#poema skins | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liminalpebble · 4 months

Text

Between the Lines, Chapter 3

Masterlist

Pairing: Femme reader x Loki Pre-Thor 1 AU

CW: Allusions to sexual slavery dubcon/noncon within the society. Power imbalance. Eventual smut with questionable consent. Minors DNI.

AN: This will be a multi-parter but not a particularly long one, so if I leave you hanging between chapters, I promise it won't be particularly long before it all comes together.

Chapter 3

“Please, select a book, darling. Whatever your heart desires. I want you to read to me.”

His voice is hypnotic, calculated but somehow still seductive. You begin to move towards the shelves again in the same trance-like gait, eyes glued to the rows of beautiful volumes.

Until...

“Why?” you ask turning abruptly to face him. Despite all his charm, all his spells, your inquisitive nature still manages to break them.

“I beg your pardon,” he retorts.

“Why?” you repeat, swallowing your fear to step closer. “Why all this? There are hundreds of subjects, of all genders, who spend years learning to be perfect concubines and courtesans. They dream of being called to serve a royal. It's one of the oldest professions, and in my opinion, no less noble than my own.”

“But Sire,” you say, stilling your rambling words, and regaining formality, “I'm an academic from a barely-noble house. I'm surprised that you know I exist, much less that you'd summon me to serve you this way. And now, here I am. Ordered to your bedchambers, but instead you take me to your library and tell me...to read to you?”

Loki's face turns grim and dangerous for a moment; clearly taken aback. You'd swear that this is the first genuine reaction you've gleaned from him. Then there's something else, a subtle blush to his pale cheeks. Is he...embarrassed...shy?

Whatever it is, a strange mask of artificial glee rapidly replaces it.

His voice lowers to a gravely rasp, “My my... you do have spirit after all. I was wondering when it would make an appearance.”

Loki stalks closer, his incisive glare never leaving you as he asks, “And what right does a subject have to question her prince, hmm?”

He grimaces and, lightening quick, grabs your chin firmly, forcing your eyes on him. He whispers, enunciating each perfect syllable. “You should know that I'm capable of terrible, awful things.”

“No...I have no right, Your Majesty, of course. I just couldn't help my...natural curiosity. My apologies.” You hate the fawning whine your voice takes on, the terror so evident in it.

Just as quickly, his vice-grip releases and he's....laughing. The bastard is laughing. You feel a roiling flash of acid in your stomach; anger and indignation, but right on its heels, utter helplessness.

You eyes grow wide as you begin to understand. He's not just amused, he's aroused by this game. He doesn't just want a bedfellow, he wants to play chess...and he wants an opponent worthy of the effort.

What an arrogant bellend, you thought, furiously.

His hands are on you again. This time the touch is gentle, resting on your tensed shoulders to lower them as he delicately guides you back to the bookcase.

“No matter, sweet girl. Think nothing of it. Now...choose.”

I'm not a girl. I'm well past being a girl. I'm an adult and a scholar, you patronizing son of a...

“I'm waiting,” he says in a saccharine singsong tone.

You reach towards Plath and he “tsk”s loudly, “Come on now....something more romantic and less depressing!”

You stifle a scoff and an eye roll, beginning to understand why Prince Thor finds his brother so exasperating. You do smirk for a moment when you settle on your choice, hoping it communicates your sarcasm, loud and clear.

“Pablo Neruda,” he announces as you hand him the book. “Veinte Poemas de Amor y Una Canción Desesperada...Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.”

You hate him. Hate how beautifully his accent rolls along the letters as he recites the original Spanish title. You hate how it coaxes your skin into goosebumps under the velvet touch of his clothes.

“Hmmm. Romantic, surely. I'll give you that, but what a depressing final note!”

You shrug. “Doesn't most love end in despair?”

He squints and lets out a soft breath, as if you've truly wounded him. “Ohhhhh darling, only if you've never had the pleasure of suitable lovers...which apparently, you haven't.”

“You poor...poor thing,” he adds with a mocking tease curling his lips. “We'll rectify that. I assure you.”

----------

Several hours later, you had recited all 20 poems and the solitary song of despair, among a plethora of others. The books had formed little cairns and mesas upon the sleek marble floor and the dewy fog of the little hours hung heavy over the skylight in fading indigo.

Now you were dozing in his arms where he insisted you lay against him, your back resting against his chest, long firm limbs gathering you closely, protectively.

Loki watches as your eyes flutter shut and your words trail off into a mumbling whisper. Only then does he dare to touch you. He gently combs his agile fingers through you hair, skating over the warmth of your neck. He gazes lower, watching where the swell of your breath moves each delicious forbidden part of your body concealed by his own robe. He feels need ache within him; carnal want, yes, but more than that. He longs to be gentle, but of course, his reputation cannot be a gentle one. He longs to be close and sweet and vulnerable, but his position doesn't allow for such needs.

