

Well, no shit, you're not Murphy. You're not some six foot two blond from Tennessee with a wife and kid.

"What does that even mean?" You sigh, your eyes squinting from a mixture of exhaustion and confusion.

Javier faintly shakes his head, almost disapprovingly. "Don't do that. Don't act like you don't know you're different."

Threads of your patience snap, and you force yourself to not let your calm composure to crack and crumble under the flames smoldering in your chest.

"Why do I have to be different?" you reply sharply, though Javier can hear that your anger is more directed towards the situation than at him.

Because I'm not in love with Murphy.

Fuck, shut up, Peña.

"You just are," he answers eventually, maybe an eternity later.

Well, that's not fair.

"Why?" You muse quietly, and Javier's brain short-circuits. Because have you always been standing so close to him? He can fucking smell you from a here — some floral perfume that makes his head spin and his knees buckle, though he can't help himself from wanting to bury his head in the crook of your neck and breathe you in.

He has to crane his neck to look down at you, and his pulse quickens once he realizes that all he has to do is lean slightly forward on his toes and he'd be kissing you. Your eyes are no longer clouded with tears and the anger in your voice has melted. Your calm, which is new, but it doesn't make it any easier to look at you. Because you're gazing up at him with eyes that reflect the night sky and he thinks he's about to pass out.

And it takes him a moment to remember that you've asked him a question.

Why? Why are you different?

Why does he distance himself from your soft touch? Why does he avoid your curious stare? Why does he have the urge to leave the room whenever you enter it? Why does he only offer you half-assed responses and quips? Why does he refuse to look at your even though all he ever thinks about is your sweet face? Why does he let himself fuck whores when he keeps letting your name slip from his lips? Why does he allow his gaze to linger and trace every outline of your face after you've turned away? Why does he wake up glistening with sweat and a painful ache between his legs because he fell asleep thinking about you?

Fuck. He wants to kiss you right now.

Why does he want to kiss you right now?

"Javier?" You breathe out, still waiting for him to speak even though you are starting to understand his silent answer.

Javier doesn't remember hearing his name softly drip slip from your lips in a whisper. He doesn't remember his hand shaking as he lifts it to cradle your cheek. He doesn't remember the calloused pad of his thumb brushing against your cheekbone as you softly shudder beneath his touch. He doesn't remember gazing into your eyes like he's looking up into the summer night sky, stargazing. He doesn't remember the shaky breath the leaves your lips as his thumb drags lower to graze your plush bottom lip. He most certainly doesn't remember leaning forward on his feet and capturing your lips with his.

His lungs constrict and he's kissing you — desperately, touches drowning in need as the taste of you floods his senses.

But fuck, you're kissing him back. And your tongue is pressing into his mouth, practically purring as your hands rake through his hair.

And you're not entirely sure how the conversation ended with you kissing Javier Peña like you were trying to devour him whole, but he doesn't seem to be complaining as he picks you up with a small grunt and lays you down on the backseat of his car without breaking away from you once.

He's breathing is frantic, grabbing at your blouse and tugging it off of you before your arms are even extended above your head. Your lips part from his with a loud smack and you whine out in pure want, squirming as his mustache tickles the swell of your breasts as his head dips down and sucks a purple mark into the plush flesh that spills from the bra cups. Your stomach is churning with lust and desire as the thought of him burns into your memory like a hot iron searing through flesh.

"Hermosa," he calls out through a heavy breath that ghosts against your collar, his sinful hands groping your chest draws out airy moans. His cock is hard and leaking, the arousal the settled in his belly is burning through him like a wildfire.

Fuck, you're touching him and it's shaking his mind to shambles. Your hand rests on the nape of his neck as he pulls your bra down to run his hot tongue over your taut nipples, your other hand weaving through his dark hair and tugging.

"Javier," you keen, your back arching off the leather seat as something inside your bursts. You rock your hips forward, desperate to reveal the tension that had coiled in your stomach. "I need... I need—"

"I know," he grunts because he needs the exact same things. He's panting, quivering, shuddering out broken breaths between kisses as he hovers over your trembling body. "Fuck, baby. I know."

Then it's like his mind goes on autopilot, acting on pure instinct as he fumbles to unclasp his belt and yank the front of his jeans down far enough so that he can take his weeping cock out of its confinements. His hands then find their way to your pants, hesitating to make sure you still want him but you're one step ahead, already pushing your pants and panties down in one harsh movement.

