loslentesdepedrito

[loslentesdepedrito]

Paleta

Din gif by: @themandaloriansource My Masterlist

Pairing: Virgin!Din Djarin x f!reader (Both Din and reader speak Spanish, and translations are provided.)

Word count: 11.2k+

Summary: You and Din accept a job to extract a flower from a planet neither of you has been to before. The instructions seem easy enough, but they do warn to be careful with the flower's pollen because of its unknown effects. Inspired by the song Paleta by Wisin & Yandel ft. Daddy Yankee.

Rating: 18+ Explicit content (MDNI) Tags and CW: canon divergent, can be considered dubious consent due to sex pollen, Din is a virgin in all aspects, and reader is not, poor Din being horny since the beginning, slight angst, happy ending, reader is shorter than Din and is carried by him in one scene, mami kink?, unprotected piv, oral (f and m receiving), some nipple play, multiple orgasms, creampie, facial, slight cum eating, shy Din then confident Din. To my knowledge, the Star Wars Universe doesn't have a purple planet, so I borrowed the Purple Dimension from Marvel Comics.

A/N: If you haven't had the chance yet, I beg you to check out the artwork by @immarocketman. This specific Din is exactly what I had envisioned for one of the scenes here. Their talent is remarkable, and I plan to explore more of their blog soon. Also, I mentioned that I was considering leaving and promised to provide an answer, but truth be told, I still haven't decided 😅. More on that in the end notes. For now, just sit back and enjoy the story!

In the passenger chair behind you, Din's voice, agitated and piercing, breaks the silence of the ship's quiet hum. "Can you stop sucking on that thing?" His patience has finally reached its limit, worn down by the seemingly endless hours of watching you indulge in that infuriatingly purple lollipop. He's been forced to watch, and his frustration grows with each smacking pop you make.

Seated in the pilot's chair, you remain unfazed. The tone of Din's voice doesn't intimidate you; if anything, it amuses you. With a nonchalant pop, you remove the candy from your mouth, emitting a deliberate sound that only seems to fuel Din's annoyance.

"No," you reply plainly, still refusing to meet his gaze. You slide the sweet back between your lips and continue navigating the ship.

In the aftermath of a recent encounter with a Rancor that left Din nursing an injury on his left side, he reluctantly handed over the piloting duties to you as you traveled to a planet named the Purple Dimension – the location for your next assignment. Clutched tightly in Din's hand was a holopuck, its contents holding crucial information regarding the upcoming bounty hunt.

As the ship coursed through space, Din's growing frustration took its toll on the holopuck. The round object seemed on the verge of shattering under the pressure of his grip. The puck contained a holographic image of the bounty—an exotic flower—its value measured in credits, along with instructions. The explicit instructions attached required the flower to be carefully extracted and returned unharmed, without its pollen, as it was thought that its pollen could contain a substance that might trigger an unknown reaction.

The substantial payoff stemmed from the fact that a botanist sought to study the flower beyond its native habitat, resorting to placing a bounty to facilitate this unconventional research, as the botanist was unable to travel to the planet where the flower exclusively thrived. The job was one of the most unusual ones you've had, but the reward led to you and Din accepting the job.

Your fingers, warmed by the prolonged contact with the ship's controls, grasp the handles. Four fingers curl around the black handles, while your thumbs press firmly on the top. Your focus stays fixed on the pitch-black expanse ahead, where the distant stars provide the only source of light. Absentmindedly, the lollipop remains in your mouth, licked without the need for your hands.

Abruptly, Din interjects, "It's going to give you cavities," he declares, his tone laden with frustration that transcends the mere mention of cavities—his concern sounding more like a personal grievance.

With casualness, you reply, not quite understanding the intensity of his objection, "I brush my teeth thrice a day."

Din persists, his annoyance evident. "It's going to leave your teeth stained."

Unbothered, you respond, "This one never does," as you continue to indulge in the sweet.

Din, seemingly pulling thoughts out of thin air, desperately tries to dissuade you from sucking that godforsaken candy. "Don’t you hate grape-flavored stuff?" he questions, grasping at any argument to put an end to the incessant sucking of the lollipop.

“It’s very berry-flavored. It tastes delicious; I wouldn’t keep sucking if I didn’t like it,” you calmly assert, savoring the flavor while Din, in a moment of quiet frustration, squeezes the puck once more to stifle a groan at the words ‘It tastes delicious, I wouldn’t keep sucking if I didn’t like it.'

“Just stop freaking sucking the lollipop!” Din suddenly roars, his composure slipping away.

“Who pissed on your breakfast today? Lower your voice, would you? The kid is sleeping,” you retort sharply, whipping your head behind to find Din’s metal helmet tipped back against the red cushion of his chair.

He grumbles.

“Why does my candy bother you?” you ask, shifting your attention back to the path ahead.

“Let’s switch,” Din says, getting up with a slight grit in his teeth that you don’t quite catch.

“You’re hurt,” you remind him, part stating the obvious and part expressing genuine concern.

“I'm better,” he insists, placing his hand right next to you on the control panel.

You gulp and, without uttering a word, rise from your seat, seamlessly swapping places with him. The front of the ship isn’t the most spacious, and when you and Din brush up against each other, a subtle electricity passes between you, and he feels himself crumble at the touch. If it weren’t for his entire body being covered in beskar, you would easily see the physical effect you have on him.

“It’s distracting,” Din mutters, attempting to mask and ignore his feelings once he's settled back into the pilot’s chair.

“Oh, just focus on the mission, tin man,” you roll your eyes at him.

Din sighs out in frustration, and his voice modulator emits a gruff tone. “For the thousandth time, my armor isn’t made out of tin-”

“It’s made from beskar,” you interject, mimicking him with a sly grin as you repeat the exact words.

He doesn’t appreciate your tone, and he turns to give you a hard look through his helmet’s T-visor. All Din can focus on, however, is the way your lips wrap around the round hard candy. It’s shiny, and he can hear the sucking and stickiness echoing in his helmet. He's been twitching and growing in his pants, desperately trying to wield away his arousal without resorting to adjusting himself or deep breaths. Fucking miss my codpiece, he thinks.

With an audible pop, you remove the lollipop from your mouth and extend it to Din. “Do you want some of my candy?”

“No,” he replies curtly.

“Then stop staring!” you retort, emphasizing the word 'staring'. “You’re so tense, Maker, you need to get laid.”

At your words, Din's hands jerk, and the ship plummets.

"Din!" you scream, your stomach churning as your heart lodges itself in your throat. The velocity of descent sends a surge of fear through your veins. One hand instinctively shoots out to grip the ship’s side, desperately seeking something to brace against, while the other clutches the child, keeping him from sliding off his seat.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Din mutters, skillfully lifting the ship back to its original height after the sudden drop.

As your heartbeat gradually regulates, you steal a glance at Grogu, finding him still peacefully asleep. You sense you hit a delicate spot with Din, prompting you to let go of the teasing for now.

Wanting to shift the conversation, you say, “I wonder why no one else took the job. It’s great pay for what seems like a relatively easy missio- I mean job.” The planet you're headed to isn't popular; people don’t say why, but not many choose to visit.

“You get the money and don’t question shit,” Din says even though he has the same question.

Choosing not to press further, you turn your attention to the window. Up ahead, there's a thin, straight brown light, expanding seemingly from the horizon and stretching into what appears to be an eternity.

“We’re going to pass through the barrier now,” Din announces. The brown light grows more pronounced as the ship steadily approaches.

You tighten your seatbelt, securing yourself further, and place a protective hand on Grogu. Din steers the spaceship forward, and the moment the ship makes contact with the barrier, it propels forward at a rapid speed.

The sensation makes your head a bit fuzzy, and when you open your eyes, you're mesmerized by the surreal sights. Before you, four massive planets come into view. Oddly, they all appear to be precisely the same size. Each possesses a unique hue: Red, Purple, Green, and Yellow, standing in perfect alignment against the vast backdrop of the black vacuum of space.

Din goes straight for the purple planet, and as you draw closer, you're granted a more detailed view. The Purple Dimension, unlike its counterparts, lacks a ring. Indentations mark its surface, and as you approach, bodies of water and stunning mountain ranges become visible. Din tilts the ship, guiding it into the planet's atmosphere. The moment the ship breaches the surface, sheer awe envelops you. The bodies of water below cast an ethereal glow with bioluminescence, and the entire landscape bathes in an even color due to the indigo-tinted sky.

While you try to absorb the beauty of your surroundings in the darkness, the ship lands on a plain, sending purple dirt flying with the impact.

Din flicks off some switches, and you unbuckle your seat belt. “What do we do with Grogu?” you ask, standing up.

“We take him.”

“Are you sure? I can go and retrieve the flower, and you stay here with the kid,” you suggest.

“No. We’ll all go,” he declares, leaving no room for argument.

“Okay then. You’ve got the tracking fob, right?”

He hums in confirmation and retrieves the holopuck, activating it to reveal a holograph. A large flower materializes, towering at least 8 inches minus its stem. Eight petals surround a prominent style, with smaller styles adorning the central one. The holograph lacks vivid color, displaying only muted hues of blue that make it a challenge to discern the flower's true colors from the image alone.

“The target is on the water,” Din informs, and as if on cue, the child wakes up. You both cast a quick glance at the child, who begins to coo and blink up at both of you. It's a familiar routine for Grogu; he knows when you both have jobs and patiently waits for one of you to leave so he can follow.

“It was explicitly stated that the flower needed to have its roots, so…,” you bend down to retrieve an item you purchased. Unbeknownst to you, Din's gaze lingers, tracing the contours of your form as you unfold a blanket from what seems to be a ceramic container. He tries to maintain composure, but he can't help the involuntary hitch in his breath, his eyes irresistibly drawn to you. You finally stand back up, and with a smile, you unveil a flower pot.

“La compré para plantar la flor por si acaso (I bought this to plant the flower just in case),” you say, the sincerity in your voice softening the edges of your teasing banter. The idea of the flower handing in the flower lifeless after your efforts is not an option.

Din, his gaze lingering on you, manages to tilt his head slightly and inquire, “¿Cuánto te costó?” (How much did it cost you?)"

“No mucho (not a lot),” you brush him off casually, heading towards the exit with the flowerpot cradled in your arms. There's no need to call for the little boy; he immediately follows you in his floating pram.

“Esta niña (this girl),” Din grumbles, hands on his waist, shaking his head. He gives himself a silent pep talk, repeating that he can't entertain certain thoughts about you. Wishing for just five minutes—hell, two minutes—to work himself and spill over his fist, so he could stop the relentless thoughts. The thoughts that have replayed in his mind throughout the entire journey persist, and he knows they'll linger, continuing to haunt him.

After a few deep breaths, Din speed walks to the exit, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the ship. He finds you and Grogu outside, with you carrying a bag over your shoulders, facing the water.

You're absorbed in the breathtaking sight, and it reinforces why you love your job as a bounty hunter. Yes, you deal with tracking down criminals, and yes, your renowned career is undeniably dangerous. But sights like this one make you believe it's worth it, plus traveling with Din and the baby is an added bonus. Grogu is an adorable kid, and Din is… Din.

You hear the Razor Crest's door closing and quickly capture a mental picture of the landscape. The ship lands on a purplish mountain range, not tall enough to obscure the view of the river below, yet sufficiently elevated. The sky, a dark shade of purple, accentuates the breathtaking brilliance of the stars. All the purple stretches out for miles, and even the majority of the forestation is painted in indigo hues. You turn your head by 90 degrees and are met with plum-colored plains stretching as far as the eye can see. Back to where the ship landed, there appears to be a beach, the sand's natural hue indeterminable against the sky's purple tint. However, the water is unmistakably translucent, a purplish-blue adorned with white sparkles, bioluminescent in nature. A few feet from the shore, a large forest comes into view, and hints of green seem to intermingle within the purple foliage. It's a strange sight, seeing such distinct biomes coexisting within a close distance, a landscape unlike any you've seen before.

“C’mon,” Din says, taking the lead. You and the child follow, catching up to his long strides. The ground beneath you feels somewhat familiar, similar to your home planet, yet you know better than to let your guard down. There's always a chance of something lurking, ready to trip you up, as you've learned the hard way before.

Silence envelops your trio until you reach the edge of the mountain. Grogu heads in a straight line, beginning a slow descent.

“Wait,” Din orders, making the first move to ensure the steps are secure before stretching out his gloved hand. You hesitate for a moment, apprehensive about making a fool of yourself at the slightest contact. Eventually, you wrap your fingers around Din’s hand, shivering at the unexpected warmth beneath his glove's black palm, contrasting with the cold yellow exterior. Din guides you as you land on the flat part of the mountain, offering a mix of instructions in a steady rhythm. “One foot in front of the other, watch your step, cuidado (careful),” he advises. This pattern continues as Din takes the lead, guiding your descent until you reach the base, where Grogu patiently waits.

Once you reach the sandy shore, you follow Din, who has the tracking fob out. He heads to the left, where many boulders create a makeshift wall. From the mountain's top, you had noticed the forest in that direction, just a few steps beyond the boulders and near the deeper part of the water. As you follow Din, you feel the temperature rising, and gradually, a wave of heat washes over you. The sun's intensity beats down, and warmth starts to cling uncomfortably to your skin.

Amidst the heat, a realization strikes you: you have something in your bag that could melt." Quickly unzipping the black bag, you retrieve a chocolate bar, its usual vibrant red wrapper transformed into a different hue by the planet's purple coloring. The word 'Tronky' is written in its original white letters, standing out against the altered shiny plastic. The wrapper displays an image of the candy, resembling a tree trunk with a few hazelnuts and a single leaf. The candy itself is thin, requiring only a few bites to finish.

Din, on high alert, hears a crinkle and turns to look behind. He's met with the sight of you biting into the wafer chocolate bar. As the hazelnut spread hits your tongue, you moan in delight. Din's boot gets stuck between a rock on the sand, and his body lurches forward. Before he can plummet to the ground, he manages to hold himself up with a large boulder. The wind blows his cape as he straightens up. Knowing better than to ask if he's okay, you pretend you didn't see and walk next to him, just in case he trips again. The crunch of the wafer blends in with the soothing sounds of waves crashing on the shore.

“Que rico (So good),” you mumble to yourself, throwing your head back.

Against his will, Din looks at you, captivated by all your features illuminated against the purple light. He plays with his cape, determined to focus on the tracking device to avoid crushing it. Din tries to ignore the sounds you think you’re hiding, silently praying you'll finish that chocolate bar soon. As the forest comes into view, he turns to tell you where to go. However, what he sees nearly has him stumbling again. You’ve finished the bar, and melted chocolate sits on your bottom lip.

“You’ve umm…” Din points at his own lips over his mask.

Confusion clouds your expression, and you stand there, looking bewildered. He points back at his helmet, “your…” he trails off. Still not understanding, you remain puzzled, and he puts the tracker in his pocket before stepping forward.

“Tienes chocolate en tu labio (you have chocolate on your lip),” he says in a low voice, placing one hand behind your head while using the other to touch your lips. You feel the soft and grainy texture of the leather against your skin, and you gasp, parting your lips. Din wipes off the chocolate in one smooth flick of his wrist. In that moment, he's thankful for his training, as it's the only reason he manages to slowly withdraw his hands, fighting the urge to put his finger inside your mouth.

Your brain short circuits, and you're only capable of whispering, “gracias (thank you.)"

Din nods his head and continues walking toward the forest. As you approach, you notice at the edge there's a large flower.

“Hey, is that what we’re looking for?” you say excitedly, pointing to the glowing flower that stands out.

Both of you pick up the pace and eventually reach it. There's no need to delve into the forest since the plant is a good two feet away from the trees, near the shoreline.

“Magellanica sinensis,” Din says, identifying the flower.

“Wow,” you exclaim in amazement as you gaze at the flower. “Wow,” you exclaim in amazement as you gaze at the flower. It's an exact replica of what's on the holopuck. In person, the eight big petals' exterior is a deep shade of purple. When you look closely, the inside of the flower displays a lighter color—you guess it's pink. As you observe, specs on the petals of different sizes become apparent, and you can't help but admire the dark veins running through the petals, resembling ink spilled and delicately bleeding through the vibrant hues of purple. You also notice seven stamens with equally spaced, fluffy anthers forming a circle. Similar to a hibiscus flower, this plant has one tall pistil. You inhale deeply as the pleasant aroma that makes you think of apples hits your nose when you lean closer. The water surrounding the plant captivates you as well. You feel an undeniable impulse to step into the water, but Din's voice pulls you away from that tempting idea.

“You brought the tools?”

“Yes,” you affirm, scrambling to take them out of your bag. Kneeling on the lilac-purple sand, you retrieve the gardening tools: a shovel, a large hand rake, and gloves. As they lay before you, you glance up at Din, finding him looking down at you, illuminated by the soft purple glow. Your breath catches in your throat. He’s so beautiful.

Little do you know, Din is thinking the same thing about you. There you are on your knees, looking up at him, and he can't help but imagine you in that same position in a different scenario. It's what he thought about last night in his room, tugging and tugging at himself, spilling on his sheets. Every time he succumbs to such desires, a pit of guilt and shame envelops him—just like now, snapping him back to reality.

“Please gather soil in the pot, and I'll remove the plant from the ground,” Din instructs, an unusual 'please' slipping from his lips. You nod, and he hands you the rake while he takes the shovel. Not bothering to get up, you crawl a little to the right, away from the flower, and start scooping soil onto the orange pot, careful not to disturb any loose leaves. As you work, a good layer of soil forms on the ceramic, creating a small pile ready for Din once he puts the flower inside.

He asks for the recipient, and you swiftly hand it to him. Watching attentively, you see him gently add the glowing plant to the flowerpot. The roots are surprisingly long, and you're thankful you opted for an extra-large pot. Your intuition about the flower's size was right—it's almost the size of your head, and the roots add even more height.

“Pásame la tierra,” Din requests, looking at the plant and realizing it needs more soil to cover the roots. You comply, handing him more soil while he reminds you to keep your distance since the obvious powder over the petals still needs to be cleaned.

“It’s getting too dark; I’ll take it back, and you take the child to his room. I'll clean the flower before we depart,” Din decides, prioritizing your safety and the kid's.

You collect the tools, put them back in your bag, and finally get up.

“You and the kid go first,” he insists, leaving no room for argument.

After walking back past the boulders and climbing the mountain, you take Grogu to his room, tucking him into bed. A smile creeps onto your face as you recall shopping with Din and his stress about finding the best mattress. You lost count of how many vendors assumed you and Din were parents to the same child, making references to you as his wife. Din was glad he never took off his mask in front of others, as he got flustered every time someone made that assumption.

With the baby quickly asleep, you quietly make your way back down to see what's taking Din so long.

You're walking down the dock when you hear Din cuss.

“Are you okay?” you ask, alarmed at the possibility that he might have hurt himself while carrying the heavy pot.

“Yeah, I just hurt my side, and it’s still tender,” Din grits through his teeth, aware that he can't hide the truth from you; you'd see right through any lie.

“Come here,” you beckon, but it’s you who walks to him. You guide him to sit on a bench and position yourself between his knees. Din avoids meeting your gaze, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sensing his discomfort, you ask, “Do you think it’s bruised?” You notice that before you arrived, he had peeled off a small part of his body stocking over his side.

You catch a glimpse of his exposed skin, only the second time you've seen it—the first being when he took off his gloves while you were injured and bleeding out two months ago.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper.

Din can't handle the question, especially with the way you're looking up at him. His arm jerks over the bench. He feels the flower pot and, through his cloudy and hazy mind, briefly remembers he placed the flower there. But it's too late; he accidentally knocks it over, and it plummets onto the ship’s floor.

The pot shatters, and you're both engulfed in a cloud of yellow dust. Shocked, you gasp and inadvertently inhale the powder. Violent coughs rack your body, and you close your eyes to shield them from the unknown substance. The powder doesn’t relent; it keeps engulfing you, and your throat constricts. Uncomfortable sensations intensify and your senses heighten. The thumping of your heartbeat becomes almost deafening, and you scramble to get up.

Din, shielded by his suit, doesn’t feel the same effects, but he sees your struggle and panics. All of his instincts are screaming to do something and in a desperate move, he takes off his helmet with an audible hiss. The powder rushes toward his nostrils, and he can't prevent inhaling it. Quickly, he lifts it off his head and rushes to place it over yours. You feel a cold metal sensation over your head, and your vision darkens. Confused, you raise your hands to your head, realizing Din's helmet is now covering you. The powder is less potent with the beskar helmet, but since you lack the full armor, some dust still infiltrates your system. Amidst the odd sensations and confusion, one emotion surges to the forefront: desire.

Knowing Din's helmet is over your head, you suddenly realize his face is exposed. Though tempted to open your eyes, you resist, knowing his creed means everything to him. You actively fight against yourself to keep your eyes shut.

Now, it's Din who is the most exposed. He holds his breath to avoid inhaling the substance, but he quickly discovers that not breathing only intensifies the burning sensation in his throat, forcing him to open up his breathing—what the powder wants.

Din can't endure it any longer. He takes you by the hand and pulls you urgently, all his instincts urging him to claim you as his own. As he guides you to his room to escape the relentless pollen, he can feel himself growing harder with each step.

The slightest friction from his suit elicits a sigh of relief. You hear him, and it causes the dampness between your thighs to intensify. Both of you, eyes still closed, manage to reach Din’s room.

He pushes you inside and closes the door. For a fleeting moment, he questions whether keeping you in the same confined space as him was a mistake. Then, he hears your sweet voice.

“Din, it hurts,” you say, on the verge of tears.

“What hurts, cyar'ika?” he questions, feeling a pain of his own. He recognizes the ache he's experiencing—a longing that hurts, the pain of not being able to reach you, entwine his body with yours. He wonders if the powder is affecting his virgin ass differently.

“I-” The words catch in your throat, and with eyes shut, you sit down on Din’s mattress. It's so soft, and the scent of him surrounds you. With trembling hands, you lift the helmet off your head. “I just… I feel like my body hurts,” you reply vaguely.

“Where?” He rasps, eyes flying open as he sees you lying down and squirming on his bed. His resolve crumbles, and he has to physically restrain himself against the wall to resist walking toward you.

“Uhh,” you breathe, the sound morphing into a moan. “Between my thighs,” you admit, unable to lie. Your entire focus is consumed by the desperate need to touch yourself, to feel Din's touch.

“Din,” you whine, and the plea only makes him clench his fists, fighting the urge to go to you. “You should leave.”

“Can’t leave you alone,” Din chokes out, his gaze fixed on you as you start unbuttoning your pants.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeat, your hand finding its way down to your core. Despite any potential embarrassment, the overwhelming sensation induced by the pollen outweighs everything. With Din in the room, you can't resist the burning desire.

As your hand slides underneath the soft fabric of your panties, instant relief washes over you. Rubbing circles over your clit, you thrash on Din’s bed, succumbing to the frenzy of desire that the pollen has ignited.

Din can’t bring himself to close his eyes. A little voice demands him to keep his eyes open and to touch you. He hears your whines, and he feels his body temperature rise. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he bites the leather, tasting its texture briefly. He doesn’t dwell on it too long; he rips his head away, and the glove dangles between his teeth. Frantically, he repeats this for the other hand. Now, his hands and head are bare. Din's gaze is on you again, and he sees that now you’ve got your entire hand between your thighs. A strangled noise escapes his throat, and you keep moaning, causing sweat to bead on Din’s forehead without any physical exertion.

With your eyes still closed, you don’t know what Din is doing. Following your instincts, you have your entire hand between your thighs, your index and middle fingers delving deep, while your thumb works on your pearl. Wet squelching sounds, along with your moans, fill the room.

“So wet,” you mutter unconsciously. It’s true; you have so much slick that it’s dripped onto your underwear, feeling uncomfortably wet.

“‘M so-oh!-sorry.” Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as the relentless effect of the substance refuses to subside. Frustration mounts with each attempt, as you’ve tried every flicker on your pearled nub that would usually get you to your climax at this point, but nothing.

You huff and slide your free hand underneath your black shirt. When your hand makes contact with the bare skin, goosebumps erupt across your body. The scalding warmth of your hand travels to your right breast, and as your fingertips hit the smooth fabric of your plain black bra, you bend the cup to reach your nipple. It's pebbled and sensitive to the touch. You hiss but find some pleasure when you roll it between your thumb and index digits.

“Din, I’m so sorry. I can’t stop,” you confess, apology evident in your tone as you work both hands in a feverish attempt to reach your peak. Feeling it build and build, it doesn’t come. Mortified by the silence you think, I’ve made him uncomfortable; he’s going to hate me and kick me o-

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he pants, and amidst the haze of desire, you hear the distinct clatter of metal hitting the floor.

“Din? ¿Qué estás haciendo? (What are you doing?)” you ask, not panicked by the idea of him being naked, but rather concerned that the drug might be compelling him into actions he doesn't want to take. You can say with full confidence that you’ve certainly entertained fantasies involving Din, though not this exact scenario, but the thought of him touching himself has fueled countless fantasies that ended in a mess on your bedsheets while you stifled your own cries with your hand.

Your curiosity battles with respect for his privacy; you so badly want to open your eyes and see him, but you know he's never allowed you to see him before. You won't risk making things worse by breaching that boundary.

“Din?” you ask again.

“Uhh,” comes his broken moan. “Cyar'ika- ahh,” he pants, “p-perdóname, perdóname (forgive me, forgive me),” he utters apologies, and your heightened hearing sharpens. The wet sounds of skin against skin reach your ears, and your heart rate spikes as you realize what he's doing – fisting his dick between his hands.

When the realization crosses your mind, you sit up suddenly. Din takes in your disheveled state – hair tousled, chest heaving, pants unbuttoned and unzipped. He's scared that he might have crossed a line and spooked you. But in your mind, it's quite the opposite. You feel the need to go to your own room; if you stay with Din, you'll break.

“I should go to my quarters,” you say, attempting to get leave. However, you take two steps and stumble.

“No, please. I… I need you,” Din pleads. He's terrified of what this situation means for him, yet he can't bear the thought of you leaving.

“Din, I don’t know what I’ll do if I stay,” you confess. Conversations about your sexual lives have remained nonexistent, as any attempt to bring up the topic with Din has been met with him tensing up.

“Tell me if you want me to take you to my bed. If not, I’ll leave, I promise,” Din says sincerely.

Your mind spins at the thought of finally being with Din, but then, logistical concerns invade your thoughts. You bring your palms over your eyes, ready to shield them just in case you open them involuntarily.

“You don’t have your helmet,” you point out.

“I want you to see me,” he says, and you hear him walking over to you. He gently touches your hands, slowly prying them away. You can feel the heat radiating from both of you, your bodies near boiling. Even though your eyelids are closed, you sense a soft blue light hitting your eyes.

“Mírame (Look at me),” Din whispers.

"Din, your creed… it means everything to you," you murmur with your eyes shut, your concern and care evident in your voice, not wanting him to sacrifice a fundamental part of himself.

He lifts his gaze, and in the soft glow of the room’s blue lights, his eyes speak volumes. "It’s not my creed that means everything to me. It’s you.” He's more than just a Mandalorian at that moment; he’s a man longing to share a part of himself with someone who understands—someone who means more to him than any set of rules or traditions ever could. He’s a man eager to bare every fiber of his being in a way he has never done before to the woman who holds the key to his heart.

"Din," you whisper, your voice carrying a subtle tremor of emotion. The weight of his admission washes over you like a gentle wave, a profound realization of the depth of his feelings. Your heart skips a beat, and a cascade of butterflies takes flight in your stomach as you grasp the tenderness of his words. As it dawns on you that he's opening up, willing to share this intimate part of himself that he's guarded so fiercely, it feels like he has unlocked a door to a chamber of his heart that few have entered. You find yourself standing on the threshold, touched by the privilege of being allowed in.

Your eyes flutter open, and a rush of emotions floods your heart as you see him for the first time. He's older than you, his black hair carrying beads of sweat on his temples. His eyes, a captivating shade of brown, reflect your own gaze back at you. You're drawn to the aquiline nose that gives his face character, and you have a fleeting desire to trace its pattern with your finger. His lips, the lower one slightly plusher, hold a subtle pout, and above them, a well-groomed mustache adds a touch of rugged charm. Stubble decorates his strong jaw, and you notice patches of bare skin, hinting at his inability to grow a full beard – a delightful detail you can't wait to tease him about later.

As you take in the sight before you, Din notices your expression but struggles to decipher it. Your parted lips and tear-filled eyes stir a fear within him, a nagging doubt that he's made a grave mistake. She hates what she sees. This was a mistake. I never should have told her-

"You're so beautiful, Din," the words flow from your lips in a breathy whisper as you tenderly caress his face. His rugged features soften under your touch, but in the midst of this beautiful moment, an involuntary twitch stirs within him.

In the corner of your eye, you catch the movement and let your gaze fall to his lower half. A gasp passes through your lips as you take in the full extent of him. Din, however, misinterprets your reaction, and he finds himself entangled in self-deprecating thoughts. Insecurity gnaws at him as he wonders, Maybe she's seen better. Am I not big enough?

A sudden impulse takes over, and before you realize it, you find yourself on your knees, looking up at Din with blown pupils. The groan that escapes from deep within his lungs is a mix of surprise, desire, and fulfillment. His mind races with the realization that his once-confined dirty dreams are now becoming a reality. A fleeting question crosses his mind: Should I tell her?

"Can I?" you ask, your eyes fixated on his erection, your mouth watering. "Can I touch you?" You clarify.

"Yes, please," he responds, his heavy-lidded eyes looking down at you intently.

Taking a moment to admire Din, you notice the trimmed patch of dark hair leading to his belly button. His thickness is accentuated by veins running along, but your focus zeroes in on a prominent blue vein down the middle, forking at the end. He's cut, and whether it's the blue light or the effect of the powder, you notice a purple hue at the tip, where he's leaking pre-cum. From above you, Din pleads for you to do something.

You oblige, and you take him into your hands, smearing the liquid down to his base. There's an abundance, allowing you to thoroughly coat him. At your touch, Din's head falls backward, and his thighs tremble under the intensity of having another person’s hand on him for the first time.

"Uhn," he breathes out at the sensation of your warm hands enveloping him in a tight grip. Your fingers struggle to wrap fully around his thick length, Oh, he doesn’t fit in my hand, you realize. Adjusting quickly, you bring your left hand to join, both hands working together as they move up and down, utilizing his pre-cum as natural lubrication. Mindful not to cause any discomfort, you bring your mouth closer, preparing to add saliva to further coat him.

"Umm… I've never done this before," Din confesses in a tone you almost miss.

His words cause you to pause, confusion evident on your face as you squirm on your knees. The yellow dust in your bloodstream seems to intensify your need for him by a million.

"Handjob?"

Din appears panicky, realizing he admitted to something he wasn't sure how you would react to. There's no taking the words back, and he opts for honesty. "Everything," he confesses, looking away from you.

It takes a while for you to process his admission. "Oh!” He's a virgin?

Din exhales, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "I just killed the mood, didn’t I?"

"No, no, no, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Really, I'm just shocked. It’s just, it’s you. You’re so beautiful. I mean, I was, um, attracted to you when I met you. I wouldn’t have guessed.” Your voice turns into a hushed whisper. "Although things make sense now.” You tap on his side to make him look down at you. "I’m sorry for assuming," you say, fully honest and apologetic, and then get up.

He looks at you with eyes filled with shame and embarrassment.

"Come here," you say with a reassuring smile and slowly guide him backward until the back of his legs are touching the bed. You raise your hands, place them on his shoulders, and gently press down. Now with Din seated, you kneel once more.

Your eyes can’t help but be pulled to his glistening dick. "Do you want this? Are you sure it's not just the powder? Because I feel it too," you pause, exhaling as the ache in your cunt intensifies. "But I need you to want this with me. It's okay if you don't. We can do other stuff until the effects wear off."

"I do, I do want you," Din nods desperately.

You can sense the sincerity in his words, and the mutual need between you two becomes increasingly difficult to resist. Knowing you can't delay both of your desires any longer, you lower your head slightly and purse your lips. Once you feel a decent stream of saliva accumulate in your mouth, you spit on Din's cock.

"Uh, fuck," he moans in a pained voice. The sight of you spitting on him triggers primal feelings within him, desires he never realized he had until this moment. Now that he's seen it, he knows he wants you to repeat it, as long as you're willing. The urge to tell you to do it again is strong, but when he sees you opening your mouth and guiding his cock into it, coherent thoughts are replaced with pure gibberish.

His head breaches your lips, and the immediate warmth that surrounds his length is otherworldly. "Oh, oh," Din chants, the sensation feeling entirely foreign but undeniably pleasurable as your tongue dances along his sensitive tip.

Sitting back on your knees, you take a moment to admire the man before you. Din throws his head back in pleasure, but as soon as he realizes he can't see you, he quickly brings it forward to look down at you. Despite his best efforts to keep his eyes on you, they occasionally flutter close. Each time they do, he pries them open, forcing them back open, but against his will, they shut again.

He must feel overwhelmed, you think. You want to take it slow, build up to it, but the drug-like substance won't allow for such restraint.

Din opens and closes his mouth, clearly wanting to speak. "You can say it," you encourage him, though your words come out muffled. You peer at him through your eyelashes, continuing to suck.

"It- ah… feels good. You make me feel good."

"Oh, Din, good boy," you praise in your head, his words causing everything in you to flutter, making you more determined to bring him even more pleasure. To reward him, you take a deep breath through your nose, attempting to relax your throat. Once you feel sufficiently relaxed, your hands find Din's hips, careful not to press on the red-blue bruise on his left side. Gripping him firmly with both hands, you rise on your knees, sitting taller, and push your mouth against him in one swift motion.