But he aches. Gods, does he ache for you to be even closer. He wishes he could let you, his carefully chosen equal, inside.

So he decides that this game, sadly, is as close as he can get to love, to friendship, to vulnerability; this teasing and touching from a distance, this hostile affection. He's not a monster, he tells himself, he's just so lonely.

He holds you closer, suddenly irrationally afraid that you will slip through his fingers and disappear like sand. You stir and he watches as your beautiful eyes open and your soft lips part into a waking inhale. You begin to stretch languidly but then stiffen, remembering where you are.

Loki's bright clear eyes meet yours, his expression inscrutable as he coos, “Hello. I hope you slept well, however, I don't recall telling you to stop reading.”

You scramble to gather your groggy senses, “Si...Sire. I apologize, it was just terribly late and...”

“No excuses. Continue,” he growls.

Then you feel it, the firm length of his cock behind you, prominent even beneath layers of clothes. You blush but choose to ignore it, uncertain if he wants you to mention it or not. You just continue to recite.

He receives a dose of your sweet scent where he's nuzzled into the curve of your shoulder blade, heady as a drug to him. He notices your hand, trembling where it holds the pages open and he strokes over your knuckles gently.

Mid-sentence you feel a cool, slow, peck to your hot cheek...a kiss that moves lower and lower as your voice goes higher and higher. By the time he opens his mouth to lathe his tongue over the juncture of you neck and shoulder, you're barely able to sigh out any syllables. When he finally bites down, your eyes close. You go silent, paralyzed, like prey.

His long tongue and sharp teeth hold you like a snake bite as the venom of his lust warms you from the inside out, every last branching vein and artery beholden to his will.

You body betrays your strong stubborn mind, but Loki experiences a similar mutiny. His need is spreading to you, through you, until all the clever words stop, your and his, and there is only touch.

@lokischambermaid @lokisgoodgirl @peaches1958 @thenerdyoldersister @thedistractedagglomeration @muddyorbs @mischief2sarawr @icytrickster17 @goblingirlsarah @sweetsigyn @unlucky-number-13 @mochie85 @acidcasualties @alexakeyloveloki @loz-3 @jennyggggrrr @ladyofthestayingpower @mischiefmaker615 @loopsisloops @sailorholly @coldnique @smolvenger @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @gigglingtiggerv2 @anukulee @azula-karai-27 @eleniblue @marcotheflychair @litaloni @gruftiela

#loki fanfic #dark!loki #loki x femme reader #loki x reader #pre thor 1 loki #the holy order of the sacred mango #lovely fanfic friends #au loki

36 notes · View notes

redahlia-writes · 2 years

Text

poema xiv. | javier peña

Abstract: When you saw him from the stage, it felt like the world had stopped moving - there was you, and him, and the space between you needing to be filled. Years gone by without the other and still you haven’t been able to stay away from him for more than twenty minutes - not when he looked at you like that, like nobody else was in the room. Not when his lips moved and mimicked yours, and the words you’d once shared became yours all over again.

You hadn’t thought it’d end like this. You hadn’t planned it. But how could you ever be parted from Javier?

Words: 6.6K

Content: f!reader; second chance romance, a smidge of angst and guilt, so much kissing, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, some descriptions of bodily fluids)

A/N: the poem is love poem xiv by pablo neruda (english translation + an analysis i think about daily and have based most of the fic on); spanish translation for the bits that are not part of the poem will be at the end

also on AO3 - masterlist

feedback is always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

Javier knows your voice better than his own.

For years, he’s heard that voice in the back of his mind - he recognises the tilt of it, the cadence, the drawl. He recognises the words, an old litany that seems to come from a dream. Even before he turns towards the stage, he knows it’ll be you. It shouldn’t surprise him, really - this was your home as much as it was his. He just didn’t expect you to be here, still.

He wonders whether you’ll recognise him, too, if you’ll even see him - it’s a short lived thought, because when he looks up at last, you’re already looking back at him, words falling from your lips like a chant, a dizzying siren song. For a moment, he wants to flee, thinks he cannot stay and face you, not after all these years - but there’s a warm recognition in your eyes, a quivering to the corners of your lips, and he feels at home at last.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the stage, a long skirt he remembers from your days together draped over you and pooling around you - he hasn’t had much time for art these past years, yet at any time he would look at you and see a painting, something so moving it could bring him to his knees. Perhaps it has, in the past.

You’re not even holding a microphone, the whole place fell silent the moment you’ve reached the stage, eyes turned towards you in reverence - it happened before, he knows, and he missed it. Over and over he’s lost these moments of religiosity, just when he needed it the most. He grips his beer as he listens to your voice, hangs onto each word like a lifeline.

“Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote. / Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. / Hasta te creo dueña del universo. / Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues, / avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos.”