But as soon as he looks down at your naked lower half, his daze is snapped in half like a twig and his mind spirals out of control as he realizes that he needs you right fucking now. And you're no better, tears prickling your eyes as you beg him to fuck you in the back of his Jeep.

And even though he craves to taste your wetness on his tongue, he thinks he's going to die if he doesn't fuck you this very instant. He can't stop himself from lining his cock up with your entrance and applying the slightest bit of pressure, relishing in the needy moan that echoes throughout the cab of his car that makes pre-cum drip down the base of his cock.

"Javier." You're chanting his name like a prayer, like he's your sweet salvation. Your hands squeeze his shoulders as your head lols back before one drops to find his, lacing your fingers together to anchor yourself. He's hovering about you, one quivering arm propping his body up while the other is holding yours — he thinks he's about to explode.

"Please fuck me."

Then he's spreading you open, pushing inside of you with one slow and deliberate stroke. You squeak at the tightness, the full feeling that stretches your walls and makes you shudder. Javier's head drops to the crook of your neck and presses a chaste kiss to the pulsating skin, pausing momentarily so that you both can catch your breath.

And as you ask him to finally move, all coherent thoughts as ripped from his mind. All he knows is that he's thrusting into you like he's going to die if he stops. You're going to kill him.

I'll die if you stop. You don't know if you actually said it aloud or if it was only an echo of a thought in your ruined mind.

Neither of you last long, which isn't much of a surprise at the state you're in. Though Javier feels weird because he has some weird sexual reputation and he nearly came in his pants when he was only kissing you. And he wanted to draw it all out because he's secretly scared that you'll never talk to him again after this, even though that's what he originally wanted. But now that he's finally gotten a taste of your lips, he's drunk off your touch and addicted to it. He doesn't want you to leave and pretend that none of this ever happened. He doesn't even know if you like him in the same way he likes you—

No, fuck, he loves you. He loves you and doesn't even know if you like him enough to allow him to take you on a proper date.

So when he asks you if you want to get drinks with him on Friday, skin sticky with sweat and chest sill heaving as he helps you dress, he's surprised when you agree with a coy smile. And he huffs out a small laugh when you teasingly ask if you should expect Steve to tag along or if it's a legitimate date.

And honestly, the following months are a blur — filled with wandering hands, lingering shared gazes, and hot kisses. He can't control himself after the torturous ten long months he spent waiting, ten months of longing and yearning for your touch while he pushed you away.

All that matters now is that you're fast asleep in his arms on a rainy Tuesday morning. Your cheek is squished against his bare chest and he knows that the dark hairs that litter his torso are probably tickling your nose, but you don't stir once your arm is lazily draped over his middle.

And he can't help the dopey smile that tugs at his lips when you nuzzle even closer, still stuck on the thought that you somehow managed to fall in love with him.

"You're warm," you mumble mindlessly, voice heavy with sleep.

Oh, you are awake.

"Have to get up soon," he replies, though his words don't seem fitting as he tightens his hold around your waist and drags you up his torso so that he can tuck your head beneath his chin.

And for a split second, Javier thinks that you've fallen back asleep because he's learned the hard way that you are by no means a morning person. Your heartbeat his soft against his chest and your breathing pattern returns to a slow and silent pace.

"Call in sick," you suddenly murmur as you squirm a bit before stilling.

Javier breathes out a soft chuckle, his breath ghosting over the top of your head. "We can't both call in sick," he refutes lightly, even though the offer is very tempting.

"Fine," you utter before tilting your head up to look at him with dreamy eyes. And as your eyes land on him, Javier remembers just how beautiful you are and how much he really wants to stay in bed with you. "Then you call in sick, I'll play hooky."

A dangerous game, it's hard to keep a secret relationship a secret when there's a pattern of both parties missing work on the same days.

Though, apparently, the game is all too tempting. Because as soon as you lean up to press a gentle kiss in the crook of Javier's neck, he finds himself reaching for his phone.

"Wanna make me breakfast?" You eventually ask through a coy grin, peering up at him through your thick lashes as he ends the call.

He rolls his eyes, a playful gesture that you don't take seriously in the slightest. "You're ridiculous," he answers grumpily even though you both know he's going to cave and make his specialty of coffee and eggs.