Din jolts, sitting down abruptly, and “Nngh,” a strangled growl escapes him at the sudden sensation of having his entire dick shoved down your throat. His breathing intensifies, unsure of what to do with his hands. He resorts to gripping his sheets, and sweat begins to dampen his hair, falling onto his forehead.

Maintaining him in the depths of your throat for a few moments, you try your best to stifle any urge to gag. As you begin to pull away, Din lets out incoherent mumbles.

Your fingertips ghost over his injury, then press gently, eliciting a broken groan. "Does your side hurt?" you ask, retreating your fingers.

Din felt a surge of desire when you pressed on his bruise. Though he's embarrassed to admit yet another thing, considering how you tried to hold back for him, he decides to be honest with you. "A little, but… I like it.”

“Oh?” you say, surprised. “Well, we'll explore that next time,” you tell him, quite excited to discover more about what makes him reel.

You remove your hand from his left side and bring it to his shaft. Your fingers sprawl across the thickness, and Din feels them move over his veins. The sensitivity makes him pant out, “Yes, yes, yes.”

With his dick pointing up, you bring your head to the level of his pecs and envelop his tip with your lips. “Oh, fuck, ohh,” he grunts, then loses control of his hands, and his elbows give out. Stumbling backward, his back hits the mattress.

“Din!” you gasp in concern, but your words come out incoherent since you still have him in your mouth. Before you can rise on your legs and lean over to check if he’s okay, he sits back up, his stomach moving. Observing the way the slight roundness of his stomach jumps, you find it attractive and groan into him.

“Ah,” he says, mouth dropping and eyes fluttering.

You relish the effect you have on him, bobbing your head over the tip repeatedly. Instead of going further, you focus on licking his slit every once in a while, savoring the pre-cum that's leaking onto your fist.

While he's a mess above you, Din is captivated by the color and shape of your lips. Her lips… over me… it’s, uh, so good.

Desiring some friction, you rock your hips, though it's to no avail. You whine into him, the vibrations causing Din to groan. Shit, shit, shit, he pants in his head as the heat in his stomach snaps.

Feeling him pulse in your mouth, and judging by his sounds, you know he’s about to cum. Your slick sticks to the inside of your pants at the thought of swallowing his load. Din frantically tries to warn you to get off, “Cum! I’m- ahh,” you don’t let up; you just increase your pace. In the blink of an eye, hot, salty liquid explodes in your mouth. You try to take as much as you can, but you can’t swallow everything fast enough. Gulp after gulp, there’s more, and it spills from your lips onto your right hand that’s wrapped around his base, even landing on the dark patch of hair on his pubic area.

“Oh, fuck,” Din moans, drawing out the K, his hips unconsciously raising ever so lightly, rocking more of him into your mouth.

Once his high subsides, you remove yourself from him and rise from your knees to touch his face, looking to the side. “Din,” you call, and since he doesn’t move his head, you shift to the side of the bed to be face-to-face with him. Your heart breaks when you see his coffee eyes brimming with tears.

“Baby,” you say softly, and it prompts Din's tears to fall. “Why are you crying?” you question gently.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “dank farrik, I’m so pathetic,” Din shakes his head.

“You’re not pathetic, Din,” you assure him.

He inhales sharply. “It’s just that this is the first time… the first time I’ve, um, orgasmed from the hands of another person. For so long, I could never do anything because I was taught it was wrong. I even felt guilty the first time I touched myself, and I just can’t help but feel like I’ve committed some big transgression.”

For a moment, you're stumped. You want to comfort him but are unsure if you'll make things worse while he’s vulnerable.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” you decide to say. You sit next to him, mindful not to touch him. “I hate that you feel like that. Because what we did shouldn’t make you feel bad. We’re two consenting adults—well, as much as we can think straight because of that weird pollen,” you say, and Din laughs, making you smile. You continue, “Single adults. You shouldn’t feel guilty, Din; it’s natural. We can stop if you want. I won’t think any less of you, I promise,” you bring a hand to your chest and make an X over your heart.

"I still want to continue," he says, reaching for your hand. "I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but everyone has always instilled this belief in me. It feels good hearing from someone else that I shouldn’t feel guilty."

"Okay, baby," you tell him. "What do you want to do next?" You want to make sure the ball is in his court and that you’re not guided by the drug in your system.

"Well, I’m still hard," he says, and you look down to see that, indeed, it's true.

"Oh, wow. I’d take that as a compliment, but I’m pretty sure it’s because of the flower.”

"I want to do something for you now," Din says, rising to his feet and pushing you to lay down on the soft mattress. You instinctively part your legs, and he's the one on his knees now, playing with the unbuttoned button. "May I?" he asks in the sweetest voice.

You lift your hips, and Din hooks his fingers on the waistband of your pants. He begins to slide them down quite fast, leaving you in your panties. Maker, I can see through her underwear, Din mutters in his head, melting at the sight.

"Your thighs, they’re all wet," he comments out loud.

You giggle and cross your hands at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. "That’s all ‘cause of you, baby," you say in a sultry voice as you unhook your bra and throw it behind you.

Din loses his train of thought when he sees your exposed chest. He stares, mouth agape.

“They’re so…pretty,” he says, mesmerized and blushing. Suddenly, he begins to paw at your panties, rips them off you, and hooks your legs over his shoulders with ease.

You gasp in shock, and it turns to a whine when Din dips his head between your parted thighs, licking an experimental stripe from your tight hole up to your clit. “Ah! D-Din!” you sit up a bit and tangle your hands in his black curls. He groans into you, driven by pure instinct and fragments of recollection from what he had heard when he was working by himself. Attempting to recall bits he had gathered here and there from conversations in bars.

He laps at your juices, his tongue dancing over your most sensitive points, closing his eyes, fully enjoying the taste, moaning out so lovingly almost as though he was the one receiving pleasure. Shit, Din growled in his mind, she tastes so good. You were a moaning mess above him. He was a little sloppy, but his eagerness and hot tongue more than made up for it.

“Mmm…You’re doing great. Just here,” you say and tell him how to touch your clit. After a few words of guidance, Din has it wrapped around his lips.

“Ohhh!” you yelp and rut your hips against his mouth as he sucks your bundle of nerves. His eyes shut in sheer pleasure, the sultry sounds of your moans fueling his desire. You are surprisingly close, and your entire body is covered with a sheer layer of sweat. Your arms and abdomen tire, and you lay down. You raise your head a little, just enough to see Din use his tongue against your pearled nub and bring one hand from your hip to your thighs. You watch in excitement as he lets go of your right leg over his shoulder and flips his wrist on his ventral side. Very gently, he takes his index and middle finger and presses them against your entrance.

"Is this okay?" he rasps, pushing more of his fingers into your slick warmth.

You nod your head fervently, loving the way his thick fingers stretch you open. “Mm… I love your fingers," you gasp. "So good- they feel so good."

Din thrusts his fingers deeper, feeling your warm, wet walls clench around him already, feeling you sucking him in further.

"You're getting wetter," he observes, his voice a low growl, not expecting a response.

"Th-that's ‘cus you're," you pause to huff, "making me feel so much pleasur- ah!" you scream when he presses against your sweet spot and you continue to tell him he's doing a good job. "You can try opening and closing your fingers," you suggest.

He scissors his fingers and unexpectedly wraps his lips around your sensitive bud, sending electric pulses of pleasure coursing through your entire body.

You moan and writhe, lost in the pleasure he’s providing. "Your mouth, Din! Oh, Maker- fuck!" The words tumble from your lips, a symphony of desire, as your body quivers with impending release. "Din!" His name escapes your lips in a sharp, forced breath as you shatter into blissful climax.

In the depths of his mind, Din revels in the satisfaction of making you cum. The only twinge of regret is that he couldn't witness the ecstasy on your face, still occupied with his fingers buried inside you, working with his tongue on your swollen bud. He’s panting and you tell him to come up. Unaware of your plea, he continues his fervent attention, his fingers and tongue working together. You tug at his hair, urging him to rise. When he lets up, he slowly withdraws his digits and relishes the gasp you elicit.

Face to face with you, like a sculptor admiring his masterpiece, he adores the way your hair sticks to your forehead, and your expression is drenched in post-orgasmic bliss.

"Kiss," you command, pulling him closer, lips hungry for him.

He complies, and the moment his lips meet yours, it feels like a burst of lightning goes off in his head. His heart leaps wildly in his chest, and inside your stomach, a flurry of butterflies suddenly and furiously takes flight. A low groan escapes him when your tongues meet.

The air seems to dissipate in his lungs, and reluctantly, he tears his mouth away. Panting, his forehead touches yours as he confesses, "I've never tasted myself before."

"Do you like it?"

"From your lips? Yes," he admits, a shy tone lingering in his voice.

You've decided you like making him blush, so you lean in and whisper into his ear, "Maybe you'll like it even more when you're licking it from my pussy."

A low groan escapes Din, and he pushes you back into the mattress. Catching your mouth, the first kiss you shared had been softer and hesitant, but this one is all-consuming. He pours every pent-up feeling he's harbored for you into the searing kiss. You feel his hard length pressing against your hip, prompting you to break the kiss and spread your legs as far as you can with Din hovering above you.

"Are you ready, baby?" you ask Din, running your fingers along the contours of his face.

Not trusting his words, he nods, his eyes filled with a hunger matching yours.

“We should stay in this position so you can control the movement," you suggest, still feeling the lingering effects of the flower, though now slightly subdued after Din made you cum.

“Are we okay to um…” Din hesitates, not knowing how to initiate the conversation about protection.

“I’ve got an implant, oh, and you can come inside if you want.”

Din looks down at you, a near-helpless expression on his face. You wrap one leg around his waist, and he grips himself in his hand. His breathing hitches as he guides himself to your entrance. You notice some hesitance in his eyes, so you lift your head to kiss his nose and whisper that it's okay.

Din presses his tip inside you and lowers his entire body to yours, careful not to crush you. His mouth seeks yours to muffle the noises he's sure will escape his lips any second now. Ohh, Maker. How does she f-feel this good? Din asks himself, unable to believe that such pleasure exists. Of course, I can only find it in her, he concludes.

Meanwhile, you feel your body temperature rising. He's unbelievably girthy, and you feel all of his veins and ridges as your body molds to his. Din presses his knees on the mattress and thrusts more of himself into you. Your breath is stolen from your lungs when your body works overtime to open up. Din felt you tense and muttered apologies after apologies, but you reassured him that you were okay; it was just taking you a while to fully take him. He stilled and slowly withdrew himself as much as he could. Your body was not letting him go, and he was only giving you less than half of his cock to open you up. When you begged him for more, he complied, and he pushed more of himself faster this time. You spread your legs wider, and when he bottomed out, "Ah! Uhn…Di-Din!" you cried, and your eyes shut closed, overwhelmed.

“Hah– fuck,” Din spat out, hips suddenly stuttering, feeling your soft, velvety walls tightening. No, no, not yet, Din scolds himself. He grits his teeth and stops moving to get himself to calm down.

When he stops pounding you, you close your legs around him, making you tighter.

"B-baby, don't do that," Din chokes.

You open your eyes and see that he's looking at you intently, so you spread your legs apart once more. When they touch the mattress, Din pulls out, leaving just his head in, and quickly thrusts himself back into your pussy.

In response, you squeal and claw at his back. That seems to give him more motivation, and he continues to brutally take you. The room is filled with the sounds of wet squelching noises, moans, grunts, you calling out his name, him calling out yours, and skin slapping skin as his balls repeatedly hit against your cunt.

With the ferocity he's taking you, he sees your breasts bouncing, and he can't resist lowering his head to catch a nipple in his mouth. His hot tongue is flickering over your pearled bud, and you tell him, "Bite- uhn- bite it gently and… and then run your tongue against it.

Din follows your command eagerly. As he ruts his hips against yours with unrestrained fervor, his teeth sink into the tender flesh of your nipple, biting gently before his tongue dances over the aroused bud. The initial pain transforms into a pleasurable sensation, prompting you to wrap both legs around his hips, meeting his wild thrusts. As the crown of his head brushes against the deepest part of you, you can't help but wail.

"Oh!" you moan, feeling your body shudder as the tension in your stomach reaches its peak. Clinging to Din, in a matter of seconds, waves of pleasure cascade through you, and a steady stream of liquid pours out, covering both your thighs, his abdomen, and the bedsheets. Simultaneously, Din cries out your name, his hips losing their rhythm as he feels you clenching around him like a vice. You feel him pulsing, and immediately after, he spills. Rope after rope, he fills you up with his warm seed. His body collapses on top of yours, and for a moment, his vision blacks out. His hands rest next to your head, and he moves his head to mumble incoherent nonsense directly into your ear.

Both of you catch your breath, and you soothingly run your hand up and down Din's back. He responds with tender kisses on your forehead before raising his head.

"Thank you," he pants, his breath still ragged, and quickly adds, "Was that okay for you?"

You laugh lightly. "You made me squirt."

"Oh," he blushes, "It's probably due to the flower."

"Maybe… I mean, it's never happened with someone else and certainly not this much by myself.”

Your mind is still hazy, and you don't hear his response. "I wish you'd cum on my face," you say, not mindful of your words. Then you feel him twitch inside you. You gasp and ask him, "Din, are you still hard?"

He doesn't reply; he just looks down sheepishly at where you and him are connected.

A mischievous smile plays on your lips. "Can we try something?"

He brings his gaze back up and nods. You untangle your legs from him and bring your arms to slowly push him off you.

He gets the message and slowly pulls out of you, causing both of you to groan at the loss. Once he's no longer inside you, you sit up and ask him to get off the bed. Without an explanation, he's confused but does what you ask.

You scoot up to the edge of the bed and then get on all fours in front of him. "I want you to fuck my face."

Din's mouth parts into an 'o' as you take his hardened length into your hand, guiding him between your lips. When you taste yourself on him, you moan, and so does he. He feels heavy against your tongue, and the sounds coming from him are heavenly.

You pull back to tell him, "If you don't like something, let me know." Then, you begin to take him deeper until you reach the thickest part of him.

"You-" he begins but stays quiet. Does he want to say something? you question in your head but go back to moving your head at a steady rhythm. Very lightly, you scrape your teeth carefully to avoid biting him or drawing blood. At the sensation, Din bucks his hips forward, and he whines. Again, he sounds like he wants to talk but decides against it. You want to hear whatever he needs, so reluctantly, you pull back but keep stroking him in your hand.

"¿Por qué no me quieres decir lo que quieres? (Why don't you tell me what you want to say?)" you ask, looking at him through your lashes.

"I-" he groans when you use your thumb to circle the slit at his tip, "'M not good at the dirty talk."

"Say whatever comes to mind. You won't scare me off," you promise, and then envelop him in your mouth once more. To get him more comfortable with showing him you can handle him being rough, you take one of his hands that are awkwardly at his side and bring it to the back of your head. His large hand sprawls like he's holding a small ball, and experimentally he moves your head closer to him, making you move further on his length. He hears you struggle and is about to remove his hand in fear, but you raise your hand to hold his in place. You relax your throat and slightly move your head further, then let your hand drop. Din understands and begins to guide you to take him deeper. Feeling your hot mouth wrapped around him was causing him to spew curse after curse, still not confident enough to say what he so desperately wanted. Take her, Din. Rómpele el cerebro con maldad. She wants you to be rough with her. But if you don't want her, another man would certainly happily take her off your hands and make good use of her mou- and just like that a switch flipped in Din.

"Is this what you want, Cyar'ika?" he asks and then in one go, presses your face into his pelvic area. Thankfully, your throat had already been opened up by the time you silently asked, more like begged, for him to fuck your face so it wasn't too painful to take him down your lower throat suddenly.

"Mhm," you whine, and you do everything you can to stimulate a nod.

"Good, baby," he answers, and in an animalistic pace, he thrusts his hips over and over. Your eyes water, but you love it. You love the way he looks blissed out, with his eyebrows lifting every time his cockhead touches the back of your throat. You love the way he’s letting go, and you love that you’re the first person to see him like this, and if you play your cards right, the only one.

This time when your nose hits his dark patch of hair, you take an arm to still his movements. Once your hand cups around his waist, you inhale his smell—it's musky and somewhat sweet. The scent intensifies your desire for his cum, so you drop your hand and resume your ministrations.

“Fuck!” he grunts in surprise when you massage one of his balls with your fingers. "Good girl."

He didn't give you any indication he didn't like it, but still, you look up at him and see him already peering down at you. “Shit, you look so pretty with my cock in your mouth," he praises, fueling your moans. The vibrations reverberate through him, and he opens his mouth to tell you, “Your mouth feels fucking fantastic. This is why I was jealous of your stupid candy."

"What?" you muffle into him.

"When you had that bright purple lollipop in your mouth. You-ah-you kept on sucking it, making all of those noises and saying how good it tasted. I kept thinking about having your mouth on me, and it was driving me crazy.”

You giggle, thinking about the ridiculous idea that he was jealous of some sugary treat.

"¿Crees que es chistoso? (Do you think it’s funny?)“ He doesn't take your laughter lightly and harshly snaps his hips against your face. His lips curl into a snarl, and wet sounds along with Din's grunts echo throughout the room. Amidst his brutal pace, his hazy mind thinks, Is she okay? Quickly, he opens his eyes to see if he didn't take it too far, only to see one of your hands in between your thighs, fingers working deep inside of you. It only encourages him to keep slamming his cock, driven by the pleasure coursing through his veins and seeing your oh-so-pretty lips molding him perfectly.

“Oh, fuck, I’m close-“ he warns, releasing the grip he has on your head. You scramble to detach yourself from Din, causing a long string of saliva to form once you pull off him. Your jaw is a bit sore to continue sucking him off, so you resort to taking his base into your hand and angling his dick with his tip pointing upwards. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for your next move.

Instead of your lips wrapping around his dick, they lower to his sack. You suck his left ball, and your hand fondles the other one.

"Fuck, yes," he moans, his eyes fluttering shut. You love that he’s gotten more vocal; it makes the heat between your legs burn hotter. When you alternate your actions, it causes him to whimper out your name in a broken moan. You feel him pulse, and since you don’t want it to be over yet, you kneel in front of him and trail your lips upwards, licking the veins on the underside of his dick. His cockhead is leaking again, and you can’t help but run your tongue there, collecting the liquid that has dripped lower, almost to your fist.

“Chúpale ahí, mami, así, así (Suck it in there, mami, like that, like that),” Din whines, and his words cause you to whine too. You want his cum now, you decide, and one last time, you wrap your lips around his purple tip and run a hand down to his base to play with his balls. You feel him pulse, his stomach tenses, his thighs shake, and “a- uhn!” You close your eyes and stick your tongue out. His hot seed comes out in ropes. It paints your breasts in white iridescent cream, and it hits just below your eye. With your mouth open, some of his cum lands on your tongue. He’s panting and letting out strings of your name along with curses. Once you’re sure you’ve milked him for every last drop, you let your grip off and swallow his spend. Mmm, he tastes salty and like apples, you muse. When you open your eyes, Din’s just finished composing himself. His lashes flutter open, and when he sees you peering up at him, he gives you a smile brighter than the hottest sun.

“Ven aqui (come here),” he beckons, and you rise to his height, throwing your arms around him. He meets your lips for a kiss and quickly scoops you up to carry you. With you in his arms, he walks to his bathroom with the intention of taking a shower. You separate your lips from him to talk.

“So, the mami thing,” you start, and he buts in with a groan. “Escucha pues (listen to me),” you scold.

He playfully rolls his eyes. “I’m all ears,” but then his expression changes. “Wait, did you not like that? I’m so sor-“ You cover his mouth and kiss his nose.

“You’ve really gotta let me finish my sentences, baby,” you say, playing with his sweaty curls around the nape of his neck. “I loved it. I was just wondering if papi was on the table for you.”

“Woman,” he exhales like he’s in pain. “Let’s shower and then go a few more times.” He feels himself grow again and quickly opens the bathroom door.

You grin at his response. “Did you know that shower sex is a thing?”

Extended A/N: In my previous post, I mentioned that this story might be the last one I share before leaving this website. I haven't had the time to finalize my decision yet. I appreciate those who reached out – thank you 🩷. To give you some context, I considered leaving due to some negative interactions I received. I often portray my characters as Spanish speakers, and unfortunately, that has led to some unfavorable responses. However, as I mentioned earlier, I haven't made a final decision yet. Anyhow, thank you for reading, and have a lovely day 🫶🏽!

#Din Djarin x female reader #Virgin!Din Djarin #Din Djarin x reader #Din Djarin smut #sex pollen #The Mandalorian fanfiction #Din Djarin x you #Din Djarin x f!reader #pedro pascal characters #loslentesdepedrito's writing #my writing

[loslentesdepedrito]

Thank you for following this story and for all your interactions! I truly appreciate you immensely 🫶🏽. Ty for the advice. I do my best to keep it in mind, but there are moments when it becomes overwhelming :(. That's why I treasure people like you!

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Seven

Javi gif by: @skyshipper Jack gif by: @javier-pena My Masterlist

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Six

Word count: 9.2k+

Chapter summary: It's time for Ángel's surgery and the transplant preparation. Following the procedure, Jack visits his son, providing some closure regarding your marriage.

A/N: This chapter concludes the final installment of the series and stands as my penultimate post on this blog. Next week, hopefully, I'll be sharing one more post—a Din piece—officially wrapping up this blog. I intend to maintain my writing for another two weeks before ultimately closing my account. Thank you to everyone who has supported me!

Rating: 18+ No explicit content, but this is an 18+ page. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles. Also, Jack's texts are in bold.

CW: angst is back again, but a happy ending is guaranteed, some science, mentions of surgery, chemotherapy, and stem cell transplant, Jack cannot use an iPhone, Javi and Jack tension, jealousy, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease.

Your conversation with Jack three hours ago left you drained and exhausted, and now you're perched on the chair in the corner of your son's hospital room. You're engrossed in watching Ángel and Javi talk about an upcoming soccer game and the probability of their favorite team winning the match when your phone vibrates underneath your thigh. With a subtle shift, you reach for it and once it’s in your hand, you flip it over. Your phone is illuminated with a family picture of you with your husband and son in the background and there’s a message on your Notification Center. 

Jack Daniels: HI. TEXTING YOU FROM MY NEW PHONE.

Another vibration follows, prompting a second message.

Jack Daniels: WHY DID THE TEXT SEND IN UPPERCASE?

The sequence of messages from Jack continues, each notification accompanied by a vibration.

Jack Daniels: HOW DO I TURN THIS OFF?

Jack Daniels: HELP me. Wait, I figured it out. Sorry.

You haven’t clicked on the messages to take you to the chat. Instead, you hold and press, sending him a brief response:

Hi, Jack.

He doesn’t send anything back, and you turn off your phone. As soon as the screen is black, it lights up again.

Jack Daniels: I went to the store and picked up a new phone.

A second later, an image comes through.

You hover over the message once more, and it’s a front selfie Jack took. Well, it’s not quite a full-face selfie. It only captures just beneath his eyes, and his eyes and face are not looking directly at the camera, so you guess he was looking down trying to take a picture of something else.

You’re proven correct when a second picture comes through. This time it’s a box of an iPhone.

There’s a bubble on your text chain, and this time you fully click, opening the message thread with Jack.

Sorry, I don’t know how this phone works. I just didn’t want my phone to fail, and you didn’t have a way to contact me, so I got a new one. Did I miss anything?

You reply back with:

Ángel is already ready to go, we’re just waiting for a room to open up in the OR. Could take hours, though.

How did he take the news?

Very well, actually. Saying he’s excited to go home is an understatement. He sensed that we were worried about his surgery and he kind of gave us a lecture on how important it is to listen to doctors and gave us a small list of the benefits of chemo ports. When we asked him how he knew about the port, he said, and I quote, "some light reading."

Jack doesn’t take long to reply:

Smart boy. He definitely got that from you.

A smile graces your lips at his message, but you decide to shift the conversation:

We never talked about it, but do you want us to tell Ángel that you’re his donor?

Your nerves are on edge, and waiting for Jack’s response heightens your anxiety. Glancing up from your phone, you see Ángel still in deep conversation with Javi. Your phone vibrates again, and you look down at Jack’s response:

No. I don’t want him to want a relationship with me because of the donation. If he wants a relationship with me, I want it to be because he truly wants it, not because he feels any obligation.

You exhale, relieved, and reply:

Okay, we won’t tell him.

Thank you.

A text bubble appears:

How do I send the accent on his name?

Suppressing a laugh, your fingers glide over the keyboard:

Press the letter A for a good two seconds, and a whole lot of options should appear. Click on the third one.

It doesn’t take Jack very long to send a single:

Á

He follows with:

Be honest, does it sound a bit funny when I pronounce his name?

You weigh your options, lie or be honest. You decide to go with the latter:

A little bit.

I remember when you used to make fun of my accent…

Liar. I didn’t make fun of you.

I miss that...

Oh, God, not again.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

“Hi, I’m Will. I’m with patient transport services, and I’m here to take Ángel down to the OR,” he says.

“Come in,” you invite.

Javi stands up and retrieves your thick to-go bag from underneath the sofa. It's filled with water bottles, a variety of snacks, sweaters, sweatpants, and a few changes of clothes—because, as Javi says, uno nunca sabe (one never knows).

Will walks over to Ángel and looks at his hospital bracelet. He takes out a phone with a bulky blue case and scans the ID barcode. Will asks to no one in particular, “Can you please confirm his full name and date of birth.”

Javi does that for you.

Will nods and types something onto the phone. After a moment, he looks at Ángel, “Hey, little man, how are you doing?”

Ángel smiles, “I’m good, sir. I'm just waiting to get my chemo port. After that, I can get chemo and then a transplant so I can go home.”

Will chuckles, “That's a great plan, buddy. We’ll get you down to the OR, and they’ll take good care of you so you can go home soon. Ready to go to the sixth floor?”

Ángel nods enthusiastically, his eyes filled with trust.

“Great,” Will says, glancing at you and Javi. “If you guys are ready, we can head downstairs.”

Javi, lifting the heavy bag over his shoulder, nods in agreement. He glances at Ángel, a mix of tenderness and concern in his eyes, and then turns to Will.

“He’ll be under anesthesia, right?” Javi asks, his voice a bit gruffer than usual.

Will offers a reassuring smile, “Yes, sir. That's what his chart says.”

Javi nods, visibly swallowing some of his worry. “Okay, let’s get him down there.” He moves to help his son get up from the bed. Will positions the wheelchair closer to Ángel's bed, and together, they carefully lower Ángel onto the wheelchair. You reach for one of the blankets—a gift from your father-in-law—and drape it over Ángel. Will takes the IV wire and secures it on the designated hook at the back of the wheelchair.

"Are we all set?" Will asks.

"Yes," you affirm, and then Will wheels Ángel toward the door. Javi, anticipating the need, beats them to the exit, opens the door, and holds it wide open to let them pass. Stepping into the corridor, Javi instinctively reaches for your hands, intertwining fingers not just for your comfort but for his own solace as well. Together, you trail behind your son as Will expertly steers Ángel's wheelchair through the hallway. 

Descending from the tenth floor via the patient elevators, you and Javi follow Will, who scans his badge to usher you through the double doors into the pre-op room. 

Guiding Ángel to the left side of the room, Will selects a quiet corner and draws back a side of the arctic blue diamond-print curtains, revealing an unoccupied bed. Positioning the wheelchair beside the bed, he assists Ángel in transitioning onto the soft mattress.

"Alright, good luck, buddy. You'll do great in there," Will encourages, raising a fist. Ángel meets it with his own, and as their fists connect, they both playfully mimic the sound of an explosion.

"Thanks, sir," Ángel replies, his voice carrying gratitude. Then, in a quiet and unsure tone, he adds, "I'll see you after?"

Will's smile is reassuring. "Absolutely. I'll be the one taking you back up."

With that, Will takes a step back, giving Ángel some space. He turns to you and your husband, saying, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Peña, Mrs. Peña. Someone should be with you shortly."

"Thanks for everything, Will," you say, watching as Will, with a warm smile, exits and closes the curtain, providing you with some privacy with your son.

With only one chair in the room, Javi insists you take a seat, not wanting you on your feet.

"¿Y tú? (what about you?)" you ask, concern etched in your voice and face. Maybe it's because you went so long without a partner prioritizing you, or because in the time your son has been in the hospital, Javier has really taken care of almost everything. Sometimes you can't help but feel guilty that he always puts your comfort above his own.

"Me paro (I’ll stand)," Javi shrugs his shoulders as if it's the most obvious choice in the world.

"Papi, you can sit here," Ángel offers, patting the mattress.

"Está bien (it's okay), mijo, I can stand for a while," he smiles, loving that his son is always considerate.

"Baja ese bolso (put down that bag), at least," you plead with him.

"I'm good, someone should be here soon," Javi reassures.

"Pero, Javi- (but, Javi-)" You're interrupted when you hear a woman asking if she can come in.

He smirks and whispers, "Ves (see)." Dropping his cocky look, Javi opens the curtain to let the woman in.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Gaddi. I'll be Angel's anesthesiologist. Can I please get a full name and a birthday?"

Your son happily responds to the doctor's requests while she verifies the information on the computer.

"Great, thank you, sweetheart. Mom or Dad, I'll need your signature on the consent forms. If one of you will please follow me," she says.

"I'll go," Javi says, and to your relief, he finally drops the bag from his shoulder.

"It's just straight this way," the anesthesiologist says, motioning past the curtain where the nurse station is in the middle of the big room.

Javier nods and follows the doctor. "Ya vengo mis amores (I’ll be back my loves)," he says with a big smile before closing the curtain.

Once on the other side of the curtain, where you and his son can't see him, he exhales a shaky breath. The fear is there, gnawing at him, although he doesn't want to show it. He wishes he could share it with you, as he normally would, but you're pregnant. The stress is already too much, and he doesn't want it to affect the baby. That thought terrifies him, and he can't risk it. Through the course of your marriage, he's come to understand that sometimes, marriage isn't a perfect fifty-fifty. There are moments when one partner has to carry more, and right now, he knows it's one of those moments. He must bear the fear and shoulder some of yours. While he wants to share these worries with you, a deep-seated commitment to putting family first holds him back. His protective nature takes precedence, always prioritizing his family.

Javier raises his head back up and quickly turns around to follow the doctor, who is waiting for him.

Once he catches up to her, she tells him the forms are for consent of treatment. The doctor reads the online document, informing Javi about the procedure, the benefits, and the risks it entails.

Dr. Gaddi must have seen the look on Javier's face after she listed the risks and the way he nearly crumbled when she said "or death" because she stopped and turned to him.

"But... everything will be okay, right? He’s in good hands?” Javi asks, his voice cracking as if he's on the verge of tears; even speaking those words makes his throat ache, causing a noticeable strain in his voice.

"Sir, I can't make any promises. Every surgery does come with risks, but my team and I have successfully done this procedure multiple times.” 

Javi tries his best to remind himself that everyone in the OR is experienced and has done this procedure before.

"Where do I sign?" he manages to ask, his voice slowly regaining its composure.

While Javi is with Ángel's anesthesiologist, a nurse, and another doctor come in to check on Ángel. He had only managed a short nap, so now, as he rests, you take out your phone and send a text to Jack. 

Hey. We're in the Pre-op area. There's a room in the OR now, and I've met his doctors. As soon as the anesthesiologist comes back, they'll take him.

Jack replies instantly as if he's been sitting by, waiting for his phone to ring:

Thank you for letting me know.

He sends a follow-up: 

His surgery is only supposed to take an hour, right?

That's what the doctors said. I'm sure he won't be in there for too long.

As Javi, Dr. Gaddi, and a nurse approach, you text Jack:

The anesthesiologist will be here soon. I'll send you any updates I get, and I'm going to send you Javi's contact info just in case.

After adding Javi's phone number and hitting send, your husband and the surgical team arrive.

Dr. Gaddi approaches, “Hi, Mom, everything is ready on our end to take the patient to the OR."

“Okay,” you say, rising to your feet. The staff gathers around the bed and begins to move it. Ángel stirs at the movement, calling for you and Javi before opening his eyes.

Javi quickly rushes to your side, closer to your son, and reassures him, "It's okay."

"Oh, am I going to surgery?" Ángel asks.

"Yes, you are, Angel," the nurse responds as he releases the brakes on the left side.

"Oh, okay, yay," Ángel smiles.

The nurse chuckles at his excitement, "You know, not many kids are excited for surgery."

"I'm excited because chemo ports look more comfortable than the IV. It gets in my way when I do, like, anything," Ángel explains with a huff.

"Well, I've heard from other patients that they prefer the port, so hopefully you will too," says Dr. Gaddi as she stands to the side, waiting to wheel Ángel out of the room.

She turns to you and your husband, saying, "You guys can follow us until that red line, and then you'll be taken to the waiting room."

You start feeling more anxious, and Javier senses it. He begins to rub your lower back, his warm hand moving up and down, offering comfort.

"Okay, ready," says the nurse.

With the curtain open, they go through first, and you and Javi are right next to your son’s bed.

You're so hyper-focused on your son that you don't realize you've made it right before the line that you can't cross.

"Love you, Mommy, love you, Daddy," Ángel says, reaching out for your hand.

You take his little hand in yours, and Javi covers both of your hands with his.

"Te amamos más, mi niño (we love you more)," Javi tells him in a soft voice. Everyone can hear the love pouring out of his words.

Ángel knows this and doesn't try to contradict his dad because he knows it would be in vain. Instead, he simply says, "Nos vemos en un ratito (We’ll see each other in a little bit)."