He’d almost forgotten these words, but as they echo through the place he’s pulled back to another night - less people, less distance between the two of you, a book propped up on your naked back as he read with a smile on his lips, watching as you dozed off, the tip of his fingers tracing the line of your spine with a goosebumps-inducing slow touch.

“Quiero hacer contigo / lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.”

He mouths the last line with you, remembrance of those same words kissed into the skin of your shoulder, arm, wrist, a sleepy smile his reward as you caressed his cheek. It feels like he’s remembering a past life, yet the images are crystal clear as if they happened just a day before. He chugs down on his beer to quench the memories.

You’ve looked at him through your eyelashes during the whole performance, but at the first burst of clapping your face breaks into a wide smile, head bowed in silent thanks as people you’ve known most of your life cheer you, embrace you with their appreciation - Javier doesn’t join them, a pang of something like a heavy weight on his chest making him turn back around towards the bartender, empty beer at his side as he calls for something stronger. Whiskey, or rum, or mezcal.

“Hello, stranger,” the first sip is accompanied by the voice from his dreams, and he closes his eyes as your body slips into the seat next to his. He’s holding his breath, the alcohol burning his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and his throat when he finally gulps it down.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he murmurs, at last turning to look at you. How often has he wished it would happen? Sitting at a bar so far away from home, he’d turn his head and see you there, smiling at him the way you are in that moment, greeting him with a I missed you and I’ve come for you. Daydreams induced by alcohol, he knew, perhaps the only thing keeping him sane when he missed you the most. “Hi,” he says then.

“And where else could I have gone?” your hand wraps around a glass he hasn’t heard you call for, the drink familiar, always the same - gold mezcal, clean, drank in small sips similar to small kisses. He’s tried to chase the taste of you with it when he was away, but it never felt the same as when he tasted it from your lips.

“You?” he scoffs, shaking his head a little as he lets the ice in his drink rattle softly against the glass. “Anywhere in the world.”

There’s a moment of silence, surprise overtaking your features at the corner of his eyes, fingers curling around the glass - and then you scoff lightly, turning your head so you’re not looking at him anymore. He can see your free hand curling over your knee, a fidgeting motion with the fabric of the skirt that covers your leg whole.

“I stayed,” you say with a shrug, and he knows there’s no malice but he cannot help hearing something more. I stayed and you didn’t. You left me behind. And then, “I missed you, Javi.”

The weight of the world drops on his shoulders and he lets go of his glass, white knuckles turning back to their color as an exhale leaves him. His hand rests on the bar counter and, after a beat of hesitation, you reach for him in silence - you know he’s heard you, can see it in the pout of his lips, the slouch of his shoulders.

“I missed you, too,” he whispers, like a confession meant for a Church and its priest, heavy on his alcohol-coated tongue. Your fingers wrap around his hand, tender yet decisive, squeezing it as he meets your eyes at last - your smile feels like a reward he does not deserve, but it eases the ache in his ribcage. “You were great up there - this place needs a little poetry, every now and then.”

“Ah, I just like to get drunk and have people looking at me for a little while,” you’re beaming, leaning in a little - he knows you’re not drunk, knows it’ll take more than the drink in front of you to get there, too. You’re still holding his hand, thumb rubbing his knuckles absent-mindedly, and it feels like no time has passed, and slipping into the familiarity of your touch is scarily easy. “How are you, Javier?”

“Holding up,” you quirk up an eyebrow at him - it’s not a lie, he thinks, because he couldn’t lie to you, you still know him too well. It’s too easy for you to call him out on his bullshit, and he cannot deal with that tonight, so he sighs. “It’s odd, being back. Slow.”

“I thought Chucho would’ve put you to work right away,” you chuckle, and slowly move your hand away from his. His fingers twitch on their own accord, squeezing your hand once before letting go of you, and he looks away for a moment as he clears his throat.

“Oh, he did,” he nods with a tilted smirk, tapping once, twice the glass, ice half-way melted already. “But it’s - easy. I get to bed and actually sleep, perhaps a little sore, but not -” he stops himself, holding the glass a little tighter. “Doesn’t matter, no point boring you with it.”

“When have you ever bored anyone in your life?” you scoff, and he can see you swinging your legs a little from the high stool, heel tapping the wooden legs as you tilt your head to the side a little. “What is it?” you ask then, gentler.

You still know him too well.

“We’re gonna be here all night, tesoro,” he almost grumbles, the endearment rolling off his tongue before he can think too much about it. You shrug again, picking up your glass and crossing your legs - it’s a dangerous display of balance, skirt covering part of the stool as your knees jut outwards.

“I have nowhere else to be,” you declare, sipping slowly at the drink. Small kisses, he thinks.

