#corazón tequila

[hozierwhoreor]

Sangre de Vida Corazón Blanco y Reposado Tequila

[escritosycaos]

Nunca creí en los cuentos del corazón, pensaba que el el amor era solo un juego sin trascendencia…

Voy cayendo en picada ya no hay razón, no puedo controlar ciertas cosas todo es nuevo, podemos hablarlo si quieres pero creo que ya es suficiente, lo podemos soñar si quieres pero creo que quiero despertar…

Tu me haces sentir que estoy en cielo y que la tierra no existe, como tú no hay nadie más, me tienes así rogándote a ti solamente, I NEED NOBODY BUT YOU.

No tengo las palabras para empezar, quizás mis trucos no son efectivos contigo, si tan solo me dieras una señal…

Daría lo que no tengo por tenerte conmigo…

Tu me haces sentir que mundo no gira si tengo cerca y todo al rededor parece desaparecer pero de lo que estoy segura es que como tú no hay nadie más, me tienes así rogándote a ti solamente, I NEED NOBODY BUT YOU.

S.G☕️🍂

[pluiesolitaire]

Con el dolor el pasar saliba sabe amargo, pero con tequila se pasa.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space.

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 2 !

warnings. no use of y/n, age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, officer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, so much crying ( reader spends half her time crying over javi p which is honestly a mood ), violence, undetailed depictions of sa ( not javi ), smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 30k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in two parts. part two will be posted within the following weeks.

(it'a nearly 4 am as i post this, please look the other way at any typos or editing errors.)

“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.” “i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”

I cut my nose to save some face You cut your hair and take some space.

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.

It’s something new to fidget with.

On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.

You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.

If you do, you’ll blame him.

Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.

You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.

They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.

Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.

You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?

They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.

The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.

“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”

It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.

There were usually three of them.

"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it makes you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.

“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."

It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.

“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.

Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkempt facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.

Javier Peña was none of that.

The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.

The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.

His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.

It was like, nothing.

And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?

But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?

“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.

His hair, freshly cut.

“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”

A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”

That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped up on your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”

Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.

In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.

We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?

The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.

He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.

It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?

The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.

Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.

He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.

The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.

An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.

You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.

You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.

So you stumble to the elevator.

Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.

You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.

You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.

He catches you.

For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.

He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.

Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.

He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.

You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.

“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad.”

It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.

It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.

It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.

Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.

You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.

Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.

A thud against the nightstand.

You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.

“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”

It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.

He looks like he wants to.

His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.

On the forehead, way up north Pressed the scar and found the source

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.

Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?

Wrong.

The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.

The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.

The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.

They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.

One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.

You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”

Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.

“Why don’cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.

You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.

So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”

And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.

Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.

You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.

“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”

“I have an early flight.”

“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”

A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.

“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.

Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.

He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.

You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.

It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.

He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.

You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.

Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.

“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”

You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.

Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.

There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.

You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.

He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?

“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.

A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.

He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.

The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.

You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.

“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”

He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.

He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.

“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”

You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.

The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.

“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.

You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.

“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.

Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.

You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.

Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.

If you don’t love me, Why’d you act it?

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.

Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.

Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.

You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.

A broken earring.

A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.

Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.

He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.

“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”

“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.

The silence returns.

You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.

He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”

“I don’t underst-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

He’s stern.

Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.

“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”

“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”

Everything, you want to tell him.

For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.

“I just thought-”

“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”

I know, you mouth.

Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.

When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”

Kid.

That makes you angry.

He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”

“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”

“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”

At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.

Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.

He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.

Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.

The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.

“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”

He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.

“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”

Too late, you want to say.

You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.

He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.

You let him invade your senses.

Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-

You pull back. He follows.

It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.

Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.

“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.

There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.

He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.

Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.

This time, you do trip over them.

It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.

He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.

“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later with Javi never seems to come.

‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’

‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.

You’d never gotten those panties back.

You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”

The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.

You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.

“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”

“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.

A splotch of red stains your skin.

“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.

A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.

There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.

“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.

“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”

He’s rambling.

Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”

He chokes.

On his words, on his breath, on his failure.

You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.

Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.

“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”

“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”

“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”

A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.

“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.

“What more could you have done?”

“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”

You whine out his name.

The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.

The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.

He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.

Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.

“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”

The words catch in your throat.

Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.

Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.

The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.

He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.

He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.

When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.

“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”

Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth) Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)

By July, things change.

The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.

The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.

Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.

Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.

Not right now.

Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.

The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.

No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.

You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.

C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!

You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.

The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.

Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.

Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.

All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.

Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.

It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There’s a sting of tears in your eyes.

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.

Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.

You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.

It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.

You’re usually more careful.

You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”

It’s no less than you deserves, you think.

And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.

You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.

He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.

It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.

You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.

You come up empty handed.

Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.

Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?

There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.

Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.

His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.

“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.

He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.

Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.

He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.

“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”

“I- What?” Confussion.

You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.

He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.

Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.

His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.

You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.

And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.

Or both.

“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”

“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”

A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.

Your father’s voice.

It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.

He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.

He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.

You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.

You feel his eyes on you.

And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think I’m alright

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.

She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.

Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.

You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.

You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.

That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.

It’s not her fault. You know.

She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.

Your dad is.

And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!

Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.

All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.

He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.

Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.

And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.

Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.

“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.

“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.

The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.

He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.

“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.

In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.

It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.

Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.

“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”

“London.”

Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.

All eyes snap to him.

Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.

Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.

Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”

That peaks your interest.

Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.

For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”

“Mr... Bond?”

The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”

He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.

The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.

And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.

Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.

“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.

Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”

“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”

“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.

“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.

“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”

“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.

Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.

There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.

You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.

“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.

As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.

“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.

Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.

“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.

And all because you heard his voice.

“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.

And a well-rounded belly.

“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”

You’ve never seen her before.

Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.

She’s a total stranger, to you.

But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.

The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.

The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.

You won’t let it fester.

Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.

It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?

Was he with her, all along, while he was with...

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”

Your heart’s palpitating.

Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.

Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.

Because, how could he do this to you?

Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

At first, you think it’s spoken to you.

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.

The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”

The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”

“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.

And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.

“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.

“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”

You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.

“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”

In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.

Your breathing stops.

Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”

“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”

“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”

“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”

You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.

They walk away and you’re left alone, again.

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.

Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.

I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs So pour the gin and call Graham Norton

You wake up early.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.

Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.

A quarter past six.

Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.

Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.

It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.

In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.

Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.

Your ringtone is the culprit.

Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.

Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.

You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.

“Corazón.”

It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.

You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.

Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.

“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.

“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”

“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.

You sure felt alone.

“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”

“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”

“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”

For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.

You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.

Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.

You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.

“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.

For answers, for clarity, for closure

“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”

“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.

Even then, it kills you to do so.

“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”

Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.

You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.

“What answer?”

“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.

You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.

He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.

“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”

You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.

You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.

The image doesn’t quite form.

“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”

It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.

You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”

“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”

I’m gonna throw you down the river Your mum can watch it over dinner

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.

“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”

Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.

All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.

Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.

She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.

Neither of them have, really.

“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”

“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”

Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.

“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.

Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.

He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.

In fact, you can’t think of anything better.

“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”

He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes. 

Immediately, you spot chicken.

Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.

You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.

Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.

It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.

He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.

And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.

“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.

And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.

Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.

But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.

A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.

Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.

“Was she a good cook?”

Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.

“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.

Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.

A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.

Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.

“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”

You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing. 

It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.

In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.

A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.

“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.

Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.

“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

[ragingbookdragon]

Take A Leap

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Word Count: 2K Warnings: Explicit Language, References to Abuse

**********************************************************************

She didn’t believe him when he told her, her eyes narrowed in a look of suspicion, lips pursed in slight confusion. “We’re gonna go to a bar in the middle of Las Almas…and have a party?”

Soap nodded. “Yeah, Alejandro and Rudy are making preparations for it.”

“Las Almas is still under Narcos control,” she reminded. “This doesn’t seem like a very…thought out plan.”

“That section of the city is under Vaqueros control,” he countered, flicking her forehead, a grin etching his lips when she slapped at his hand with a glare. “Besides, routine patrols will still happen. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

She grunted, turning back to the gun she’d been cleaning. “I beg to differ.”

“So, you’ll come?”

“Of course I will. What kind of person would I be if I skipped out on this?”

Soap raised his hands in success, turning to the door. “Yes! Now to go run down Ghost.”

***

Ghost frowned at the clear liquor the bartender poured into the glass and he stared at it, griping, “What the fuck did you just pour in my glass?”

“Whiskey,” the man replied.

“That is not whiskey.”

“It’s white whiskey,” Alejandro cut in, balancing his weight on a hand atop Ghost’s shoulder as he sat, gesturing for the man to pour another round. “Made from corn from Oaxaca.”

“Looks like tequila,” Ghost countered, yet picked up his glass and took a sip.

“Eh?”

He shrugged. “Had better. Had worse.”

Alejandro grinned and took a sip of his own, turning on the stool to watch his men mingling with the 141. “What’s your drink of choice, hermano?”

“Kentucky.”

“Bourbon?” Alejandro clarified then pursed his lips. “Won’t find Kentucky here.”

“I’ve noticed.” Ghost turned slightly, enough that he could watch the group. “Why the party?”

The Colonel had a fond look on his face. “Give my men a reminder of what we fight for. Not just freedom, but peace, the ability to gather with family and friends with no fear for their lives.” He chuckled as he watched Soap pull a face at the shot of tequila he’d taken, Rudy on the other hand was simply holding his empty shot glass with a carefree grin. Something came over his features, Ghost recognized it as a long-held desire. “I want to see my home free, Ghost. I want to retire in the mountains, have a family. Raise my children and play with my grandchildren when I am old. Telling them stories of my glory days.” He looked at the Brit. “I cannot do that if my men aren’t reminded of what we’re fighting for now.”

Ghost nodded. “You’re a good leader, Alejandro. An even better man.”

“I try to be.” He gazed at the man. “What of you, hermano? What is your desire?”

He snorted, holding the glass up to his lips. “Don’t die before I’m forty.”

“Brindo por eso,” Alejandro laughed, raising his glass, though his expression dropped into one of almost reverence when the doors to the bar opened. “Dios mío,” he breathed. “Esa mujer prende fuego a mi corazón.”

Ghost turned to look at whatever brought out such devotion from the man, and without even understanding what Alejandro had said, he felt the exact same when his eyes fell on Seraph. She wore a simple black cotton dress, the front hand embroidered with vibrant colors, flowers, and swirls; along her wrists and ankles were delicate gold bracelets, a simple pair of black sandals adorned her feet. Her expression was one of sudden regret when she looked at the men and women in the bar, half still dressed in their gear, the other half still armed—her assumptions of the party were in fact very far off. Her hands were in front of her stomach, fingertips touching as she scanned the room for someone she knew, faces blending together until she met dark brown eyes, and her expression eased into a look of pure relief.

“Eres un afortunado hijo de puta, Ghost,” Alejandro murmured.

“Acordado,” he replied as he watched Seraph part the crowd, heading right for him. Ghost swallowed the rest of the liquor in his glass as she stood before him, taking in the true beauty she was. Eyes delicately brushed with a soft shimmer shadow; lips painted with a petal pink.

She looked at Alejandro with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, Colonel, I didn’t realize tonight was not as casual as I had assumed.”

Alejandro rose to his feet, taking one of her hands as he pressed his lips to the back of it, flattered, “Nunca tienes que arrepentirte de agraciarnos con tu belleza, Ángel.”

A smile lit up her face as she pulled her hand away and placed her hands on his shoulder, pulling him in enough to press her cheek to his. “Se gracias, Alejandro, tú también estás guapo esta noche.” As he pulled from her, he winked at Ghost and wandered off towards Rudy and Soap, leaving the two, and she gestured to the seat. “May I?”

He nodded, turning to the bartender. “Margarita de fresa. Congelado, sal en el borde.” The bartender nodded, taking care of her order and she gave Ghost a surprised look.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Enough to order alcohol,” he retorted, voice gruff, but she heard the humor in it. “You look good.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing down bashfully. “I think this is the first time I’ve worn makeup in a year and a half. I forget how much better it makes me look.”

Ghost huffed and blurted, “You look more beautiful without it.” Immediately, he shut his eyes and cursed himself, barely managing to suppress the desire to slap a hand over his face and groan.

Her cheeks warmed and she said, “Thank you, Simon.” She gave a quiet, “Gracias” to the bartender when her drink was placed in front of her, and to avoid the embarrassment, she set to drinking.

“Where’d you even get all this?” he asked, gesturing to her dress and jewelry.

“Oh! I bought it a few days ago when Soap and I went out on patrol. The dress, I mean. The jewelry I had back in my pack.” She tugged at the cotton fabric. “Really cheap, but I paid the woman more than needed for it. Figured she could use the money more than I did.”

“Good heart,” he said.

“I wasn’t a winning contestant for nothing,” she joked, taking a bigger sip from her glass; pushing it over, she offered. “Try it.”

He made a face. “I don’t like tequila.”

“Tough titty, said the kitty,” she griped. “Do it.”

Ghost rolled his eyes and picked up her glass, not bothering to shift the glass around where the salt had been disturbed by her lips and downed a swig of it; swallowing, he set it back down and nodded. “Not bad.”

She smiled, heart flipping in her chest as she tapped at the glass. “Mexican tequila is made differently than the usual stuff we drink back overseas. If you really want good tequila, you’ve gotta get it from the source.”

“What are you? An alcohol connoisseur?”

Huffing a laugh, she replied, “One of the contestants in Miss Earth, Miss Mexico, told me a few years ago. Besides, I’ve taken a few trips around the world. You taste a lot of alcohol when you do.”

“Hmm.”

She went back to her drink, ordering another when hers was finished.

“How’s the wound?”

Her hand subconsciously went to her side, and she smiled. “Good. Still sore when I move a certain way, but the round of antibiotics helped.” Tipping her head, she added, “That being said, I don’t want to be shot again any time soon.”

Ghost snorted. “Then this is not the profession for you, Sweetheart.”

“Oh, it is,” she countered. “It just means I need to get sneaky enough to never be seen again.”

“Good luck. Most people do in fact investigate noises when they hear them.”

She gasped with an exaggerated fashion. “Wait! You mean to tell me that real life isn’t like the video games and movies!”

Ghost rolled his eyes. “You’re such an odd duck.”