"But you love me anyway," you reply smugly, pushing yourself up on your elbow to peck a chaste kiss to his lips. Javier's hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. You can't stop the moan that slips from you breathlessly as his tongue parts your pursed lips.

It's safe to say that neither of you gets out of bed for another hour.

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tags (let me know if you want to be added): @yespolkadotkitty​

[melyaliz]

Canary pt 18

Canary Masterlist  

Fandom: Marvel 

Summary: They were two souls bound together. Twisted up so tight that the only one that could break their bond was them. 

Pairing: Loki x Reader 

Notes: I don’t want to say goodbye to my Snake and Canary… someone send help! 

I hope this meets everyone’s expectations. If not let me know and I’ll change some things. I MAY turn this into a novel. Like, go back and heavily edit it. I mean why not? Then I don’t have to say goodbye. So if there was anything you guys wanted to see or feel like was missing let me know. 

HUGE THANK YOU: To @bolontiku​ Thank you for being SUCH amazing support and also inspiring this story with your own amazing Loki fanfics. Especially her Mortal series. If you haven’t READ IT! And leave her tons of love.  

All Masterlists @melyalizarchive​​

Connect with me! AO3 / Instagram / Pinterest

DONATE or REQUEST

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“And in the end, we were all just humans drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.” I would say that F. Scott Fitzgerald knew what he was talking about except love wasn’t what healed me. 

It was what broke me. 

I was FINE. 

Fine before that… that SNAKE walked into my life and messed everything up. Acting like he cared. Acting like he saw me for anything more than what I presented to the world. 

I wasn’t looking for love. 

I wasn’t some tragic heroine who just needed a missing piece in her life. 

I was complete with myself. 

I can heal myself.

I am strong by myself. 

I am enough. 

So three days of being sad and moping and I rose back up from the shards of my heartbreak. No longer a little canary but a phoenix raising her wings high in the air burning bright with the sounds of her war cries.  

-----------------------

Two months, that’s how long it had been since the Oger king. Since then the Avengers hadn’t seen anything QUITE like it. Just your normal disagreements among countries and other normal hero work. In fact, it was one of those “normal” missions that Canary was coming back from. Excited to just take a shower and maybe have a cuddle with her pillows while binge-watching the latest season of The Good Place.  

“And here I thought you were gone for good” 

He was perched at the edge of her bed. Crosslegged fingers playing with THAT necklace. - You know the one- A very proud smirk on his face as he looked up at her as she stood in the doorway of her bedroom, mouth agape. 

So she did what any normal girl would do when she sees her ex just making himself comfortable in her bed after spending a week overseas fighting baddies. 

Screams.

“GET OUT!” 

Her words sharp and blunt like a hammer shot like an arrow ready to smash him through another wall. However this time instead of crashing into him like it’s intended effect Loki caught the sound of her cries with the necklace. The Saphire gemstone catching the sounds swirling around inside cracking and sparking like lighting. A storm brewing, like the one inside Canary’s heart.  

“If I’m going to be around you I better learn how to protect myself.” Loki chuckled looking over the beautiful gemstone the twinkled back. He had just stolen her words, like some sea witch. Well, this mermaid was having none of that. 

“If, sorry but that’s a no for me.” she folded her arms over her chest leaning against the doorframe. Who did this guy think he was just waltzing back into her life? 

Oh right, Loki. 

“A no?”

“You, being around me. It’s a hard no.”

Loki sighed leaning forward his green eyes reminding her so much of a cat that was up to go good. If there was a glass cup of water he would have spilled it by now, “But why?”

But why? Was he serious? 

She sighed, exhaustion returning to her body as the fight slowly left her, “Just take your necklace and go.”

“I left it for you.” he said twisting it in his hand,  “you and me.”

“There is no more you and me, or did you forget? You are immortal who can live forever and I’m…” Her voice was flat now. The emotion gone, dead. They had been killed when those very words had been spoken to her. Yet there was still some fight behind her eyes as they flashed with each memory of what the man in front of her had done. 

How he had made her feel. 

His hand gripped her arm so quickly she had no time to react. And in a moment they were gone, teleported away. 

The little hero blinked and she was no longer standing in her bedroom but a field of bright wildflowers. 

Canary yellow.  

“Ok go, be as loud as you want. Tell me JUST how you feel.”

“What?” She stood there blinking in shock her brain trying to process what was going on. One moment she was at the Avengers Tower and the next she was… here.