Javier knows he could lay himself bare in front of you - he wants to - and you’d take him as he is, even after all these years, even after all the hurt. Yours, his. What you and Javier had has always been complicated - it was love never made explicit; it was comfort and holding each other all through the night; it was passion that scorched the both of you and left indelible marks on your skins; it was meals filled with laughter; it was his father wondering if he was going to need his mother’s ring.

And then it was all over, the feelings still there, overwhelmingly so, but the distance too great, the fear of impossibility too big and crushing. It was a quiet break-up neither of you really wanted but that seemed like the only solution, and it left a sour taste in your mouths. It was a quick, cold goodbye regretted by both parties - you wished you’d hold him tighter, he wished he’d kissed you longer. Selfishly, you’d wished he’d stay, he’d wished you’d go with him.

That was, until he’d actually started working, and life had become a nightmare. It made him glad you stayed behind, even if it pained him. Even if it meant he could no longer sleep.

That’s what he starts with - how difficult it was to actually sleep there, how each hour was frantic, day or night bleeding into each other, no sense of routine marking the days, weeks, months, years. He won’t go into details, he doesn’t want you to know what it was like, but the drinks keep coming and he cannot help leaning into your support, aching from the knowledge that you’re listening to him, and your hand has found his again, soothing circles making his skin burn.

The monologue turns into conversation, his need to be distracted by the past years presenting in questions of your current life - your work, your home, your parents. The place starts emptying around the two of you, and one or the other is drawing closer, because now your legs are off the stool again and he’s sitting right between your knees, one hand on your thigh, head tilted leaning on his other hand as he looks at you, so close as you are.

He missed you, the truth of the statement was not lost on him before, but it hits him right in the chest when you reach over to brush your thumb across his mustache, smiling as you mock him over his lack of ability to keep crumbs off of his face from the nibbles stolen from behind the counter, an apologetic look turned in the bartender’s direction. It makes his heart jump in his chest, it makes him wonder if he should get up and get as far away from you before he does something you both might regret. And then -

“Javi?” your hand rests atop his on your leg, breathlessly calling his name until he meets your gaze. “Will you drive me home?”

He remembers how it all began - just like this. A drink, two, chatting, getting closer, will you drive me home? That night, you barely made it home - he stopped the car in the middle of nowhere and kissed you, kissed you, kissed you until you dragged him to the backseat, laughing and panting as you barely got some of your clothes off. He fell for you there and then, he knows.

“Yes,” he says, because he missed you so terribly much, and he’s tired, and though he can sleep again it’s never as good as when he slept next to you. So he holds your hand as you get off the stool, walk through the bar, get outside and sigh at the cooler air, tipping your chin back to let the night wash over you.

He leads you to his car, fingers still intertwined, and before he can reach for the door you turn to him, so close he can feel the hem of your skirt brush the top of his shoes. His gaze unwillingly falls to your mouth, and you’re smiling, free hand reaching up for him. He doesn’t hear it, just reads it on your lips - come here, as you tug gently at the collar of his shirt, and he’s leaning forward without need for further instructions.

Javier kisses you - he doesn’t start slow, lips crashing onto yours. It’s desperate and needy, as if he fears it’ll be over too soon, as if he thinks you’ll disappear any moment now and he needs to take and take and take as much as he can, prodding at your mouth with his tongue until you yield, parting your lips for him with a sigh.

Your back is pressed against the side of his car, the hand not holding his reaching up to sink into his hair - it’s homecoming, each piece of you fitting together, your bodies remembering each and every part, each and every movement.

Neither of you wants to break it off, his hand carefully dipping underneath your shirt as he presses himself into you further and further, your head craned back and resting against the glass of the car, arm hooked around his shoulder for balance. Eventually, your lungs demand air, the world blurred with dizziness once he parts with a gasp - and immediately dives his head back down, open mouthed kisses left along your cheek, and jaw, and neck. It’s easy to succumb to the bliss of his touch, letting yourself be pulled back in time as his lips mold to the curve of your neck when you tilt your head to the side, exposing yourself to him furthermore.

“Did you ever think of me? When you were away?” it slips from your lips before you can stop yourself, a pathetic whine that makes you tense for a moment, eyes opening wide, and then -

“Every day,” he replies, kissing his way across your collarbones, hands gripping your waist so tightly it’s almost painful. You relish in it, the ache that keeps you grounded, that reminds you it’s real, he’s here. “It was unbearable.”

And then he stops, so sudden it makes you gasp when his forehead hits your shoulder, a heavy exhale caressing your skin. He’s still gripping your hip, still pressed harshly against you, but every motion has stopped - he’s perfectly still, almost not breathing.

“Javi?” you whisper, turning your head as much as possible. Your chin brushes the side of his head, and his only acknowledgment of having heard you is a squeeze to your side. Slowly, you drag your hand up the nape of his neck, through his hair again, a gentler caress. “Javi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“I’ve missed you every day,” he lifts his head a little, and you stand cheek to cheek as his chest heaves. “But I’m not who I used to be.”