“Excuse you, Lieutenant, this is twenty-eight years of suppressed oddness finally being comfortable enough to be unleashed.”

“That’s not pleasing.”

“Not meant to be.” She breathed deeply, letting out a content noise as she gently rested her head on his arm. “I really do feel comfortable here, Simon. With you guys.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, looking down at her, trying so hard not to breathe in the scent of vanilla and lilies that seemingly followed her everywhere.

“My father isn’t a good man, Simon,” she whispered, evidently loose-lipped. “I didn’t have a good childhood.”

Ghost hummed lowly. “You don’t have to tell me now, Seraph. Not here where everyone can listen.”

“But I want you to know,” she said, turning her head to gaze at him, eyes sad. “I…want someone to know.” He nodded wordlessly. “This life now, this job, it’s hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done. I thought I was going to die when I was in training because I knew nothing about survival or guns or war. But I passed and now I’m here doing this.” She gazed at him. “This is the first time in my life that I’ve chosen something for myself. I clawed my way out of his grip to freedom. Even if it meant doing what we do and having to live with the choices I make, I’m free. I’m free.”

He gently lifted a hand, brushing away a fly away as he commended, “I’m proud of you.” Tears filled her eyes, lips wobbling as she turned her head down, and Ghost took her hand, ignoring the sniffling that came from her as he simply brushed his thumb along her hand. “Not just anyone can crawl out of a hellhole, Seraph. It takes real strength and courage to take that leap.” He squeezed her hand firmly but was careful not to hurt her. “I don’t know who your father is, and I don’t care who he is, but you are not him. You are more. You’re better.”

Her sniffling didn’t let up, but she turned her face into his arm and stayed there for a few minutes until she pulled away and glared at him. “I took all this time to be pretty and look what you did.”

And look he did, at the red rims around her eyes, the tear streaks on her cheeks, and if he was being honest, her nose was running a little, so he tossed her a napkin and said, “Wipe your nose, toddler.”

“You’re an ass,” she griped, but did as he told her, sniffing harshly as she wiped her nose and under her eyes before clearing her throat and declaring, “I want to dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Ghost said.

“I didn’t say I was dancing with you,” she countered and leaned up, pecking his cheek; she slid off the barstool and turned, “Alejandro! Baila conmigo!”

Groans echoed around the room, but Alejandro’s shout of pride echoed higher. “¡Ajá! ¡El Ángel bonita me ha elegido!”

Before he could even think about reaching her, someone had her upper arm, spinning her around to a strong chest as another hand rested on her upper back. She gaped at Ghost. “I thought you said you don’t dance?”

“I don’t,” he reiterated.

A knowing look came across her face, and she teased, “Don’t be so green, Simon. It’s unbecoming of a man like you.”

“And yet I’m still a hot-blooded man just like everyone else.”

She smiled as an upbeat tune filtered through the speakers and she took his hands in hers, joy lighting up her face as she spun around. Soldiers from both teams even gathered in, taking the hands of their friends as the group danced together, laughter echoing all around, drinks pouring. Her eyes never left Simon’s, and neither his hers even as they were pulled away and into other arms and circles.

[look-at-the-soul]

Vows Renewal

Cillian Murphy x Mexican reader (blurb)

Request by anon; thank you for sending in this lovely idea! I already had a similar idea with a reader from Brazil so I wanted to make this completely different 🤭 Que lo disfrutes! Enjoy

Translation in English will be in italics 😉

Cillian felt like his face had been hurting from smiling so much.

It was a beautiful evening by the beach with his wife by his side and their loved ones.

Skin sun kissed, the smell of the sea, the crash of the waves softly as if it was the music background, happiness to the max. What could he possibly ask for? If he already had it all…

His closest family members and friends traveled all the way from Ireland to one of the most beautiful places in the world, there was no other place with a sight like this Mexican beach. They chose that place to celebrate their vows renewal because it had a special spot in their hearts as it was the very same place where they celebrated a second wedding -to give the family the chance, they made two small weddings back then both in Ireland and Mexico over ten years ago- and now they just needed another excuse to go back.

It had been an incredible ceremony, they exchanged their rings and vows both in English and Spanish in a private resort, after posing for photos and taking a moment to welcome everyone they had the most delicious dinner and dessert. His kids sitting at each side of them at the table, everyone thought having a Mexican buffet was the greatest idea ever, as they requested all kinds of traditional dishes to be served as well as another table for sweets and spicy desserts that included from glazed churros to grilled corn with different toppings. Drinks flowing in every direction, everyone wearing a contagious smile.

He decided to take it slow with the tequila that night, there would be plenty opportunities to get drunk but he got to celebrate ten years of marriage once.

Spotting the beautiful bride among the people around her, he smiled pleased. Her dress had loads of embroidered flowers made by Mexican artisans.

“Señora [Mrs.] Murphy?” He chuckled at her surprise. “May I have a word with the bride?”

“Mum! Can I’ve some cake?” Azul their daughter asked, interrupting the two of them.

Y/N raised an eyebrow towards the girl. She knew her father would say yes, her eyes sparkled and lighted even more the blue/green tones in her eyes.

“Puedo comer otra rebanada de pastel?” She asked in Spanish this time around.

“Una pequeña, corazón.” [A small piece, sweetheart.] Y/N replied.

“Yo también quiero!” [I want some too] Whined Oisin.

“Está bien.” [Alright] She agreed feeling a pair of arms wrapping around her waist from behind.

“Quiero postre también.” [I want dessert too.] Cillian whispered against her ear, giving her goosebumps all over her skin.

“Esta noche.” [Tonight] She promised turning around in his arms, she wouldn’t mind getting lost in his eyes.

Leaning down for a short kiss, he could feel himself getting lost in that smile that made him go back in time to the first moment he saw her.

“What?”

Cillian shook his head. “Visiting some memories.”

“Oh… may I know about what?”

“From the day we met,” her eyes danced towards his lips, and up again taking in the way the sunset reflected beautifully in his eyes.

Planting both hands on his shoulders, she rose to her tiptoes to find his lips, as her heart swelled with love and pride to remember also, of that day they met in that film festival in France. She had been chatting to a director and he suddenly bumped into her back distracted, after an apology and making sure she was alright, he smiled, after that moment, they spent the rest of the night together and from then on they never spent another night apart.

Well, except when he was filming.

“You want to know a secret?” His arm sneaked around her backless dress. “Señora Murphy.” [Mrs. Murphy.]

“Of course.” She beamed, brushing away the fringe from his forehead.

“I didn’t bump into you accidentally… I wanted to, no, I needed to meet you.”

Just as Y/N was about to reply something when suddenly the mariachi interrupted the party and started signing, the group received them with a chorus of chants and clapping. Bringing more happiness than they already felt.