"Okay, mijo," you say, fighting back tears.

The doors open, and Ángel is wheeled in. You think the tears are coming, but when you hear the light sound of your son's laughter, you're able to compose yourself.

"Would you like to be taken to the waiting room now?" a non-surgical nurse asks.

Thirty minutes pass, and you and Javier are seated in the waiting room, the only occupants at the moment. Purple chairs surround you, and you're on a blue seat cushion against the wall, your attention fixed on the TV opposite. It's a modest 35-inch screen designed to keep you informed about the ongoing surgery. Your son's name is displayed in green, and the message changes from ‘Surgery in progress: Incision and Pocket Creation’ to ‘Surgery in progress: Port Implantation.’

"They're placing the port-disk-chamber thingy inside the incision they made on his chest," Javi says matter-of-factly, pointing at the text.

You turn your head toward him, an amused smile playing on your lips. "'Port-disk-chamber thingy'—is that what the doctor said, Jav?"

He bursts out laughing, placing his right hand over his chest, realizing he was mimicking the tone doctors use when imparting information: authoritative. "Casi me cago del miedo (I almost shitted myself from fear) when the doctor told me step by step what they would do, so I don't remember exactly what he said," he chuckles.

Javier's laugh is contagious, and you can't help but laugh too. Your laughter fuels his, and vice versa. The only thing that interrupts your laughter is when you feel the baby kick.

"Ay, me pateó (oh, he kicked me)," you exclaim happily.

Javi instantly stops laughing too and shifts his hand to rest on your bump. As soon as you feel the weight of his hand on your stomach, your son responds with another kick, right where Javi's palm is placed.

A boyish look crosses your husband's face. He always loves feeling the baby kick, reminiscent of the first time he felt his first son kick.

"¿Hola, mijo, ya te despertaste? (Hi, my boy, have you woken up yet?)" he hums softly.

In response, the baby kicks again.

"He loves your voice so much. I swear he only kicks so you could talk to him. A mi no me quiere, nomas le gusta que le cantes y le leas (He doesn’t love me, he just likes it when you sing and read to him),” you huff out in fake annoyance.

"That's not true. The second-born is always the momma's boy. So the baby loves you the most," Javi says.

"And the youngest loves daddy the most, so no," you refute.

"He won't be the youngest for long," he grins suggestively.

You gasp, “ya me embarazaste, sinverguenza! (You already impregnated me!)"

"But if it was scientifically possible..."

"Shut up," you playfully scold him.

With Javi's hand still over your stomach, your son kicks again, this time much lighter.

"He's upset you told me to shut up," his gaze shifts from looking at you to your stomach as if he could see the baby, and he lowers his voice, “¿verdad, mijo? Dile a tu mami que no sea mala conmigo (right, mijo? Tell your mom to stop being mean to me).”

He looks back up at you, "te acuerdas cuando Ángel hizo eso por primera vez? (Do you remember when Ángel did that for the first time?).”

“Jesus Christ, he scared me, and he made you cry,” you laugh, a smile on your face remembering.

"Oh shit! I forgot to update Jack," you realize and scramble to get your phone. As you start typing to let him know what's going on in the OR, you tell Javi, "By the way, I gave him your phone number."

Javier lets out an unenthusiastic and dry, "Yay."

“Mira (look),” he says while you’re still typing. You look up to where Javi is pointing, and the TV changes to Surgery in progress: Catheter Insertion.

You wince, "They're in his vein now."

"The catheter is the tube that delivers the medicine to his body, right?"

"Yeah," you mumble, typing the next update to Jack.

Javi reaches for one of your hands and rubs soothing circles, “Deja de pensar en eso. Él está bien con ellos (stop thinking about it. He’s safe with them).”

He removes his hand and turns his body to the to-go bag. Javi reaches for the zipper and undoes it. He digs in the back, and you see him pull something out. "Do you need a blanket?" he asks, with a large fuzzy blue blanket in his hand and his soft brown eyes looking at you tenderly. Before you can reply, he places it in your lap and goes back to the bag. Javi fights a little and finally tugs a pillow out of the bag, "a pillow?" he asks with the same puppy eyes.

“I- thank you," you accept both items. You put the pillow behind you so you won't rest your back against the hard and cold wall. You take the blue blanket from your lap and extend it to drape it over the both of you.

"¿Tienes hambre? (are you hungry?)" Javi asks adjusting the blanket.

"Sí" 

He goes back to the bag and pulls out some snacks: Goldfish, Chips Ahoy, granola bars, fruit snacks, dry plantain chips, and a pack of assorted nuts.

"Sorry, I don't have any actual food," he looks at what he's offered you and feels guilty at the limited options. Javi gets up quickly, "I can go get you real food. Are you craving anything?"

"Hey," you wrap your fingers around his wrist and grip somewhat tightly. You look up at him and push him to sit back down. "No. I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. I'll stay," he says softly, kissing where your hair and forehead meet.

A knock reverberates in the room, and a nurse comes in. "Hi," she says, closing the door to come closer to you. "Everything went well. There were no complications. They're ready to transfer Ángel to the Post-op room if you guys would like to follow me."

Both of you look relieved at the news, and you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

"Thank you," you tell her, and Javi can't get any words out. His eyes are watering, and he tries his best to not let them fall.

He starts hurriedly putting away the snacks, just keeping the bag of nuts, while you fold the blanket back up into the neat roll Javi had it in. After the snacks, blanket, and pillow are in the bag again, Javi helps you get up. You send Jack a quick text informing him that everything went well, and you're on your way to see Ángel. Javi puts the bag over his shoulder, and you both follow the nurse to go see your son.

Next morning - Day 1 of Chemo:

Hey, Jack. Ángel is awake and doing well. He asked about having visitors and hoped you would come see him. We explained that it's not possible right now. He understood but wanted to call. Would you like to FaceTime?

That's great. What’s FaceTime?

It's a video call.

Yes. How do I do that?

Instead of texting him back, you initiate a FaceTime call and hand the phone off to Ángel when it starts to ring.

As soon as Jack accepts the call and his face takes over your screen, Ángel's little face lights up. "Mr. Jack!"

Jack's face mirrors Ángel's: a smile so wide, eyes so soft looking at his son.

"I just started chemotherapy," Ángel blurts out just before Jack greets him.

Jack's heart glows watching his son's face. "How are ya feeling?"

"Mmm... I feel okay. Oh! I got the surgery last night, and look at my chemo port." Your son takes one hand off your phone and pulls his hospital gown just enough to show Jack his port. "Look! You can see the bump of the port under my skin. Eww, it looks gross. It's so cool."

Jack laughs, and that makes Ángel move the phone back to his face.

"Does it hurt?" Jack asks.

"Nope. It was a little bit like... sore when I woke up, but it doesn’t hurt now. I had chemo in the morning, and it pinched for a second, but it's wayyy better than the IV."

"It's not a pain to use the restroom, huh?"

"It's easier and faster to go now," his brows pinch in the middle, "I almost peed myself once 'cus I had to wait for the wires to detangle from the bed." Ángel trails off, tilts his head to the side, and squints. "What do you have behind you? Is that a needle?"

Jack turns his head behind to see what his son saw. He had picked up the prescription he needed to be Ángel's donor from the pharmacy the previous night. Jack opened the box out of curiosity and took out a needle to look at, but then he got caught up texting you in the morning and forgot to put the small vial and needle back in the pharmacy bag.

"Umm... yeah?" Jack says uncertainly, not knowing how to explain it to his son. He doesn't want him to know that he's his donor, at least not yet. "That is some medicine I have to take in two days," Jack says, trying to keep it vague.

When the words come out of Jack's mouth, Ángel's eyes show pure concern, "Oh, are you sick?"

"No, buddy," Jack blurts out immediately, "I'm not sick. I'm just takin' them for... to... Just takin' them to stay healthy. They're like vitamins."

"Maybe I should take some so I could be healthy. What's the name of the medicine?"

Jack's heart drops at his son's words. His mind starts spinning, but he takes a deep breath. He'll be healthy soon, he tries to remind himself. "You can't take this one, buddy. It's for adults."

"Oh," he sounds disappointed, but his voice goes back to normal, "Well, that's okay. I can't take vitamins on chemo either way. I think. Vitamins can affect chemo because of cancer cells, but I don't have any so I don't know. I can ask later. How are the horses?"

Donation Day - Day 7 of Chemo:

Jack sat comfortably in a green chair, his right hand extended over a pillow, squeezing a small blue ball as his blood cycled through the machine. Two hours had passed since he settled into the chair. He arrived at the hospital early in the morning with the last dose of his five-day filgrastim prescription, and for the first time, someone other than him administered the injection. Throughout the morning, he had been texting you, checking in on his son, and, though he wouldn't admit it, checking in on you.  Of course, he cared about his son and wanted to know every detail of what he was going through, but this had been the only line of communication he had with you for years, and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity while you were willing to entertain his conversations. From you, he learned that Ángel's last day of chemo had gone smoothly.

Jack's head spun when he heard a knock against the door. His heart thumped wildly in his chest at the thought of seeing you. When the door opened, a wave of disappointment washed over him. It wasn't you who set foot in the room; it was fucking Javier.

Jack instantly tenses and clears his throat as Javier walks over to him.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Javi crosses his hands over his thick biceps, "How's the donation coming along?"

"It's goin' well. They think in 30 minutes we'll have enough for Ángel," Jack fills Javi in.

"H-how are umm... how are you feeling?" Javi gets the words out, although with much effort. He sounds physically pained asking a simple question to Jack.

"You sound very concerned for my well-being," Jack quips sarcastically.

Not really, Javi wants to say. Instead, he tells Jack, "I’m trying really hard to not hate you.”

It doesn't faze Jack one bit. "Same."

"So just don't do anything to piss me off. More like don't do anything else to piss me off even more," Javi lowers his voice more, "She's my wife; she tells me things. Don't you ever dare call her ‘baby’ again. You're lucky she's not that uncomfortable with ‘sugar’, but if she ever shows one ounce of discomfort, you will stop."

"She never minded all those names before," Jack challenges, glaring at Javi."

Javi smirks, wearing a shit-eating grin as he nonchalantly shrugs. "Yeah, she never did lots of things before me."

Jack is furious. All he sees is red, and just as he begins to rise from his chair to get up, the nurse walks in.

"Oh! A visitor," she exclaims.

"Hello," Javi greets the redheaded nurse in blue scrubs with ducks all over them.

Seeing the nurse enter, Jack comes to his senses and sits back down. Subconsciously, he squeezes the ball so tight in his hands that his knuckles turn white.

"Mr. Daniels, are you okay?" the nurse questions with concern. All she sees is her patient gripping the ball so tightly that his nails are about to rupture through the material. She moves to him and checks his arm to see if there are any signs the needle is causing pain.

Jack's glare tears from Javi and shifts to the nurse. "I'm okay, thank you for checkin’ in on me," he tells her and moves his hand to signal for the nurse to release his arm. "Nothin’ hurts," he smiles up at her.

The nurse understands and checks the progress of the donation. While looking at the machine, she decides to make small talk with her patient and his visitor. "Are you Mr. Daniels' brother?" She turns to ask Javi innocently.

"No," Jack's words drip with disgust.

Javi smiles at how fast Jack denies the nurse's initial thought and says "Not related," under his breath, mumbling, "Thank God."

The nurse doesn't seem to pick up on their animosity and comments, "You two look alike, what a coincidence. Best friends then?"

"No, nothing like that. My wife and I know him, and he's giving our son a gift," Javi says 'our' while looking at Jack.

Suddenly, Ángel crosses their minds, and they both feel some shame for their earlier behavior. They know they can't go on still hating each other because it'll eventually turn into a fight. They just don't know how to set aside their differences.

"I'll call the doctor to get her thoughts, but it looks like we have what we need for the donation," the nurse says, taking note of the blood volume. "In a few hours, one lucky little boy will receive the cells, and he’ll be one step closer to being healthy."

After Jack was hooked up to the machine for two and a half hours, the staff deemed the collection enough and sent the blood bag to the lab to confirm that Jack’s procedure had collected enough stem cells. Four hours later, it was confirmed that there were the desired amount of stem cells, and the team took the cells to Ángel’s room. Due to your son being immunocompromised, he isn't allowed to have visitors other than legal guardians. So, you and Javi update Jack on the transplant.

Day 11 post-transplant:

Remember how I told you he started grafting on the tenth day?

Yes! How his body was accepting the stem cells, and the cells were growing and making new cells.

Mhm. Well, if everything keeps going at the speed it’s been going, Ángel gets to go home in four days!!

Oh, wow! It’s just day 11 after the transplant, and the doctors estimated it wouldn't happen until closer to day 25! Can I go see him then? I know I was cleared to go five days ago, but because I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t go. My fever’s still here, but I’ll continue to monitor myself.

Sure! You need to be cleared of a fever for 24 hours and have absolutely NO symptoms.

You have my word, sugar.

Day 14 post-transplant:

You're packing all of Ángel's belongings to take home. It's been 14 days since your son's transplant, and he's cleared to go home. You don't know who's happier— you, your husband, or your son. But that doesn't really matter; all that matters is that your family is together. Just as you're collecting your son's toys and getting them ready to shove into the white personal belongings bag, someone knocks on the door. Javi stops placing Ángel's books into a box and hurriedly opens the door. He was expecting the doctor to come in with discharge papers, but it was Jack waiting on the other side.

"Oh, right, you said you'd stop by," Javi remembered.

When you saw Jack standing there not quite stepping inside the room with a red gift bag, you gasped. "Sorry, we forgot you were going to stop by." You turned your neck and saw Ángel reading the book Jack had gifted him, One Hundred Fun Facts About Horses.

"Come in," you usher Jack in. "Mijo," you call, and Ángel looks up from the book he's got his nose buried in.

"Mr. Jack!" Ángel's face lights up like a Christmas tree. He pats a spot in his bed as he tells Jack to sit down next to him. "I want to show you something," Ángel puts the book aside and lowers his shirt to show Jack that the port is gone. "They took my port out!"

Jack almost reaches out and touches his son's scar but settles for examining it with his eyes. "Are you sore?"

"Not really. I'm just excited to go to my house. Did my mom tell you I'm leaving the hospital today?"

"Yeah," Jack chuckles, "she mentioned it. And here I brought you this," he lifts the gift bag onto the bed.

Ángel tears it open and begins to pull the items out. The first gift he reaches is a book, Her Right Foot. "Oh, my God!"

You see the title and direct your question to Jack, "He's wanted that book for a while, how did you know?"

"Really?" Jack's smiling ear to ear. "I just went to the bookstore and thought he'd like that one." His heart feels like it could rip right through his chest because he feels like he knows his son. Jack had browsed many children's books and read the synopsis of every last book. The one he had purchased was the one he felt his son would love, the book his son is currently holding, and Jack was right.

The little boy takes out the next item, which is a box. "A Lego set!" Ángel flips the black box to the front, and he sees that this particular set is one of horses. The horse in the center looked similar to Andor, one of Jack's horses his son loved the most. "Is this an Andalusian?" Ángel looks to Jack, his eyes sparkling."

Jack nods his head, "It is, buddy. It's like a mini Andor."

Ángel seems pleased with Jack's answer and moves on to the last gift. It was another box, but this one was a shoebox. The little boy lifted the top off, and he was met with boots—dark brown leather boots with beautiful and intricate stitching all throughout.

“Is that a longhorn?” Ángel points at the center of the boots. He doesn’t wait for an answer before speaking again, “My grandpa has longhorns on his ranch. Do you have them on your ranch, Mr. Daniels?”

"I don’t have any longhorns, but umm... I have the same boots," Jack looks down at the floor like he’s suddenly interested in the simple pattern of the hospital floor. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, but when his son's sweet voice reached his ears, Jack looked up.

"You do?" Ángel was beaming, a smile brighter than the sun. He leaps to move sideways so his legs would hang from the bed. He took his left boot and put it on his baby blue non-slip sock-clothed feet and did the same for the right boot. When both boots are on, he pinches the tip to feel where his toes are. Ángel drops to the floor and begins to walk, showing all three of you his new footwear. 

"How did you get his shoe size?" You're amazed at how they seem to fit perfectly.

"I asked him," Jack nods his head towards your husband, who is smiling broadly, showing his perfect teeth. Javi squats down to Ángel's level and presses his fingers on his son's boot toe box to feel if they're pinching Ángel's feet. "Perfect fit," Javi smiles up at his son, dimple on display, still on the floor.

Once Javi's hands are removed from Ángel's boots, he runs to Jack, "Thank you so much, Mr. Jack," he says, jumping up and down. Ángel runs back to Javi, who is now standing up straight, "¡Papi, quiero una foto! (Daddy, I want a picture!)" Javi complies and takes out his phone from his back pocket.

You turn to Jack, and your voice falls to a whisper, "We're hosting a dinner in a few nights to celebrate Ángel coming home, and we'd love it if you'd join us."

Jack's head reels at the prospect of seeing you and Ángel in a few days, but beneath that excitement, there is fear, "Is your family going to be there?" he asks.

"Yes, and Javi's too."

"It's your family I'm worried about," he confesses, looking into your eyes.

You take in the way his face pales slightly, his eyes widen, and his eyebrows shoot near his hairline. "No. You're more than worried; you look genuinely scared, but you'll be fine."

"'Course I'll be there, Sugar," he says, looking at his son laughing while Javi takes his pictures. If Ángel was a happy and giddy boy before the transplant, Jack now sees how his innocence is amplified now that he's healthy, and Jack can't wait to see more of his son's childhood joy outside the hospital.

"Hey, can I talk with you alone before you leave?" Jack asks you, hoping you'll agree.

"Um, yeah, we can go outside," you agree, noting his urgent tone.

"Javi, Ángel, I'll be back soon. I'm just going to walk Jack out," you say, moving to the door with Jack on your heels.

"Okay, we'll keep packing, amor," Javi tells you, brushing his hand with yours. You lean into your husband for a while until Ángel and Jack say their goodbyes, promising they'll see each other at the dinner.

You and Jack exit the room, and you take him to a little corner further down the hall.

"What did you want to discuss?" you ask resting your back on the wall with brown and cream diamond wallpaper.

Jack's nervous to tell you what he wants: a father-and-son relationship with Ángel. You two never went into detail on how you would tell Ángel the truth about Jack and he's terrified of asking you for something this big so soon after a big weight of stress has been lifted off you. 

"Jack?" 

"Sorry," he clears his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about telling Ángel that I'm his dad- biological."

"Oh," you sound surprised. "Yeah. We didn't really discuss that, did we? I haven't thought about it in so long, I'm sorry. Maybe we can get some pointers from Ángels counselor?" You suggest. "Javi and I thought about making an appointment with a child therapist because of this entire hospital stay. We were hoping to get your opinion on that actually."

It's Jack's turn to be surprised. "I think that's wonderful, Sugar. Thank you for including me in the decision." 

"Of course. I think it would be great if we could get the counselor's opinion on how to best handle the situation. And we too can figure out how this new dynamic would work. For example, medical decisions moving forward. We'll tell Ángel about you and I have no doubt he'll want to have the relationship you want to have with him. We can talk more about the appointment in a few days. We haven't set an exact date for the dinner but it will probably be this upcoming Sunday." 

"I'll clear out my entire schedule," Jack says sincerely 

"We'll have food for you that won't send you into a choking fit," you tease. 

Jack covers his eyes with his hands, "God, 'M so sorry." 

You laugh at his embarrassment, "No, it's okay. I understand the food we serve can take some getting used to."  You continue to tell him about the plans for the dinner that is slowly turning into a party and he just stares at you while you keep talking he gets lost in the moment. He thinks about your laugh and the consideration you still have for him and suddenly Jack blurts out, “I love you."

The smile you had vanishes.

“Jack,” you warn dangerously. “We were doing so good, Jack.” You don't want to—can't see him now, so you close your eyes. The words only needed to be said once for them to threaten tears to spill. "How dare you say those words to me now?” You hiss, your tone now angry but more than anything, filled with frustration and pain. You thought you could handle seeing him, so you open your eyes. "What do you expect me to do with that? I won’t leave Javi if that’s what you’re hoping for.

"S-" Jack opens his mouth, but you cut him off immediately. "No, Jack, let me speak."

"Once, those three words would have made me the happiest person in the world, but now? They’re only causing pain,” you pause, exhaling a shaky breath. “You humiliated me, Jack. Time and time again. Even if I didn’t have Javi, I wouldn’t go back to you.” You sound defeated, your voice carrying the pain of past wounds, and it crushes you to keep thinking about the past.

“I did love you, through everything,” Jack whispers, his eyes searching yours. They are watery and dazed.

“I think…” you run your tongue over your lips and then purse them, “I think you loved me in your own way. But that’s not how I wanted to be loved. During our engagement, and more so during our marriage, I never really felt loved by you. Can you blame me for that if I can count with my fingers the amount of 'I love yous' you gave me?” Your words are like shards of glass, cutting through the air with the sharpness of your pain.

“When you did show me your love, I was so happy, Jack. So happy that I thought, hoped, you would give me more love, so I stayed with you. I longed for the morning you woke up and things would be different, better. Because that’s exactly what happened. You woke up after the night of our engagement, and you were a completely different person, and I couldn't comprehend what I did wrong. I was willing to stay with you forever for the odd chance one day you would feel for me how I felt for you.”

“And I stayed because I always hoped you would go back to your old self. Sometimes there were indications that you were going to become the old Jack. Well, I don’t know if I fooled myself, but sometimes I thought you were happy. Like right before I told you I was pregnant, you had this smile on your face….” Your voice trembles with the weight of those memories.

“Other times I genuinely thought you hated me, and then I thought that’s not possible. ‘Why would he ask me to marry him if he couldn’t stand me?’” 

“Did you always think that?” He sounds sad, a quiet plea for understanding. But your heart, scarred by the past, struggles to find solace in his remorseful gaze.

“Yeah. When… when we were together, it was rare you would look at me in my face. The majority of times you had me face down. How do you think that made me feel? You made me feel used and disposable.” 

“I wanted to be loved by you," you continue, your tone a mix of vulnerability and strength, "and you always made me feel like I was the other woman. Then I decided I should stop trying and let you go.” 

“What changed?” Jack's question hangs in the air. Everything you’ve revealed up to this point has felt like glass shards embedded in his heart. He knows you still have a lot left to say, and it will continue to hurt him, but he owes it to you to hear everything you went through.

“I was at a park one day after you didn’t come home," you recall, emotion tinging your words. "I came across this older man, and he showed me pictures of his family. When he talked about his wife…” you pause, emotion catching up with you. “It was beautiful. And I realized that would never be you. You wouldn’t talk about me that way. Since that day, I took off my rose-colored lenses and thought everything through."

"I thought about your behavior but also about mine. I hated who I was because it sounds ridiculous, but I was jealous of someone who wasn't here anymore. And I swear I never wanted to replace her or erase her from your life, I just wanted you to love me too. I loved you so much; I would've settled for half the love you had for Allison, but you couldn't even give me that. I never told you you couldn't love or mourn Allison. She was your wife, I get that... but I was your wife too, and knowing you would never love me like you did her was slowly killing me.” 

"I thought about one night, which I don't know if you remember," you confess, the vulnerability in your voice palpable. "But one night on her birthday, you got extremely drunk, and you kept slurring your words. I couldn't understand half of what you were saying, but I heard loud and clear when you yelled at me that you didn’t choose to stop loving her; you were forced to. And you said that you would’ve never looked at me otherwise. That you wish she came back and I disappeared… That we s- switched places,” you confess, exposing the scars engraved into your heart, and the pain of that night that is still etched in your memory—a wound that refused to fully heal. You were surprised that you weren't sobbing, because the night he told you those words, you felt your world had ended.

Jack was appalled, his face reflecting the shock and guilt that surged through him as he listened to your words. The heaviness of the past, the pain inflicted, all rushed back to him as a floodgate of memories suddenly opened, each carrying the weight of its own hurt.

"I always felt I was the third person in our marriage. You made me feel things I hated, and maybe even worse, I became someone I didn't recognize. After that day in the park, I was going to ask you for a divorce because I didn't want to be the person you settled for… then I found out I was pregnant. I wanted to give us one last try, and well, you remember what happened after I told you the news,” you say, the bitterness of the past lingering in your words.

"You kept hurting me, and you're smart, Jack. Did you not think I would leave you?" 

Jack exhales, the reminder of his own mistakes heavy on him. "I think I couldn’t let ya go, so a part of me hoped you would leave me if I treated you horribly. Every day I fought with myself to treat you like you deserve, but I wasn’t strong enough to open up to you."

The silence lingers, and Jack takes the opportunity to share a piece of his truth. "The night after I proposed, I had a dream about Allison. She told me I was replacing her, and I dunno, instead of working out through my issues, I took it out on ya.”

“Over a dream? You... you let our relationship go to waste because of a dream,” you say, a mix of disbelief and frustration in your voice. You want to be angry at him because such a trivial thing ruined the chance of happiness, but then you put yourself in his shoes. "Oh, Jack," you add, this time with a tone of understanding and sadness. 

“Have you been to therapy?” you ask him, your tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Yeah…” Jack admits with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Can I be honest?” you tilt your head, your fingers playing with the collar of your shirt.

He nods.

“I don’t think it helped.”

Jack smiles, a sheepish expression on his face, “If we’re being honest, I went in for two sessions and never saw my shrink again.”

“Well, your therapist probably knew what they were doing,” you playfully scold, but then your voice softens, "Please see a therapist so Ángel can get to know the best version of you. When I knew that Jack, he was amazing, and that's the man I want my son to know."

A sad smile greets Jack's face, "Yes, Sugar."

There's another thing you've always been curious to know but never had the stomach to ask, and this seems to be your window. "Can I ask, did you, um, did you ever sleep with someone else while we were married?"

"God no," the words tumble out of his mouth.

"Well, that's something, I guess," you say, a sense of relief evident in your voice.

"I'm really sorry about everything, sweetheart. I can't believe I ever hurt you. I just miss you so much. I’ve never regretted anything in my life as much as I do not telling you I loved you when we had a chance," Jack confesses, the weight of regret heavy in his words.

"It’s okay, Jack. I’m not your wife anymore, but we had some good times. Sometimes love doesn’t work out how we thought,” you tell Jack, your gaze turning when you hear footsteps that are familiar to you. 

And Jack would forever kick himself for driving you away and not accepting your love. The only piece of solace is that Ángel will have a happy and full life, and you finally got the love you deserved and dreamed of.

Javi starts calling your name, and you answer him so he can walk over to where you are. Once Javi comes into view, he tells you that Ángel’s been discharged and that they're ready to go home.

Jack looks at you once more, his gaze lingering, as if trying to capture every detail to hold onto. He sees the love in your eyes for your husband, a love he once had the chance to cherish but let slip away. It hurts, but at the mention of his son, it gives him the slightest glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he has learned from his mistakes, and he'll find a way to be a part of your lives, even if it's not in the way he once dreamed. The love of his life and his son are happy and healthy, and that will have to be enough for him.

"Bye, Jack. I'll let you know what time we're having the dinner," you say, while Javi wraps his arms around you—a protective gesture that Jack once held the privilege of doing, but did so sparingly.

"Take care," Javi tells Jack over his shoulder, his voice firm but not unkind. He then leads you to Ángel's room, leaving Jack standing alone in the corridor, grappling with the ache of what could have been.

You both start heading down the hallway, and Javi pauses halfway. His eyes search yours, concern written all over his features. 

"Are you okay?"

"I am now," you lean into him and smile. "Jack and I were talking about when we were married," you begin, and Javi tenses involuntarily.

"Hey, no, you don’t have anything to worry about," you reassure him, cupping his face with both of your hands. "Our talk was more about what went wrong, and the bottom line was that I‘m okay with the fact that he wasn’t the one for me."

Javi takes a deep breath, visibly trying to control the surge of emotions within him. "It’s just- me cae mal ese - (I don’t like that-)” You can't help but chuckle lightly at your husband's choice of words.

"As stupid as it sounds, I wanted to make it work when we were married. I saw it in his eyes, I felt it in his words and actions; he didn’t love me, and I couldn’t stay in a marriage like that. I wanted a life with him... It didn't work out, and it's okay. Everything I dreamed of having, I found it with you. I'm the happiest I've ever been at your side. You’re the love of my life and I love being your wife, don't ever doubt that, okay?" Since the beginning of your relationship, you always repeated your love to Javier, not because he was insecure, but because you knew how it felt to be second place, second best, a consolation prize, and you never wanted Javier to think that you settled for him after Jack.

"Say it again," Javi requests, a genuine smile softening his features as he looks down at you.

"What?" 

“That you’re my wife," Jack wants you to repeat the words that make his heart flutter.

“I’m your wife," you say.

Javi, still reveling in the warmth of the words, spins his finger in a playful circle, silently requesting you to say the words again.

“I’m your wife," you repeat, the pride evident in your tone. You take Javi's hand and begin walking to your son’s room.

"Again," Javi insists, stopping you in your tracks.

“I’m your wife.” 

“Otra vez," he requests, this time in Spanish.

You comply, “Soy tu esposa," you tell him and drag him further down the hall to your son's room.

When Javi playfully asks you to say it once more, this time it's you who stops. “Por dios, Javi, ¿en cuántos lenguajes quieres que te lo diga? (My God, Javi, how many languages do you want me to say it in?)” you feign annoyance.

He shrugs, answering with a mischievous grin, “En todos (in all of them).”

Amused, you grab him by the collar of his blue button-down shirt and bring him to a level where you can whisper into his ear, “Ay, Jav, apenas y hablas español (Oh, Jav, you barely speak Spanish).” You kiss his cheek and pull back, leaving him slightly offended but oddly proud. He had hoped for a different outcome when he saw you pull him down; the glint in your eyes made him believe you were going to kiss him on the lips. But, to his dismay, you chose to tease him instead.

"Take it back!" he demands as you stand right outside the door.

“Si lo dices en español (if you say it in Spanish),” you tease with a grin. Javier contemplates for a moment, and in the brief silence, Ángel's laughter and Dr. Navarro's voice echo from inside the room.

"Please?" Javi implores, wanting to savor one more of those heart-skipping phrases before joining his son. Unable to resist his pleading eyes any longer and mindful of the precious moments with Ángel, you relent.

“I’m your wife.”

END

Extended Note: The end! Thank you, everyone, for your kindness throughout the series. I truly appreciate every interaction 🥹.

As for my departure, I'm unsure whether I should deactivate my account or just private my writing. There's one post I received only positive comments on, especially from people with SPD who found it relatable. Apparently, there's a shortage of such stories, so I'm conflicted. Hopefully, I'll have a definitive decision next week.

I'm planning to post the Din story next Thursday; it's just one part, a sex pollen with Virgin!Din, titled 'Paleta.' I'm a fan of El Alfa, and I recently discovered that a song in his new album was sampled from the one I used for the Din story. It got me thinking about what I had written, and I wanted to share it with y’all before I bow out.

Thank you for reading 🫶🏽!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @stileslvr @pedrostories

#love you <3

[loslentesdepedrito]

Ahh, muchas gracias! Te agradezco por todas tus palabras bonitas. It brings me joy to hear that you loved this series 🥹!

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Seven

Javi gif by: @skyshipper Jack gif by: @javier-pena My Masterlist

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Six

Word count: 9.2k+

Chapter summary: It's time for Ángel's surgery and the transplant preparation. Following the procedure, Jack visits his son, providing some closure regarding your marriage.

A/N: This chapter concludes the final installment of the series and stands as my penultimate post on this blog. Next week, hopefully, I'll be sharing one more post—a Din piece—officially wrapping up this blog. I intend to maintain my writing for another two weeks before ultimately closing my account. Thank you to everyone who has supported me!

Rating: 18+ No explicit content, but this is an 18+ page. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles. Also, Jack's texts are in bold.

CW: angst is back again, but a happy ending is guaranteed, some science, mentions of surgery, chemotherapy, and stem cell transplant, Jack cannot use an iPhone, Javi and Jack tension, jealousy, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease.

Your conversation with Jack three hours ago left you drained and exhausted, and now you're perched on the chair in the corner of your son's hospital room. You're engrossed in watching Ángel and Javi talk about an upcoming soccer game and the probability of their favorite team winning the match when your phone vibrates underneath your thigh. With a subtle shift, you reach for it and once it’s in your hand, you flip it over. Your phone is illuminated with a family picture of you with your husband and son in the background and there’s a message on your Notification Center. 

Jack Daniels: HI. TEXTING YOU FROM MY NEW PHONE.

Another vibration follows, prompting a second message.

Jack Daniels: WHY DID THE TEXT SEND IN UPPERCASE?

The sequence of messages from Jack continues, each notification accompanied by a vibration.

Jack Daniels: HOW DO I TURN THIS OFF?

Jack Daniels: HELP me. Wait, I figured it out. Sorry.

You haven’t clicked on the messages to take you to the chat. Instead, you hold and press, sending him a brief response:

Hi, Jack.

He doesn’t send anything back, and you turn off your phone. As soon as the screen is black, it lights up again.

Jack Daniels: I went to the store and picked up a new phone.

A second later, an image comes through.

You hover over the message once more, and it’s a front selfie Jack took. Well, it’s not quite a full-face selfie. It only captures just beneath his eyes, and his eyes and face are not looking directly at the camera, so you guess he was looking down trying to take a picture of something else.

You’re proven correct when a second picture comes through. This time it’s a box of an iPhone.

There’s a bubble on your text chain, and this time you fully click, opening the message thread with Jack.

Sorry, I don’t know how this phone works. I just didn’t want my phone to fail, and you didn’t have a way to contact me, so I got a new one. Did I miss anything?