“Neither am I,” his hair spikes up under your touch, and he leans into you to the point you feel your breath shorten. You don't mind it that much. “But you’re still my Javi underneath all that,” he shudders, something between a sigh and a sob leaving his parted lips. “And we can just try.”

Time stretches as you hold onto each other, the parking lot almost too dark for comfort, and then he kisses your cheek - it’s chaste, quick, then moves up to your forehead and lingers there as your eyes flutter shut.

“Let’s go home,” you say in another whisper, and he nods ever so slightly, lips still brushing your skin as he eases his hold on you.

It takes him a moment longer to take a step back, and without his support your body feels weightless. You squeeze his hand still in yours, a reassurance for the both of you, and his lips - raw and red from kissing - bend in a little smile as he opens the door for you. Then it’s you lingering before stepping inside, still refusing to let go of his hand - as you do, he bends over and leans into the car, pressing yet another kiss to your lips that you chase with a sigh of surrender.

Javier’s smiling when he climbs into the driver’s seat - a little one, that spreads the redness of his cheeks further. The alcohol, the kissing, the tender touches - he feels as if his heart might burst out of his chest, and he’s quick to drive out of the parking lot, one hand immediately reaching for you.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles above your knee and wrinkling the fabric of the skirt mindlessly - it’s a comforting touch, its heavy weight familiar and soothing hat has you melting into the seat with another sigh, eyes fluttering shut as your head tilts slightly to the side and you part your legs ever so slightly. Your muscles twitch, encouraging him forward, and though his eyes remain fixed on the road - it’s not a long way to your house, and Javier seemed determined to make it even shorter - he chuckles, squeezing the soft flesh of your inner thigh in earnest.

“Tan impaciente,” he hums, but obliges, curling his fingers around the fabric of the skirt until it’s bunched up enough for him to slip his hand underneath. You’re still my Javi - teasing and willing, warm hands knowing exactly where and how to move, a slow drag of his fingertips across your inner thigh as you lean further into the seat, head tipped back - that has him slow the car down a little.

Javier’s touch is electrifying, brushing all the right places as he moves up and up and up, shapeless figures dancing across your skin until he reaches your core. His grip on the wheel tightens as he presses two fingers above your underwear, eliciting a soft gasp from you. He doesn’t linger - he never has, he’s never been mean with it, always reaching for your pleasure before anything else. So he pushes your underwear aside, and drags one finger across your already damp folds with a soft groan until he reaches the apex of your core.

Your body reacts as it always has, writhing under his touch quietly, mouth agape as he rubs at your clit, slow circles with just the right amount of pressure. It’s almost fascinating how, even after the time spent away from each other, he has not forgotten how to make you fall apart on the tip of his fingers, roll by gentle roll, wetness spreading over his fingertips as he quickly glances at you - eyes hooded and hands gripping the sides of the seat, hips rolling to second his movements.

“Eyes on the road, Peña,” you warn breathlessly, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth before your lips part in a quiet gasp, twitching into his touch. “God - right there, right -”

It hits you suddenly, a rippling sensation that starts from the stomach all the way down to your toes, back arching slightly against the backrest of the seat as you grind down on his hand, a silent orgasm that has your chest heaving, mouth open in a silent cry. Javier can’t stop himself from looking away from the road, still touching you slowly, dipping down and down where you’re clenching around nothing.

“Diosa,” he says almost under his breath, and your eyes - that had fallen shut, heavy-lidded - open to look back at him. You wrap your hand around his wrist, pulling him away from you - your knees knock together almost right away, legs numb and shaky. He’s looking at the road again, but glances at the corner of his eye as you bring his hand to your mouth - a gentle kiss against the pad of his fingers first before wrapping your lips around his digits, lapping at your own release with hollowed cheeks. Javier groans again, shifting a little in his seat as he grips the wheel tighter, thumb stroking your cheek down to the corner of your mouth. “We ain’t gonna make it to your house if you keep this up, tesoro.”

You release him with a soft pop, leaning a little towards him so that your cheek is resting against the back of his hand, eyes lifted to keep looking at his profile while the hand wrapped around his wrist moves up along his arm.

“Don’t care,” you hum, hand now brushing the side of his neck - his throat bobs, an askew smirk making its way across his lips yet again. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” you add with a grin of your own, gently scratching the nape of his neck - he shifts in his seat again, rolling back his shoulders.

“I do care,” he turns his head, kisses your wrist, a gentle brush of lips and his mustache tickling your skin. “I want -” the words hole up in his throat, and he leaves one last caress with his knuckles across your jaw before moving his hand away.

I want to take it slow, peel away each layer - one by one, with no rush; I want to lay you bare on a bed and kiss each and every inch of your skin, mark you as my own all over again; I want you over and under and all around and hold you in my arms and feel you fall apart again; I want, I want, I want.