***

Master list

Blurbs

A/N: I hope you like this! The girl’s name Azul means blue (color) in English but it’s a popular name around 💙 thank you for reading I loved writing this piece!! 🇲🇽♥️

Tag list: @lyarr24 @cillmequick @datewithgianni @cloudofdisney @gretelshelby @gypsy-girl-08 @lespendy @onlydeadcells @fastfan @stevie75 @prettylittlehoneyeyesxoxo @esposadomd @forbidden-forest-witch @ange-thoughts @moral-terpitude @moral-terpitude @elenavampire21 @forgottenpeakywriter @thenattitude @winchestergirl22 @elk96 @heidimoreton @imichelle-l-rigby @allie131313 @already-broken144 @peakyscillian @babaohhhriley @mrkdvidal1989 @shelbydelrey @shaddixlife @sloanexx @sydneyyyya @adaydreamaway08 @pono-pura-vida @thomashelbyswife @darleneslane @lauren-raines-x @everythingelseisextra @kmc1989 @rangerelik @lovemissyhoneybee @ironpen @kittycatcait219 @shelundeadxxxx @kathrinemelissa @autumns-apple @lau219

[chaotic-good-hippie]

Recuérdame 

Pairing: Jack Russell (MCU) x FemReader (she/her) | SoulmateAU!

Summary: After losing his soulmate a little over a century ago, Jack has long forgotten about love, unable to move on. One night, in a nightclub, life gives him a second chance.

Warnings: Age gap (I mean, the man is 357 here), if you squint your eyes there are some sexual innuendos at the end, mentions of death, non-descriptive reader (but reader does drink tequila at some point)

Translations: Corazón (endearment term) - Heart | Mi vida - My life | Amor mío - My love | Querida - Dear | Por favor - Please | Te amo - I love you

Inspire by: "Recuérdame" cover by Natalia Lafourcade ft. Carlos Rivera

Tags: @littlenosoul | @bitchyglitterfox | @lilpunkrock | @kingtwhiddleston

«How terrible it’s to love something death can touch», especially if one is immune to it. Jack knew from the moment their eyes locked with each other's that he was bound to lose her eventually, that someday he’d have to watch her die, and there was nothing he— or anyone else— could do about it. He convinced himself he'll be prepared for it, let her go in peace when the time came. But heavens, did he underestimate how cruel destiny could be. 

She started coughing on Monday morning, and by Wednesday night, she was gone. Jack couldn’t understand how it all happened so fast and why life had been so vicious with them both. The doctor, the best money could pay, said it was just the flu and that she’ll recover in days without further problems; yet, Jack could feel her slipping through his fingers with each passing hour. The cough gave place to a burning fever that forced her to bed, and by the next morning, she had trouble breathing as she came in and out of consciousness. 

Desperate, he called every doctor, nurse, and healer in town and begged them to save his dear wife's life in exchange for whatever riches they desired. They tried everything their knowledge and skills allowed them to cure her and, at the very least, ameliorate the symptoms, but it was useless. He could see it in their faces, in the way they avoided certain words around him and their worried glances towards her. 

Wednesday afternoon, everyone was sent home at her request, leaving them all by themselves in the mansion they had shared for seven blissful years. Enveloped in the darkness of night, the halls and rooms felt cold and devoid of life, the only sign of their presence coming from their bedroom: The faint light of a candle. It stood up by her bedside table, lighting up her wan face as he sat on a chair next to it, his head resting on her abdomen. 

“I’m sorry.” Her voice came out as a breathy whisper as her tender fingers scratched behind his ear. “I’m terribly sorry, my love.” 

“Don’t be; it’s not your fault.” It took everything in him not to break down into a puddle of tears and a mess of sobs. “You’ve been nothing but good to me.” 

"Promise me you'll find another to keep you company." The request caught him off guard, his teary eyes turning to her in disbelief. "You're too pure for this world, my love. I'm afraid to leave you for all those terrors out there to feast upon you."

"Corazón, mi vida..." He took her hands between his to kiss her knuckles, his heart shattering into a million pieces inside his chest. He couldn't believe that even in her last moments, she was worried about him, the utter devotion and love she had for him. "I... I can't. I could never..." 

"Jack, please, please." How could he deny her anything when she looked at him with such profound despair? "I want... No, I need you to be happy. I'll always be with you, no matter what; whenever you may be, I'll follow... But you can't be on your own for who knows how long, my love. I don't want you to be alone."

"Alright." He kissed her chapped lips delicately as he nodded. "I promise I won't be alone; you don't have to worry about me no more, amor mío." 

"I love you." 

"I love you too. You're the most beautiful thing that could ever happen to me." 

He couldn't hold it anymore: a sob escaped from his lips as the first tear slid down his cheek. She was quick to dry it, and while he leaned against her palm with closed eyes, she softly stroked his hair. 

"There better be a sea of marigolds and tequila on the altar this November, or I'll haunt you for the rest of eternity." She tried joking in hopes of seeing his smile one last time. 

«Haunt me then! Be with me always— take any form— drive me mad! Only do not leave in this abyss, where I cannot find you!» Never had he understood Heathcliff's pain as much as he did then. Still, to avoid disturbing her further, he smiled and hugged her waist tighter. 

"Whatever you desire, querida." 

They remained silent after that, her loving touch and faint breath lulling him into sleep not long after. It was the rays of dawn that filtered through the closed curtains that woke him up hours later, the candle far extinguished. He didn't even need to look; her cold and stiff hands revealed that his greatest fear had come true. 

"Vuelve a mi, corazón. Por favor, por favor..." He'd never cried so hard in his entire life, his face pressed against her chest as he repetead as a chant: "Te amo, te amo, te amo..." 

Jack buried a part of himself with her, but the truth is, all he wanted was to end his misery and lay with her three feet underground. The first few weeks after the funeral, he found it impossible to get off their shared bed in an aching attempt to hold onto the lingering scent of her in the sheets. But when it vanished, along with all the remains of her presence in the mansion, he sold it and moved as far as he could. As for his promise, he couldn’t keep it; he couldn’t find it in himself to even look at any other, no matter how much time passed. He carried her deep in his chest, in that corner of his heart where he had built her a perpetual altar. 

Years, decades, and a whole century passed, but the sorrow never truly disappeared; he just learned to live with it. Still, if one is observant enough and looks at him closely, one would find an ever-present mourning in his eyes. 

In the darkness of this club, though— he thinks— you won't even be able to see your own shoes. 

Every year since he met him, Ted will drag him and a bunch of other monsters to this particular nightclub in his town for Halloween. It's the only night of the year in which they can easily blend in with the humans without fearing the hunters, and a dark, crowded club is an excellent place to hide in plain sight. Typically, Jack would never set foot in a place like that, but for his friend, he'd withstand all the noise for some hours. 

"Why is it that with every year, it gets stinkier in here?" Simon asks as they make their way to a table, the neon lights flashing them occasionally. 

She's right; it reeks of alcohol and sweat, but it isn't even that bad. Besides, something sweet and pleasant is hiding among the crowd, luring Jack deeper into the place; it's familiar and welcoming, but he can't identify why. 

"What is it, doggie?" Shiklah questions him after noticing his distracted demeanor, his eyes scanning the place. "Too much for an old wolf?" 

"No, it's just... Can't any of you smell that? There's a weird scent in here." 

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." Satana mocks him, making the others laugh. 

As they sit and start catching up with each other, Jack finally identifies where he had smelled that aroma before, making his heart stop for a second. 

An interesting thing about humans (and monsters, too) is that each one possesses a unique scent, and while their noses cannot identify this, his canine nature allows him to easily make the distinction. This is why he believes to be hallucinating when his brain finally puts a name and face to the aroma currently invading his nostrils. He knows that scent to its core; it's embedded in his skin and memory like a scar, one he had pushed to the back of his mind long ago for survival. It lights something within him, a part of him he believed to have been buried in a faraway land beside the one and only woman he's ever loved. 