“I know you are mad at what I said. I was an idiot. I got scared and I acted rashly. Let me have it.” 

“Why.”

“What?” 

“Why did you act rashly?” folding her arms over her chest she glared at him. Eyes hard trying to figure him out. Trying to understand what he wanted from her. Why he did the things he did. 

“Because it’s what I do when I start to fall in love I do something to ruin it.” 

“Love?”

“Yes,” He stood before her taking her other hand in his green eyes hard as he held her gaze praying his words would be enough, “you own my heart. You took it in your hands and helped it grow, let it be something I never through it could be. Heard.” 

She didn’t move, bearly breathed as he spoke for fear that it would break this spell. That she would wake up from some weird dream and he would still be gone. That he wouldn’t mean these words that made her heart hurt and bloom at the same time. “When I realized that I just… I wanted to ruin this beautiful thing you have given me before anything else could. But what I forgot was you, my Canary and only I have the power to ruin that.” 

“Who said I was yours?” Her words were bearly a whisper, a prayer. Sent up to all the gods above. Please let this be true. Please. 

Loki chuckled taking a few steps closer to her as he felt their words float around them like petals in the wind. Gently he rested his forehead angst hers, “You are mine, and I am yours. And nothing can tear that from us but us.” 

His words clung to the air, held up like the breath she was holding. Letting it go Canary sighed, “How will I know you won’t leave me again?” 

“Because I can’t.” a promise, soft and sweet. They caressed her like the breath that carried the. “Because I love you.” 

He kissed her then. His touch filled with so much emotion. Sorrow, longing, pleading. His hands moved from her own to her face cradling her as she leaned forward to deepen the kiss. Giving him what he wanted. 

Her love in return. 

It bubbled up inside her spilling out in a burst of giggles. Eyes tight shut as she gripped his wrists. Rays of sunshine bursting through the dark clouds that she never knew were covering her. Breaking through all her walls and swirling around them like music. 

Loki smiled down at her as she laughed in his arms. Basking in her light, reveling in her beauty. 

Because of all the sounds he had ever heard, it was her laugh that he loved the most. 

-GET TAGGED!- 

Forever tag: @royslittleharper​​​  @the-shadow-of-atlantis​​​ @coffee-randomness​​​ @0hmydeku​ @xx3fsxx​ @daisyboobear​​​   @jason-redhood​​ @hello-i-lovespiderman-blr​ @ocelysium​ @pinkwitch21 @tomhncharliep  @cdwmtjb8​

Loki: @wayward-hell​​ @winterssoldierrs​

Canary: @baybay123455​ @rizanendoza808 @dragonrosegardens​ @6-daughter-of-a-witch-6​ @califorina-grown @2s0uls​ @oh-no-a-whovian​ @it-jinxed-us​ @pixiehex1985​ @bolontiku​

[welovekpopscenarios]

In Your Arms (WW2!AU Wonwoo x Reader)

Admin: Mimi

The war is raging as terrible as ever, and Wonwoo is so close to getting home, yet so far when the enemy threat is still around the corner. All he wants to do is to go home, to where he knows you are waiting for him, and kiss you with all his might. All he has to do is survive waiting on this damned beach for a boat to take him there - WW2/War!AU

Fandom: SEVENTEEN

Genre: Angst, bit of fluff

Pairing: Wonwoo x Reader

Warnings: A bit of violence, war, death, etc. Nothing major tho

Word Count: 2820

A/N: Fun fact: this story/idea has been in my list since the 25th of july after I came home from seeing the movie Dunkirk in the cinema. It wasn’t until the other night when I watched it again that I finally bit the bullet and wrote this story. Now, I know Wonwoo is Korean and not in any way British, but let’s just pretend in this fictional story that the boys fought for Britain and were on the beaches of Dunkirk during WW2. I just really loved the story of Dunkirk and this idea has been on my mind for so long that I had to write it, bc clearly I can’t create an original story of my own bc I have no talent or imagination and I’m a terrible writer. Anyway, I hope you give this story a chance bc I’m actually kinda happy with it, and that you also check out the movie Dunkirk if you haven’t seen it – it is absolutely fantastic and every man in it is a snack. You don’t have to know about what happened at Dunkirk to read this story, but it is a very interesting part of history and a very sad one, so maybe you’ll read up about it. Anyway, enjoy and as always, happy reading, I love you all :D

The harsh sounds of the ocean greeting the sand in an angered haste almost disguised the sounds of gunshots occurring in the devastated French city of Dunkirk just beyond the temporary borders set up at the edges of the beach.