“You,” he manages to say, voice so soft it’s almost drowned out by the engine as he pushes down on the accelerator a little. “Time. I want you and time. Not like this,” he sighs when you brush his hair back, a curving motion in tucking a wild strand behind his ear as it sticks out. In truth, he could stop the car and crumble underneath your touch, but he’s aching for more, for all. He reaches over, pulling your skirt down so it falls back in place over your legs.

And it does not take long to get to your house - because he called you impatient, but every bit of him feels on fire, eager and longing for you, so close, so close, your hand so warm where it’s resting still on his neck, and it’s driving him insane.

So when he parks in front of your place - just like he remembers it, down to the plants on the porch -, he’s out of the car almost before he’s even shut the engine off, and while you’re reaching for the keys he’s there behind you, arms wrapped tightly around you, hands slipping underneath your shirt. One rests against your stomach, the other trails up and up and up, a low chuckle leaving you as you step towards the entrance, steps long and wobbly with the added weight of Javier.

“I still have neighbors, Javi,” you hum as his lips latch to your neck, tilting your head a little to leave more room for his open-mouthed kisses, the tender bites that leave red marks that will be gone by morning. “I would like for them to still think nicely of me,” your front pushes against the door as he presses himself into you - broad shoulders encasing you, hands still exploring and straining the buttons of your shirt, stomach and thighs and his length trapped in his tight jeans hard against you.

“Not the first time we’ve given a little spectacle,” he replies, his whisper a warm breath against your ear that makes you shudder as you unlock the door at last.

As soon as the door clicks open, he’s pushing the both of you inside, maneuvering you around so that he can crash his mouth on yours - he shuts the door just as you drop your keys, reaching with both your arms up and around his shoulders, pushing his jacket down a little. Again he doesn’t kiss you slowly, as if picking up from where you left it in the parking lot - open-mouthed, tongue brushing the roof of your mouth with a groan as he backs you towards the bedroom.

“Shoes,” you warn - remind him, really, kicking yours off before leaning back into the kiss, one hand tangling in his hair as the other falls back down to his chest, working on the buttons of his shirt. He chuckles against your mouth but obliges, steps faltering as he removes his shoes without breaking away from you.

After that, it’s a dance through the house, chasing each other as each layer gets shed and dropped mindlessly to the floor - his jacket and shirt, your skirt, his belt, your shirt, his jeans. By the time you reach the bedroom there’s a trail of clothes left in your path, and the two of you stand still kissing in your underwear, hands mapping each other’s skin eagerly. It’s all consuming, dizzying, and as he undoes the clasp of your bra you’re backing him into the bed until he falls seated on the edge of it, breaking the kiss at last.

Panting, pupils dilated, he looks up at you, his hands fallen to the back of your thighs to nudge you forward. He licks his lips as you take off your bra, too, squeezing your legs once as a half-groan leaves his parted mouth. And then -

“This is new,” he tilts his head a little, eyes trained on your left side. He takes his hand away from your thigh, cupping your ribs as his thumb brushes right underneath your breast, the touch so delicate it has a shiver run down your spine. He traces a circle around the tattoo now adorning your skin, a single cherry blossom that’s starting to fade.

“I was drunk,” you shrug, hands resting on his shoulders. He leans in a little, pulling you forward at the same time, your knees hitting the edge of the mattress in between his thighs. “I forget it’s there half the time,” you admit, and sigh when he kisses the thin lines, dropping your head back. “Javi.”

He adds nothing but a hum, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin, down your ribcage, down and forward to your stomach and down again, following the line of your underwear before stopping at your hip bone. He hooks one finger underneath each side of the last piece of fabric, bringing it down enough to nip the soft skin there, eliciting a small gasp out of you as he finishes undressing you fully.

His gaze lingers for just a moment before you’re climbing into his lap, sitting on his thighs as a hand finds its way through his hair again, pulling his head back gently until he’s looking up at you, lips parted - he can feel your heat against him, the remainder of what happened in the car dripping down your thighs and settling onto him. Unable to help himself, he grins, though it quickly vanishes when you lower your mouth to his all over again.

He could get lost in this - the feeling of your kisses, the taste of your lips, the way you’re slowly rocking against him, creating just enough friction between the two of you that it makes his head spin, your thighs shake lightly, but leaves you tethering on the edge. So he wraps one arm around your waist, holding you against him, and flips the two of you around so that your back is on the mattress, legs dangling from the bed and quickly reaching up to lock him in as he steps out of his underwear.

He kneels on the bed, guiding you back and holding his weight above you as he moves, hard length brushing your folds with each shift, causing both of you to sigh and groan and plea, hands searching desperately for something to hold on - his shoulders, the sheets, his hair, your hand - until he settles both of you exactly where he wants you to be, in the middle of the bed, covers ruffled already underneath you. One of his hands dips between the two of you, wrapping around his length to align himself with your entrance.