Jack jumps out of his seat, looking around him in confusion and longing. Whoever smells like that is getting closer, approaching their spot as he circles the table and tries to locate them. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry," He answers Ted, who asked him if he's alright as the others look at him baffled. "I just need to..." 

Distracted and blinded by the darkness, Jack bumped into a woman as he tried to excuse himself away from his friends, something spilling on his shirt. 

"Chin! I'm terribly sorry!" 

"Oh, no, don’t be; it’s not your fault!" The voice makes him freeze in his tracks, hands trembling. "I didn't see you there; it's too dark in here." 

His gaze slowly lifts from the dark floor to the face of the woman in front of him, her face slightly illuminated by neon blue light. Her eyes lock with his, the faintest sign of familiarity in them, and god was he convinced for a moment to have died. Before him, there's a ghost; literally, she's dressed up as one: flowy white dress and dark makeup. Even in the dim, he can recognize all the marks and lines he'd traced so many times with his fingers, the curve of the lips he'd kissed endless times, and the irises he woke up to for seven years in what seems like a lifetime ago. 

She looks just as when he first met her, her tone and movements are identical copies of hers, and she scents the exact fucking same. It drives him wild; it makes him hot and needy. He just wants to jump at her and hug her, smell her, kiss her, taste her... 

"Lucifer!" Shiklah's voice wakes him from his trance. "You are the walking portrait of..." He steps on her foot to shut her up, earning a yelp from her part. The others turn to check on her, allowing Jack to apologize without feeling their stares on them. 

"Damn it, I think I stained your shirt." she points to his chest, where a big wet spot lies: tequila, the smell tells him.

"It's nothing, really; I was distracted as well... Could I offer to buy you another?" 

"You know? There are better ways to approach a woman than spilling her drink, pretty boy." His cheeks immediately burn; heavens, did he miss her coquetry. 

"It worked, didn't it?" She laughs, a sound that crosses directly to his death-hollow heart and reanimates it from his century-long sleep.

"I usually don't accept drinks from strangers, but I think I could make an exception for you." 

"I'm Jack Russell, at your service, señorita." Slowly, he took her hand and kissed the back of it, his gaze fixed on hers. "And you are...?"

She gave him the same name his lips were used to pronounce as a prayer in another life, one his tongue rolled off with such naturalness it seemed tailored to it.  

"Not so much of a stranger now, eh? Now, how about that drink?" 

"The bar is over there." She pointed to his left. "Want me to lead you, Jack?" 

His heart fluttered as she looped her arm with his, guiding him across the floor with a seductive smile on her lips. 

[estupidonefilim]

Pensaba que un cambio de look y mucho tequila curarian un corazón roto, me equivoque. Ahora tengo el cabello rojo intenso y una resaca terrible.

[caostalgia]

Naranja

Sentado en mi cabaña masajeando mi barba, Miro al cielo recordando mi niñez y a la bella Alba.

Corriendo y jugando bajo el atardecer, Dando vueltas alrededor de la fogata, Al sol de los venados dejándonos caer, Entre gerberas naranjas riendo a más no poder.

Nos damos vuelta mirándonos fijamente, Sus ojos llameantes, color fuego, Me absorben en un espiral de llamas, Como aquella foto del agujero negro.

En medio del trance, enfocado en su mirada, Siento acercarse su leve aroma a mandarina, Suavemente me susurra "Estoy enamorada" Mi corazón se agita, inyección de adrenalina.

Me sorprendo sintiendo sus suaves labios, Dulces y embriagantes como un buen tequila, Apasionantes y azucarados, con sabor a naranja, Siento que es un sueño pero no sabe a mentira.

Se aleja de mi y mi mente vuelve a la cabaña, Me despierto del trance y vuelvo a su mirada, "Sonreías mientras soñabas" me dice calmada, Mis ojos se ponen llorosos, abrazo a mi amada.

"Soñaba con nuestra juventud dorada, Soy tan afortunado de tenerte mi amada, Disfruto del espectro solar en tu mirada. Siempre que te veo, oh mi querida Alba, Un calor familiar me envuelve el alma Y tu existencia llena todo mi ser de calma"

Nuestro amor parece ruborizar a la Pachamama, El sol se oculta tímido en la explanada, Las hojas de otoño crujen entre risas, Las nubes en tonalidad anaranjada Nos mandan sus caricias en suaves brisas.

Abrazados en nuestra cabaña, Nos llenamos de una paz innombrable. Sentimos el calor de nuestro amor, Incondicional e Innegable.

Recordamos una vez más nuestra infancia tierna, Miramos al cielo, Agradecemos nuestra unión Eterna. ~Midnight Coffee.

[soapskneebrace]

For the gaz request thing, how about a latina! Reader whose teaching him how to dance but hes failing miserably (the reader is supportive and patient but also cant help but tease him little) and hes getting flustered over all the spanish petnames the reader calls him (amor, corazón, precioso, principe)

Maybe gaz wanted to learn how to dance so he can make a good impression on the reader parents and family on Next week's family bbq/get toghether. And maybe hes feeling a little bit bad and ashamed that he cant get the steps right (he does eventually!)

Thanks in advance!

You are not worried in the slightest about this weekend, but Gaz is worrying enough for the both of you.

“Come on, just show me the steps again,” he says, shoulders sloped, annoyed as you grin at him.

All it is is an uncle’s birthday, and not even a special one. Sure, your family doesn’t know how to celebrate anything quietly, and sure, your great aunt may or may not have a band on speed dial, but that was no reason for Kyle to be so nervous.

“You know you’re not gonna get banned from the family just because you can’t dance, right?” you say. “My mom likes you too much, guapo.”

He holds out his hands. “Still.”

You step into position, guiding his hands to the right place. “Baby, no one’s gonna blame you if you can’t salsa like a pro.”

“Doesn’t your cousin compete?” asks Gaz, leading you a little clumsily into the first three steps. He gets the spin right—it’s his favorite part, he’s told you—but somewhere after it he loses the rhythm, and you have to lead him back to it.

“He doesn’t win,” you answer. “Besides, the dancing doesn’t start until after drinks. I promise you’re not gonna embarrass yourself.”

Almost on cue, Gaz nearly trips on his own feet.

You keep a tight grip on his hand so he can’t pull away from you in frustration, and catch his gaze as he tries to stare down at his own feet as you start again.

“Listen, this is how it’s gonna go,” you say. Your feet find the steps easily. “Dad will make way too much food, and mom will try to feed you until you explode. My grandparents will try to ask you too many questions about work.”

He spins you, and this time he doesn’t trip over himself. When you meet his eyes again, they’re fixed on you, gorgeously dark and still filled with anxiety. You smile, and let the music carry you along as you put a hand on his cheek.

“My cousins will try to pour you too many drinks. Don’t drink Alberto’s tequila, it’s awful. Tio Miguel will want to cut the cake early, so we will, and then Alma will get the music started because she doesn’t know how to sit still.”

You can feel it when Gaz starts to step to the rhythm—one, two three, pause, one, two, three. All of his attention is on you, and the nervous energy that has suffused him all evening is visibly dissipating.