You reply back with:

Ángel is already ready to go, we’re just waiting for a room to open up in the OR. Could take hours, though.

How did he take the news?

Very well, actually. Saying he’s excited to go home is an understatement. He sensed that we were worried about his surgery and he kind of gave us a lecture on how important it is to listen to doctors and gave us a small list of the benefits of chemo ports. When we asked him how he knew about the port, he said, and I quote, "some light reading."

Jack doesn’t take long to reply:

Smart boy. He definitely got that from you.

A smile graces your lips at his message, but you decide to shift the conversation:

We never talked about it, but do you want us to tell Ángel that you’re his donor?

Your nerves are on edge, and waiting for Jack’s response heightens your anxiety. Glancing up from your phone, you see Ángel still in deep conversation with Javi. Your phone vibrates again, and you look down at Jack’s response:

No. I don’t want him to want a relationship with me because of the donation. If he wants a relationship with me, I want it to be because he truly wants it, not because he feels any obligation.

You exhale, relieved, and reply:

Okay, we won’t tell him.

Thank you.

A text bubble appears:

How do I send the accent on his name?

Suppressing a laugh, your fingers glide over the keyboard:

Press the letter A for a good two seconds, and a whole lot of options should appear. Click on the third one.

It doesn’t take Jack very long to send a single:

Á

He follows with:

Be honest, does it sound a bit funny when I pronounce his name?

You weigh your options, lie or be honest. You decide to go with the latter:

A little bit.

I remember when you used to make fun of my accent…

Liar. I didn’t make fun of you.

I miss that...

Oh, God, not again.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

“Hi, I’m Will. I’m with patient transport services, and I’m here to take Ángel down to the OR,” he says.

“Come in,” you invite.

Javi stands up and retrieves your thick to-go bag from underneath the sofa. It's filled with water bottles, a variety of snacks, sweaters, sweatpants, and a few changes of clothes—because, as Javi says, uno nunca sabe (one never knows).

Will walks over to Ángel and looks at his hospital bracelet. He takes out a phone with a bulky blue case and scans the ID barcode. Will asks to no one in particular, “Can you please confirm his full name and date of birth.”

Javi does that for you.

Will nods and types something onto the phone. After a moment, he looks at Ángel, “Hey, little man, how are you doing?”

Ángel smiles, “I’m good, sir. I'm just waiting to get my chemo port. After that, I can get chemo and then a transplant so I can go home.”

Will chuckles, “That's a great plan, buddy. We’ll get you down to the OR, and they’ll take good care of you so you can go home soon. Ready to go to the sixth floor?”

Ángel nods enthusiastically, his eyes filled with trust.

“Great,” Will says, glancing at you and Javi. “If you guys are ready, we can head downstairs.”

Javi, lifting the heavy bag over his shoulder, nods in agreement. He glances at Ángel, a mix of tenderness and concern in his eyes, and then turns to Will.

“He’ll be under anesthesia, right?” Javi asks, his voice a bit gruffer than usual.

Will offers a reassuring smile, “Yes, sir. That's what his chart says.”

Javi nods, visibly swallowing some of his worry. “Okay, let’s get him down there.” He moves to help his son get up from the bed. Will positions the wheelchair closer to Ángel's bed, and together, they carefully lower Ángel onto the wheelchair. You reach for one of the blankets—a gift from your father-in-law—and drape it over Ángel. Will takes the IV wire and secures it on the designated hook at the back of the wheelchair.

"Are we all set?" Will asks.

"Yes," you affirm, and then Will wheels Ángel toward the door. Javi, anticipating the need, beats them to the exit, opens the door, and holds it wide open to let them pass. Stepping into the corridor, Javi instinctively reaches for your hands, intertwining fingers not just for your comfort but for his own solace as well. Together, you trail behind your son as Will expertly steers Ángel's wheelchair through the hallway. 

Descending from the tenth floor via the patient elevators, you and Javi follow Will, who scans his badge to usher you through the double doors into the pre-op room. 

Guiding Ángel to the left side of the room, Will selects a quiet corner and draws back a side of the arctic blue diamond-print curtains, revealing an unoccupied bed. Positioning the wheelchair beside the bed, he assists Ángel in transitioning onto the soft mattress.

"Alright, good luck, buddy. You'll do great in there," Will encourages, raising a fist. Ángel meets it with his own, and as their fists connect, they both playfully mimic the sound of an explosion.

"Thanks, sir," Ángel replies, his voice carrying gratitude. Then, in a quiet and unsure tone, he adds, "I'll see you after?"

Will's smile is reassuring. "Absolutely. I'll be the one taking you back up."

With that, Will takes a step back, giving Ángel some space. He turns to you and your husband, saying, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Peña, Mrs. Peña. Someone should be with you shortly."

"Thanks for everything, Will," you say, watching as Will, with a warm smile, exits and closes the curtain, providing you with some privacy with your son.

With only one chair in the room, Javi insists you take a seat, not wanting you on your feet.

"¿Y tú? (what about you?)" you ask, concern etched in your voice and face. Maybe it's because you went so long without a partner prioritizing you, or because in the time your son has been in the hospital, Javier has really taken care of almost everything. Sometimes you can't help but feel guilty that he always puts your comfort above his own.

"Me paro (I’ll stand)," Javi shrugs his shoulders as if it's the most obvious choice in the world.

"Papi, you can sit here," Ángel offers, patting the mattress.

"Está bien (it's okay), mijo, I can stand for a while," he smiles, loving that his son is always considerate.

"Baja ese bolso (put down that bag), at least," you plead with him.

"I'm good, someone should be here soon," Javi reassures.

"Pero, Javi- (but, Javi-)" You're interrupted when you hear a woman asking if she can come in.

He smirks and whispers, "Ves (see)." Dropping his cocky look, Javi opens the curtain to let the woman in.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Gaddi. I'll be Angel's anesthesiologist. Can I please get a full name and a birthday?"

Your son happily responds to the doctor's requests while she verifies the information on the computer.

"Great, thank you, sweetheart. Mom or Dad, I'll need your signature on the consent forms. If one of you will please follow me," she says.

"I'll go," Javi says, and to your relief, he finally drops the bag from his shoulder.

"It's just straight this way," the anesthesiologist says, motioning past the curtain where the nurse station is in the middle of the big room.

Javier nods and follows the doctor. "Ya vengo mis amores (I’ll be back my loves)," he says with a big smile before closing the curtain.

Once on the other side of the curtain, where you and his son can't see him, he exhales a shaky breath. The fear is there, gnawing at him, although he doesn't want to show it. He wishes he could share it with you, as he normally would, but you're pregnant. The stress is already too much, and he doesn't want it to affect the baby. That thought terrifies him, and he can't risk it. Through the course of your marriage, he's come to understand that sometimes, marriage isn't a perfect fifty-fifty. There are moments when one partner has to carry more, and right now, he knows it's one of those moments. He must bear the fear and shoulder some of yours. While he wants to share these worries with you, a deep-seated commitment to putting family first holds him back. His protective nature takes precedence, always prioritizing his family.

Javier raises his head back up and quickly turns around to follow the doctor, who is waiting for him.

Once he catches up to her, she tells him the forms are for consent of treatment. The doctor reads the online document, informing Javi about the procedure, the benefits, and the risks it entails.

Dr. Gaddi must have seen the look on Javier's face after she listed the risks and the way he nearly crumbled when she said "or death" because she stopped and turned to him.

"But... everything will be okay, right? He’s in good hands?” Javi asks, his voice cracking as if he's on the verge of tears; even speaking those words makes his throat ache, causing a noticeable strain in his voice.

"Sir, I can't make any promises. Every surgery does come with risks, but my team and I have successfully done this procedure multiple times.” 

Javi tries his best to remind himself that everyone in the OR is experienced and has done this procedure before.

"Where do I sign?" he manages to ask, his voice slowly regaining its composure.

While Javi is with Ángel's anesthesiologist, a nurse, and another doctor come in to check on Ángel. He had only managed a short nap, so now, as he rests, you take out your phone and send a text to Jack. 

Hey. We're in the Pre-op area. There's a room in the OR now, and I've met his doctors. As soon as the anesthesiologist comes back, they'll take him.

Jack replies instantly as if he's been sitting by, waiting for his phone to ring:

Thank you for letting me know.

He sends a follow-up: 

His surgery is only supposed to take an hour, right?

That's what the doctors said. I'm sure he won't be in there for too long.

As Javi, Dr. Gaddi, and a nurse approach, you text Jack:

The anesthesiologist will be here soon. I'll send you any updates I get, and I'm going to send you Javi's contact info just in case.

After adding Javi's phone number and hitting send, your husband and the surgical team arrive.

Dr. Gaddi approaches, “Hi, Mom, everything is ready on our end to take the patient to the OR."

“Okay,” you say, rising to your feet. The staff gathers around the bed and begins to move it. Ángel stirs at the movement, calling for you and Javi before opening his eyes.

Javi quickly rushes to your side, closer to your son, and reassures him, "It's okay."

"Oh, am I going to surgery?" Ángel asks.

"Yes, you are, Angel," the nurse responds as he releases the brakes on the left side.

"Oh, okay, yay," Ángel smiles.

The nurse chuckles at his excitement, "You know, not many kids are excited for surgery."

"I'm excited because chemo ports look more comfortable than the IV. It gets in my way when I do, like, anything," Ángel explains with a huff.

"Well, I've heard from other patients that they prefer the port, so hopefully you will too," says Dr. Gaddi as she stands to the side, waiting to wheel Ángel out of the room.

She turns to you and your husband, saying, "You guys can follow us until that red line, and then you'll be taken to the waiting room."

You start feeling more anxious, and Javier senses it. He begins to rub your lower back, his warm hand moving up and down, offering comfort.

"Okay, ready," says the nurse.

With the curtain open, they go through first, and you and Javi are right next to your son’s bed.

You're so hyper-focused on your son that you don't realize you've made it right before the line that you can't cross.

"Love you, Mommy, love you, Daddy," Ángel says, reaching out for your hand.

You take his little hand in yours, and Javi covers both of your hands with his.

"Te amamos más, mi niño (we love you more)," Javi tells him in a soft voice. Everyone can hear the love pouring out of his words.

Ángel knows this and doesn't try to contradict his dad because he knows it would be in vain. Instead, he simply says, "Nos vemos en un ratito (We’ll see each other in a little bit)."

"Okay, mijo," you say, fighting back tears.

The doors open, and Ángel is wheeled in. You think the tears are coming, but when you hear the light sound of your son's laughter, you're able to compose yourself.

"Would you like to be taken to the waiting room now?" a non-surgical nurse asks.

Thirty minutes pass, and you and Javier are seated in the waiting room, the only occupants at the moment. Purple chairs surround you, and you're on a blue seat cushion against the wall, your attention fixed on the TV opposite. It's a modest 35-inch screen designed to keep you informed about the ongoing surgery. Your son's name is displayed in green, and the message changes from ‘Surgery in progress: Incision and Pocket Creation’ to ‘Surgery in progress: Port Implantation.’

"They're placing the port-disk-chamber thingy inside the incision they made on his chest," Javi says matter-of-factly, pointing at the text.

You turn your head toward him, an amused smile playing on your lips. "'Port-disk-chamber thingy'—is that what the doctor said, Jav?"

He bursts out laughing, placing his right hand over his chest, realizing he was mimicking the tone doctors use when imparting information: authoritative. "Casi me cago del miedo (I almost shitted myself from fear) when the doctor told me step by step what they would do, so I don't remember exactly what he said," he chuckles.

Javier's laugh is contagious, and you can't help but laugh too. Your laughter fuels his, and vice versa. The only thing that interrupts your laughter is when you feel the baby kick.

"Ay, me pateó (oh, he kicked me)," you exclaim happily.

Javi instantly stops laughing too and shifts his hand to rest on your bump. As soon as you feel the weight of his hand on your stomach, your son responds with another kick, right where Javi's palm is placed.

A boyish look crosses your husband's face. He always loves feeling the baby kick, reminiscent of the first time he felt his first son kick.

"¿Hola, mijo, ya te despertaste? (Hi, my boy, have you woken up yet?)" he hums softly.

In response, the baby kicks again.

"He loves your voice so much. I swear he only kicks so you could talk to him. A mi no me quiere, nomas le gusta que le cantes y le leas (He doesn’t love me, he just likes it when you sing and read to him),” you huff out in fake annoyance.

"That's not true. The second-born is always the momma's boy. So the baby loves you the most," Javi says.

"And the youngest loves daddy the most, so no," you refute.

"He won't be the youngest for long," he grins suggestively.

You gasp, “ya me embarazaste, sinverguenza! (You already impregnated me!)"

"But if it was scientifically possible..."

"Shut up," you playfully scold him.

With Javi's hand still over your stomach, your son kicks again, this time much lighter.

"He's upset you told me to shut up," his gaze shifts from looking at you to your stomach as if he could see the baby, and he lowers his voice, “¿verdad, mijo? Dile a tu mami que no sea mala conmigo (right, mijo? Tell your mom to stop being mean to me).”

He looks back up at you, "te acuerdas cuando Ángel hizo eso por primera vez? (Do you remember when Ángel did that for the first time?).”

“Jesus Christ, he scared me, and he made you cry,” you laugh, a smile on your face remembering.

"Oh shit! I forgot to update Jack," you realize and scramble to get your phone. As you start typing to let him know what's going on in the OR, you tell Javi, "By the way, I gave him your phone number."

Javier lets out an unenthusiastic and dry, "Yay."

“Mira (look),” he says while you’re still typing. You look up to where Javi is pointing, and the TV changes to Surgery in progress: Catheter Insertion.

You wince, "They're in his vein now."

"The catheter is the tube that delivers the medicine to his body, right?"

"Yeah," you mumble, typing the next update to Jack.

Javi reaches for one of your hands and rubs soothing circles, “Deja de pensar en eso. Él está bien con ellos (stop thinking about it. He’s safe with them).”

He removes his hand and turns his body to the to-go bag. Javi reaches for the zipper and undoes it. He digs in the back, and you see him pull something out. "Do you need a blanket?" he asks, with a large fuzzy blue blanket in his hand and his soft brown eyes looking at you tenderly. Before you can reply, he places it in your lap and goes back to the bag. Javi fights a little and finally tugs a pillow out of the bag, "a pillow?" he asks with the same puppy eyes.

“I- thank you," you accept both items. You put the pillow behind you so you won't rest your back against the hard and cold wall. You take the blue blanket from your lap and extend it to drape it over the both of you.

"¿Tienes hambre? (are you hungry?)" Javi asks adjusting the blanket.

"Sí" 

He goes back to the bag and pulls out some snacks: Goldfish, Chips Ahoy, granola bars, fruit snacks, dry plantain chips, and a pack of assorted nuts.

"Sorry, I don't have any actual food," he looks at what he's offered you and feels guilty at the limited options. Javi gets up quickly, "I can go get you real food. Are you craving anything?"

"Hey," you wrap your fingers around his wrist and grip somewhat tightly. You look up at him and push him to sit back down. "No. I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. I'll stay," he says softly, kissing where your hair and forehead meet.

A knock reverberates in the room, and a nurse comes in. "Hi," she says, closing the door to come closer to you. "Everything went well. There were no complications. They're ready to transfer Ángel to the Post-op room if you guys would like to follow me."

Both of you look relieved at the news, and you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

"Thank you," you tell her, and Javi can't get any words out. His eyes are watering, and he tries his best to not let them fall.

He starts hurriedly putting away the snacks, just keeping the bag of nuts, while you fold the blanket back up into the neat roll Javi had it in. After the snacks, blanket, and pillow are in the bag again, Javi helps you get up. You send Jack a quick text informing him that everything went well, and you're on your way to see Ángel. Javi puts the bag over his shoulder, and you both follow the nurse to go see your son.

Next morning - Day 1 of Chemo:

Hey, Jack. Ángel is awake and doing well. He asked about having visitors and hoped you would come see him. We explained that it's not possible right now. He understood but wanted to call. Would you like to FaceTime?

That's great. What’s FaceTime?

It's a video call.

Yes. How do I do that?

Instead of texting him back, you initiate a FaceTime call and hand the phone off to Ángel when it starts to ring.

As soon as Jack accepts the call and his face takes over your screen, Ángel's little face lights up. "Mr. Jack!"

Jack's face mirrors Ángel's: a smile so wide, eyes so soft looking at his son.

"I just started chemotherapy," Ángel blurts out just before Jack greets him.

Jack's heart glows watching his son's face. "How are ya feeling?"

"Mmm... I feel okay. Oh! I got the surgery last night, and look at my chemo port." Your son takes one hand off your phone and pulls his hospital gown just enough to show Jack his port. "Look! You can see the bump of the port under my skin. Eww, it looks gross. It's so cool."

Jack laughs, and that makes Ángel move the phone back to his face.

"Does it hurt?" Jack asks.

"Nope. It was a little bit like... sore when I woke up, but it doesn’t hurt now. I had chemo in the morning, and it pinched for a second, but it's wayyy better than the IV."

"It's not a pain to use the restroom, huh?"

"It's easier and faster to go now," his brows pinch in the middle, "I almost peed myself once 'cus I had to wait for the wires to detangle from the bed." Ángel trails off, tilts his head to the side, and squints. "What do you have behind you? Is that a needle?"

Jack turns his head behind to see what his son saw. He had picked up the prescription he needed to be Ángel's donor from the pharmacy the previous night. Jack opened the box out of curiosity and took out a needle to look at, but then he got caught up texting you in the morning and forgot to put the small vial and needle back in the pharmacy bag.

"Umm... yeah?" Jack says uncertainly, not knowing how to explain it to his son. He doesn't want him to know that he's his donor, at least not yet. "That is some medicine I have to take in two days," Jack says, trying to keep it vague.

When the words come out of Jack's mouth, Ángel's eyes show pure concern, "Oh, are you sick?"

"No, buddy," Jack blurts out immediately, "I'm not sick. I'm just takin' them for... to... Just takin' them to stay healthy. They're like vitamins."

"Maybe I should take some so I could be healthy. What's the name of the medicine?"

Jack's heart drops at his son's words. His mind starts spinning, but he takes a deep breath. He'll be healthy soon, he tries to remind himself. "You can't take this one, buddy. It's for adults."

"Oh," he sounds disappointed, but his voice goes back to normal, "Well, that's okay. I can't take vitamins on chemo either way. I think. Vitamins can affect chemo because of cancer cells, but I don't have any so I don't know. I can ask later. How are the horses?"

Donation Day - Day 7 of Chemo:

Jack sat comfortably in a green chair, his right hand extended over a pillow, squeezing a small blue ball as his blood cycled through the machine. Two hours had passed since he settled into the chair. He arrived at the hospital early in the morning with the last dose of his five-day filgrastim prescription, and for the first time, someone other than him administered the injection. Throughout the morning, he had been texting you, checking in on his son, and, though he wouldn't admit it, checking in on you.  Of course, he cared about his son and wanted to know every detail of what he was going through, but this had been the only line of communication he had with you for years, and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity while you were willing to entertain his conversations. From you, he learned that Ángel's last day of chemo had gone smoothly.

Jack's head spun when he heard a knock against the door. His heart thumped wildly in his chest at the thought of seeing you. When the door opened, a wave of disappointment washed over him. It wasn't you who set foot in the room; it was fucking Javier.

Jack instantly tenses and clears his throat as Javier walks over to him.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Javi crosses his hands over his thick biceps, "How's the donation coming along?"

"It's goin' well. They think in 30 minutes we'll have enough for Ángel," Jack fills Javi in.

"H-how are umm... how are you feeling?" Javi gets the words out, although with much effort. He sounds physically pained asking a simple question to Jack.

"You sound very concerned for my well-being," Jack quips sarcastically.

Not really, Javi wants to say. Instead, he tells Jack, "I’m trying really hard to not hate you.”

It doesn't faze Jack one bit. "Same."

"So just don't do anything to piss me off. More like don't do anything else to piss me off even more," Javi lowers his voice more, "She's my wife; she tells me things. Don't you ever dare call her ‘baby’ again. You're lucky she's not that uncomfortable with ‘sugar’, but if she ever shows one ounce of discomfort, you will stop."

"She never minded all those names before," Jack challenges, glaring at Javi."

Javi smirks, wearing a shit-eating grin as he nonchalantly shrugs. "Yeah, she never did lots of things before me."

Jack is furious. All he sees is red, and just as he begins to rise from his chair to get up, the nurse walks in.

"Oh! A visitor," she exclaims.

"Hello," Javi greets the redheaded nurse in blue scrubs with ducks all over them.

Seeing the nurse enter, Jack comes to his senses and sits back down. Subconsciously, he squeezes the ball so tight in his hands that his knuckles turn white.

"Mr. Daniels, are you okay?" the nurse questions with concern. All she sees is her patient gripping the ball so tightly that his nails are about to rupture through the material. She moves to him and checks his arm to see if there are any signs the needle is causing pain.

Jack's glare tears from Javi and shifts to the nurse. "I'm okay, thank you for checkin’ in on me," he tells her and moves his hand to signal for the nurse to release his arm. "Nothin’ hurts," he smiles up at her.

The nurse understands and checks the progress of the donation. While looking at the machine, she decides to make small talk with her patient and his visitor. "Are you Mr. Daniels' brother?" She turns to ask Javi innocently.

"No," Jack's words drip with disgust.

Javi smiles at how fast Jack denies the nurse's initial thought and says "Not related," under his breath, mumbling, "Thank God."

The nurse doesn't seem to pick up on their animosity and comments, "You two look alike, what a coincidence. Best friends then?"

"No, nothing like that. My wife and I know him, and he's giving our son a gift," Javi says 'our' while looking at Jack.

Suddenly, Ángel crosses their minds, and they both feel some shame for their earlier behavior. They know they can't go on still hating each other because it'll eventually turn into a fight. They just don't know how to set aside their differences.

"I'll call the doctor to get her thoughts, but it looks like we have what we need for the donation," the nurse says, taking note of the blood volume. "In a few hours, one lucky little boy will receive the cells, and he’ll be one step closer to being healthy."

After Jack was hooked up to the machine for two and a half hours, the staff deemed the collection enough and sent the blood bag to the lab to confirm that Jack’s procedure had collected enough stem cells. Four hours later, it was confirmed that there were the desired amount of stem cells, and the team took the cells to Ángel’s room. Due to your son being immunocompromised, he isn't allowed to have visitors other than legal guardians. So, you and Javi update Jack on the transplant.

Day 11 post-transplant:

Remember how I told you he started grafting on the tenth day?

Yes! How his body was accepting the stem cells, and the cells were growing and making new cells.

Mhm. Well, if everything keeps going at the speed it’s been going, Ángel gets to go home in four days!!

Oh, wow! It’s just day 11 after the transplant, and the doctors estimated it wouldn't happen until closer to day 25! Can I go see him then? I know I was cleared to go five days ago, but because I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t go. My fever’s still here, but I’ll continue to monitor myself.

Sure! You need to be cleared of a fever for 24 hours and have absolutely NO symptoms.

You have my word, sugar.

Day 14 post-transplant:

You're packing all of Ángel's belongings to take home. It's been 14 days since your son's transplant, and he's cleared to go home. You don't know who's happier— you, your husband, or your son. But that doesn't really matter; all that matters is that your family is together. Just as you're collecting your son's toys and getting them ready to shove into the white personal belongings bag, someone knocks on the door. Javi stops placing Ángel's books into a box and hurriedly opens the door. He was expecting the doctor to come in with discharge papers, but it was Jack waiting on the other side.

"Oh, right, you said you'd stop by," Javi remembered.

When you saw Jack standing there not quite stepping inside the room with a red gift bag, you gasped. "Sorry, we forgot you were going to stop by." You turned your neck and saw Ángel reading the book Jack had gifted him, One Hundred Fun Facts About Horses.

"Come in," you usher Jack in. "Mijo," you call, and Ángel looks up from the book he's got his nose buried in.

"Mr. Jack!" Ángel's face lights up like a Christmas tree. He pats a spot in his bed as he tells Jack to sit down next to him. "I want to show you something," Ángel puts the book aside and lowers his shirt to show Jack that the port is gone. "They took my port out!"

Jack almost reaches out and touches his son's scar but settles for examining it with his eyes. "Are you sore?"

"Not really. I'm just excited to go to my house. Did my mom tell you I'm leaving the hospital today?"

"Yeah," Jack chuckles, "she mentioned it. And here I brought you this," he lifts the gift bag onto the bed.

Ángel tears it open and begins to pull the items out. The first gift he reaches is a book, Her Right Foot. "Oh, my God!"

You see the title and direct your question to Jack, "He's wanted that book for a while, how did you know?"

"Really?" Jack's smiling ear to ear. "I just went to the bookstore and thought he'd like that one." His heart feels like it could rip right through his chest because he feels like he knows his son. Jack had browsed many children's books and read the synopsis of every last book. The one he had purchased was the one he felt his son would love, the book his son is currently holding, and Jack was right.

The little boy takes out the next item, which is a box. "A Lego set!" Ángel flips the black box to the front, and he sees that this particular set is one of horses. The horse in the center looked similar to Andor, one of Jack's horses his son loved the most. "Is this an Andalusian?" Ángel looks to Jack, his eyes sparkling."

Jack nods his head, "It is, buddy. It's like a mini Andor."

Ángel seems pleased with Jack's answer and moves on to the last gift. It was another box, but this one was a shoebox. The little boy lifted the top off, and he was met with boots—dark brown leather boots with beautiful and intricate stitching all throughout.

“Is that a longhorn?” Ángel points at the center of the boots. He doesn’t wait for an answer before speaking again, “My grandpa has longhorns on his ranch. Do you have them on your ranch, Mr. Daniels?”

"I don’t have any longhorns, but umm... I have the same boots," Jack looks down at the floor like he’s suddenly interested in the simple pattern of the hospital floor. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, but when his son's sweet voice reached his ears, Jack looked up.

"You do?" Ángel was beaming, a smile brighter than the sun. He leaps to move sideways so his legs would hang from the bed. He took his left boot and put it on his baby blue non-slip sock-clothed feet and did the same for the right boot. When both boots are on, he pinches the tip to feel where his toes are. Ángel drops to the floor and begins to walk, showing all three of you his new footwear. 

"How did you get his shoe size?" You're amazed at how they seem to fit perfectly.

"I asked him," Jack nods his head towards your husband, who is smiling broadly, showing his perfect teeth. Javi squats down to Ángel's level and presses his fingers on his son's boot toe box to feel if they're pinching Ángel's feet. "Perfect fit," Javi smiles up at his son, dimple on display, still on the floor.

Once Javi's hands are removed from Ángel's boots, he runs to Jack, "Thank you so much, Mr. Jack," he says, jumping up and down. Ángel runs back to Javi, who is now standing up straight, "¡Papi, quiero una foto! (Daddy, I want a picture!)" Javi complies and takes out his phone from his back pocket.

You turn to Jack, and your voice falls to a whisper, "We're hosting a dinner in a few nights to celebrate Ángel coming home, and we'd love it if you'd join us."

Jack's head reels at the prospect of seeing you and Ángel in a few days, but beneath that excitement, there is fear, "Is your family going to be there?" he asks.

"Yes, and Javi's too."

"It's your family I'm worried about," he confesses, looking into your eyes.

You take in the way his face pales slightly, his eyes widen, and his eyebrows shoot near his hairline. "No. You're more than worried; you look genuinely scared, but you'll be fine."

"'Course I'll be there, Sugar," he says, looking at his son laughing while Javi takes his pictures. If Ángel was a happy and giddy boy before the transplant, Jack now sees how his innocence is amplified now that he's healthy, and Jack can't wait to see more of his son's childhood joy outside the hospital.

"Hey, can I talk with you alone before you leave?" Jack asks you, hoping you'll agree.

"Um, yeah, we can go outside," you agree, noting his urgent tone.

"Javi, Ángel, I'll be back soon. I'm just going to walk Jack out," you say, moving to the door with Jack on your heels.

"Okay, we'll keep packing, amor," Javi tells you, brushing his hand with yours. You lean into your husband for a while until Ángel and Jack say their goodbyes, promising they'll see each other at the dinner.

You and Jack exit the room, and you take him to a little corner further down the hall.

"What did you want to discuss?" you ask resting your back on the wall with brown and cream diamond wallpaper.

Jack's nervous to tell you what he wants: a father-and-son relationship with Ángel. You two never went into detail on how you would tell Ángel the truth about Jack and he's terrified of asking you for something this big so soon after a big weight of stress has been lifted off you. 

"Jack?" 

"Sorry," he clears his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about telling Ángel that I'm his dad- biological."

"Oh," you sound surprised. "Yeah. We didn't really discuss that, did we? I haven't thought about it in so long, I'm sorry. Maybe we can get some pointers from Ángels counselor?" You suggest. "Javi and I thought about making an appointment with a child therapist because of this entire hospital stay. We were hoping to get your opinion on that actually."

It's Jack's turn to be surprised. "I think that's wonderful, Sugar. Thank you for including me in the decision." 

"Of course. I think it would be great if we could get the counselor's opinion on how to best handle the situation. And we too can figure out how this new dynamic would work. For example, medical decisions moving forward. We'll tell Ángel about you and I have no doubt he'll want to have the relationship you want to have with him. We can talk more about the appointment in a few days. We haven't set an exact date for the dinner but it will probably be this upcoming Sunday." 

"I'll clear out my entire schedule," Jack says sincerely 

"We'll have food for you that won't send you into a choking fit," you tease. 

Jack covers his eyes with his hands, "God, 'M so sorry." 

You laugh at his embarrassment, "No, it's okay. I understand the food we serve can take some getting used to."  You continue to tell him about the plans for the dinner that is slowly turning into a party and he just stares at you while you keep talking he gets lost in the moment. He thinks about your laugh and the consideration you still have for him and suddenly Jack blurts out, “I love you."

The smile you had vanishes.

“Jack,” you warn dangerously. “We were doing so good, Jack.” You don't want to—can't see him now, so you close your eyes. The words only needed to be said once for them to threaten tears to spill. "How dare you say those words to me now?” You hiss, your tone now angry but more than anything, filled with frustration and pain. You thought you could handle seeing him, so you open your eyes. "What do you expect me to do with that? I won’t leave Javi if that’s what you’re hoping for.

"S-" Jack opens his mouth, but you cut him off immediately. "No, Jack, let me speak."

"Once, those three words would have made me the happiest person in the world, but now? They’re only causing pain,” you pause, exhaling a shaky breath. “You humiliated me, Jack. Time and time again. Even if I didn’t have Javi, I wouldn’t go back to you.” You sound defeated, your voice carrying the pain of past wounds, and it crushes you to keep thinking about the past.

“I did love you, through everything,” Jack whispers, his eyes searching yours. They are watery and dazed.

“I think…” you run your tongue over your lips and then purse them, “I think you loved me in your own way. But that’s not how I wanted to be loved. During our engagement, and more so during our marriage, I never really felt loved by you. Can you blame me for that if I can count with my fingers the amount of 'I love yous' you gave me?” Your words are like shards of glass, cutting through the air with the sharpness of your pain.

“When you did show me your love, I was so happy, Jack. So happy that I thought, hoped, you would give me more love, so I stayed with you. I longed for the morning you woke up and things would be different, better. Because that’s exactly what happened. You woke up after the night of our engagement, and you were a completely different person, and I couldn't comprehend what I did wrong. I was willing to stay with you forever for the odd chance one day you would feel for me how I felt for you.”

“And I stayed because I always hoped you would go back to your old self. Sometimes there were indications that you were going to become the old Jack. Well, I don’t know if I fooled myself, but sometimes I thought you were happy. Like right before I told you I was pregnant, you had this smile on your face….” Your voice trembles with the weight of those memories.

“Other times I genuinely thought you hated me, and then I thought that’s not possible. ‘Why would he ask me to marry him if he couldn’t stand me?’” 

“Did you always think that?” He sounds sad, a quiet plea for understanding. But your heart, scarred by the past, struggles to find solace in his remorseful gaze.

“Yeah. When… when we were together, it was rare you would look at me in my face. The majority of times you had me face down. How do you think that made me feel? You made me feel used and disposable.” 

“I wanted to be loved by you," you continue, your tone a mix of vulnerability and strength, "and you always made me feel like I was the other woman. Then I decided I should stop trying and let you go.” 

“What changed?” Jack's question hangs in the air. Everything you’ve revealed up to this point has felt like glass shards embedded in his heart. He knows you still have a lot left to say, and it will continue to hurt him, but he owes it to you to hear everything you went through.

“I was at a park one day after you didn’t come home," you recall, emotion tinging your words. "I came across this older man, and he showed me pictures of his family. When he talked about his wife…” you pause, emotion catching up with you. “It was beautiful. And I realized that would never be you. You wouldn’t talk about me that way. Since that day, I took off my rose-colored lenses and thought everything through."

"I thought about your behavior but also about mine. I hated who I was because it sounds ridiculous, but I was jealous of someone who wasn't here anymore. And I swear I never wanted to replace her or erase her from your life, I just wanted you to love me too. I loved you so much; I would've settled for half the love you had for Allison, but you couldn't even give me that. I never told you you couldn't love or mourn Allison. She was your wife, I get that... but I was your wife too, and knowing you would never love me like you did her was slowly killing me.” 