“Can I -” he’s breathless, hazy eyes wandering across your body underneath his as if it were a dream, a mirage, something he can’t quite believe just yet. “Sì,” you urge, arching into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Yes, Javi, please.”

He gasps as he sinks into you, mouth hanging open as he forces himself to keep his eyes on you, on your expression, his movements slowly as you open your legs furthermore to accommodate him, gasping breaths making your chest heave. And then he’s toppling over, head falling into the crook of your neck as he mouths at the skin, hips stuttering when you clench around him and drag your nails down his back.

“Te extrañé,” he whispers against you, words drowned by your keening as he pushes himself forward - so he repeats it, over and over until the words are etched into your skin. “Te extrañé, te extrañé, mi amor, mi querida - fuck. Te extrañé.”

He groans when he presses himself flush against you, a shuddering in his breath that ripples across your shoulder and makes you hold him tighter with a weak cry, back arching into him - your eyes flutter shut, stars dotting your vision as the line of pain and pleasure blurs, vanishes, and your body recognises him. You’re trembling when both your arms wrap around him, holding him tight against you, legs braced at each side of him.

“Darling, my darling,” you’re cooing, hand brushing the side of his head, and there are tears dwelling at the corners of your closed eyes because you had forgotten how his weight over you felt, how familiar and comforting it was - still is. “I’ve missed you, too. I -” you gasp when his hips shift, rutting into you and pushing you a little higher on the bed. “Así.”

“Yes?” he seeks confirmation, pulling his head up from the curve of your neck - his hand moves up, ghosting your neck before cupping your jaw as you’re nodding, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you grip his shoulders harsher. “Mirame, tesoro. I need to see you,” he pushes his thumb a little into the juncture of your jaw, and your mouth hangs open - heavy breaths fall from your lips as you force your eyes to flutter open.

You’re breathing into each other as he starts to move, agonizingly slow at first - he pulls his hips back until he's almost fully out of you, and then, still slow, buries himself back in until he's pressed flush against you. Back and forth, back and forth, the drag making you feel each part of him, and he kisses the corners of your eyes, kisses the tears away.

Time and you, he said - I want time and you. So he’s taking his time, and it's maddening and oh-so-good. You trace his face with the tip of your fingers, something you used to do when he was asleep in the early mornings and you’d wake up before him, committing to your memory each bump, each curve, each shape.

He kisses the pads of your fingers when you trace the line of his lips, then wraps them around your thumb, sucking it into his mouth. There’s nothing provocative to it - it’s another attempt to be close to you, closer. It’s what the whole night has been about.

When you saw him from the stage, it felt like the world had stopped moving - there was you, and him, and the space between you needing to be filled. Years gone by without the other and still you haven’t been able to stay away from him for more than twenty minutes - not when he looked at you like that, like nobody else was in the room. Not when his lips moved and mimicked yours, and the words you’d once shared became yours all over again.

You hadn’t thought it’d end like this. You hadn’t planned it. But how could you ever be parted from Javier?

He picks up his pace, gasping when his hips snap against yours and you keen, the sound sending a ripple down his spine, the burning in the pit of his stomach brighter. The movements are smooth, slick gathering between your bodies - his, yours, it’s impossible to discern in that moment. It’s all just noise, skin against skin and sighs and moans and suddenly there is no telling where you end and he begins.

Javier, his name from your lips, over and over, and he kisses it right from your mouth - you try to keep him close, arm wrapped around his shoulders, try to arch into him to get just a little more, meeting his thrusts half-way. Por favor, Javi. Javi. My Javi.

He straightens his back with a strangled moan, heavy-lidded eyes looking down towards you as you writhe against him - his thighs press into yours as he pulls you closer by the hips, one hand staying there to keep guiding your rocking against him while the other shifts up, brushing your tattoo again. The new angle has you shuddering, knees pressing harshly into his sides as you moan, back still arched, each muscle going taunt.

“Diosa,” he repeats, out of breath, gaze wandering down your body as his thrusts start to falter, and it’s now mostly a rocking against each other, desperately seeking your release. He groans when his gaze falls to the place your bodies meet, the mess you’ve made of each other - and he can see himself shifting inside you, his hand moving down from your ribs to your lower stomach, pressing down.

You squeeze around him as you’re coming, orgasm washing over you so suddenly it knocks the breath out of your lungs and you’re grasping for him, back and shoulders and head lifting off the mattress as you reach for his shoulders, arms, anything to hold onto to as your whole body seizes and shakes against him, vision flashing white. He hooks one arm around you, sitting back on his heels and pulling you tight into his chest, letting you ride out your high with a string of curses and heavy panting, gushing around him, and then -

“Inside,” you mutter into his chest, leaving marks down his back he hopes never fade. “Want you inside, Javi. I want to feel you,” there’s a pleading note in your voice, a whine that drags on as he tumbles over the edge with one last thrust at your words.