You pull him into a turn. “And then, as long as we’re dancing, I’ll get to have you all to myself.”

The furrowed line of his brow softens. “You always have me.”

You lean in to flick the tip of your nose with his—something that had happened on accident, the first time he kissed you, that had sent you both into nervous giggles. The last of the tension keeping Kyle’s spine unusually straight leaves his body, and he kneads his fingers into your back.

“And since I know you can do it now,” you say, as the two of you make it back to the dance’s beginning, “I won’t be afraid of getting stepped on.”

Kyle’s brows lift. “Oh!” He looks down at his feet, then back at you. “Oh. Huh.”

You grin. “Next thing you know, we’ll be sweeping competition season.”

“Wouldn’t go that far, doll.”

[suzukis-posts]

𝗛𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗼𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 - 𝗦𝗖𝗢𝗧𝗧 𝗣𝗜𝗟𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗠

Heterocurious!Scott Pilgrim x Gay!Male!Reader

𝗔𝗗𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗜𝗔: Menciones y efectos de alcohol, masturbación mutua, sexo semi público, engaño, NSFW en general.

────────────────────────────

Mientras los ritmos palpitantes de la música techno resonaban en la casa de Julie, Scott se encontró mirando al hermano mayor de Ramona. Scott estaba on la mirada fija en ti, estabas bebiendo un c��ctel rojo brillante. Ligeramente borracho por demasiados brebajes alcohólicos estabas en un mar de hormonas alimentadas por la atmósfera de fiesta.

Scott sintió una atracción desconocida hacia ti, a pesar de ser heterosexual hasta este momento de su vida no podía evitar sentir cierta atracción curiosa hacía tu persona en general. Ramona no estaba a la vista alrededor de Scott, probablemente estaba bebiendo con Kim algo de tequila mexicano, así que no pasó mucho tiempo antes de que sus caminos se cruzaran mientras se abrían paso entre la multitud de personas las cuales estaban bailando música de la época.

── Hola. ── Murmuró Scott suavemente cerca de tu oído, esto debido al volumen de la música mientras se rozaban.

Un sutil olor a perfume barato mezclado con cuerpos sudorosos asaltó las fosas nasales de Scott al acercarse a tu cuerpo con la misma brusquedad. El olor pareció intensificar algún deseo secreto que había estado latente dentro de él. Dudó pero se lanzó hacia adelante de todos modos más cerca de tu cuerpo, aferrándose a una audacia que ni siquiera sabía que existía dentro de él.

── ¿Quieres tomar un poco de aire? Escuché que hay un balcón aquí. ── Un sonrojo apareció en tus mejillas al oír a Scott, la proximidad en la cuál estaba Scott causó cierto cosquilleo en ti.

Asientes vacilante, no sabiendo como sentirte en estos momentos debidos a los efectos del alcohol, sintiendo la inusual atracción de Scott y sin oponerse exactamente a la idea. Ambos subieron una escalera de caracol poco iluminada y adornada con unos pequeños grafitis hasta que finalmente llegaron al balcón donde el aire frío de la noche los recibió.

Los brillantes letreros de neón del centro de Toronto parpadeaban en su periferia mientras se apoyaban en la barandilla de hierro forjado, con los rostros apartados el uno del otro pero sus miradas atraídas hacia ella.

El corazón de Scott latía salvajemente dentro de su pecho como si lo instase a perseguir este anhelo secreto que había estado cargando dentro de su cuerpo. ── Tú... no quiero forzarte a nada, pero... ── Se detuvo sin estar seguro de hasta dónde había llegado. Estaba dispuesto a aventurarse por este curioso camino.

Un suave suspiro escapó de tus labios, ya suponías esta pequeña invitación, murmuras un suave ── Continúa. ── Alentado por esta ligera aceptación de insinuaciones que no deberían ocurrir entre él y tú, comparten un momento de borrachera en una de las fiestas infestadas de Julie, Scott se mostró más audaz.

── Yo simplemente... no puedo alejar mis pensamientos de tí... desde que te vi por primera vez sentí una especie de... sentimiento en mi cuerpo. ── Las palabras flotaron en el aire de la noche mientras Scott sentía que sus mejillas ardían más a cada segundo.

Se sentía realmente confundido, no sabía si debía sentirse bien, mal o aliviado con respecto a su confesión. Scott se consideraba heterosexual y realmente amaba a Ramona pero se sentía realmente extraño o curioso cada vez que te veía.

Se obligó a mirar en tu dirección y observa una mezcla de curiosidad, sorpresa y tal vez incluso emoción parpadeando dentro de tus ojos que parecían tan misteriosos en medio de la tenue iluminación.

Acortas ligeramente la distancia entre él hasta que sus cuerpos están a centímetros de distancia. ── Tal vez... deberíamos intentar algo. Si es que es así como te sientes. ── A pesar de que estabas borracho, ambos eran conscientes de lo electrizante que se sentía esta conexión física.

Scott sintiendo un entusiasmo arrastrándose en tu comportamiento, se acercó aún más hasta que sus labios finalmente se encontraron con tus labios en un suave beso, era suave, cálido y provocativo con la tentación suficiente para avivar aún más sus deseos.

Mientras te inclinabas más profundamente hacia el beso de Scott, una inesperada ola de necesidad lo invadió. Tus manos encontraron su camino alrededor del cuello de Scott y tiraron juguetonamente, una clara señal de que querías más de este extraño afecto cuya mera presencia había provocado hambre secreta en lo más profundo de tu cuerpo.

Sintiéndose envalentonado por la respuesta que estaba recibiendo Scott por tu parte, su pasión se hizo más feroz; sus propias manos se movieron hacia arriba para cubrir la parte posterior de tu cabeza mientras se presionaba más contra ti, vertiendo cada pedacito de deseo en su beso que gradualmente se volvió insaciablemente caliente.

Mientras se alejaban jadeando por respirar, compartieron una mirada rebosante con pensamientos no expresados, pensamientos que prometían mucho más que una simple conexión fugaz.

No sabías como sentirte al respecto, sabías que Scott estaba saliendo con tu hermana Ramona pero él sentía esta curiosidad por el deseo de experimentar contigo.

Querías más y él también.

La electricidad entre ambos se intensificó, dejándolos ansiosos por explorar más.

Sin ningún reconocimiento verbal, te inclinas más cerca del oído de Scott, tu aliento era cálido y embriagador mientras susurrabas sensualmente. ── Quiero mostrarte algo.

Llevas a Scott de la mano hacia una de las habitaciones vacías de Julie. La habitación estaba llena de cojines, débilmente iluminados por la luz parpadeante; era perfecto para lo que tenías en mente.

Te hundes sobre una pila de cojines de felpa antes de tirar de Scott a tu lado hasta que estuvieron muslo con muslo. Sus ojos se encontraron con los tuyos, rebosantes de lujuria cruda que ahora era inconfundible.

Los ojos de Scott recorrieron tu cuerpo, deteniéndose en la suave extensión de piel revelada por tu camiseta ligeramente desordenada. No pudo evitar sentir un anhelo tácito por lo que había debajo de esos jeans tuyos, un deseo que sabía que no debería existir entre tú y él.