"I thought about one night, which I don't know if you remember," you confess, the vulnerability in your voice palpable. "But one night on her birthday, you got extremely drunk, and you kept slurring your words. I couldn't understand half of what you were saying, but I heard loud and clear when you yelled at me that you didn’t choose to stop loving her; you were forced to. And you said that you would’ve never looked at me otherwise. That you wish she came back and I disappeared… That we s- switched places,” you confess, exposing the scars engraved into your heart, and the pain of that night that is still etched in your memory—a wound that refused to fully heal. You were surprised that you weren't sobbing, because the night he told you those words, you felt your world had ended.

Jack was appalled, his face reflecting the shock and guilt that surged through him as he listened to your words. The heaviness of the past, the pain inflicted, all rushed back to him as a floodgate of memories suddenly opened, each carrying the weight of its own hurt.

"I always felt I was the third person in our marriage. You made me feel things I hated, and maybe even worse, I became someone I didn't recognize. After that day in the park, I was going to ask you for a divorce because I didn't want to be the person you settled for… then I found out I was pregnant. I wanted to give us one last try, and well, you remember what happened after I told you the news,” you say, the bitterness of the past lingering in your words.

"You kept hurting me, and you're smart, Jack. Did you not think I would leave you?" 

Jack exhales, the reminder of his own mistakes heavy on him. "I think I couldn’t let ya go, so a part of me hoped you would leave me if I treated you horribly. Every day I fought with myself to treat you like you deserve, but I wasn’t strong enough to open up to you."

The silence lingers, and Jack takes the opportunity to share a piece of his truth. "The night after I proposed, I had a dream about Allison. She told me I was replacing her, and I dunno, instead of working out through my issues, I took it out on ya.”

“Over a dream? You... you let our relationship go to waste because of a dream,” you say, a mix of disbelief and frustration in your voice. You want to be angry at him because such a trivial thing ruined the chance of happiness, but then you put yourself in his shoes. "Oh, Jack," you add, this time with a tone of understanding and sadness. 

“Have you been to therapy?” you ask him, your tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Yeah…” Jack admits with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Can I be honest?” you tilt your head, your fingers playing with the collar of your shirt.

He nods.

“I don’t think it helped.”

Jack smiles, a sheepish expression on his face, “If we’re being honest, I went in for two sessions and never saw my shrink again.”

“Well, your therapist probably knew what they were doing,” you playfully scold, but then your voice softens, "Please see a therapist so Ángel can get to know the best version of you. When I knew that Jack, he was amazing, and that's the man I want my son to know."

A sad smile greets Jack's face, "Yes, Sugar."

There's another thing you've always been curious to know but never had the stomach to ask, and this seems to be your window. "Can I ask, did you, um, did you ever sleep with someone else while we were married?"

"God no," the words tumble out of his mouth.

"Well, that's something, I guess," you say, a sense of relief evident in your voice.

"I'm really sorry about everything, sweetheart. I can't believe I ever hurt you. I just miss you so much. I’ve never regretted anything in my life as much as I do not telling you I loved you when we had a chance," Jack confesses, the weight of regret heavy in his words.

"It’s okay, Jack. I’m not your wife anymore, but we had some good times. Sometimes love doesn’t work out how we thought,” you tell Jack, your gaze turning when you hear footsteps that are familiar to you. 

And Jack would forever kick himself for driving you away and not accepting your love. The only piece of solace is that Ángel will have a happy and full life, and you finally got the love you deserved and dreamed of.

Javi starts calling your name, and you answer him so he can walk over to where you are. Once Javi comes into view, he tells you that Ángel’s been discharged and that they're ready to go home.

Jack looks at you once more, his gaze lingering, as if trying to capture every detail to hold onto. He sees the love in your eyes for your husband, a love he once had the chance to cherish but let slip away. It hurts, but at the mention of his son, it gives him the slightest glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he has learned from his mistakes, and he'll find a way to be a part of your lives, even if it's not in the way he once dreamed. The love of his life and his son are happy and healthy, and that will have to be enough for him.

"Bye, Jack. I'll let you know what time we're having the dinner," you say, while Javi wraps his arms around you—a protective gesture that Jack once held the privilege of doing, but did so sparingly.

"Take care," Javi tells Jack over his shoulder, his voice firm but not unkind. He then leads you to Ángel's room, leaving Jack standing alone in the corridor, grappling with the ache of what could have been.

You both start heading down the hallway, and Javi pauses halfway. His eyes search yours, concern written all over his features. 

"Are you okay?"

"I am now," you lean into him and smile. "Jack and I were talking about when we were married," you begin, and Javi tenses involuntarily.

"Hey, no, you don’t have anything to worry about," you reassure him, cupping his face with both of your hands. "Our talk was more about what went wrong, and the bottom line was that I‘m okay with the fact that he wasn’t the one for me."

Javi takes a deep breath, visibly trying to control the surge of emotions within him. "It’s just- me cae mal ese - (I don’t like that-)” You can't help but chuckle lightly at your husband's choice of words.

"As stupid as it sounds, I wanted to make it work when we were married. I saw it in his eyes, I felt it in his words and actions; he didn’t love me, and I couldn’t stay in a marriage like that. I wanted a life with him... It didn't work out, and it's okay. Everything I dreamed of having, I found it with you. I'm the happiest I've ever been at your side. You’re the love of my life and I love being your wife, don't ever doubt that, okay?" Since the beginning of your relationship, you always repeated your love to Javier, not because he was insecure, but because you knew how it felt to be second place, second best, a consolation prize, and you never wanted Javier to think that you settled for him after Jack.

"Say it again," Javi requests, a genuine smile softening his features as he looks down at you.

"What?" 

“That you’re my wife," Jack wants you to repeat the words that make his heart flutter.

“I’m your wife," you say.

Javi, still reveling in the warmth of the words, spins his finger in a playful circle, silently requesting you to say the words again.

“I’m your wife," you repeat, the pride evident in your tone. You take Javi's hand and begin walking to your son’s room.

"Again," Javi insists, stopping you in your tracks.

“I’m your wife.” 

“Otra vez," he requests, this time in Spanish.

You comply, “Soy tu esposa," you tell him and drag him further down the hall to your son's room.

When Javi playfully asks you to say it once more, this time it's you who stops. “Por dios, Javi, ¿en cuántos lenguajes quieres que te lo diga? (My God, Javi, how many languages do you want me to say it in?)” you feign annoyance.

He shrugs, answering with a mischievous grin, “En todos (in all of them).”

Amused, you grab him by the collar of his blue button-down shirt and bring him to a level where you can whisper into his ear, “Ay, Jav, apenas y hablas español (Oh, Jav, you barely speak Spanish).” You kiss his cheek and pull back, leaving him slightly offended but oddly proud. He had hoped for a different outcome when he saw you pull him down; the glint in your eyes made him believe you were going to kiss him on the lips. But, to his dismay, you chose to tease him instead.

"Take it back!" he demands as you stand right outside the door.

“Si lo dices en español (if you say it in Spanish),” you tease with a grin. Javier contemplates for a moment, and in the brief silence, Ángel's laughter and Dr. Navarro's voice echo from inside the room.

"Please?" Javi implores, wanting to savor one more of those heart-skipping phrases before joining his son. Unable to resist his pleading eyes any longer and mindful of the precious moments with Ángel, you relent.

“I’m your wife.”

END

Extended Note: The end! Thank you, everyone, for your kindness throughout the series. I truly appreciate every interaction 🥹.

As for my departure, I'm unsure whether I should deactivate my account or just private my writing. There's one post I received only positive comments on, especially from people with SPD who found it relatable. Apparently, there's a shortage of such stories, so I'm conflicted. Hopefully, I'll have a definitive decision next week.

I'm planning to post the Din story next Thursday; it's just one part, a sex pollen with Virgin!Din, titled 'Paleta.' I'm a fan of El Alfa, and I recently discovered that a song in his new album was sampled from the one I used for the Din story. It got me thinking about what I had written, and I wanted to share it with y’all before I bow out.

Thank you for reading 🫶🏽!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @stileslvr @pedrostories

#lol that gif 😆

[loslentesdepedrito]

Thank you for reblogging and following the story 🩷

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Seven

Javi gif by: @skyshipper Jack gif by: @javier-pena My Masterlist

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Six

Word count: 9.2k+

Chapter summary: It's time for Ángel's surgery and the transplant preparation. Following the procedure, Jack visits his son, providing some closure regarding your marriage.

A/N: This chapter concludes the final installment of the series and stands as my penultimate post on this blog. Next week, hopefully, I'll be sharing one more post—a Din piece—officially wrapping up this blog. I intend to maintain my writing for another two weeks before ultimately closing my account. Thank you to everyone who has supported me!

Rating: 18+ No explicit content, but this is an 18+ page. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles. Also, Jack's texts are in bold.

CW: angst is back again, but a happy ending is guaranteed, some science, mentions of surgery, chemotherapy, and stem cell transplant, Jack cannot use an iPhone, Javi and Jack tension, jealousy, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease.

Your conversation with Jack three hours ago left you drained and exhausted, and now you're perched on the chair in the corner of your son's hospital room. You're engrossed in watching Ángel and Javi talk about an upcoming soccer game and the probability of their favorite team winning the match when your phone vibrates underneath your thigh. With a subtle shift, you reach for it and once it’s in your hand, you flip it over. Your phone is illuminated with a family picture of you with your husband and son in the background and there’s a message on your Notification Center. 

Jack Daniels: HI. TEXTING YOU FROM MY NEW PHONE.

Another vibration follows, prompting a second message.

Jack Daniels: WHY DID THE TEXT SEND IN UPPERCASE?

The sequence of messages from Jack continues, each notification accompanied by a vibration.

Jack Daniels: HOW DO I TURN THIS OFF?

Jack Daniels: HELP me. Wait, I figured it out. Sorry.

You haven’t clicked on the messages to take you to the chat. Instead, you hold and press, sending him a brief response:

Hi, Jack.

He doesn’t send anything back, and you turn off your phone. As soon as the screen is black, it lights up again.

Jack Daniels: I went to the store and picked up a new phone.

A second later, an image comes through.

You hover over the message once more, and it’s a front selfie Jack took. Well, it’s not quite a full-face selfie. It only captures just beneath his eyes, and his eyes and face are not looking directly at the camera, so you guess he was looking down trying to take a picture of something else.

You’re proven correct when a second picture comes through. This time it’s a box of an iPhone.

There’s a bubble on your text chain, and this time you fully click, opening the message thread with Jack.

Sorry, I don’t know how this phone works. I just didn’t want my phone to fail, and you didn’t have a way to contact me, so I got a new one. Did I miss anything?

You reply back with:

Ángel is already ready to go, we’re just waiting for a room to open up in the OR. Could take hours, though.

How did he take the news?

Very well, actually. Saying he’s excited to go home is an understatement. He sensed that we were worried about his surgery and he kind of gave us a lecture on how important it is to listen to doctors and gave us a small list of the benefits of chemo ports. When we asked him how he knew about the port, he said, and I quote, "some light reading."

Jack doesn’t take long to reply:

Smart boy. He definitely got that from you.

A smile graces your lips at his message, but you decide to shift the conversation:

We never talked about it, but do you want us to tell Ángel that you’re his donor?

Your nerves are on edge, and waiting for Jack’s response heightens your anxiety. Glancing up from your phone, you see Ángel still in deep conversation with Javi. Your phone vibrates again, and you look down at Jack’s response:

No. I don’t want him to want a relationship with me because of the donation. If he wants a relationship with me, I want it to be because he truly wants it, not because he feels any obligation.

You exhale, relieved, and reply:

Okay, we won’t tell him.

Thank you.

A text bubble appears:

How do I send the accent on his name?

Suppressing a laugh, your fingers glide over the keyboard:

Press the letter A for a good two seconds, and a whole lot of options should appear. Click on the third one.

It doesn’t take Jack very long to send a single:

Á

He follows with:

Be honest, does it sound a bit funny when I pronounce his name?

You weigh your options, lie or be honest. You decide to go with the latter:

A little bit.

I remember when you used to make fun of my accent…

Liar. I didn’t make fun of you.

I miss that...

Oh, God, not again.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

You’re about to reprimand him when, by some divine intervention, a fist knocks on the door, followed by a man in a polo and khakis. Quickly, you turn your phone off, redirecting your full attention to the man.

“Hi, I’m Will. I’m with patient transport services, and I’m here to take Ángel down to the OR,” he says.

“Come in,” you invite.

Javi stands up and retrieves your thick to-go bag from underneath the sofa. It's filled with water bottles, a variety of snacks, sweaters, sweatpants, and a few changes of clothes—because, as Javi says, uno nunca sabe (one never knows).

Will walks over to Ángel and looks at his hospital bracelet. He takes out a phone with a bulky blue case and scans the ID barcode. Will asks to no one in particular, “Can you please confirm his full name and date of birth.”

Javi does that for you.

Will nods and types something onto the phone. After a moment, he looks at Ángel, “Hey, little man, how are you doing?”

Ángel smiles, “I’m good, sir. I'm just waiting to get my chemo port. After that, I can get chemo and then a transplant so I can go home.”

Will chuckles, “That's a great plan, buddy. We’ll get you down to the OR, and they’ll take good care of you so you can go home soon. Ready to go to the sixth floor?”

Ángel nods enthusiastically, his eyes filled with trust.

“Great,” Will says, glancing at you and Javi. “If you guys are ready, we can head downstairs.”

Javi, lifting the heavy bag over his shoulder, nods in agreement. He glances at Ángel, a mix of tenderness and concern in his eyes, and then turns to Will.

“He’ll be under anesthesia, right?” Javi asks, his voice a bit gruffer than usual.

Will offers a reassuring smile, “Yes, sir. That's what his chart says.”

Javi nods, visibly swallowing some of his worry. “Okay, let’s get him down there.” He moves to help his son get up from the bed. Will positions the wheelchair closer to Ángel's bed, and together, they carefully lower Ángel onto the wheelchair. You reach for one of the blankets—a gift from your father-in-law—and drape it over Ángel. Will takes the IV wire and secures it on the designated hook at the back of the wheelchair.

"Are we all set?" Will asks.

"Yes," you affirm, and then Will wheels Ángel toward the door. Javi, anticipating the need, beats them to the exit, opens the door, and holds it wide open to let them pass. Stepping into the corridor, Javi instinctively reaches for your hands, intertwining fingers not just for your comfort but for his own solace as well. Together, you trail behind your son as Will expertly steers Ángel's wheelchair through the hallway. 

Descending from the tenth floor via the patient elevators, you and Javi follow Will, who scans his badge to usher you through the double doors into the pre-op room. 

Guiding Ángel to the left side of the room, Will selects a quiet corner and draws back a side of the arctic blue diamond-print curtains, revealing an unoccupied bed. Positioning the wheelchair beside the bed, he assists Ángel in transitioning onto the soft mattress.

"Alright, good luck, buddy. You'll do great in there," Will encourages, raising a fist. Ángel meets it with his own, and as their fists connect, they both playfully mimic the sound of an explosion.

"Thanks, sir," Ángel replies, his voice carrying gratitude. Then, in a quiet and unsure tone, he adds, "I'll see you after?"

Will's smile is reassuring. "Absolutely. I'll be the one taking you back up."

With that, Will takes a step back, giving Ángel some space. He turns to you and your husband, saying, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Peña, Mrs. Peña. Someone should be with you shortly."

"Thanks for everything, Will," you say, watching as Will, with a warm smile, exits and closes the curtain, providing you with some privacy with your son.

With only one chair in the room, Javi insists you take a seat, not wanting you on your feet.

"¿Y tú? (what about you?)" you ask, concern etched in your voice and face. Maybe it's because you went so long without a partner prioritizing you, or because in the time your son has been in the hospital, Javier has really taken care of almost everything. Sometimes you can't help but feel guilty that he always puts your comfort above his own.

"Me paro (I’ll stand)," Javi shrugs his shoulders as if it's the most obvious choice in the world.

"Papi, you can sit here," Ángel offers, patting the mattress.

"Está bien (it's okay), mijo, I can stand for a while," he smiles, loving that his son is always considerate.

"Baja ese bolso (put down that bag), at least," you plead with him.

"I'm good, someone should be here soon," Javi reassures.

"Pero, Javi- (but, Javi-)" You're interrupted when you hear a woman asking if she can come in.

He smirks and whispers, "Ves (see)." Dropping his cocky look, Javi opens the curtain to let the woman in.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Gaddi. I'll be Angel's anesthesiologist. Can I please get a full name and a birthday?"

Your son happily responds to the doctor's requests while she verifies the information on the computer.

"Great, thank you, sweetheart. Mom or Dad, I'll need your signature on the consent forms. If one of you will please follow me," she says.

"I'll go," Javi says, and to your relief, he finally drops the bag from his shoulder.

"It's just straight this way," the anesthesiologist says, motioning past the curtain where the nurse station is in the middle of the big room.

Javier nods and follows the doctor. "Ya vengo mis amores (I’ll be back my loves)," he says with a big smile before closing the curtain.

Once on the other side of the curtain, where you and his son can't see him, he exhales a shaky breath. The fear is there, gnawing at him, although he doesn't want to show it. He wishes he could share it with you, as he normally would, but you're pregnant. The stress is already too much, and he doesn't want it to affect the baby. That thought terrifies him, and he can't risk it. Through the course of your marriage, he's come to understand that sometimes, marriage isn't a perfect fifty-fifty. There are moments when one partner has to carry more, and right now, he knows it's one of those moments. He must bear the fear and shoulder some of yours. While he wants to share these worries with you, a deep-seated commitment to putting family first holds him back. His protective nature takes precedence, always prioritizing his family.

Javier raises his head back up and quickly turns around to follow the doctor, who is waiting for him.

Once he catches up to her, she tells him the forms are for consent of treatment. The doctor reads the online document, informing Javi about the procedure, the benefits, and the risks it entails.

Dr. Gaddi must have seen the look on Javier's face after she listed the risks and the way he nearly crumbled when she said "or death" because she stopped and turned to him.

"But... everything will be okay, right? He’s in good hands?” Javi asks, his voice cracking as if he's on the verge of tears; even speaking those words makes his throat ache, causing a noticeable strain in his voice.

"Sir, I can't make any promises. Every surgery does come with risks, but my team and I have successfully done this procedure multiple times.” 

Javi tries his best to remind himself that everyone in the OR is experienced and has done this procedure before.

"Where do I sign?" he manages to ask, his voice slowly regaining its composure.

While Javi is with Ángel's anesthesiologist, a nurse, and another doctor come in to check on Ángel. He had only managed a short nap, so now, as he rests, you take out your phone and send a text to Jack. 

Hey. We're in the Pre-op area. There's a room in the OR now, and I've met his doctors. As soon as the anesthesiologist comes back, they'll take him.

Jack replies instantly as if he's been sitting by, waiting for his phone to ring:

Thank you for letting me know.

He sends a follow-up: 

His surgery is only supposed to take an hour, right?

That's what the doctors said. I'm sure he won't be in there for too long.

As Javi, Dr. Gaddi, and a nurse approach, you text Jack:

The anesthesiologist will be here soon. I'll send you any updates I get, and I'm going to send you Javi's contact info just in case.

After adding Javi's phone number and hitting send, your husband and the surgical team arrive.

Dr. Gaddi approaches, “Hi, Mom, everything is ready on our end to take the patient to the OR."

“Okay,” you say, rising to your feet. The staff gathers around the bed and begins to move it. Ángel stirs at the movement, calling for you and Javi before opening his eyes.

Javi quickly rushes to your side, closer to your son, and reassures him, "It's okay."

"Oh, am I going to surgery?" Ángel asks.

"Yes, you are, Angel," the nurse responds as he releases the brakes on the left side.

"Oh, okay, yay," Ángel smiles.

The nurse chuckles at his excitement, "You know, not many kids are excited for surgery."

"I'm excited because chemo ports look more comfortable than the IV. It gets in my way when I do, like, anything," Ángel explains with a huff.

"Well, I've heard from other patients that they prefer the port, so hopefully you will too," says Dr. Gaddi as she stands to the side, waiting to wheel Ángel out of the room.

She turns to you and your husband, saying, "You guys can follow us until that red line, and then you'll be taken to the waiting room."

You start feeling more anxious, and Javier senses it. He begins to rub your lower back, his warm hand moving up and down, offering comfort.

"Okay, ready," says the nurse.

With the curtain open, they go through first, and you and Javi are right next to your son’s bed.

You're so hyper-focused on your son that you don't realize you've made it right before the line that you can't cross.

"Love you, Mommy, love you, Daddy," Ángel says, reaching out for your hand.

You take his little hand in yours, and Javi covers both of your hands with his.

"Te amamos más, mi niño (we love you more)," Javi tells him in a soft voice. Everyone can hear the love pouring out of his words.

Ángel knows this and doesn't try to contradict his dad because he knows it would be in vain. Instead, he simply says, "Nos vemos en un ratito (We’ll see each other in a little bit)."

"Okay, mijo," you say, fighting back tears.

The doors open, and Ángel is wheeled in. You think the tears are coming, but when you hear the light sound of your son's laughter, you're able to compose yourself.

"Would you like to be taken to the waiting room now?" a non-surgical nurse asks.

Thirty minutes pass, and you and Javier are seated in the waiting room, the only occupants at the moment. Purple chairs surround you, and you're on a blue seat cushion against the wall, your attention fixed on the TV opposite. It's a modest 35-inch screen designed to keep you informed about the ongoing surgery. Your son's name is displayed in green, and the message changes from ‘Surgery in progress: Incision and Pocket Creation’ to ‘Surgery in progress: Port Implantation.’

"They're placing the port-disk-chamber thingy inside the incision they made on his chest," Javi says matter-of-factly, pointing at the text.

You turn your head toward him, an amused smile playing on your lips. "'Port-disk-chamber thingy'—is that what the doctor said, Jav?"

He bursts out laughing, placing his right hand over his chest, realizing he was mimicking the tone doctors use when imparting information: authoritative. "Casi me cago del miedo (I almost shitted myself from fear) when the doctor told me step by step what they would do, so I don't remember exactly what he said," he chuckles.

Javier's laugh is contagious, and you can't help but laugh too. Your laughter fuels his, and vice versa. The only thing that interrupts your laughter is when you feel the baby kick.

"Ay, me pateó (oh, he kicked me)," you exclaim happily.

Javi instantly stops laughing too and shifts his hand to rest on your bump. As soon as you feel the weight of his hand on your stomach, your son responds with another kick, right where Javi's palm is placed.

A boyish look crosses your husband's face. He always loves feeling the baby kick, reminiscent of the first time he felt his first son kick.

"¿Hola, mijo, ya te despertaste? (Hi, my boy, have you woken up yet?)" he hums softly.

In response, the baby kicks again.

"He loves your voice so much. I swear he only kicks so you could talk to him. A mi no me quiere, nomas le gusta que le cantes y le leas (He doesn’t love me, he just likes it when you sing and read to him),” you huff out in fake annoyance.

"That's not true. The second-born is always the momma's boy. So the baby loves you the most," Javi says.

"And the youngest loves daddy the most, so no," you refute.

"He won't be the youngest for long," he grins suggestively.

You gasp, “ya me embarazaste, sinverguenza! (You already impregnated me!)"

"But if it was scientifically possible..."

"Shut up," you playfully scold him.

With Javi's hand still over your stomach, your son kicks again, this time much lighter.

"He's upset you told me to shut up," his gaze shifts from looking at you to your stomach as if he could see the baby, and he lowers his voice, “¿verdad, mijo? Dile a tu mami que no sea mala conmigo (right, mijo? Tell your mom to stop being mean to me).”

He looks back up at you, "te acuerdas cuando Ángel hizo eso por primera vez? (Do you remember when Ángel did that for the first time?).”

“Jesus Christ, he scared me, and he made you cry,” you laugh, a smile on your face remembering.

"Oh shit! I forgot to update Jack," you realize and scramble to get your phone. As you start typing to let him know what's going on in the OR, you tell Javi, "By the way, I gave him your phone number."

Javier lets out an unenthusiastic and dry, "Yay."

“Mira (look),” he says while you’re still typing. You look up to where Javi is pointing, and the TV changes to Surgery in progress: Catheter Insertion.

You wince, "They're in his vein now."

"The catheter is the tube that delivers the medicine to his body, right?"

"Yeah," you mumble, typing the next update to Jack.

Javi reaches for one of your hands and rubs soothing circles, “Deja de pensar en eso. Él está bien con ellos (stop thinking about it. He’s safe with them).”

He removes his hand and turns his body to the to-go bag. Javi reaches for the zipper and undoes it. He digs in the back, and you see him pull something out. "Do you need a blanket?" he asks, with a large fuzzy blue blanket in his hand and his soft brown eyes looking at you tenderly. Before you can reply, he places it in your lap and goes back to the bag. Javi fights a little and finally tugs a pillow out of the bag, "a pillow?" he asks with the same puppy eyes.

“I- thank you," you accept both items. You put the pillow behind you so you won't rest your back against the hard and cold wall. You take the blue blanket from your lap and extend it to drape it over the both of you.

"¿Tienes hambre? (are you hungry?)" Javi asks adjusting the blanket.

"Sí" 

He goes back to the bag and pulls out some snacks: Goldfish, Chips Ahoy, granola bars, fruit snacks, dry plantain chips, and a pack of assorted nuts.

"Sorry, I don't have any actual food," he looks at what he's offered you and feels guilty at the limited options. Javi gets up quickly, "I can go get you real food. Are you craving anything?"

"Hey," you wrap your fingers around his wrist and grip somewhat tightly. You look up at him and push him to sit back down. "No. I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. I'll stay," he says softly, kissing where your hair and forehead meet.

A knock reverberates in the room, and a nurse comes in. "Hi," she says, closing the door to come closer to you. "Everything went well. There were no complications. They're ready to transfer Ángel to the Post-op room if you guys would like to follow me."

Both of you look relieved at the news, and you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

"Thank you," you tell her, and Javi can't get any words out. His eyes are watering, and he tries his best to not let them fall.

He starts hurriedly putting away the snacks, just keeping the bag of nuts, while you fold the blanket back up into the neat roll Javi had it in. After the snacks, blanket, and pillow are in the bag again, Javi helps you get up. You send Jack a quick text informing him that everything went well, and you're on your way to see Ángel. Javi puts the bag over his shoulder, and you both follow the nurse to go see your son.

Next morning - Day 1 of Chemo:

Hey, Jack. Ángel is awake and doing well. He asked about having visitors and hoped you would come see him. We explained that it's not possible right now. He understood but wanted to call. Would you like to FaceTime?

That's great. What’s FaceTime?

It's a video call.

Yes. How do I do that?

Instead of texting him back, you initiate a FaceTime call and hand the phone off to Ángel when it starts to ring.

As soon as Jack accepts the call and his face takes over your screen, Ángel's little face lights up. "Mr. Jack!"

Jack's face mirrors Ángel's: a smile so wide, eyes so soft looking at his son.

"I just started chemotherapy," Ángel blurts out just before Jack greets him.

Jack's heart glows watching his son's face. "How are ya feeling?"

"Mmm... I feel okay. Oh! I got the surgery last night, and look at my chemo port." Your son takes one hand off your phone and pulls his hospital gown just enough to show Jack his port. "Look! You can see the bump of the port under my skin. Eww, it looks gross. It's so cool."

Jack laughs, and that makes Ángel move the phone back to his face.

"Does it hurt?" Jack asks.

"Nope. It was a little bit like... sore when I woke up, but it doesn’t hurt now. I had chemo in the morning, and it pinched for a second, but it's wayyy better than the IV."

"It's not a pain to use the restroom, huh?"

"It's easier and faster to go now," his brows pinch in the middle, "I almost peed myself once 'cus I had to wait for the wires to detangle from the bed." Ángel trails off, tilts his head to the side, and squints. "What do you have behind you? Is that a needle?"

Jack turns his head behind to see what his son saw. He had picked up the prescription he needed to be Ángel's donor from the pharmacy the previous night. Jack opened the box out of curiosity and took out a needle to look at, but then he got caught up texting you in the morning and forgot to put the small vial and needle back in the pharmacy bag.

"Umm... yeah?" Jack says uncertainly, not knowing how to explain it to his son. He doesn't want him to know that he's his donor, at least not yet. "That is some medicine I have to take in two days," Jack says, trying to keep it vague.

When the words come out of Jack's mouth, Ángel's eyes show pure concern, "Oh, are you sick?"

"No, buddy," Jack blurts out immediately, "I'm not sick. I'm just takin' them for... to... Just takin' them to stay healthy. They're like vitamins."

"Maybe I should take some so I could be healthy. What's the name of the medicine?"

Jack's heart drops at his son's words. His mind starts spinning, but he takes a deep breath. He'll be healthy soon, he tries to remind himself. "You can't take this one, buddy. It's for adults."

"Oh," he sounds disappointed, but his voice goes back to normal, "Well, that's okay. I can't take vitamins on chemo either way. I think. Vitamins can affect chemo because of cancer cells, but I don't have any so I don't know. I can ask later. How are the horses?"

Donation Day - Day 7 of Chemo:

Jack sat comfortably in a green chair, his right hand extended over a pillow, squeezing a small blue ball as his blood cycled through the machine. Two hours had passed since he settled into the chair. He arrived at the hospital early in the morning with the last dose of his five-day filgrastim prescription, and for the first time, someone other than him administered the injection. Throughout the morning, he had been texting you, checking in on his son, and, though he wouldn't admit it, checking in on you.  Of course, he cared about his son and wanted to know every detail of what he was going through, but this had been the only line of communication he had with you for years, and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity while you were willing to entertain his conversations. From you, he learned that Ángel's last day of chemo had gone smoothly.

Jack's head spun when he heard a knock against the door. His heart thumped wildly in his chest at the thought of seeing you. When the door opened, a wave of disappointment washed over him. It wasn't you who set foot in the room; it was fucking Javier.

Jack instantly tenses and clears his throat as Javier walks over to him.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Javi crosses his hands over his thick biceps, "How's the donation coming along?"

"It's goin' well. They think in 30 minutes we'll have enough for Ángel," Jack fills Javi in.

"H-how are umm... how are you feeling?" Javi gets the words out, although with much effort. He sounds physically pained asking a simple question to Jack.

"You sound very concerned for my well-being," Jack quips sarcastically.

Not really, Javi wants to say. Instead, he tells Jack, "I’m trying really hard to not hate you.”

It doesn't faze Jack one bit. "Same."

"So just don't do anything to piss me off. More like don't do anything else to piss me off even more," Javi lowers his voice more, "She's my wife; she tells me things. Don't you ever dare call her ‘baby’ again. You're lucky she's not that uncomfortable with ‘sugar’, but if she ever shows one ounce of discomfort, you will stop."

"She never minded all those names before," Jack challenges, glaring at Javi."

Javi smirks, wearing a shit-eating grin as he nonchalantly shrugs. "Yeah, she never did lots of things before me."

Jack is furious. All he sees is red, and just as he begins to rise from his chair to get up, the nurse walks in.

"Oh! A visitor," she exclaims.

"Hello," Javi greets the redheaded nurse in blue scrubs with ducks all over them.

Seeing the nurse enter, Jack comes to his senses and sits back down. Subconsciously, he squeezes the ball so tight in his hands that his knuckles turn white.

"Mr. Daniels, are you okay?" the nurse questions with concern. All she sees is her patient gripping the ball so tightly that his nails are about to rupture through the material. She moves to him and checks his arm to see if there are any signs the needle is causing pain.

Jack's glare tears from Javi and shifts to the nurse. "I'm okay, thank you for checkin’ in on me," he tells her and moves his hand to signal for the nurse to release his arm. "Nothin’ hurts," he smiles up at her.

The nurse understands and checks the progress of the donation. While looking at the machine, she decides to make small talk with her patient and his visitor. "Are you Mr. Daniels' brother?" She turns to ask Javi innocently.

"No," Jack's words drip with disgust.

Javi smiles at how fast Jack denies the nurse's initial thought and says "Not related," under his breath, mumbling, "Thank God."

The nurse doesn't seem to pick up on their animosity and comments, "You two look alike, what a coincidence. Best friends then?"

"No, nothing like that. My wife and I know him, and he's giving our son a gift," Javi says 'our' while looking at Jack.

Suddenly, Ángel crosses their minds, and they both feel some shame for their earlier behavior. They know they can't go on still hating each other because it'll eventually turn into a fight. They just don't know how to set aside their differences.

"I'll call the doctor to get her thoughts, but it looks like we have what we need for the donation," the nurse says, taking note of the blood volume. "In a few hours, one lucky little boy will receive the cells, and he’ll be one step closer to being healthy."

After Jack was hooked up to the machine for two and a half hours, the staff deemed the collection enough and sent the blood bag to the lab to confirm that Jack’s procedure had collected enough stem cells. Four hours later, it was confirmed that there were the desired amount of stem cells, and the team took the cells to Ángel’s room. Due to your son being immunocompromised, he isn't allowed to have visitors other than legal guardians. So, you and Javi update Jack on the transplant.

Day 11 post-transplant:

Remember how I told you he started grafting on the tenth day?

Yes! How his body was accepting the stem cells, and the cells were growing and making new cells.

Mhm. Well, if everything keeps going at the speed it’s been going, Ángel gets to go home in four days!!

Oh, wow! It’s just day 11 after the transplant, and the doctors estimated it wouldn't happen until closer to day 25! Can I go see him then? I know I was cleared to go five days ago, but because I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t go. My fever’s still here, but I’ll continue to monitor myself.

Sure! You need to be cleared of a fever for 24 hours and have absolutely NO symptoms.

You have my word, sugar.