A broken moan escapes him, his eyes falling shut as he muffles it into the crook of your neck, biting the soft skin there. The whole room is spinning, and he’s holding you so tightly he can feel the shift of your ribs as you tilt your head a little, trembling hand coming up to his hair to comb it back as his own orgasm goes on and on and he’s twitching inside of you until he’s spent, and still he holds onto you while you cradle his head, regaining your breaths.

You remain like that a while longer, your releases dripping down yours and his thighs, the thin layer of sweat formed making everything the more sticky - and yet he doesn’t mind it one bit, because he feels calm, at peace at last, with the sound of your heart beating under his ear, and your fingers brush his hair at the side of his head. He’s fallen asleep countless times under that same touch, and his breathing slowly starts to even out.

“Still with me?” you call in a hum, thumb tracing the shell of his ear. His forehead falls to your chest with a softer groan, arms tightening around you even more if possible, and you smile while resting your chin on top of his head. “Javi?”

“Why that poem?” his voice is low, warm breath fanning across your skin - unable to help yourself, you snort, moving your head back to look down at him. He keeps his forehead to your skin, the tip of his nose brushing your sternum.

“Are you seriously asking this right now?” he nods a little, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses your chest once before tilting his head back to meet your gaze - his eyes are dark and impossibly soft, delicate smile grazing his mouth. You sigh, hand caressing down his jaw before hooking your index underneath his chin to guide his head a little higher. “Because it reminded me of you - of us,” you admit softly, and he brushes his lips to yours.

He guides you back towards the mattress, movements slow and careful, but remains so close the friction brings a whine to your lips, and he kisses you again in apology, his weight pinning you down to the bed.

“Why?” he asks, voice still hoarse, and keeps kissing your jaw, your neck, hand wandering down to hitch your leg up his side - he doesn’t move, ever so careful with you, but still peppers your skin in gentle, mind-numbing kisses.

“Mientras el viento triste galopa matando mariposas / yo te amo, y mi alegría muerde tu boca de ciruela,” he lingers above your heart, gaze lifting towards you as he nips the soft flesh of your breast, gaining a small gasp from you and your fingers tugging at his hair without pulling him away. Yo te amo, you repeat under your breath, before continuing. “Cuanto te habrá dolido acostumbrarte a mí, / a mi alma sola y salvaje, a mi nombre que todos ahuyentan,” the first time you heard this was with his voice, mere weeks before he was gone. It stuck in your mind almost painfully, a constant reminder of his absence - that was what you had to get accustomed to. “Hemos visto arder tantas veces el lucero besándonos los ojos / y sobre nuestras cabezas destorcerse los crepúsculos en abanicos girantes.”

The late nights bled into early mornings, sunrises spent outside in the circle of his arms, or the first morning lights waking both of you up because you’d forgotten to close the blinds, too taken with the other - he doesn’t need to be reminded. He doesn’t need further explanation. Javier has never been too eloquent, so instead he kisses his affection across your skin, caressing you with reverence, and just a few words fall from his bruised lips.

“También yo te amo,” another whispered confession, this time for you only. And furthermore, “I’m sorry.”

“Javier,” you guide him up again, until the tip of your nose is brushing his and you cup his cheeks, a gentle brush of your thumbs across his skin as you lean in. “Tú estás aquí. Ah tú no huyes,” you whisper with a smile, and he chases another kiss but you turn your head, causing him to whine. “Tú me responderás hasta el último grito,” he pulls up, hand resting by your head. “I could never resent you, nor regret you - I just missed you. But you’re here now.”

“I’m staying,” he all but blurts out - and he knows it’ll be complicated. He knows you’re different people. He knows it’ll take time, and work. But you’re smiling up at him in such a way it makes his whole body warm again, and his heart beats a little faster.

Afterwards he picks you up again and carries you to the bathroom, deaf to your complaints but not to the laughter you reward him with as he props you up on the sink to clean you up, to kiss each and every spot he’s grabbed a little too harshly - inner thighs and hips and jaw, and time stretches on before he lays you back onto the bed without its discarded sheets, nestling into your side right away because he’s staying, he knows, as long as you’ll have him, as long as you’ll welcome him into your arms.

Perhaps this time he’ll ask his father for that ring.

spanish - english translation: tesoro: darling tan impaciente: so impatient diosa: (lit. goddess) beautiful sì: yes te extrañé: i missed you mi amor: my love mi querida: my dear así: like that mirame: look at me por favor: please también yo te amo: i love you too

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x ofc #javier pena x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #javier peña #javier pena x you #javier pena x ofc #pedro pascal characters

187 notes · View notes