Como si leyeras sus pensamientos, frotas suavemente el muslo de Scott; la caricia provocadora lo hizo estremecerse de deseo mientras enviaba una ráfaga de calor recorriendo sus venas. Scott gimió suavemente cuando tu mano se movió por encima de su muslo, el calor que irradiaba lo hizo desear más contacto. Se acercó y dudó por una fracción de segundo antes de pasar delicadamente sus dedos a lo largo de la suave curva de tu cadera de a través del material de mezclilla que la cubría, una tentadora vista previa de lo que realmente quería sentir contra su piel.

El corazón de Scott latía salvajemente mientras sus dedos se deslizaban hacia abajo, finalmente enganchándose debajo de la cintura de tus jeans. La sensación de tu cálida piel suave contra su palma lo hizo gemir profundamente, una acción que te llevó a inclinarte y besarlo apasionadamente mientras acercabas a Scott a tu brazo.

Tus manos comenzaron a vagar libremente sobre el cuerpo del otro con un hambre voraz que rayaba en la desesperación; La ropa se descartaba sin ningún cuidado real por la discreción, a medida que se perdían cada vez más en sus crecientes pasiones.

Scott se encontró deleitando con la vista de tu pecho, tus contornos brillando bajo la luz de la ligera luz que emitía la lámpara. Scott, sin mucho apuro, pasó sus dedos por tu hebras de cabello húmedo que cubrían tu ligero rostro sudado antes de arrastrar sus manos hacia tus abdominales que temblaban con cada respiración entrecortada.

Te acercas aún más a Scott, juntando sus cuerpos ligeramente desnudos. El intenso calor generado por la excitación de Scott era innegable ahora, prácticamente quemó el aire a su alrededor mientras Scott se apoyaba contra tu cuerpo. Como si estuvieran controlados por alguna fuerza invisible, sus dedos comenzaron a explorar más hacia abajo hasta que alcanzaron el objetivo final del deseo: tu erección ya endurecida que se liberó de tu prisión de mezclilla y se frotó con entusiasmo contra la propia longitud hinchada de Scott.

Con un gemido de placer que sonó casi de dolor, Scott bajó la cabeza para succionar uno de tus pezones tensos, su boca lo reclamaba con tal necesidad y urgencia que no pudo evitar imaginar cuánto mejor sabría.

Dejas escapar un suspiro tembloroso cuando la lengua de Scott pasó por tu pezón provocativamente antes de envolverlo por completo. Arqueas tu espalda ante el tacto, sintiendo una explosión de placer dispararse directamente a tu ingle, donde ambos miembros se frotaban entre sí en círculos rítmicos; cada frote iba acompañada de un gemido que escapaba desde lo más profundo del interior de Scott.

El olor a sudor mezclado con almizcle llenó el aire entre ambos mientras sus caderas se frotaban implacablemente una contra la otra buscando una fricción que acercara aún más ambos clímax. Scott no pudo resistir más: sus manos se movieron aún más abajo hasta que se envolvieron alrededor de tu duro eje, mientras su pulgar acariciaba la sensible hendidura en tu punta.

Un escalofrío recorrió tu espalda mientras echabas la cabeza hacia atrás con un jadeo de éxtasis, entregándote por completo a este acto salvaje de lujuria apasionada.

Tu propia mano encontró su camino hacia la palpitante longitud de Scott que pulsaba ansiosamente contra tí, tus dedos se entrelazaron y comenzaron a moverse juntos en un ritmo cada vez más frenético que reflejaba sus corazones acelerados.

A medida que se perdían más en este abrazo desinhibido, lleno sólo de un deseo puro por los cuerpos del otro, ambos pudieron sentir algo sorprendente creciendo en lo más profundo de ellos: una explosión esperando justo en el borde antes de derramarse como una fuerza incontrolable que ninguno de los dos había experimentado nunca en el exterior. Sus propias fantasías solitarias hasta esta noche bajo el techo de Julie, muy por encima de las luces de la ciudad de Toronto que parpadean muy por debajo de ellos.

Scott jadeó bruscamente cuando su orgasmo estalló repentinamente con tal ferocidad que amenazó con consumirlo por completo. Agarró tu eje con más fuerza, acercando tu erección contra él mientras chorros de esperma caliente estallaban en cuerdas que pintaban sus cuerpos y cojines a su alrededor, un testimonio de la cruda pasión que los había llevado a ambos al límite en un bruma de puro éxtasis.

Un segundo después, sientes una rigidez en respuesta, gimiendo fuerte mientras derramabas tu propia semilla sobre la mano y el abdomen de Scott mientras enterrabas tu rostro profundamente en el cuello de Scott, jadeando pesadamente como si acabaras de correr una maratón.

Cuando su respiración comenzó a disminuir, Scott se acercó suavemente a tu cuerpo apoyándose cómodamente en una de tus extremidades sudorosas; Se sentía como si acabaran de compartir una experiencia mucho más intensa que la que cualquier simple acto físico podría ofrecer. Con un suspiro de satisfacción, Scott acarició con sus dedos tu cabello húmedos de tu cabeza, un pequeño gesto de afecto que parecía perfectamente adecuado para el tierno momento en el que se encontraban atrapados.

Mientras Scott miraba tu rostro sonrojado, no pudo evitar desear más. El deseo que se había desatado entre tú y él era ahora más fuerte que nunca; quería probar cada centímetro tu cuerpo desnudo y enterrarse profundamente dentro de él, reclamándolo de la manera más íntima posible. Tomando suavemente tu nuca, Scott bajó la cabeza y devoró tu boca en un beso ardiente lleno de hambre cruda; su lengua se hundió ansiosamente para explorar cada grieta hasta que ambos quedaron sin aliento.

Scott se apartó ligeramente del beso, mirándote a los ojos con una intensidad que no dejaba lugar a malas interpretaciones.

── Te necesito. ── Susurró Scott con voz ronca mientras sus manos comenzaban a recorrer tu cuerpo una vez más, esta vez trazando un camino hacia tus muslos extendidos ante él.

No pudo resistir más; Agachándose con cuidado sobre sus rodillas entre tus piernas, se inclinó hacia adelante para presionar un suave beso contra tu erección palpitante que todavía goteaba semen y deseo. Con una mano alrededor de él suavemente, Scott te mira través de párpados pesados llenos de intención lujuriosa mientras murmuraba seductoramente ── Déjame montarte...

Respiras hondo ante la petición de Scott, tus ojos brillaban de deseo mientras contemplabas la hermosa vista que se desarrollaba ante ti. Incapaz de resistir más, lentamente abres más las piernas mientras te levantabas ligeramente, una invitación que Scott no podía ignorar.

Subiendo suavemente a bordo, Scott se colocó entre tus muslos hasta que ambos miembros rozaban ligeramente; Por un momento vertiginoso, simplemente se miraron el uno al otro, perdidos en un intenso intercambio de deseo y anticipación antes de finalmente Scott se alineará, listo para montarte. Ambos suentan un gemido de satisfacción.

Cuando sus cuerpos se fusionaron, Scott comenzó a montarte a un ritmo lento que fue ganando velocidad constantemente a medida que sus caderas se movían más y más rápido. El placer fue abrumador: recorrió cada nervio con sensaciones exquisitas que nunca quiso que terminaran. Gimió profundamente mientras se hundía más en tu erección enterrada dentro de él; apretándolo con fuerza, queriendo más de lo que se sentía tan increíblemente bien.