Almost.

It was quite difficult to forget that awful bang and metallic ringing once it did enter your ears, Wonwoo thinks, and he prays no other men should have to experience that horrible clang in their life, that he shouldn’t have to hear it anymore, that this dreadful war will be put to an end soon and they can all go home to their normal lives before the world was thrust into a dark pit of hatred and violence. But it would seem impossible to just forget every terrible deed that has been commited these past few weeks and return to a blissfully ignorant life.

Besides, the horrible, nerve-wracking wailing sounds from the fighter bombers are the loudest and most terrible of all, and overpower every sound in the area: the waves, the gunshots, the screams, the crying.

Wonwoo just wants to go home.

He’s not built for war. Wonwoo is tall yet lanky, smart yet sluggish, and his hands are definitely made for holding books, not weapons. He isn’t strong and agile like Mingyu, or Seungcheol, or even Seokmin. He’s pacifistic in nature, and mild mannered, just like Jeonghan and Joshua. He wasn’t meant to be dragged into a battle to point a gun at other men who had the very same wishes as him; to return to their families and forget everything about this damned hell they were living. But, of course, when war wages, the responsibility to protect your country and loved ones comes first, and thousands of young, able-bodied men were shipped out to fight in the streets, fields and beaches of France against foreign invaders. It is about the only thing Wonwoo can justify about fighting in this war.

Because war and terror aside, he’d do anything to keep you safe and sound.

Sitting here on an overturned tank next to Mingyu and Vernon, who was currently nursing his shoulder from a bullet graze he received some time ago, they all awaited the ships that would take them back to Britain to wait for the battle that would inevitably occur in their homeland.

If they could return to begin with, seeing as the bomber planes were picking them off like fish in a barrel on the beach; 400,000+ men on these sands, some meeting their end while waiting for safety. Wonwoo was sick of ducking for cover at this point, and could barely even hear properly anymore, what with all the constant assault on his eardrums rendering them nearly useless at the moment.

Tragic, he thinks bitterly, that home is just beyond that sea, but so out of reach. Countless deaths on this very beach while men died clinging to hope that they get home safely.

Home.

Where you are.

You are his home.

And Wonwoo wants nothing more than to hop on the next ship that arrives with his brothers and run into your warm, waiting arms, not stand on this blood-soaked sand waiting and wondering if the next time the plane flies overhead will hit its target and force him to draw his last breath.

He shudders at the thought, watches idly as soldiers carry the wounded to the mole and onto the docked ship waiting to sail home and fix up the men who have definitely seen better days. He hears the chatter from the other boys, hears the generals and captains shouting orders, hears the whispered venom falling from men’s lips about the state of their current situation – hears it all. But he isn’t focused on it now that he has a moment to rest. The sounds are muffled, his vision blurred.

The only thing he sees and hears, as crystal clear as the sky above him, contrasting against the muddied and bloodied warfare raging beneath the blue sky, is you.

You, standing before him, waving him off with tears streaming down your cheeks as the train took him away to the docks to be sent to war.

Oh, how he longs to see your smile in front of him as opposed to in his dreams, how he wants to feel your flesh against his, not the rough spun fabric of his uniform. He doesn’t want to feel stones and sand caught in his boots or aches in his muscles or an adrenaline fuelled heartbeat. He only feels pain, feels longing, feels scared, feels-

grass blades licking at the bottom of his feet as he walked, the garden surrounding him in light and colour and all things warm. Despite his height, he almost felt small in the country garden, just a speck amongst greens, reds, blues, whites, the list was endless. The garden was so bright and vibrant, he could almost ignore the PSA that rang out on the radio just an hour ago that spoke fancy words as a cover up for thousands of young men’s impending doom. Including his own. They needed men now.

So distracted was he, that he almost didn’t notice your prone form, lying on the soft bed of grass with a blanket beneath you and basking in the spot of sunshine, glowing high above the countryside. There you lay, arms cushioning your head, eyes closed and seemingly without a care in the world.

He knew better than that.