Day 14 post-transplant:

You're packing all of Ángel's belongings to take home. It's been 14 days since your son's transplant, and he's cleared to go home. You don't know who's happier— you, your husband, or your son. But that doesn't really matter; all that matters is that your family is together. Just as you're collecting your son's toys and getting them ready to shove into the white personal belongings bag, someone knocks on the door. Javi stops placing Ángel's books into a box and hurriedly opens the door. He was expecting the doctor to come in with discharge papers, but it was Jack waiting on the other side.

"Oh, right, you said you'd stop by," Javi remembered.

When you saw Jack standing there not quite stepping inside the room with a red gift bag, you gasped. "Sorry, we forgot you were going to stop by." You turned your neck and saw Ángel reading the book Jack had gifted him, One Hundred Fun Facts About Horses.

"Come in," you usher Jack in. "Mijo," you call, and Ángel looks up from the book he's got his nose buried in.

"Mr. Jack!" Ángel's face lights up like a Christmas tree. He pats a spot in his bed as he tells Jack to sit down next to him. "I want to show you something," Ángel puts the book aside and lowers his shirt to show Jack that the port is gone. "They took my port out!"

Jack almost reaches out and touches his son's scar but settles for examining it with his eyes. "Are you sore?"

"Not really. I'm just excited to go to my house. Did my mom tell you I'm leaving the hospital today?"

"Yeah," Jack chuckles, "she mentioned it. And here I brought you this," he lifts the gift bag onto the bed.

Ángel tears it open and begins to pull the items out. The first gift he reaches is a book, Her Right Foot. "Oh, my God!"

You see the title and direct your question to Jack, "He's wanted that book for a while, how did you know?"

"Really?" Jack's smiling ear to ear. "I just went to the bookstore and thought he'd like that one." His heart feels like it could rip right through his chest because he feels like he knows his son. Jack had browsed many children's books and read the synopsis of every last book. The one he had purchased was the one he felt his son would love, the book his son is currently holding, and Jack was right.

The little boy takes out the next item, which is a box. "A Lego set!" Ángel flips the black box to the front, and he sees that this particular set is one of horses. The horse in the center looked similar to Andor, one of Jack's horses his son loved the most. "Is this an Andalusian?" Ángel looks to Jack, his eyes sparkling."

Jack nods his head, "It is, buddy. It's like a mini Andor."

Ángel seems pleased with Jack's answer and moves on to the last gift. It was another box, but this one was a shoebox. The little boy lifted the top off, and he was met with boots—dark brown leather boots with beautiful and intricate stitching all throughout.

“Is that a longhorn?” Ángel points at the center of the boots. He doesn’t wait for an answer before speaking again, “My grandpa has longhorns on his ranch. Do you have them on your ranch, Mr. Daniels?”

"I don’t have any longhorns, but umm... I have the same boots," Jack looks down at the floor like he’s suddenly interested in the simple pattern of the hospital floor. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, but when his son's sweet voice reached his ears, Jack looked up.

"You do?" Ángel was beaming, a smile brighter than the sun. He leaps to move sideways so his legs would hang from the bed. He took his left boot and put it on his baby blue non-slip sock-clothed feet and did the same for the right boot. When both boots are on, he pinches the tip to feel where his toes are. Ángel drops to the floor and begins to walk, showing all three of you his new footwear. 

"How did you get his shoe size?" You're amazed at how they seem to fit perfectly.

"I asked him," Jack nods his head towards your husband, who is smiling broadly, showing his perfect teeth. Javi squats down to Ángel's level and presses his fingers on his son's boot toe box to feel if they're pinching Ángel's feet. "Perfect fit," Javi smiles up at his son, dimple on display, still on the floor.

Once Javi's hands are removed from Ángel's boots, he runs to Jack, "Thank you so much, Mr. Jack," he says, jumping up and down. Ángel runs back to Javi, who is now standing up straight, "¡Papi, quiero una foto! (Daddy, I want a picture!)" Javi complies and takes out his phone from his back pocket.

You turn to Jack, and your voice falls to a whisper, "We're hosting a dinner in a few nights to celebrate Ángel coming home, and we'd love it if you'd join us."

Jack's head reels at the prospect of seeing you and Ángel in a few days, but beneath that excitement, there is fear, "Is your family going to be there?" he asks.

"Yes, and Javi's too."

"It's your family I'm worried about," he confesses, looking into your eyes.

You take in the way his face pales slightly, his eyes widen, and his eyebrows shoot near his hairline. "No. You're more than worried; you look genuinely scared, but you'll be fine."

"'Course I'll be there, Sugar," he says, looking at his son laughing while Javi takes his pictures. If Ángel was a happy and giddy boy before the transplant, Jack now sees how his innocence is amplified now that he's healthy, and Jack can't wait to see more of his son's childhood joy outside the hospital.

"Hey, can I talk with you alone before you leave?" Jack asks you, hoping you'll agree.

"Um, yeah, we can go outside," you agree, noting his urgent tone.

"Javi, Ángel, I'll be back soon. I'm just going to walk Jack out," you say, moving to the door with Jack on your heels.

"Okay, we'll keep packing, amor," Javi tells you, brushing his hand with yours. You lean into your husband for a while until Ángel and Jack say their goodbyes, promising they'll see each other at the dinner.

You and Jack exit the room, and you take him to a little corner further down the hall.

"What did you want to discuss?" you ask resting your back on the wall with brown and cream diamond wallpaper.

Jack's nervous to tell you what he wants: a father-and-son relationship with Ángel. You two never went into detail on how you would tell Ángel the truth about Jack and he's terrified of asking you for something this big so soon after a big weight of stress has been lifted off you. 

"Jack?" 

"Sorry," he clears his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about telling Ángel that I'm his dad- biological."

"Oh," you sound surprised. "Yeah. We didn't really discuss that, did we? I haven't thought about it in so long, I'm sorry. Maybe we can get some pointers from Ángels counselor?" You suggest. "Javi and I thought about making an appointment with a child therapist because of this entire hospital stay. We were hoping to get your opinion on that actually."

It's Jack's turn to be surprised. "I think that's wonderful, Sugar. Thank you for including me in the decision." 

"Of course. I think it would be great if we could get the counselor's opinion on how to best handle the situation. And we too can figure out how this new dynamic would work. For example, medical decisions moving forward. We'll tell Ángel about you and I have no doubt he'll want to have the relationship you want to have with him. We can talk more about the appointment in a few days. We haven't set an exact date for the dinner but it will probably be this upcoming Sunday." 

"I'll clear out my entire schedule," Jack says sincerely 

"We'll have food for you that won't send you into a choking fit," you tease. 

Jack covers his eyes with his hands, "God, 'M so sorry." 

You laugh at his embarrassment, "No, it's okay. I understand the food we serve can take some getting used to."  You continue to tell him about the plans for the dinner that is slowly turning into a party and he just stares at you while you keep talking he gets lost in the moment. He thinks about your laugh and the consideration you still have for him and suddenly Jack blurts out, “I love you."

The smile you had vanishes.

“Jack,” you warn dangerously. “We were doing so good, Jack.” You don't want to—can't see him now, so you close your eyes. The words only needed to be said once for them to threaten tears to spill. "How dare you say those words to me now?” You hiss, your tone now angry but more than anything, filled with frustration and pain. You thought you could handle seeing him, so you open your eyes. "What do you expect me to do with that? I won’t leave Javi if that’s what you’re hoping for.

"S-" Jack opens his mouth, but you cut him off immediately. "No, Jack, let me speak."

"Once, those three words would have made me the happiest person in the world, but now? They’re only causing pain,” you pause, exhaling a shaky breath. “You humiliated me, Jack. Time and time again. Even if I didn’t have Javi, I wouldn’t go back to you.” You sound defeated, your voice carrying the pain of past wounds, and it crushes you to keep thinking about the past.

“I did love you, through everything,” Jack whispers, his eyes searching yours. They are watery and dazed.

“I think…” you run your tongue over your lips and then purse them, “I think you loved me in your own way. But that’s not how I wanted to be loved. During our engagement, and more so during our marriage, I never really felt loved by you. Can you blame me for that if I can count with my fingers the amount of 'I love yous' you gave me?” Your words are like shards of glass, cutting through the air with the sharpness of your pain.

“When you did show me your love, I was so happy, Jack. So happy that I thought, hoped, you would give me more love, so I stayed with you. I longed for the morning you woke up and things would be different, better. Because that’s exactly what happened. You woke up after the night of our engagement, and you were a completely different person, and I couldn't comprehend what I did wrong. I was willing to stay with you forever for the odd chance one day you would feel for me how I felt for you.”

“And I stayed because I always hoped you would go back to your old self. Sometimes there were indications that you were going to become the old Jack. Well, I don’t know if I fooled myself, but sometimes I thought you were happy. Like right before I told you I was pregnant, you had this smile on your face….” Your voice trembles with the weight of those memories.

“Other times I genuinely thought you hated me, and then I thought that’s not possible. ‘Why would he ask me to marry him if he couldn’t stand me?’” 

“Did you always think that?” He sounds sad, a quiet plea for understanding. But your heart, scarred by the past, struggles to find solace in his remorseful gaze.

“Yeah. When… when we were together, it was rare you would look at me in my face. The majority of times you had me face down. How do you think that made me feel? You made me feel used and disposable.” 

“I wanted to be loved by you," you continue, your tone a mix of vulnerability and strength, "and you always made me feel like I was the other woman. Then I decided I should stop trying and let you go.” 

“What changed?” Jack's question hangs in the air. Everything you’ve revealed up to this point has felt like glass shards embedded in his heart. He knows you still have a lot left to say, and it will continue to hurt him, but he owes it to you to hear everything you went through.

“I was at a park one day after you didn’t come home," you recall, emotion tinging your words. "I came across this older man, and he showed me pictures of his family. When he talked about his wife…” you pause, emotion catching up with you. “It was beautiful. And I realized that would never be you. You wouldn’t talk about me that way. Since that day, I took off my rose-colored lenses and thought everything through."

"I thought about your behavior but also about mine. I hated who I was because it sounds ridiculous, but I was jealous of someone who wasn't here anymore. And I swear I never wanted to replace her or erase her from your life, I just wanted you to love me too. I loved you so much; I would've settled for half the love you had for Allison, but you couldn't even give me that. I never told you you couldn't love or mourn Allison. She was your wife, I get that... but I was your wife too, and knowing you would never love me like you did her was slowly killing me.” 

"I thought about one night, which I don't know if you remember," you confess, the vulnerability in your voice palpable. "But one night on her birthday, you got extremely drunk, and you kept slurring your words. I couldn't understand half of what you were saying, but I heard loud and clear when you yelled at me that you didn’t choose to stop loving her; you were forced to. And you said that you would’ve never looked at me otherwise. That you wish she came back and I disappeared… That we s- switched places,” you confess, exposing the scars engraved into your heart, and the pain of that night that is still etched in your memory—a wound that refused to fully heal. You were surprised that you weren't sobbing, because the night he told you those words, you felt your world had ended.

Jack was appalled, his face reflecting the shock and guilt that surged through him as he listened to your words. The heaviness of the past, the pain inflicted, all rushed back to him as a floodgate of memories suddenly opened, each carrying the weight of its own hurt.

"I always felt I was the third person in our marriage. You made me feel things I hated, and maybe even worse, I became someone I didn't recognize. After that day in the park, I was going to ask you for a divorce because I didn't want to be the person you settled for… then I found out I was pregnant. I wanted to give us one last try, and well, you remember what happened after I told you the news,” you say, the bitterness of the past lingering in your words.

"You kept hurting me, and you're smart, Jack. Did you not think I would leave you?" 

Jack exhales, the reminder of his own mistakes heavy on him. "I think I couldn’t let ya go, so a part of me hoped you would leave me if I treated you horribly. Every day I fought with myself to treat you like you deserve, but I wasn’t strong enough to open up to you."

The silence lingers, and Jack takes the opportunity to share a piece of his truth. "The night after I proposed, I had a dream about Allison. She told me I was replacing her, and I dunno, instead of working out through my issues, I took it out on ya.”

“Over a dream? You... you let our relationship go to waste because of a dream,” you say, a mix of disbelief and frustration in your voice. You want to be angry at him because such a trivial thing ruined the chance of happiness, but then you put yourself in his shoes. "Oh, Jack," you add, this time with a tone of understanding and sadness. 

“Have you been to therapy?” you ask him, your tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Yeah…” Jack admits with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Can I be honest?” you tilt your head, your fingers playing with the collar of your shirt.

He nods.

“I don’t think it helped.”

Jack smiles, a sheepish expression on his face, “If we’re being honest, I went in for two sessions and never saw my shrink again.”

“Well, your therapist probably knew what they were doing,” you playfully scold, but then your voice softens, "Please see a therapist so Ángel can get to know the best version of you. When I knew that Jack, he was amazing, and that's the man I want my son to know."

A sad smile greets Jack's face, "Yes, Sugar."

There's another thing you've always been curious to know but never had the stomach to ask, and this seems to be your window. "Can I ask, did you, um, did you ever sleep with someone else while we were married?"

"God no," the words tumble out of his mouth.

"Well, that's something, I guess," you say, a sense of relief evident in your voice.

"I'm really sorry about everything, sweetheart. I can't believe I ever hurt you. I just miss you so much. I’ve never regretted anything in my life as much as I do not telling you I loved you when we had a chance," Jack confesses, the weight of regret heavy in his words.

"It’s okay, Jack. I’m not your wife anymore, but we had some good times. Sometimes love doesn’t work out how we thought,” you tell Jack, your gaze turning when you hear footsteps that are familiar to you. 

And Jack would forever kick himself for driving you away and not accepting your love. The only piece of solace is that Ángel will have a happy and full life, and you finally got the love you deserved and dreamed of.

Javi starts calling your name, and you answer him so he can walk over to where you are. Once Javi comes into view, he tells you that Ángel’s been discharged and that they're ready to go home.

Jack looks at you once more, his gaze lingering, as if trying to capture every detail to hold onto. He sees the love in your eyes for your husband, a love he once had the chance to cherish but let slip away. It hurts, but at the mention of his son, it gives him the slightest glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he has learned from his mistakes, and he'll find a way to be a part of your lives, even if it's not in the way he once dreamed. The love of his life and his son are happy and healthy, and that will have to be enough for him.

"Bye, Jack. I'll let you know what time we're having the dinner," you say, while Javi wraps his arms around you—a protective gesture that Jack once held the privilege of doing, but did so sparingly.

"Take care," Javi tells Jack over his shoulder, his voice firm but not unkind. He then leads you to Ángel's room, leaving Jack standing alone in the corridor, grappling with the ache of what could have been.

You both start heading down the hallway, and Javi pauses halfway. His eyes search yours, concern written all over his features. 

"Are you okay?"

"I am now," you lean into him and smile. "Jack and I were talking about when we were married," you begin, and Javi tenses involuntarily.

"Hey, no, you don’t have anything to worry about," you reassure him, cupping his face with both of your hands. "Our talk was more about what went wrong, and the bottom line was that I‘m okay with the fact that he wasn’t the one for me."

Javi takes a deep breath, visibly trying to control the surge of emotions within him. "It’s just- me cae mal ese - (I don’t like that-)” You can't help but chuckle lightly at your husband's choice of words.

"As stupid as it sounds, I wanted to make it work when we were married. I saw it in his eyes, I felt it in his words and actions; he didn’t love me, and I couldn’t stay in a marriage like that. I wanted a life with him... It didn't work out, and it's okay. Everything I dreamed of having, I found it with you. I'm the happiest I've ever been at your side. You’re the love of my life and I love being your wife, don't ever doubt that, okay?" Since the beginning of your relationship, you always repeated your love to Javier, not because he was insecure, but because you knew how it felt to be second place, second best, a consolation prize, and you never wanted Javier to think that you settled for him after Jack.

"Say it again," Javi requests, a genuine smile softening his features as he looks down at you.

"What?" 

“That you’re my wife," Jack wants you to repeat the words that make his heart flutter.

“I’m your wife," you say.

Javi, still reveling in the warmth of the words, spins his finger in a playful circle, silently requesting you to say the words again.

“I’m your wife," you repeat, the pride evident in your tone. You take Javi's hand and begin walking to your son’s room.

"Again," Javi insists, stopping you in your tracks.

“I’m your wife.” 

“Otra vez," he requests, this time in Spanish.

You comply, “Soy tu esposa," you tell him and drag him further down the hall to your son's room.

When Javi playfully asks you to say it once more, this time it's you who stops. “Por dios, Javi, ¿en cuántos lenguajes quieres que te lo diga? (My God, Javi, how many languages do you want me to say it in?)” you feign annoyance.

He shrugs, answering with a mischievous grin, “En todos (in all of them).”

Amused, you grab him by the collar of his blue button-down shirt and bring him to a level where you can whisper into his ear, “Ay, Jav, apenas y hablas español (Oh, Jav, you barely speak Spanish).” You kiss his cheek and pull back, leaving him slightly offended but oddly proud. He had hoped for a different outcome when he saw you pull him down; the glint in your eyes made him believe you were going to kiss him on the lips. But, to his dismay, you chose to tease him instead.

"Take it back!" he demands as you stand right outside the door.

“Si lo dices en español (if you say it in Spanish),” you tease with a grin. Javier contemplates for a moment, and in the brief silence, Ángel's laughter and Dr. Navarro's voice echo from inside the room.

"Please?" Javi implores, wanting to savor one more of those heart-skipping phrases before joining his son. Unable to resist his pleading eyes any longer and mindful of the precious moments with Ángel, you relent.

“I’m your wife.”

END

Extended Note: The end! Thank you, everyone, for your kindness throughout the series. I truly appreciate every interaction 🥹.

As for my departure, I'm unsure whether I should deactivate my account or just private my writing. There's one post I received only positive comments on, especially from people with SPD who found it relatable. Apparently, there's a shortage of such stories, so I'm conflicted. Hopefully, I'll have a definitive decision next week.

I'm planning to post the Din story next Thursday; it's just one part, a sex pollen with Virgin!Din, titled 'Paleta.' I'm a fan of El Alfa, and I recently discovered that a song in his new album was sampled from the one I used for the Din story. It got me thinking about what I had written, and I wanted to share it with y’all before I bow out.

Thank you for reading 🫶🏽!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @stileslvr @pedrostories

#my heart is glowing 🥹

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Hi! I promise that I'm still here. About the Din story, Paleta WILL be up soon. Here is what I have so far:

As you can see, it's only missing the graphic.

#I am horrible at summaries and CWs :( #Sorry for the delay... again #din dijarin x reader

[loslentesdepedrito]

Amiga, haces requests? Por que estaba escuchando Amárrame de Mon Laferte and I can’t stop thinking about Javier P 🥵 I think you’d kill it 😍

Cristy! I don't take requests as I haven't written any fanfiction in a while. I love Mon Laferte, de hecho, la vi en el 2019. I've written some stories inspiradas por sus canciones. I wrote one with Amárrame but with a Marvel character. But because you are so nice to me—thank you, by the way—I can rewrite it to fit Jav. Unfortunately, I can't guarantee a set date, but I will have it out; you'll just have to be patient with me 😅. También, si te gustaría, le podrías preguntar a otros autores aquí. No te preocupes, no me molestaría; de todos modos, te lo escribo. Y si me voy, te lo mando en privado 🩷.

[loslentesdepedrito]

sorry to bother you but do you have an eta on the din fic?

🦥

I initially said Thursday, but unfortunately, I couldn't complete the graphics and add all the translations in time. My new goal is to release it sometime in the upcoming week. I've just returned from a 12-hour shift, so I'm heading to bed now (yes, at 3:35 😖). I'll dedicate myself to completing everything as soon as I wake up :)! To everyone who has left me a message, comment, or reblog, I promise that I'll respond soon! 🫶🏽

#that sloth emoji is adorable btw #Here's a little something from the fic for the meantime

[loslentesdepedrito]

Pedro Pascal and his huaraches!!

Just when I think this man can't get any more relatable. I honestly want to know how much he paid for those, jaja. Are they considered huaraches? Or maybe orthopedic shoes. I think he rocks them 🤷🏽‍♀️.

#pedro pascal #es mi alegria #pero son huaraches ¿o nel pastel?

[loslentesdepedrito]

what'd ya think about pedros golden globe fit?

I'm so glad I got this question!

Spot the difference!

Just kidding! I did briefly think about those cupcakes, but he looked spectacular. Those glasses, LENTES!! Ahhh! I'm a sucker for his glasses, as my username states, hehe. His smile is incredibly infectious; I just love him. I have to say this is an upgrade from his red carpet suit the last time he was at the Globes in 2015, I believe. God, I can't believe it's been almost ten years now, woah.

I must admit I cringed when I thought about his sweater? being inside out. I don't know why I thought that, but yeah…

In conclusion, I loved it. I hope that arm heals nicely, though.

Thank you, anon, for the question and for allowing me to share a few thoughts 🫶🏽.

#hair #lentes #beard #combi completa #pedro pascal

[loslentesdepedrito]

It’s okay amiga I understood! hijole, son las personas asi que olvidan que pedro y muchos de su personajes habla español so it’s obviiioooo que vas escribir unos lineas en español 😭 y todo eso de las descriptions like nada que ver who doesn’t wanna see themselves in the story! no se pero yo digo que sigas escribiendo!! I hope your holidays went great and that this doesn’t bring you down! con mucho amor-Cristy 🫶🏽

¡Verdad! Aunque no ha tendio muchos papeles de personajes hispanos, siempre hay uno que otro. También escribo algunas líneas cuando no hablan español, como con Joel, Dave, Marcus. Ahora que lo pienso, siempre escribo en español, pero es porque siempre hablo en español, y de todos modos no incluyo descripción de la lectora.

Anyways, espero publicar algo esta semana y ver qué me dicen. Por ahora, creo que sí voy a seguir aquí. ¡A mí nadie me corre! (I'll take this back if I do leave, ¡ja ja!)

I hope your holidays went well too! Gracias por escribirme, Cristy. I wish you a great week! You're always welcome to drop your thoughts here 🩷.

#te amooo

[loslentesdepedrito]

Amiga wtf you can’t leave 😭😭 I just discovered your account and I have never felt represented more than I do in your writing 🫶🏽 pero asi es la vida y si nececitas a algien, estoy aqui and I’ll come off anon! 💕

¡Bienvenida!!! I'm so glad that you can find representation through my work; that means the world to me 💗. I share my writing because I never felt the representation in the fandom, to begin with, and I thought there might be others who feel the same way. Uno de los problemas que he enfrentado es que he recibido mensajes maliciosos. La verdad es que no pensé que esto sería un problema, pero hay gente(personas?) que se molestaron porque escribo unas lineas en español y etiqueto mis trabajos como x reader, pero siempre hago saber que hay contenido en español 😭. Y me cayó más la bronca cuando subí algo con un personaje original y le di características físicas, pero avisé claramente que ella tendría una descripción, ya que tener a una morena como personaje principal es demasiadamente importante para mí. La impresión que me dieron estos mensajes es que a la audiencia no le gusta cuando incorporo español, y para ahorrarme el dolor de cabeza, tal vez me marcho (qué ironía que uno de los posts que les disgustó estaba titulado con la famosa canción de Luismi; perdón, no es de risa, pero sí me sacó una sonrisa). I hope you understood all of that, if not, let me know, and I'll write it in English. Pero muchas gracias por mandarme un mensaje 🫶🏽😭. Te amo. I hope all is well with you :).

-Isabela

[loslentesdepedrito]

mami, te vas⁉️ leí ,,closing my account” y me puse en panico

Nena, espero que estés bien! Estoy en una encrucijada entre el sí y el no. No quiero que nadie me corra, pero he recibido algunos mensajes que básicamente dicen que no entienden por qué escribo cosas en español y no las etiqueto como lectora latina. Las quejas no eran comentarios amables que quisieran ayudar; más bien, eran ataques y quejas sobre por qué mis personajes femeninos tienen que ser hispanohablantes. Sin embargo, yo no veo el problema en escribir a un personaje que habla en español. Sí, no lo etiqueto como latina porque solo en UNA ocasión he mencionado que la familia de la lectora es de Latinoamérica, y además, no todos los que hablan español son latin@s y no todos los latin@s hablan español. Mientras aviso que mi personaje habla español, no veo el problema. Bueno, te tendré una respuesta la semana que viene. Mil gracias por mandarme un mensaje amable. Te lo agradezco de todo corazón mami ☺️🫰🏽.

[loslentesdepedrito]

Right?! He hurt her so much, and now he's acting all shocked, as if he wasn't the one responsible for causing her all that suffering. Luckily, Ángel has an amazing support system.

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Six

Jack gif by: @coredrive My Masterlist

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Five

Word count: 4.3k+

Chapter summary: Jack visits Ángel in the hospital, bringing the gifts he bought. During the visit, you find yourself reflecting on your relationship with Jack—both before and after your engagement. Also, your husband, Javi, and your ex-husband, Jack, try their best to not kill each other. (Picks up directly from ch. 5. The flashback scene is bold and italicized.)

Rating: 18+ No explicit content, but this is an 18+ page. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the aviators.

Warnings: Angst, jealousy, light suggestive stuff, pregnancy, divorce, childhood disease, mention of death, mention of the death of a child.

You were abruptly pulled from that memory when you heard a soft “¿Mami?”

Your head snapped towards Ángel, who was awake from his nap, his hair adorably messy.

"We've been calling your name," Javi says, no longer in his chair. He's now pouring some milkshake from a third cup into a smaller one for Ángel.

"Sorry, nomas estaba pensando ([I] was just thinking),” you say as you get up to give your son a kiss.

“¿En que, mami? (In what, mommy?)” Ángel asks, tilting his head to look at you.

Before you can reply, a knock echoes in the room.

"Come in," Javi says, loud enough for the person behind the door to hear.

The door opens, and Jack enters with a blue bag in hand.

"Mr. Daniels!" Ángel greeted him, clearly happy to see him.

"Hi, buddy," Jack responded, glad to see that Ángel was taking a liking to him, even if he didn't know their true connection.

"How are you feeling?" Jack asks, genuinely concerned.

"Good, thank you," Ángel replies politely, lifting his cup to take a sip. "My dad gave me some milkshake," he adds with a small smile.

At the mention of Javi’s name, Jack turns to Javi. "Javier," he acknowledges with a slightly sour tone.

"Hi, Jack," Javi responded without bothering to look up from what he was doing.

"I got something for you," Jack says, placing a gift bag on his son's lap. Ángel's head instinctively turned to look at Javi with big questioning eyes, silently seeking permission. 

“Puedes abrirlo (you can open it),” Javi said softly, granting him permission.

Ángel eagerly reached into the bag, pulling out tissue paper and tossing it over his shoulder onto the floor. He excitedly reached into the bag with his small arm and pulled out a boy's denim jacket. It was a dark blue wash with silver buttons and yellow stitching all along the jacket. The jacket had several pockets, and Ángel immediately started sticking his small fingers into them. The most noticeable feature was a deep red patch at the back of the neck area. In the center of the maroon leather, the word "Jean" was meticulously stitched in bold, white thread. The stitching wasn't perfect, nor was it meant to be; it almost appeared as if it had been hand-sewn. Near the bottom right corner of the patch, a quartet of squares appears, not arranged in a straight line, but it looked better that way. Each square bears a single letter, together spelling out "S-H-O-P."

“¡Qué chulo! (so cute!)” Ángel exclaimed in awe as he tried to put it on, getting halfway before realizing that his right arm had an IV.

"I love it! Thank you so much, Mr. Jack!" your son exclaims with genuine joy. It almost makes up for all the Christmases Jack missed with Ángel - almost.

"No need to thank me, buddy," Jack replies, delighted that Ángel liked the jacket. Kids usually prefer toys over clothing, but ever since Ángel met Jack, he's had cowboy fever.

"I have the same one," Jack adds, the idea of matching with his son warming his heart. Jack couldn't help himself but buy items identical to the ones he already had in his closet.  "You can wear it when you get out of here and go to the ranch," Jack explains.

Ángel responds happily and giddy, his excitement bubbling over.

"Keep looking, there's more," Jack encourages his son to explore the rest of the gifts, eager to see his reaction.

“Muy bien (very well), Mr. Jack," Ángel says obediently, forgetting Jack doesn't know Spanish. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a book.

"One hundred fun facts about Horses," Ángel reads out loud and gasps.

"He loves books," you fill Jack in.

Jack was going to say, he didn't get that from me, but he held back and instead replied, "he got that from you."

"Can I read this now?" Ángel questions, clutching the milkshake in one hand and the book in the other.

"There's still more,” Jack points at the bag.

Ángel seemed astonished, asking as if he couldn't believe it, "More?"

"Just one more," Jack laughs at his son's excitement.

For the third time, Ángel reaches into the bag, his face contorted in confusion as he struggles to pull out the item with one hand. "Ma," he calls out and hands you his drink. You hold it for him, and with both hands, he successfully retrieves the last item from the bottom of the bag.

He takes out a black box with the word 'stetson' printed in white ink. Your son rattles the box, but his eyebrows pinch in the middle; he can't make out what's inside the box.

He finally reads the text and asks, "What is a stetson?" Not waiting for an answer as his curiosity got the best of him, he takes matters into his own hands and opens the box, revealing a layer of white tissue paper inside. This time, he's more careful. With his small fingers, Ángel gently grasps the paper from both ends in the middle and pulls it apart.

"Wow!" he exclaims as he sees a black hat upside down. He delicately removes the hat from its container and flips it over to examine it with wide eyes.

Ángel looks at Jack with a smile that warms Jack's heart, a smile he'd do anything for, even if it meant crawling to the depths of hell and facing Satan himself, just to keep it on his son's face.

He begins, "My grandpa gave me a hat—" but his sentence is cut short when he eyes Jack's own hat. He then turned his attention back to the smaller hat in his hands, his face contorted with intense concentration. "Wait... it's just like yours, Mr. Jack!"

The smile that Jack offers in response is just like Ángel's. He can already envision his son wearing everything he's given him. The prospect of having his son resemble him, even in a small way, fills Jack with emotion. Tears prick Jack’s eyes at the thought of his son looking like a little version of himself, without the mustache, of course. He can’t wait for the day his son will be his spitting image, from head to toe, or more appropriately, from the top of the hat to the tip of his boots. Now he just needs boots, Jack thinks, making a mental note to purchase them soon.

"Do you like it?" Jack asks.

"I love it!" Ángel exclaims.

Without hesitation, he places the hat on his head and grins when it fits perfectly. "My glasses didn't fall this time!"

Laughter envelops the room, and you can't help but wish for this kind of co-parenting relationship with Jack.

“Papi, look, it looks a little like the one grandpa gave me,” Ángel says not resisting showing his dad, as he does with everything.  

It was indeed true; Chucho had gifted his grandson a straw hat. The moment Ángel received the hat, he'd given his grandpa a giant hug and then raced to show his dad.

Javi had never shared his son before, so watching him interact with Jack was a bit difficult for him. But he knew it was for the best, and he held onto the certainty that Ángel would always be his son, no matter what.

"Sí, mijo, te ves lindo (Yes son, you look nice)," Javi honestly praised Ángel's appearance, trying to focus on the happiness of the moment.

Jack, in the same boat as Javi, felt his heart chip ever so slightly every time Ángel called Javier "dad." He made a conscious effort to push aside these feelings and to fully enjoy the present.

"It’s perfect, right?” Jack asked, wanting reassurance.

“Yes, Mr. Daniels. Thank you,” Ángel replied, gratitude in his eyes, and he invited Jack to sit down next to him.

Jack complied happily, impressed by Ángel's ability to win him over so quickly.

“Can you tell me more about your ranch, please?” Ángel gazed at Jack with puppy eyes, and Jack couldn't resist.

He chuckled at how quickly his son could melt his heart. "Sure thing."

“Wait! I want a picture first,” Ángel suddenly announced.

“I’ll do it,” Jack offered before you or Javi had a chance to react.

Jack stood up from his chair, retrieved his phone from his pocket, and started setting up the camera. While he was busy, Ángel adjusted his jacket to make sure it wasn't slipping off the shoulder where his arm wasn't through the sleeve.

“Ready?” Jack asked, his finger poised over the top right button to take a picture.

Ángel didn’t reply with words. Instead, he looked up at Jack and said, “Cheese,” remembering to smile.  He held the pose while Jack's phone captured several clicks.

“Thank you, Mr. Jack,” Ángel said gratefully.

“Thank you, buddy.” 

Jack moved to his gallery to look at the pictures he had just taken and let out a sigh of frustration when he noticed the quality wasn't what he had hoped for.

“Maybe I need to get a newer phone,” he grumbled, slightly annoyed.

At that moment, Javi's voice came from behind him, growing nearer. “Probably because I heard the Smithsonian wants to contact you to make a deal so they could display your phone for their 1930s collection,” Javi deadpanned, handing his own phone to Jack. “Here, use my phone. I'll make sure you get the pictures.”

Jack accepted the phone with an eye roll, gave a begrudging nod, and muttered a terse 'thanks' before asking his son to smile once more. This time, Jack was satisfied with the pictures he took and returned Javi's phone.

A palpable tension lingered between the two men as they settled back into their respective chairs, the strained atmosphere refusing to dissipate but remaining held in check within the confines of the hospital room.

Sipping on their milkshakes, Jack raked his brain for a story to share, while you removed your son’s jacket to allow him to lay back more comfortably.

Once Ángel was nestled against the pillows, Jack began his story. “During nights at the ranch, the stars are beautiful. The most beautiful starry nights…”

starry nights

starry nights

starry nights

“And that is The Big Dipper,” you pointed at the sky and traced the constellation with your finger. It was a collection of seven bright stars in the shape of a ladle, its handle stretching out across the sky like a long handle on a giant celestial spoon. It was a clear, beautiful night, and the stars seemed to shine especially bright.