Tus dedos se clavaron en la cintura de Scott mientras lo observas moverse encima de ti; su propio clímax ya se estaba construyendo constantemente. ── Mierda, sí... móntame más rápido... ── Jadeas y gruñes con voz ronca, tu voz estaba llena de deseo crudo que coincidía con cada movimiento de Scott.

Cada vez más cerca del borde del éxtasis, Scott comenzó a empujar aún más rápido hasta que su piel se unió húmedamente a la tuya en una embriagadora mezcla de sudor y arousal a su alrededor como una niebla sensual.

── A-Ah~ _______, mmm.. más r-rápido... ── El orgasmo de Scott se estrelló sobre él con tal fuerza que lo dejó momentáneamente sin aliento, cada músculo de su cuerpo se apretó con fuerza alrededor de ti, ordeñandolo con fuerza hasta que otra ola de placer lo invadió y estalló una vez más, cubriendo ambos.

El abdomen de Scott estaba cubierto por su propio esperma caliente. Perdido en esta neblina eufórica, Scott se desplomó sobre ti enterrando su rostro profundamente en el hueco de tu cuello mientras su corazón latía salvajemente al igual que el tuyo, conectados no solo por el deseo sino también por algo más profundo, más crudo; algo que desafiaba cualquier intento de explicación.

Aunque sabía que esto no era más que un fugaz encuentro en la fiesta de Julie y podría haber sido fruto de la lujuria alimentada por el alcohol, por ahora, ambos chicos estaban perdidos en esta burbuja donde los deseos habían chocado y entrelazado de manera tan inesperada.

[tengomilpalabrasparati]

¿Dónde estás amor de mis futuros días?

Varias personas se han intentado disfrazar de ti, pero al final a todos se les cae la máscara.

No soy impaciente pero me muero de ganas por conocerte. Ojalá no tardes mucho, ya estoy cansada de besar los labios equivocados, mis oídos de tantas mentiras se están quedando sordos y mi piel reseca necesita caricias.

Las noches últimamente son muy frías, cuando ando por la calle mis manos están vacías, llevo varios meses sin buen sexo, no tengo a quién dedicarle canciones ni con quién ir al cine para manosearnos y tal vez mirar la película, no tengo a quién mandarle mensajes de buenos días ni a quién decirle mis más sinceros "te quiero".

Aún no te conozco, pero no sabes las ganas que tengo de verte, ya te he soñado en mi cama y en mi vida varias veces. Necesito por las mañanas un abrazo y un beso de despedida, por las tardes con quién compartir la comida y por las noches hablar de cómo estuvo nuestro día, para terminar en la cama siendo objetos de nuestras más pervertidas fantasías.

Si aún no es el turno de estar juntos, lo entiendo, soy muy paciente, tal vez te encuentre por culpa del destino leyendo en la banca de algún jardín tu libro favorito o tal vez me veas entre tanta gente sentado bebiendo una cerveza en algún bar o tal vez en algún viaje o en algún concierto. Seré paciente a que la magia del destino actúe sobre nosotros.

Si estás roto y te encuentras en proceso de sanación, ojalá llegues a leer esto; te regalo este consejo para antes de nuestro encuentro:

��Dicen que viajar puede sanar hasta a un corazón en fase terminal; así que viaja mucho, ahorra y vuelve a viajar, enamórate de esos bonitos lugares, prueba su comida, habla con su gente nativa, tómate algunos tequilas o algunas cervezas, canta y sal de rumba, pero sobre todo besa algunas bocas y pon atención en su mirada, para que cuando llegue el día en que nos conozcamos, observes bien mis ojos y pruebes mis labios, y así, no te quede ninguna duda de que soy la indicada”.

Por favor no tardes, amor de mis futuros días.

ℜ𝔬𝔰𝔞🖤

[escritosycaos]

Amarte

Un día me encontré soñando, como si se trátese de una película, que cualquier corazón herido podría identificar, me encontraba contigo caminado en la playa y que me llevabas de la mano, y a los pocos segundos desapareciste y me encontraba sola, desperté y cayó una lagrima, pero estas aquí siento un alivio y se que el futuro es incierto. Así que voy amarte como si te estuviera perdiendo, te abrazare como si nunca te volviera a ver, donde sea y cuando sea nunca daré esto que te tenemos por perdido, porque nunca sabremos cuando nos quedemos sin tiempo . En un abrir y cerrar de ojos, solo bastó un suspiro, solo bastó una mirada podrías perderlo todo pero la verdad es que usted no sabe que en estos momentos doy mi vida por ti, te besare con más tiempo cariño cada vez que tenga la oportunidad para hacerlo, y haré que cada minuto valga y que sean de amor libre de culpas, démonos el tiempo para expresar lo que sentimos, aprovechemos el tiempo que tenemos antes de que el tiempo pase porque el futuro es impredecible. Pero te amare como si mi vida dependiera de ello y abrazarte como si te fuera a perder. S.G🍷💙

[punto-seguido]

Pequeña

Eres increíble, pero ahorita andas un poquito apagada, y está bien, algunas veces es necesaria la lluvia para que todo se vuelva a poner verdecito. Yo sé que lo sabes, pero por si las dudas, espero que hoy recojas tu pelo y desempolves las sonrisas, porque eres un arte bien bonito, porque vales la jodida pena y porque ningún pendejo va apagarte ese brillo de otra galaxia. Así que no hay pedo, date, agüítate un poquito y luego le rompemos la madre a las tristezas con cancioncitas ricas y chingo de helado, tarde riendo con tus amigas y noches bailando, películas románticas y uno que otro poema que te haga brillar los ojitos. En serio, vas a salir de esta, a veces pasa que un corazón roto se siente como el fin del mundo, pero no, tranqui, dale calma, toma cafecito, vino o tequila pa' recuperarte el alma, deja que el tiempo haga lo suyo, ponte guapa y guíñale al espejo, que ese amor chingon con el que sueñas va a llegarte. Pero por lo mientras pequeña, enamórate bien cabrón de ti y anda a comerte el mundo tu solita🫂🥰

[beaute-agonizante]

Primera noche en esta casa.

Lydia dormida, después de un gran día donde pasó tantas emociones. Pero contenta al fin.

Yo? Más estable de lo que había estado este año. En esta ciudad que llamaremos Infierno.

Tomando whisky con mi corazón abierto, no cuento mis malestares para no causar malos entendidos.

Buenas noches, buenos días. La marihuana me adormece, el tequila me mantiene el corazón caliente. Agradezco, y voy a desaparecer. En mi misma, pues, tanto lo añoré. Las pastillas? Mi rutina. Discapacitada, pero aún con vida.

Buenas noches, amoramor mío.

[leregirenga]

Sigo llevando a mí México conmigo, en el corazón, en la palma de la mano, en mi sangre...

Lo llevo y digo con orgullo que soy mexicano, de la tierra del tequila y el mariachi, de la gente buena y que con una sonrisa abre las puertas de su tierra y te ofrece lo mejor que hay en ella.

Por eso digo: ¡Que viva México! Hoy, mañana, siempre.

Leregi Renga