He knew how your face dropped as the crackle of the radio reached both your ears, your face growing more weary and pale with each damned word. Yet you had sat in silence, nodded your head once it was finished, and returned to peeling the potatoes for the dinner, albeit a bit more roughly than required. Once that was over with and they sat boiling in the pot, you retreated to the garden, and Wonwoo hadn’t heard a peep from you for near 25 minutes since you did.

He stopped just shy of you, lowering himself to sit next to you, eyes memorizing over the lines of your peaceful face. He can’t just stare any more. He has to memorise it – save it for the dark days to come when you aren’t by his side and he has no strength to stand. It causes a dead weight to plunge into his stomach, fingers denting crescents into the flesh of his legs from his grip.

“The dinner didn’t burn, did it?” you broke the silence, eyes still closed and voice as soft as cotton. Wonwoo mumbled out a no, shaking his head lightly. You sighed through your nose, a long, drawn out exhale that deflated your chest in the process. “I must cook all of your favourite meals for dinner from now on before you go. It might be a while before you can have them again.” The words are bitter, and rightfully so, an awful poison on your tongue that doesn’t suit your nature, that isn’t you.

He wants to say everything will be fine, that he’ll be home in no time and that the world will be safe once he does. But he knows that isn’t what you want to hear, it isn’t particularly what he wants to hear either, and so he stays silent, stewing in his torment, and lets the music playing from the gramophone fill the air instead.

He picks at strands of grass, rolling the blades between his long, slender fingertips, wondering how on earth these fingers are meant to pull triggers and kill. He just can’t imagine it.

“When are you leaving?” you whispered, hands now grasping at your woollen skirt, fidgeting - pulling and straightening.

Wonwoo shrugs.

“I think in about a week or so, we’ll be taken away to start training. The radio said something about wanting men to join the fight as soon as possible and to sign up as soon as possible,” he answered, voice low and quiet, feeling as though he were threading on glass with this conversation.

You rolled over on your side, brows furrowed the slightest, but face otherwise blank, and Wonwoo hates that more than if you were outright angry or upset. He can’t gauge how you feel, because you know the duty men have in times of war, but you also know the trauma that comes with it, and someone like Wonwoo does not fit the description of a killer.

“A week or so?” you replied. A nod from Wonwoo. You sit up sluggishly, almost reluctantly, and keep your eyes trained on your feet. “Right. I’ll have to head to the market and get all the ingredients tomorrow. And I’ll see what I can get to give you for your journey. Whatever might be useful and you’re able to sneak in with you, I’ll give it to you. I’ll ask Sharon, her brother was deployed around a month or so ago. She should know.”

The music’s sweet tones wafted into the silence once more after your words, so resolute and strong that Wonwoo thinks you could almost take his place in the war instead, you’ve always been so capable.

“Thank you.” A nod from you. “At least you aren’t crying,” he tries to joke, but judging by your stiff posture and the guilt eating away at his heart, it wasn’t every funny.

“I’ll do it when you’re gone. Believe me,” you retort, words harsh in a quiet way, as sharp as steel. His throat closed up and his heart gave a lurch.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, I-“

“What for?” you asked quickly, whipping around to face him, eyes wide in a frenzy and fists clenched, bundling the fabric up in your hands and wrinkling it in the process. “For doing your duty? For the war? For protecting your country? None of that is your fault, Wonwoo, don’t be foolish-“

“For leaving you.”

You looked like you wanted to reply; to snap back about how he hasn’t left yet, or how it was happening to everyone, that the urgency of the war was more important than this, but you couldn’t. The words wouldn’t leave your lips. Maybe it was the solemn look on Wonwoo’s graceful features, or the sickening dead weight in your stomach as soon as the radio announcer said good evening to the country so gravely, or your disastrous thoughts of Wonwoo’s possible death in a foreign land that stilled your lips. Wonwoo took a deep breath.

“I made a promise, that day when I married you, when you looked as beautiful as now, all dressed up and with that gorgeous smile of yours on your face, that I would never leave you. I said it with my own voice, in my own words, and with your hands in mine. I would not leave your side. For better or for worse. It was a promise I intended to keep, but now I have to break it.” Wonwoo took hold of your fists in his, so small they seemed compared to his own, his heart ached at the faint tremble emanating from them.