“Over there is Orion,” you traced with your finger again. Orion was one of the most recognizable constellations, with its three stars forming Orion's Belt.

“and there-” you turned to look at Jack, expecting to find him gazing at the stars as you had been. Instead, he was looking intently at you.

“What are you looking at?” You asked, puzzled as to why he wasn’t following your descriptions. “Am I boring you?” You wondered, a mix of genuine concern and offense in your voice.

“Nunna that,” he replied in his thick drawl.

“So?” You prodded.

“I just love you,” he said, his expression filled with adoration. Jack looked at you as though you were the most incredible thing in the world.

You couldn't help but laugh, maybe at the intensity of the moment, or maybe at the expression that sent your heart racing, or perhaps a combination of both. You reached out, ran your fingers through his hatless hair – a rarity – and pulled him in for a kiss.

A few months later, he proposed to you, and just like that, it seemed that overnight, he had changed.

The night Jack proposed, the air was filled with the scent of love and the promise of a shared future. Bodies exhausted from the intimate celebration, you both drifted into sleep with the utmost excitement for your upcoming wedding and the prospect of spending the rest of your lives together.

As you dreamt sweetly about your wedding day and all the plans you and Jack had lovingly discussed, Jack had an entirely different dream – one that would alter the course of your lives. In this dream, he was visited by his high school sweetheart, his first wife. She came to him, tearful and broken, a ghost of heartache, accusing him of replacing her with you. Over eight hours of sleep, Jack relived every shared moment, each memory etched into his mind, right down to the devastating memory of burying her along with their unborn son.

In his vivid dream, Jack meticulously compared the two of you, scrutinizing and contrasting your every feature, your every virtue. He reached the conclusion that his first wife was his one true love, his happily ever after. He placed her on an unattainable pedestal, and you, unfortunately, received the short end of the stick. In his altered and frantic mindset, still within the dream, Jack reassured her that you could never replace her because you could never be her. Jack decided that you could never measure up to the ideal woman he had built in his memories of his first wife.

Life had cruelly snatched her away, and in a perverse twist of fate, you became a living and painful reminder of everything he had lost and everything he could never regain. The woman he had lost became an unattainable ghost of perfection, and you, no matter how wonderful and loving, were forever held hostage by the shadow of her memory.

As the morning sun streamed into the room, you opened your eyes, anticipating the warmth of his presence beside you. When he wasn't in bed, you thought he might be in the kitchen making breakfast, so you searched for him happily, looking forward to sharing a bath to relive the delicious soreness from the night before, with thoughts of another round lingering in your imagination. However, your excitement turned to disappointment when he wasn't anywhere in the house.

Hours later, when he finally returned home, his behavior was curt, and he vaguely mentioned having something to do. Initially, you brushed it off, blaming his behavior on the stress of work, assuming it was a one-time thing. 

Then, a week passed; Jack distanced himself even further, rejecting your touch and avoiding PDA, which he used to love. The warmth that used to define your connection was now replaced by a chilling void.

Conversations about his day once shared openly, became scarce, and when you broached planning your wedding, he conveniently found errands or claimed overtime at work—anything to avoid the topic.

Your once lively conversations dwindled, and the late-night talks on random topics became a distant memory. Your hopeful wishes for Jack to return to his previous self remained just that—wishes. Instead of reverting, Jack's behavior worsened. Thinking back on that post-engagement morning, it was as though a different Jack had awakened: someone you wouldn't recognize in the years to come, leaving you confused about what you might have done to bring about this change.

Unbeknownst to you, Jack had finished his story. You returned from the memory you had tried so diligently to bury, only to realize that Jack was explaining to his son that he needed to leave.

“I’ve gotta go to the pharmacy and pick up my medicine," he told Ángel. Although Jack didn't specify the medicine he needed to collect, both you and Javi were well aware that it was the injections he needed.

Ángel's face fell with disappointment, evident in his now-diminished smile. But he quickly bounced back before Jack could offer more apologies.

"It's okay, Mr. Jack," he said with a brave smile, even though his eyes betrayed his disappointment. 

"Medicine is very important," Ángel added matter-of-factly.

Jack smiled at the boy's maturity. "You're absolutely right."

"I'll see you soon, right?" Ángel asked with a hint of concern in his voice.

"Whenever the hospital allows," Jack replied cautiously, refraining from disclosing his procedure, as Ángel wasn’t aware of the pending surgery, and Jack didn't want to lie to his son.

Ángel accepted Jack's answer and thanked him for the wonderful gifts before saying his goodbyes.

"I'll see you out, Jack. The exit you normally use is closed, so you'll need to go through the sky bridge," Javi offered.

"Sure," Jack agreed without protest.

He was just about to say goodbye to you when Ángel suddenly exclaimed, "Oh-uh…”

All three of you turned your heads, concern etching your features.

“Tengo que ir al baño (I have to go to the restroom),” he said anxiously. Typically, he didn't need assistance, but the IV made it complicated to go to the bathroom by himself.

Javi immediately offered, “Lo llevo yo (I’ll take him).” Given your pregnancy, taking care of Ángel was challenging, and Javi didn't want to jeopardize the well-being of all three of you. So Javi had willingly taken over the physical tasks of caring for him. He didn't mind – he loved looking after his son.  Besides, he didn't want you walking Jack out, given that he remembered Jack referring to you as his wife. A part of him would always hold some resentment toward Jack, but his priority was his son.

As you focused on helping Ángel with the sheets, Javi approached Jack, his jaw locked, and in a low tone, he leaned in, warning, "If you try anything..." His stern expression and brown eyes bore into Jack's, conveying a clear threat. The warning only reached Jack's ears, and Jack remained silent, reminding himself to behave in front of Ángel.

Javi then forcefully bumped shoulders with Jack as he moved past him to assist Ángel in the restroom. You missed this interaction, and when you eventually glanced at Jack, he was seething. It had been years since you had seen him so angry – precisely nine years, to be exact. Confusion clouded your mind, leaving you standing there, staring at him, and he did the same. Your attention was drawn away from him when Ángel said his final goodbye.

"Let's go," you told Jack and proceeded towards the door.

Jack gives his son one last look and sees Javi guiding him to the restroom inside the hospital room.

With that, Jack is on your heels. You are five steps ahead of Jack. As you walk ahead of him, you find your mind drifting to your relationship with Jack. You classified your relationship with Jack in two phases: pre-engagement and post-engagement. Pre-engagement Jack would lace your hands together every time you were out in public or have his arm wrapped around your waist or shoulder. He wanted everyone to know that you were his, and he was yours.

Post-engagement Jack underwent a drastic transformation. He no longer held you in public, except for that one instance when there was construction on a street that had forced him to help you across a blocked and narrow sidewalk. He also began to walk ahead of you, not just a step or two, but so far that you sometimes had to wait for the traffic light to change and he would be on the other side of the street. After several attempts of trying to catch up with him, you eventually stopped trying to keep up and accepted this new reality. 

Now, ironically, the roles had reversed, and you were walking ahead of Jack, with no intention of slowing down once you crossed the skybridge. Jack used long strides to catch up to you. Fortunately, the two of you were the only ones crossing the bridge that connected the children's wing to the parking lot, or else it might appear as if he were following you. Desperately, Jack wished to be by your side and engage in conversation. About what? Anything, really. He wanted to talk about the weather, the stars (something you once loved discussing but which he had grown annoyed with), or even something as random as worms, as long as it led to a conversation. He hoped to make you smile and laugh, even if it meant discussing the most mundane topics. Jack briefly wondered if this was how you had felt during your marriage – always yearning for his presence and conversation. He was already aware of the answer: yes.

As he rounded the corner, he saw you and swiftly pressed the elevator button. The doors opened with a soft ding right in time for Jack to step inside. You promptly pressed the button marked G1, initiating the descent. Jack's mind raced as he desperately sought the right words, knowing he had only a few precious minutes before you returned upstairs. Once you were outside, he finally summoned the courage to speak, but you broke the silence first.

“I’m begging you, Jack, do not flake on this. You heard Ángel's doctor. If you back out while he’s on chemo-”

“Do ya really think I would do that?” Jack's hands went to his waist, his eyebrows furrowing with anger and surprise. “To my own son?” He sounded genuinely shocked that you would even consider such a possibility.

“No...” After a pause, you decided to be honest, “Yes, Jack. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but it's the truth. I don’t know if I trust you. I want to. But I know better. I need to keep my guard up. I can’t risk it, not when Ángel is on the line. I did once, and look how that turned out.”

“Ya think I don't think 'bout that often?” Jack's voice rose. “Okay, I know what I did…” He paused and took a deep breath. “I won’t do that again. I will never abandon him. Ever. I will not fail him again.”

You repeated to yourself, Don't cry, don't cry.

“And you think it was easy for me to forget?” you continued, voice trembling. “I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. After you proposed, you... you changed!” 

"I remember that once, I dropped off lunch at your office because I got out of work early, and I wished I never left work." The tears welled up in your eyes as you recalled the painful memory. "I was in your building, on my way to your office, when a guard stopped me before I got to the reception. I explained that I was going to drop off food for my husband, and he asked me who I was married to." You continued, “Of course, I said your name, and you know what he said?" Without giving Jack a chance to speak, you added, "He said he was under the impression that your wife had passed away."

The color drained from Jack's face.

"It was so embarrassing, Jack. I didn't know what to say." You covered your eyes with both hands. "He and everyone on the floor thought I was crazy and making shit up." After a moment of silence, you continued, “At least Ginger was there, and she took me away into a hallway. I begged her not to say anything. I just went back home and cried my heart out."

Jack looked like a fish out of water, struggling to find words.

You pointed your index finger at his face and said, "Yeah, do that for like two minutes with a Tupperware of food, and you'll look exactly like me." Your dry laugh turned into a scoff.

"I'm sorry. Jesus, Sugar, I'm so sorry."

You heard the emotion behind his words and snapped, “Oh, don’t you fucking dare cry.” You were furious that he wanted to cry when you were the one who had gone through this. Years ago, you would've never dreamt of him feeling the burden of your pain, one that he had caused. You would've shielded him and shouldered everything, but you had changed too.

“I already cried enough for the both of us,” you add.

That made Jack want to cry more, but he quickly composed himself and fought back the unshed tears.

He comes closer to you, cupping your face in his hand. You shiver. Not because you feel any warm feelings you used to. Quite the opposite; you shiver because his hand is so cold.

"I'm sorry for hurtin’ you, baby," he says sincerely, looking into your eyes.

“Don’t,” you say, smacking his hand away. “Don’t call me that and don’t ever touch me again.” It's as if the palm of his hand gave you a freezer burn.

Suddenly, you hear heavy and hurried footsteps behind you.

From the corner of your eye, you see one of the security guards from the lobby.

“Is there a problem?” the security guard asks.

Jack looks at the guard annoyed as if he interrupted something. “I’m talking with my wife.”

“Oh my God, stop saying that! I’m not your wife!” you exclaim, frustration lacing your voice.

“Ma’am, is this man bothering you?” The security guard is about to intervene, concern evident in his tone.

“No! He was just leaving, sir.” You manage to give the best smile you can muster to the guard, doing your best to reassure him. 

Jack, still looking irritated, takes a step back, giving you some space.

You grab Jack’s jacket and spin him around so he could look onto the parking lot. In a hushed voice, you whisper-yell, “Jack, don’t make a scene. If you get in trouble, you won’t be allowed into the hospital, and then Ángel won’t have a donor.” You didn’t know that would happen if the security guard kicked him out, probably not, but you were just saying things to make him leave.

Shit, shit, shit, why do I keep doing this? he asks himself.

“We’ll talk another day, Jack,” you sound deflated.

“Right now I have to get back and explain everything to Ángel since he’s getting surgery tonight,” you say.

That sobered him up.

“Okay. Call me with any updates. Text me too. It don't matter what time.”

You nod and turn to go back to your family.

A/N: I've created an account exclusively for reblogging my writing: @loslentesdepedrito-library . Feel free to follow me there if you'd like to be notified about anything and everything I write!

This is the fastest I've ever created a graphic (even though it took me a week 😳), yay! The next couple of weeks will be busy for me, but I hope to upload the last chapter before the end of the year. I know! I just have a lot to catch up on since I went on sick leave :(

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @stileslvr @pedrostories

#ty ty ty ty for the reblog!!

[loslentesdepedrito]

I'm so glad you loved this. It warms my heart to know that it was well-received by everyone, especially the neurodivergent community! 🫶🏽

A Restless Night

Bottom left gif by: fourdev, top right gif by: @a7estrellas

My Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Word count: 2.7k+

Summary: You have issues with sensory processing, making it difficult for you to fall asleep. After a restless night of tossing and turning, Joel awakens, determined to do everything in his power to help you sleep.

A/N: I wrote this based on my own experiences with SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) as someone who has ASD. I refrained from labeling it as x ASD!reader because not everyone who struggles with SPD is autistic/autism, and not everyone who is autistic/has autism has SPD. Also, just a gentle reminder that every individual's experience with ASD varies significantly. If you’ve met one person with ASD, you’ve met ONE person with ASD. Enjoy!

Rating: 18+ Suggestive. Nothing explicit, but this is an 18+ page. Warnings: No Outbreak, hurt/comfort, slight angst, suggestive stuff, insomnia, food consumption, taking an Antihistamine pill.

In the eerie and suffocating stillness of the night, the angry crimson glow of the alarm clock projects the harsh reality onto the walls. The room, cloaked in darkness punctuated only by the faintest glow of the alarm clock, offers no solace. Silently, the digital clock announces the unyielding passage of time: 2:04 AM. With your eyes repeatedly drawn to the clock, you become a silent observer of your own restless fight for sleep.

Minutes dragged on, each one worse than the last. In vain hope, you closed your eyes, waiting for the elusive embrace of sleep. Frustration mounted, and your whispered mantra of "just go to sleep" echoed in the void, its efficacy long worn thin. At this point, the words are obsolete—they hold no meaning for you or your brain.

Your sheets, supposed sanctuary, became your tormentor. The sheets cradle your form, and your fingertips discern every thread, every imperfection in the fabric. Lying on them felt like lying on a box of sand. Even clothed parts weren’t exempt from the torture, as the sheets, like sandpaper against your skin, induced insufferable itchiness. The fabric, an abrasive paper, scratched against your tender skin, leaving trails of discomfort in its wake. Your nails dug into flesh, offering brief respite. The noise it made made you cringe, but you couldn't stop scratching.

Another hell was your hair. Endless adjustments led to desperation, and you gathered it into a makeshift crown atop your head, a futile attempt to detach it from your body. The sheets then morphed into a layer of microscopic needles, punctuating your flesh, and it could almost leave a trail of welts.

The silent plea for rest fell on deaf pillows. Experimenting with positions in the hope of finding the right combination, you lay facing the ceiling, then Joel, then turning away from him—the dance of insomnia continued. After each position, you stayed still, closed your eyes... and nothing. All movements amplified your discomfort, especially the rustling of the loathed sheets, adding to your torment.

An unseen army of ants seemed to crawl across you, their presence beneath your skin. The sensory assault intensified, feeling like the ants invaded your hair, their microscopic footsteps on your pillow resonating in your ears.  

As your nails dig into your scalp, a brief moment of panic washes over you, fearing that actual animals might be crawling on you. However, a deep breath and rational thinking help you dispel the irrational fear. Reassuring yourself, you repeat, You’re just making things up, it’s okay, you’re okay.

Just for reassurance, you pass your fingernails through your neck where you feel the phantom animals. When you look at your hand, it’s empty. A sigh of relief escapes you. Closing your eyes for what feels like the millionth time, the sheets below you rustle. "I can’t take it any longer," you mutter to yourself just above a whisper. Just as you're about to jump out of bed, you feel your husband stir beside you. 

He wakes up in somewhat of a panic, his big hand reaching out to feel for you. You find comfort in his touch, and it gives you something else to focus on. In the dark room, Joel looks around, reassured by the presence he feels beneath his touch. Knowing the room is clear, he turns his face to look at you.

“Shit. I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep, baby,” you murmur, breaking the silence.

Concern etches Joel's face as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

"Nada. Duermeté (nothing. go to sleep)," you downplay.

"Nah uh. What’s wrong?" he persists, turning to his right to flick on the lamp on the nightstand. The soft glow reveals the exhaustion on your face.

His eyes linger on your tired face and he swiftly moves closer.

“I can’t sleep,” you confess, the vulnerability in your admission apparent in the dimly lit room.

“Do you want me to hold you?” 

"No thanks. I don’t think that’ll help right now," you say sincerely, a subtle shake in your voice.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Joel asks, unable to simply stand by while you suffer.

"I don't know, I just can’t sleep," you admit, your voice breaking. 

Your husband's heart aches at the strain in your voice and the glistening of tears in your eyes. "What do you think will help?" Joel asks gently, willing to do absolutely anything. 

You shrug, a gesture of helplessness. "The sheets. They just feel rough on my skin. It’s itchy. I keep scratching, but nothing helps." 

Joel's gaze softens with empathy as he registers the genuine distress in your words. With a gentle touch, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The warmth of his calloused skin against yours brings you a sense of peace.

"'M sorry. I fell asleep and didn't even think about it. I was waitin' for you to get home-"

You gently interrupt, your voice laced with understanding. "Joel, sweetheart, this isn't your fault. I was excited to go to bed next to you; I forgot about the sheets too."

Fully sitting up on the bed now, you position yourself on your knees, facing your husband. Cupping his face in your hands, you assure him, "Don't feel bad. You work hard. I know you wanted to wait for me, but you passed out 'cus you're tired."

Joel responds by nuzzling his face into your hands. "I'm supposed to comfort you, you know?" he chuckles lightly, his hazel eyes radiating love.

Smirking playfully, you respond, "And how are you going to comfort me?"

Joel starts to shift, but upon feeling the sheets, his hands freeze, remembering the issue. As he thinks about what's different about the sheets tonight, Joel's expression shifts, realization dawning. "Fuck. Our usual sheets are still air drying. We can go check on them, but they're probably still damp, sweetheart."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," you say with a sheepish grin, feeling a flush of warmth spreading across your skin. The sheets had been rendered wet and soaked from the intimate activities of the previous night. Given their delicate nature and high-end price point, the sheets couldn't be tossed into the dryer, so you had to buy emergency sheets from the nearest store.  

A playful glint dances in Joel's eyes as a satisfied smile graces his lips. "My back still hurts. Thank you for that, honey." 

"Oh, please, I did most of the work. You've gotten lazy on me, Miller," you tease, your words infused with playfulness.

"Lazy?" he exclaims. "You squir-"

You swiftly cover his mouth, your whisper-yell barely audible, "Joel! The kids will hear you." Your words are hushed, ensuring they stay just above a whisper.

Joel rolls his eyes, his voice returning to normal as he lowers his tone. "You squirted all over the bed!" he playfully exclaims. "I'll show you lazy," he scoffs. In a swift motion, Joel gently rolls you over, a shared laugh escaping both of you. As he lowers himself, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. You expect the warmth of his lips, but just as the closeness intensifies, he lifts himself away, leaving the bed.

Before you have a chance to berate him, Joel places one hand on his waist, the other on his beard, rubbing his stubble. A furrow forms on his brow as he puts his tongue to the right side, creating a bump on his cheek. "Maybe we can do something about the sheets. Would you like a different one, or perhaps I can find something to soothe your skin? I should have laid something different underneath you." 

The spare sheets you had kept for such situations ended up damaged during the move to your new house—the one you and Joel had designed together. Amidst the chaotic process of relocating, your attention was divided between ensuring the safety of Sarah’s books and your youngest daughter's beloved stuffed animals. In a moment of distraction, you accidentally dropped the extended sheet onto the floor. When you hastily pulled it up, the fabric caught onto the door, resulting in an unfortunate tear right down the middle.

You figured it wouldn't be a big deal because they were your backup sheets, and you were certain that getting a new backup pair would suffice, given your primary sheets were still intact. However, the problem became apparent when you forgot to place the order, and with your main sheets damp, you found yourself without an immediate solution.

"You're helping now; that's all that matters," you tell Joel, getting up from the bed.

He gives you a smile and then asks, "Are the sheets the only problem or the blanket too?"

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you pause, settling on the edge of the bed. "Just the sheets," you affirm with a small exhale.

"I’ll find something to put underneath you," Joel assures.

"I’ll go to the restroom. See if that helps," you say, walking over to him.

Before you can make it to the restroom, your stomach rumbles audibly. "Great, and now I'm hungry," you groan, a hint of frustration in your tone.

"Ya comiste? (Did you eat already?)" 

You nod. “I had some of the mosaic jello the girls made after I came home from work."

“My love, that’s not enough to fill your stomach," Joel responds softly.

"I know; I was tired and just wanted to sleep."

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," he beckons, closing the distance between you.

Joel envelops you in a comforting embrace, his touch proving to be a solace without causing any discomfort. When you lie still, a wave of overwhelming sensations tends to surge, particularly due to the absence of distraction. The stillness becomes a canvas, intensifying your heightened sensitivity. It's worth noting that in your day-to-day life, your clothes can also be bothersome, primarily because of your aversion to certain fabrics.

"Go to the bathroom, and I promise to make everything better, okay?"

"Okay," you reply, and Joel seals the agreement with a tender kiss on the top of your head. With that, you make your way to the en suite bathroom.

Exiting the bathroom, your eyes are drawn to the bed. Joel has carefully laid down a thin cream-colored sheet – the salvageable portion of your once-intact backup sheet. At the foot of the bed sits a small foldable table over the ottoman.

Joel enters through the bedroom door, shirtless, balancing a plate of food and a cup. The darkness obscures the details of what he has on hand.

"I made Camarones a la diabla (Deviled Shrimp)," he announces, placing the plate atop the table. "And a cup of horchata," he adds, the room now enveloped in the rich aroma of the dish.

You wordlessly thank him, and with the fork from the plate, you scoop up a spoonful of the sauce and pair it with a mound of fluffy white rice. The flavors dance on your tongue, prompting an involuntary "mmm" of appreciation. "Oh my God," you exclaim with delight, savoring the delicious food. "It tastes so good!" 

He patiently waits for the audible gulp, a signal that you've swallowed the mouthful, before teasingly saying, "That's what you said last night."

"Shut up," you playfully elbow him, a laugh escaping your lips. "Me destie mucho (you gave me too much), I don't think I can finish it," you tell him. He chuckles and reaches into his sweatpants' pockets, fishing out a fork. "That's what I was hoping you'd say." 

Reaching into the other pocket, he retrieves a foil package. "Oh, and I got you some Benadryl."

You smile at him, accepting the package. With delicate fingers, you peel back the foil, taking out a single pink pill. Without hesitation, you swallow it down with a sip of the horchata. 

As you both continue to enjoy the dish, Joel finishes his portion first. He rises from the ottoman and heads to the nightstand, prompting your curiosity as he opens the bottom drawer. Your gaze follows him as he retrieves your body brush and a bottle you've never seen before.

Returning to you, Joel asks with a knowing look, "Up for the brush, love? You know it helps with the itchiness." Agreeing, you nod, and he gently guides you to the bed. You lie down, and the softness of the sheets beneath you finally soothes you.

His strokes with the dry brush are methodical and gentle, the bristles gliding effortlessly over every inch of your extremities. With each pass, a deep exhale escapes, and you feel tension dissipating as if melting away, allowing your body to succumb to a state of complete relaxation, and the itchiness gives way to a calming sensation.

"Thank you, Joel. It really does make a difference."

Once he's done with the brush, Joel presents the bottle he got from the drawer. "I know you don’t always like lotion, but I bought something I saw online a few days ago. Would you be willing to give it a try? People say it doesn’t leave that filmy sensation," he explains, his eyes reflecting a hopeful sincerity.

"Does it have a smell?"

"It's supposed to be odorless," Joel replies with a hint of pride in his voice. He had done extensive research, well aware of your aversion to the lingering sensation of lotions. The avoidance of body lotions is a common thing for you, and he had made it his mission to find a solution that aligns with your preferences.

"I want to try it." 

"If you don't like it, we'll wash it right off," Joel reassures, deftly opening the lotion bottle and squirting a small amount into the palm of his hand. He then proceeds to apply the cream to your left hand just above your wrist. The initial coldness prompts a sigh of relief from you. Joel lifts his hand off your skin, allowing the lotion to settle. As you open your eyes, there's a pleasant surprise—it feels good. "Wait, it's actually good. It doesn't feel sticky on my skin," you say with genuine amazement.

"Really?" Joel responds, his excitement evident.

"Yeah," you laugh. "Thank you, honey," you add, your gratitude almost bringing tears to your eyes at the thoughtfulness of your husband.

"No tears, okay?" he insists.

You nod, and he pulls you up, giving you a sweet kiss. You melt into his lips, and just as the kiss starts to deepen, he pulls away, helping you stand up. 

"Let's go brush our teeth," Joel suggests. You both head back into the bathroom and after finishing there, Joel takes the plate and cup into the kitchen. As you wait for him to return to the room, you neatly put away the brush and lotion, deciding to store them in your restroom. When you return to the room, Joel is already back, seated on the ottoman, engrossed in his phone.

"What are you doing?" you ask, walking over to him. 

"Just ordered some stuff," he replies.

Climbing onto the bed, you rest your head on his shoulder, peeking at his phone with curiosity. 

"Three more sheets?" you ask, shocked.

"We need to be ready, sweetie," Joel says, turning his head to look back at you.

"Joel, that's a lot of money," you express your concern.

"What do you say all the time?" he asks, unbothered by the cost.

"Mas vale prevenir que lamentar," you say begrudgingly, knowing that Joel is right. 

"Exactly, better safe than sorry, and what else?" 

"Uno nunca sabe, (One never knows)" you mumble grumpily.

"Mhm! They'll be here in three days," he informs you, turning his phone off and climbing onto the bed.

"Joel! Expedited shipping?" you exclaim, now on your knees.

"What did we just talk about? Only the best for my wife," he says, adjusting the quilt to prepare for sleep.

"Okay, fine. But you better not spoil me too much."

He chuckles warmly. "Of course, I will, my love. Ready to go to bed?"

With a playful eye roll, you nod. "Yes, but I think it’ll help if I sleep upside down." 

"Head on the foot of the bed?" Joel asks.

"Yes," you reply, loving that he knows you so well.

Joel puts your pillows on the end of the bed. "Come on," he says, resting his head on the pillow and opening his arms for you.

You eagerly get into bed and lie there, smiling.

"Thank you," you say.

"No need to thank me. You know I'd do anything for you," Joel assures.

"I know, baby. I love you," you tell Joel with a yawn.

"I love you," he replies, and you finally drift off to sleep peacefully.

Extended note: Joel finally gets a happy ending! I don't usually write HEAs for him, but this piece is one of my favorites that I've written about him. I had trouble falling asleep yesterday, and I remembered I had written this, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment and reblog if you'd like!

@pedrostories

#not to be weird but i love you 🥹

[loslentesdepedrito]

I was hesitant to share this, but I'm so glad I did. We deserve love too!

A Restless Night

Bottom left gif by: fourdev, top right gif by: @a7estrellas

My Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Word count: 2.7k+

Summary: You have issues with sensory processing, making it difficult for you to fall asleep. After a restless night of tossing and turning, Joel awakens, determined to do everything in his power to help you sleep.

A/N: I wrote this based on my own experiences with SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) as someone who has ASD. I refrained from labeling it as x ASD!reader because not everyone who struggles with SPD is autistic/autism, and not everyone who is autistic/has autism has SPD. Also, just a gentle reminder that every individual's experience with ASD varies significantly. If you’ve met one person with ASD, you’ve met ONE person with ASD. Enjoy!

Rating: 18+ Suggestive. Nothing explicit, but this is an 18+ page. Warnings: No Outbreak, hurt/comfort, slight angst, suggestive stuff, insomnia, food consumption, taking an Antihistamine pill.

In the eerie and suffocating stillness of the night, the angry crimson glow of the alarm clock projects the harsh reality onto the walls. The room, cloaked in darkness punctuated only by the faintest glow of the alarm clock, offers no solace. Silently, the digital clock announces the unyielding passage of time: 2:04 AM. With your eyes repeatedly drawn to the clock, you become a silent observer of your own restless fight for sleep.

Minutes dragged on, each one worse than the last. In vain hope, you closed your eyes, waiting for the elusive embrace of sleep. Frustration mounted, and your whispered mantra of "just go to sleep" echoed in the void, its efficacy long worn thin. At this point, the words are obsolete—they hold no meaning for you or your brain.

Your sheets, supposed sanctuary, became your tormentor. The sheets cradle your form, and your fingertips discern every thread, every imperfection in the fabric. Lying on them felt like lying on a box of sand. Even clothed parts weren’t exempt from the torture, as the sheets, like sandpaper against your skin, induced insufferable itchiness. The fabric, an abrasive paper, scratched against your tender skin, leaving trails of discomfort in its wake. Your nails dug into flesh, offering brief respite. The noise it made made you cringe, but you couldn't stop scratching.

Another hell was your hair. Endless adjustments led to desperation, and you gathered it into a makeshift crown atop your head, a futile attempt to detach it from your body. The sheets then morphed into a layer of microscopic needles, punctuating your flesh, and it could almost leave a trail of welts.

The silent plea for rest fell on deaf pillows. Experimenting with positions in the hope of finding the right combination, you lay facing the ceiling, then Joel, then turning away from him—the dance of insomnia continued. After each position, you stayed still, closed your eyes... and nothing. All movements amplified your discomfort, especially the rustling of the loathed sheets, adding to your torment.

An unseen army of ants seemed to crawl across you, their presence beneath your skin. The sensory assault intensified, feeling like the ants invaded your hair, their microscopic footsteps on your pillow resonating in your ears.  

As your nails dig into your scalp, a brief moment of panic washes over you, fearing that actual animals might be crawling on you. However, a deep breath and rational thinking help you dispel the irrational fear. Reassuring yourself, you repeat, You’re just making things up, it’s okay, you’re okay.

Just for reassurance, you pass your fingernails through your neck where you feel the phantom animals. When you look at your hand, it’s empty. A sigh of relief escapes you. Closing your eyes for what feels like the millionth time, the sheets below you rustle. "I can’t take it any longer," you mutter to yourself just above a whisper. Just as you're about to jump out of bed, you feel your husband stir beside you. 

He wakes up in somewhat of a panic, his big hand reaching out to feel for you. You find comfort in his touch, and it gives you something else to focus on. In the dark room, Joel looks around, reassured by the presence he feels beneath his touch. Knowing the room is clear, he turns his face to look at you.

“Shit. I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep, baby,” you murmur, breaking the silence.

Concern etches Joel's face as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

"Nada. Duermeté (nothing. go to sleep)," you downplay.

"Nah uh. What’s wrong?" he persists, turning to his right to flick on the lamp on the nightstand. The soft glow reveals the exhaustion on your face.

His eyes linger on your tired face and he swiftly moves closer.

“I can’t sleep,” you confess, the vulnerability in your admission apparent in the dimly lit room.

“Do you want me to hold you?” 

"No thanks. I don’t think that’ll help right now," you say sincerely, a subtle shake in your voice.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Joel asks, unable to simply stand by while you suffer.

"I don't know, I just can’t sleep," you admit, your voice breaking. 

Your husband's heart aches at the strain in your voice and the glistening of tears in your eyes. "What do you think will help?" Joel asks gently, willing to do absolutely anything. 

You shrug, a gesture of helplessness. "The sheets. They just feel rough on my skin. It’s itchy. I keep scratching, but nothing helps." 

Joel's gaze softens with empathy as he registers the genuine distress in your words. With a gentle touch, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The warmth of his calloused skin against yours brings you a sense of peace.

"'M sorry. I fell asleep and didn't even think about it. I was waitin' for you to get home-"

You gently interrupt, your voice laced with understanding. "Joel, sweetheart, this isn't your fault. I was excited to go to bed next to you; I forgot about the sheets too."

Fully sitting up on the bed now, you position yourself on your knees, facing your husband. Cupping his face in your hands, you assure him, "Don't feel bad. You work hard. I know you wanted to wait for me, but you passed out 'cus you're tired."

Joel responds by nuzzling his face into your hands. "I'm supposed to comfort you, you know?" he chuckles lightly, his hazel eyes radiating love.

Smirking playfully, you respond, "And how are you going to comfort me?"

Joel starts to shift, but upon feeling the sheets, his hands freeze, remembering the issue. As he thinks about what's different about the sheets tonight, Joel's expression shifts, realization dawning. "Fuck. Our usual sheets are still air drying. We can go check on them, but they're probably still damp, sweetheart."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," you say with a sheepish grin, feeling a flush of warmth spreading across your skin. The sheets had been rendered wet and soaked from the intimate activities of the previous night. Given their delicate nature and high-end price point, the sheets couldn't be tossed into the dryer, so you had to buy emergency sheets from the nearest store.  

A playful glint dances in Joel's eyes as a satisfied smile graces his lips. "My back still hurts. Thank you for that, honey." 

"Oh, please, I did most of the work. You've gotten lazy on me, Miller," you tease, your words infused with playfulness.

"Lazy?" he exclaims. "You squir-"

You swiftly cover his mouth, your whisper-yell barely audible, "Joel! The kids will hear you." Your words are hushed, ensuring they stay just above a whisper.

Joel rolls his eyes, his voice returning to normal as he lowers his tone. "You squirted all over the bed!" he playfully exclaims. "I'll show you lazy," he scoffs. In a swift motion, Joel gently rolls you over, a shared laugh escaping both of you. As he lowers himself, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. You expect the warmth of his lips, but just as the closeness intensifies, he lifts himself away, leaving the bed.