“I have to break my promise, and I couldn’t be sorrier,” he continued, thumbs rubbing gentle circles on your skin. “But I promise I will come back to you. I have to keep you safe first, but once it’s all over with, I’ll come back, and I’ll hold you when you go to sleep, and I’ll walk with you to the market on Saturday mornings, and I’ll dance with you late at night where you’ll put your head on my shoulder and hum along to the songs the way I like it. I’ll come home. And I won’t ever leave you.”

He could see the crystalline tears forming at the corners of your eyes, could hear your shallow breathing, and yet you were still so strong. Wonwoo was envious, wishes he could be as brave as you. That’s what he loves about you, he guesses. No, he knows.

“You will come back, Mr Wonwoo, or I will kill you myself,” you threaten weakly, and he huffs out a laugh. “I don’t care about myself, keep yourself safe. That is all I ask of you. Keep yourself safe and well, and fight your hardest. Do your damned bit for your country, and come back into my arms. Where you belong.”

Wonwoo’s grip on your hands loosened, his arms moving to wrap themselves around you and pull you to his chest, your own arms squeezing his waist tightly as you muffled your sobs in the planes of his chest. He breathed in the scent of your hair, taking in the little things he’ll come to miss about you. Lips traced faintly on the crown of your head, long fingers threading through your hair and twining strands around them, rocking you both back and forth as he allowed you to finally break in his embrace.

“I will, I swear to you,” he said, moving you impossibly closer to his form. “I’ll stay safe for you, and I’ll come home. My heart is always with you, however. Wherever I go. It has always been yours. It’s yours,” he spoke these words more resolutely than anything he’s ever said in his life, and he repeated these words every day up until the day he stepped foot on the train with hundreds of other men, and still, these words left his lips as he stuck his head out the window, etched themselves into the letters he sent home with unique little gems he found in his time in France, swam in his thoughts every night he closed his eyes. And with this promise he feels secure, he feels warm, he feels-

determined to reach the shores of England again, where he knows you’ll wait for him as long as it takes, day and night, and the thought makes Wonwoo’s lips break into a miniscule smile.

“What’s that smile for?” Mingyu asks, leaning his fatigued body on Wonwoo’s equally exhausted body, sighing loudly and conveying thousands of soldiers’ current status in a single breath. Wonwoo simply shrugged, nails picking at the grime that gathered on his rifle as a way to distract him. “Looking forward to getting home?” Mingyu inquired, his muck covered face flashing a grin despite the circumstances. Wonwoo admires him for his high spirits, and reckons it helped him get through these past few weeks more than he’d like to admit.

“I think everyone is,” Wonwoo retorts, eyes roaming the lines of men gathered on the beach; some talked near the shore, some sat and were too weary to move their legs, some lay still and never moved again. He sighs sadly. He was fed up of being on this bloody beach.

“Well, we’re not out of the woods yet,” Vernon comments, having successfully wrapped his shoulder and now avoids the risk of infection. ‘Not out of the sands’ would be a more accurate saying for today, Wonwoo reflects, watching the cerulean of the sky blend in with the rolling waves of the ocean, the bright white colour of the hospital ship a stark contrast to the dull colours surrounding it, the red cross a beacon of hope for some. “Bombers keep picking us off there’ll be no one left to go home. Be worse if the French lines break and the Nazi’s surround us on the beach.”

Mingyu tuts in a scolding way, wrapping a burly arm around Wonwoo’s shoulders that has him lurching forward, his balance off kilter from the force. “Don’t think like that, Vernon. If you think like that, then we lose all hope. Home is so close, you can practically touch it. Hold faith, we will get through this. Isn’t that right, Wonwoo?” he asks.

Wonwoo doesn’t understand why Mingyu feels the need to include him every time he speaks, but nevertheless, his words ring true, and so he nods, Mingyu beaming at him in thanks.

Hold faith. Easier said than done, but Wonwoo knows he cannot lose now, not while you were so close. He will come home. He chants it like a prayer, his own personal chant that he repeats over and over until the words don’t even feel like they are real anymore.

He says them over and over, even when the bomber aircrafts hover once more over the shore and the mole with its awful, heart sinking sirens that has everyone scrambling for cover, says it when the ground shakes with explosions and his comrades meet their fate all around him while he pins his hands to his ears in a weak attempt to silence the devastation. It’s the only thing he is sure of, and clings to it so desperately it seems almost obsessive. But he made a promise. A promise he does not plan on breaking.

He will go home, back into your arms, back to his life.

Even if it kills him.