Before you have a chance to berate him, Joel places one hand on his waist, the other on his beard, rubbing his stubble. A furrow forms on his brow as he puts his tongue to the right side, creating a bump on his cheek. "Maybe we can do something about the sheets. Would you like a different one, or perhaps I can find something to soothe your skin? I should have laid something different underneath you." 

The spare sheets you had kept for such situations ended up damaged during the move to your new house—the one you and Joel had designed together. Amidst the chaotic process of relocating, your attention was divided between ensuring the safety of Sarah’s books and your youngest daughter's beloved stuffed animals. In a moment of distraction, you accidentally dropped the extended sheet onto the floor. When you hastily pulled it up, the fabric caught onto the door, resulting in an unfortunate tear right down the middle.

You figured it wouldn't be a big deal because they were your backup sheets, and you were certain that getting a new backup pair would suffice, given your primary sheets were still intact. However, the problem became apparent when you forgot to place the order, and with your main sheets damp, you found yourself without an immediate solution.

"You're helping now; that's all that matters," you tell Joel, getting up from the bed.

He gives you a smile and then asks, "Are the sheets the only problem or the blanket too?"

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you pause, settling on the edge of the bed. "Just the sheets," you affirm with a small exhale.

"I’ll find something to put underneath you," Joel assures.

"I’ll go to the restroom. See if that helps," you say, walking over to him.

Before you can make it to the restroom, your stomach rumbles audibly. "Great, and now I'm hungry," you groan, a hint of frustration in your tone.

"Ya comiste? (Did you eat already?)" 

You nod. “I had some of the mosaic jello the girls made after I came home from work."

“My love, that’s not enough to fill your stomach," Joel responds softly.

"I know; I was tired and just wanted to sleep."

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," he beckons, closing the distance between you.

Joel envelops you in a comforting embrace, his touch proving to be a solace without causing any discomfort. When you lie still, a wave of overwhelming sensations tends to surge, particularly due to the absence of distraction. The stillness becomes a canvas, intensifying your heightened sensitivity. It's worth noting that in your day-to-day life, your clothes can also be bothersome, primarily because of your aversion to certain fabrics.

"Go to the bathroom, and I promise to make everything better, okay?"

"Okay," you reply, and Joel seals the agreement with a tender kiss on the top of your head. With that, you make your way to the en suite bathroom.

Exiting the bathroom, your eyes are drawn to the bed. Joel has carefully laid down a thin cream-colored sheet – the salvageable portion of your once-intact backup sheet. At the foot of the bed sits a small foldable table over the ottoman.

Joel enters through the bedroom door, shirtless, balancing a plate of food and a cup. The darkness obscures the details of what he has on hand.

"I made Camarones a la diabla (Deviled Shrimp)," he announces, placing the plate atop the table. "And a cup of horchata," he adds, the room now enveloped in the rich aroma of the dish.

You wordlessly thank him, and with the fork from the plate, you scoop up a spoonful of the sauce and pair it with a mound of fluffy white rice. The flavors dance on your tongue, prompting an involuntary "mmm" of appreciation. "Oh my God," you exclaim with delight, savoring the delicious food. "It tastes so good!" 

He patiently waits for the audible gulp, a signal that you've swallowed the mouthful, before teasingly saying, "That's what you said last night."

"Shut up," you playfully elbow him, a laugh escaping your lips. "Me destie mucho (you gave me too much), I don't think I can finish it," you tell him. He chuckles and reaches into his sweatpants' pockets, fishing out a fork. "That's what I was hoping you'd say." 

Reaching into the other pocket, he retrieves a foil package. "Oh, and I got you some Benadryl."

You smile at him, accepting the package. With delicate fingers, you peel back the foil, taking out a single pink pill. Without hesitation, you swallow it down with a sip of the horchata. 

As you both continue to enjoy the dish, Joel finishes his portion first. He rises from the ottoman and heads to the nightstand, prompting your curiosity as he opens the bottom drawer. Your gaze follows him as he retrieves your body brush and a bottle you've never seen before.

Returning to you, Joel asks with a knowing look, "Up for the brush, love? You know it helps with the itchiness." Agreeing, you nod, and he gently guides you to the bed. You lie down, and the softness of the sheets beneath you finally soothes you.

His strokes with the dry brush are methodical and gentle, the bristles gliding effortlessly over every inch of your extremities. With each pass, a deep exhale escapes, and you feel tension dissipating as if melting away, allowing your body to succumb to a state of complete relaxation, and the itchiness gives way to a calming sensation.

"Thank you, Joel. It really does make a difference."

Once he's done with the brush, Joel presents the bottle he got from the drawer. "I know you don’t always like lotion, but I bought something I saw online a few days ago. Would you be willing to give it a try? People say it doesn’t leave that filmy sensation," he explains, his eyes reflecting a hopeful sincerity.

"Does it have a smell?"

"It's supposed to be odorless," Joel replies with a hint of pride in his voice. He had done extensive research, well aware of your aversion to the lingering sensation of lotions. The avoidance of body lotions is a common thing for you, and he had made it his mission to find a solution that aligns with your preferences.

"I want to try it." 

"If you don't like it, we'll wash it right off," Joel reassures, deftly opening the lotion bottle and squirting a small amount into the palm of his hand. He then proceeds to apply the cream to your left hand just above your wrist. The initial coldness prompts a sigh of relief from you. Joel lifts his hand off your skin, allowing the lotion to settle. As you open your eyes, there's a pleasant surprise—it feels good. "Wait, it's actually good. It doesn't feel sticky on my skin," you say with genuine amazement.

"Really?" Joel responds, his excitement evident.

"Yeah," you laugh. "Thank you, honey," you add, your gratitude almost bringing tears to your eyes at the thoughtfulness of your husband.

"No tears, okay?" he insists.

You nod, and he pulls you up, giving you a sweet kiss. You melt into his lips, and just as the kiss starts to deepen, he pulls away, helping you stand up. 

"Let's go brush our teeth," Joel suggests. You both head back into the bathroom and after finishing there, Joel takes the plate and cup into the kitchen. As you wait for him to return to the room, you neatly put away the brush and lotion, deciding to store them in your restroom. When you return to the room, Joel is already back, seated on the ottoman, engrossed in his phone.

"What are you doing?" you ask, walking over to him. 

"Just ordered some stuff," he replies.

Climbing onto the bed, you rest your head on his shoulder, peeking at his phone with curiosity. 

"Three more sheets?" you ask, shocked.

"We need to be ready, sweetie," Joel says, turning his head to look back at you.

"Joel, that's a lot of money," you express your concern.

"What do you say all the time?" he asks, unbothered by the cost.

"Mas vale prevenir que lamentar," you say begrudgingly, knowing that Joel is right. 

"Exactly, better safe than sorry, and what else?" 

"Uno nunca sabe, (One never knows)" you mumble grumpily.

"Mhm! They'll be here in three days," he informs you, turning his phone off and climbing onto the bed.

"Joel! Expedited shipping?" you exclaim, now on your knees.

"What did we just talk about? Only the best for my wife," he says, adjusting the quilt to prepare for sleep.

"Okay, fine. But you better not spoil me too much."

He chuckles warmly. "Of course, I will, my love. Ready to go to bed?"

With a playful eye roll, you nod. "Yes, but I think it’ll help if I sleep upside down." 

"Head on the foot of the bed?" Joel asks.

"Yes," you reply, loving that he knows you so well.

Joel puts your pillows on the end of the bed. "Come on," he says, resting his head on the pillow and opening his arms for you.

You eagerly get into bed and lie there, smiling.

"Thank you," you say.

"No need to thank me. You know I'd do anything for you," Joel assures.

"I know, baby. I love you," you tell Joel with a yawn.

"I love you," he replies, and you finally drift off to sleep peacefully.

Extended note: Joel finally gets a happy ending! I don't usually write HEAs for him, but this piece is one of my favorites that I've written about him. I had trouble falling asleep yesterday, and I remembered I had written this, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment and reblog if you'd like!

@pedrostories

#it makes me so happy to know that I can write something people can see themselves in 🫶🏽

[loslentesdepedrito]

Oh 🥹, this truly means the world to me. Thank you for all the kind words; you're going to make me cry!

A Restless Night

Bottom left gif by: fourdev, top right gif by: @a7estrellas

My Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Word count: 2.7k+

Summary: You have issues with sensory processing, making it difficult for you to fall asleep. After a restless night of tossing and turning, Joel awakens, determined to do everything in his power to help you sleep.

A/N: I wrote this based on my own experiences with SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) as someone who has ASD. I refrained from labeling it as x ASD!reader because not everyone who struggles with SPD is autistic/autism, and not everyone who is autistic/has autism has SPD. Also, just a gentle reminder that every individual's experience with ASD varies significantly. If you’ve met one person with ASD, you’ve met ONE person with ASD. Enjoy!

Rating: 18+ Suggestive. Nothing explicit, but this is an 18+ page. Warnings: No Outbreak, hurt/comfort, slight angst, suggestive stuff, insomnia, food consumption, taking an Antihistamine pill.

In the eerie and suffocating stillness of the night, the angry crimson glow of the alarm clock projects the harsh reality onto the walls. The room, cloaked in darkness punctuated only by the faintest glow of the alarm clock, offers no solace. Silently, the digital clock announces the unyielding passage of time: 2:04 AM. With your eyes repeatedly drawn to the clock, you become a silent observer of your own restless fight for sleep.

Minutes dragged on, each one worse than the last. In vain hope, you closed your eyes, waiting for the elusive embrace of sleep. Frustration mounted, and your whispered mantra of "just go to sleep" echoed in the void, its efficacy long worn thin. At this point, the words are obsolete—they hold no meaning for you or your brain.

Your sheets, supposed sanctuary, became your tormentor. The sheets cradle your form, and your fingertips discern every thread, every imperfection in the fabric. Lying on them felt like lying on a box of sand. Even clothed parts weren’t exempt from the torture, as the sheets, like sandpaper against your skin, induced insufferable itchiness. The fabric, an abrasive paper, scratched against your tender skin, leaving trails of discomfort in its wake. Your nails dug into flesh, offering brief respite. The noise it made made you cringe, but you couldn't stop scratching.

Another hell was your hair. Endless adjustments led to desperation, and you gathered it into a makeshift crown atop your head, a futile attempt to detach it from your body. The sheets then morphed into a layer of microscopic needles, punctuating your flesh, and it could almost leave a trail of welts.

The silent plea for rest fell on deaf pillows. Experimenting with positions in the hope of finding the right combination, you lay facing the ceiling, then Joel, then turning away from him—the dance of insomnia continued. After each position, you stayed still, closed your eyes... and nothing. All movements amplified your discomfort, especially the rustling of the loathed sheets, adding to your torment.

An unseen army of ants seemed to crawl across you, their presence beneath your skin. The sensory assault intensified, feeling like the ants invaded your hair, their microscopic footsteps on your pillow resonating in your ears.  

As your nails dig into your scalp, a brief moment of panic washes over you, fearing that actual animals might be crawling on you. However, a deep breath and rational thinking help you dispel the irrational fear. Reassuring yourself, you repeat, You’re just making things up, it’s okay, you’re okay.

Just for reassurance, you pass your fingernails through your neck where you feel the phantom animals. When you look at your hand, it’s empty. A sigh of relief escapes you. Closing your eyes for what feels like the millionth time, the sheets below you rustle. "I can’t take it any longer," you mutter to yourself just above a whisper. Just as you're about to jump out of bed, you feel your husband stir beside you. 

He wakes up in somewhat of a panic, his big hand reaching out to feel for you. You find comfort in his touch, and it gives you something else to focus on. In the dark room, Joel looks around, reassured by the presence he feels beneath his touch. Knowing the room is clear, he turns his face to look at you.

“Shit. I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep, baby,” you murmur, breaking the silence.

Concern etches Joel's face as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

"Nada. Duermeté (nothing. go to sleep)," you downplay.

"Nah uh. What’s wrong?" he persists, turning to his right to flick on the lamp on the nightstand. The soft glow reveals the exhaustion on your face.

His eyes linger on your tired face and he swiftly moves closer.

“I can’t sleep,” you confess, the vulnerability in your admission apparent in the dimly lit room.

“Do you want me to hold you?” 

"No thanks. I don’t think that’ll help right now," you say sincerely, a subtle shake in your voice.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Joel asks, unable to simply stand by while you suffer.

"I don't know, I just can’t sleep," you admit, your voice breaking. 

Your husband's heart aches at the strain in your voice and the glistening of tears in your eyes. "What do you think will help?" Joel asks gently, willing to do absolutely anything. 

You shrug, a gesture of helplessness. "The sheets. They just feel rough on my skin. It’s itchy. I keep scratching, but nothing helps." 

Joel's gaze softens with empathy as he registers the genuine distress in your words. With a gentle touch, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The warmth of his calloused skin against yours brings you a sense of peace.

"'M sorry. I fell asleep and didn't even think about it. I was waitin' for you to get home-"

You gently interrupt, your voice laced with understanding. "Joel, sweetheart, this isn't your fault. I was excited to go to bed next to you; I forgot about the sheets too."

Fully sitting up on the bed now, you position yourself on your knees, facing your husband. Cupping his face in your hands, you assure him, "Don't feel bad. You work hard. I know you wanted to wait for me, but you passed out 'cus you're tired."

Joel responds by nuzzling his face into your hands. "I'm supposed to comfort you, you know?" he chuckles lightly, his hazel eyes radiating love.

Smirking playfully, you respond, "And how are you going to comfort me?"

Joel starts to shift, but upon feeling the sheets, his hands freeze, remembering the issue. As he thinks about what's different about the sheets tonight, Joel's expression shifts, realization dawning. "Fuck. Our usual sheets are still air drying. We can go check on them, but they're probably still damp, sweetheart."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," you say with a sheepish grin, feeling a flush of warmth spreading across your skin. The sheets had been rendered wet and soaked from the intimate activities of the previous night. Given their delicate nature and high-end price point, the sheets couldn't be tossed into the dryer, so you had to buy emergency sheets from the nearest store.  

A playful glint dances in Joel's eyes as a satisfied smile graces his lips. "My back still hurts. Thank you for that, honey." 

"Oh, please, I did most of the work. You've gotten lazy on me, Miller," you tease, your words infused with playfulness.

"Lazy?" he exclaims. "You squir-"

You swiftly cover his mouth, your whisper-yell barely audible, "Joel! The kids will hear you." Your words are hushed, ensuring they stay just above a whisper.

Joel rolls his eyes, his voice returning to normal as he lowers his tone. "You squirted all over the bed!" he playfully exclaims. "I'll show you lazy," he scoffs. In a swift motion, Joel gently rolls you over, a shared laugh escaping both of you. As he lowers himself, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. You expect the warmth of his lips, but just as the closeness intensifies, he lifts himself away, leaving the bed.

Before you have a chance to berate him, Joel places one hand on his waist, the other on his beard, rubbing his stubble. A furrow forms on his brow as he puts his tongue to the right side, creating a bump on his cheek. "Maybe we can do something about the sheets. Would you like a different one, or perhaps I can find something to soothe your skin? I should have laid something different underneath you." 

The spare sheets you had kept for such situations ended up damaged during the move to your new house—the one you and Joel had designed together. Amidst the chaotic process of relocating, your attention was divided between ensuring the safety of Sarah’s books and your youngest daughter's beloved stuffed animals. In a moment of distraction, you accidentally dropped the extended sheet onto the floor. When you hastily pulled it up, the fabric caught onto the door, resulting in an unfortunate tear right down the middle.

You figured it wouldn't be a big deal because they were your backup sheets, and you were certain that getting a new backup pair would suffice, given your primary sheets were still intact. However, the problem became apparent when you forgot to place the order, and with your main sheets damp, you found yourself without an immediate solution.

"You're helping now; that's all that matters," you tell Joel, getting up from the bed.

He gives you a smile and then asks, "Are the sheets the only problem or the blanket too?"

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you pause, settling on the edge of the bed. "Just the sheets," you affirm with a small exhale.

"I’ll find something to put underneath you," Joel assures.

"I’ll go to the restroom. See if that helps," you say, walking over to him.

Before you can make it to the restroom, your stomach rumbles audibly. "Great, and now I'm hungry," you groan, a hint of frustration in your tone.

"Ya comiste? (Did you eat already?)" 

You nod. “I had some of the mosaic jello the girls made after I came home from work."

“My love, that’s not enough to fill your stomach," Joel responds softly.

"I know; I was tired and just wanted to sleep."

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," he beckons, closing the distance between you.

Joel envelops you in a comforting embrace, his touch proving to be a solace without causing any discomfort. When you lie still, a wave of overwhelming sensations tends to surge, particularly due to the absence of distraction. The stillness becomes a canvas, intensifying your heightened sensitivity. It's worth noting that in your day-to-day life, your clothes can also be bothersome, primarily because of your aversion to certain fabrics.

"Go to the bathroom, and I promise to make everything better, okay?"

"Okay," you reply, and Joel seals the agreement with a tender kiss on the top of your head. With that, you make your way to the en suite bathroom.

Exiting the bathroom, your eyes are drawn to the bed. Joel has carefully laid down a thin cream-colored sheet – the salvageable portion of your once-intact backup sheet. At the foot of the bed sits a small foldable table over the ottoman.

Joel enters through the bedroom door, shirtless, balancing a plate of food and a cup. The darkness obscures the details of what he has on hand.

"I made Camarones a la diabla (Deviled Shrimp)," he announces, placing the plate atop the table. "And a cup of horchata," he adds, the room now enveloped in the rich aroma of the dish.

You wordlessly thank him, and with the fork from the plate, you scoop up a spoonful of the sauce and pair it with a mound of fluffy white rice. The flavors dance on your tongue, prompting an involuntary "mmm" of appreciation. "Oh my God," you exclaim with delight, savoring the delicious food. "It tastes so good!" 

He patiently waits for the audible gulp, a signal that you've swallowed the mouthful, before teasingly saying, "That's what you said last night."

"Shut up," you playfully elbow him, a laugh escaping your lips. "Me destie mucho (you gave me too much), I don't think I can finish it," you tell him. He chuckles and reaches into his sweatpants' pockets, fishing out a fork. "That's what I was hoping you'd say." 

Reaching into the other pocket, he retrieves a foil package. "Oh, and I got you some Benadryl."

You smile at him, accepting the package. With delicate fingers, you peel back the foil, taking out a single pink pill. Without hesitation, you swallow it down with a sip of the horchata. 

As you both continue to enjoy the dish, Joel finishes his portion first. He rises from the ottoman and heads to the nightstand, prompting your curiosity as he opens the bottom drawer. Your gaze follows him as he retrieves your body brush and a bottle you've never seen before.

Returning to you, Joel asks with a knowing look, "Up for the brush, love? You know it helps with the itchiness." Agreeing, you nod, and he gently guides you to the bed. You lie down, and the softness of the sheets beneath you finally soothes you.

His strokes with the dry brush are methodical and gentle, the bristles gliding effortlessly over every inch of your extremities. With each pass, a deep exhale escapes, and you feel tension dissipating as if melting away, allowing your body to succumb to a state of complete relaxation, and the itchiness gives way to a calming sensation.

"Thank you, Joel. It really does make a difference."

Once he's done with the brush, Joel presents the bottle he got from the drawer. "I know you don’t always like lotion, but I bought something I saw online a few days ago. Would you be willing to give it a try? People say it doesn’t leave that filmy sensation," he explains, his eyes reflecting a hopeful sincerity.

"Does it have a smell?"

"It's supposed to be odorless," Joel replies with a hint of pride in his voice. He had done extensive research, well aware of your aversion to the lingering sensation of lotions. The avoidance of body lotions is a common thing for you, and he had made it his mission to find a solution that aligns with your preferences.

"I want to try it." 

"If you don't like it, we'll wash it right off," Joel reassures, deftly opening the lotion bottle and squirting a small amount into the palm of his hand. He then proceeds to apply the cream to your left hand just above your wrist. The initial coldness prompts a sigh of relief from you. Joel lifts his hand off your skin, allowing the lotion to settle. As you open your eyes, there's a pleasant surprise—it feels good. "Wait, it's actually good. It doesn't feel sticky on my skin," you say with genuine amazement.

"Really?" Joel responds, his excitement evident.

"Yeah," you laugh. "Thank you, honey," you add, your gratitude almost bringing tears to your eyes at the thoughtfulness of your husband.

"No tears, okay?" he insists.

You nod, and he pulls you up, giving you a sweet kiss. You melt into his lips, and just as the kiss starts to deepen, he pulls away, helping you stand up. 

"Let's go brush our teeth," Joel suggests. You both head back into the bathroom and after finishing there, Joel takes the plate and cup into the kitchen. As you wait for him to return to the room, you neatly put away the brush and lotion, deciding to store them in your restroom. When you return to the room, Joel is already back, seated on the ottoman, engrossed in his phone.

"What are you doing?" you ask, walking over to him. 

"Just ordered some stuff," he replies.

Climbing onto the bed, you rest your head on his shoulder, peeking at his phone with curiosity. 

"Three more sheets?" you ask, shocked.

"We need to be ready, sweetie," Joel says, turning his head to look back at you.

"Joel, that's a lot of money," you express your concern.

"What do you say all the time?" he asks, unbothered by the cost.

"Mas vale prevenir que lamentar," you say begrudgingly, knowing that Joel is right. 

"Exactly, better safe than sorry, and what else?" 

"Uno nunca sabe, (One never knows)" you mumble grumpily.

"Mhm! They'll be here in three days," he informs you, turning his phone off and climbing onto the bed.

"Joel! Expedited shipping?" you exclaim, now on your knees.

"What did we just talk about? Only the best for my wife," he says, adjusting the quilt to prepare for sleep.

"Okay, fine. But you better not spoil me too much."

He chuckles warmly. "Of course, I will, my love. Ready to go to bed?"

With a playful eye roll, you nod. "Yes, but I think it’ll help if I sleep upside down." 

"Head on the foot of the bed?" Joel asks.

"Yes," you reply, loving that he knows you so well.

Joel puts your pillows on the end of the bed. "Come on," he says, resting his head on the pillow and opening his arms for you.

You eagerly get into bed and lie there, smiling.

"Thank you," you say.

"No need to thank me. You know I'd do anything for you," Joel assures.

"I know, baby. I love you," you tell Joel with a yawn.

"I love you," he replies, and you finally drift off to sleep peacefully.

Extended note: Joel finally gets a happy ending! I don't usually write HEAs for him, but this piece is one of my favorites that I've written about him. I had trouble falling asleep yesterday, and I remembered I had written this, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment and reblog if you'd like!

@pedrostories

#'literally so real' 😭 #Joel was the best husband in this!

[loslentesdepedrito]

Aww!! I'm at a loss for words 🥹. Thank you for such a wonderful compliment.

Feliz Navidad

Javi gif by: Ggyussance My Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking Latina f!reader (No race, skin color, or nationality mentioned. I tried my best to include small parts of each Spanish-speaking Latin American country.)

Word count: 11.3k+

Summary: At every family reunion, the relentless interrogation about your love life becomes a tiring ritual. Fed up with the relentless questions and awkward setups, you turn to Javi, your best friend, and ask him to be your date for the upcoming family Christmas party. He suggests that you take it a step further by pretending to be a couple. Can the two of you play pretend, especially when, in reality, you both harbor secret feelings for each other?

Rating: 18+ Explicit content (MDNI) Tags and CW: slight angst, happy ending, fake dating, friends to lovers, jealous and possessive Javi, reader and Javi are in their 20s, not cannon, just a smidge of idiots in love, reader wears a dress, lingerie, makeup, and is shorter than Javi, alcohol consumption, Javi being cheesy with your family, unprotected piv, cowgirl, use of a sex toy, oral (female receiving) reader likes to pull Javi's hair, creampie, slight cum eating, Javi loving his cum inside you.

A/N: I’m on vacation and meant to upload this on the 24th, but didn’t have time to add the translations. Sorry for the delay, tarde pero seguro. Enjoy! 

"Come on, Javi," you plead again, watching him chew thoughtfully. There's a sense of urgency in your voice as you desperately hope he’ll agree to be your date for your family’s Christmas gathering. "Please, I'm practically begging you. I'll get down on my hands and knees if I have to." This finally grabs his attention. Caught off guard while swallowing, he hears your words and can't help but let his imagination run wild. The image of you begging, not just for any favor, but for him – for his cock, fills his mind. With a sudden intensity, he forces the last bite of the torta cubana down his throat, triggering a fit of coughing.

Reacting quickly, you reach for the glass of iced water on the table, extending it toward him without a word. He accepts the offering from your outstretched hand, bringing the cool glass to his lips. In a fluid motion, Javi tilts his head back, the cup cradled by his fingers.

Your attention zeroes in on the man before you: The plushness of his lower lip curves around the rim of the glass; as he takes a sip, droplets of water cascade down, catching the afternoon sun and creating a glistening effect.

Mesmerized, you trace the path of those droplets, leading you to the delicate contours of his pink lips. Descending further with your gaze, you focus on his neck, where the rhythmic bobbing of his Adam's apple accompanies each sip. Involuntarily, you shift in your seat, a futile attempt to dispel the growing sensation stirring between your thighs.

Breaking the spell, he speaks, his voice rough as he clears his throat, "Okay, I'll be your date."

A wave of relief washes over you, and gratitude spills forth, "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're so perfect. My family will love you."

A quizzical expression lingers on Javi's face as he asks, "Why don't you get a real date?" Despite knowing you could have your pick of anyone, there's genuine happiness in his eyes—an unspoken relief that you won't be taking another man to meet your family.

You sigh and offer an explanation, “I haven't met anyone, and it's pretty weird to introduce some stranger to your entire family on the first date. "Ya te dije (I already told you), my family keeps pestering me about getting a boyfriend. It's the same thing every Christmas, '¿nena y el novio? (baby girl and the boyfriend?)’ 'Mami, quiero que conozcas al sobrino de la vecina de mi comadre. (Mami, I want you to meet my friend’s neighbor's nephew.)’ '¿Mija, ya tienes novio? ('Mija, do you already have a boyfriend?)’ I love them, and they mean well, but I can't take any more of it. Hopefully, when I show up and say that we're just getting to know each other, it will shut them up until New Year's. But by then, I'll tell them we work better as friends, and they'll pity me, so I'll be off the hook for maybe two years."

A knowing look crosses Javi's face as he probes, "And this has nothing to do with the fact that Caleb will be there?"

You groan at the mention of your ex-boyfriend's name. "A little bit," you mumble, slumping in your chair as thoughts of him flood your mind. "He's probably going to bring some girl, and if I show up alone," you pause, giving Javi a sweet smile, "without my best friend, my family will find out I had a boyfriend and I kept it from them."

You didn't mean to keep your relationship with Caleb hidden. You just didn't want to tell your family you had a boyfriend, in case the relationship failed—and guess what, it did. Two months into your relationship, you found out he was still talking to his ex, and you dumped him before shit got worse. Fortunately, your decision to keep your family in the dark spared you from telling them about Caleb, so you didn't have to share the news about the breakup, which, unfortunately for you, meant you had to see him at parties since his parents were friends with your uncle.

"Why don't we tell them we're in a relationship? Like, boyfriend and girlfriend," Javi suggests, attempting to sound confident, though inwardly, he's praying you won't freak out and shoot down the idea.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard and unsure of how to respond. Javier panics at your silence and rushes to add, "I mean, they already know who I am, and we know everything about each other. It would be more believable."

Chewing on your lip, you contemplate what he's proposed. It would be convincing, you think.

“Are there any embarrassing moments that your family will bring up that I should be aware of, my beautiful girlfriend?” Javi teases, a playful glint in his eyes.

In response, you roll up a napkin, forming a makeshift ball, and throw it at him, the projectile hitting him directly on the forehead. Javi grumbles good-naturedly, a blend of irritation and laughter, and you purposely ignore the flutter in your heart. "No, you’ll never hear those."

“Okay fine,” Javi huffs, a mock pout on his face. “What’s the story then?”

"Story? For what?" you ask, genuinely puzzled.

Javi looks at you as if you're not making the slightest bit of sense. “The story we’ll tell your family. You know they'll ask us so many questions.”

He's right. Your family will undoubtedly bombard you both with questions, seeing as they only know him as your friend and not the guy you've been secretly harboring feelings for.

"I mean, in movies, they always seem to have background stor-" Javi abruptly stops, hoping you don't make the connection about the kind of movies he's referring to.

But, of course, you catch it. “¿Aww, te gustan los romcoms, Javi? (Aww, do you like romcoms, Javi?)”

"¡No!" He blurts out, his face turning a shade of red that extends from his face to the tips of his ears. "We've just- we need to establish a timeline."

Watching him stumble through the sentence, you decide to spare him further embarrassment. "Mmm... we can say we've been dating for a month. It's enough that they won't scold me for not telling them about the relationship earlier, right?"

"We can say I asked you out right after Thanksgiving, so that gives us a little over a month since Thanksgiving was on the 22nd."

"Okay, yeah, that sounds good. And are you okay with staying over at my aunt's house since we'll be drinking? Or do you want to drive back to your apartment after we say our goodbyes?"

"Wait, your aunt with the big-ass house is hosting Christmas for your family this year?" He asks, sitting straighter in his chair. Javi's excitement is palpable as you nod. "Yeah, I'm staying over," he declares.

“Trae dos mudas de ropa (bring two changes of clothes)," you instruct him.

“¿Pjs y algo para la recalentada? (Pjs and something for the afterparty?)” Javi guesses but needs confirmation, not wanting to make a fool of himself. In fact, he's determined to make a good impression on your family.

"Mhm," you hum in agreement and then ask him about his previous plans. "You said you weren't going to spend Christmas with your family. Are you sure?"

"My dad's going to Monterrey, and I didn't get my passport renewed, and it's too late now. It's fine; I like spending time with your family." I like spending time with you.

"You just want to get fed," you tease.

"How'd you know," he goes along with your teasing tone.

“Ya te conozco (I already know you),” you tell him, and Javi feels butterflies in his stomach.

Your phone vibrates on top of the white and blue plaid tablecloth. You pick it up and see a notification that your Christmas dress is ready for pickup. "Oh shit, I've gotta go pick up my dress." You scramble to get up and collect your trash.

Javi gently grabs your wrist and tells you, “Ve. Te tiro tu basura. (Go. I'll throw your trash away.)"

Your breath hitches at his touch, and you thank him. You drop your Coke can and take a few steps until you reach him. "You're the best. I love you." You lower yourself a bit to give him a kiss on the cheek. His heart races, and he's scared you'll see him turn beet red, so he stands up and envelops you in a hug. He's hit with your smell, and a groan nearly falls from his lips.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8," he says in a shaky voice, whispering into your ear. Grateful for the long-sleeve shirt you decided to wear that morning, your skin breaks into goosebumps around his body. "That's still early, you know?" you object into his chest.

Feeling the lower half of his body respond to having you so close, he pulls away, not wanting to scare you or make you uncomfortable. “¿Entonces a las ocho y media? (So at eight-thirty?)” he asks, now standing a couple of steps away from you.

"See you then," you nod. Glancing at your watch, you realize you really have to get going.

"What color will your dress be?" he asks before you leave.

"Red," you smile, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

Javi gulps; red is his favorite color. He wonders if he'll be able to handle seeing you in it while pretending to be your boyfriend.

"Bye, te veo mañana (see you tomorrow),” you say goodbye one last time.

"Bye," he waves and watches you walk off. As soon as you're out of his view, he's left standing there, hands on his face, and he groans into his palms. Yeah, he doesn't know how he'll get through tomorrow night pretending he's in love with you because he is in love with you but can't show it.

Just as you apply the last coat of lipstick in your foyer mirror, you hear a knock on your door. Palms slightly damp, you start second-guessing taking Javi to your family party. You hear him say your name through the locked door and quickly tell him you're coming. With a slightly trembling hand, you turn the doorknob, your heart thudding in your chest at the sight of Javi. He's wearing a black leather jacket over a red cable-knit sweater, and God, he smells amazing—tones of sage, wood, and maybe some bergamot. All you know is that you want to push him against the door and put your mouth all over him—mouth, neck, chest, cock—you don't have a preference.

While you're busy ogling him, Javi is staring at you with his jaw near the floor. You're in a burgundy dress with black flowers all over, accentuating your beautiful figure. He makes a mistake when his gaze moves up, landing on your lips. Javi has to bite his tongue to suppress a groan at the sight of your luscious red-stained lips. They look so plush and enticing, and he twitches in his pants.

"Hi, Jav," you greet him in your sweet voice, making him look into your eyes.

The way your eyes sparkle, almost makes him lose his composure and profess his feelings for you. "¿Estas lista? (Are you ready?)" He says instead. 

"I just need to get my gifts," you point to the large gift bag you have set on the floor of your foyer. You only have two gifts in the much too large bag because your family does Secret Santa since it would be rather expensive to get each member of your family a gift. When you bend down to grab your things, Javi gets a perfect view of your round ass. He can't tear his eyes from you until he feels himself growing in his pants. He exhales trying to will his hard-on to go away. On his fifth breathing exercise, you turn around and tell him you're ready to go. Ever the gentleman, he signals for you to step out of your home first. 

"I just need to get my gifts," you point to the large gift bag set on the floor of your foyer. You only have two gifts in the much too large bag because your family does Secret Santa, as it would be rather expensive to get each member of your family a gift. When you bend down to gather your things, Javi gets a perfect view of your round ass. He can't tear his eyes away until he feels himself growing in his pants. He exhales, trying to will his hard-on to go away. On his fifth breathing exercise, you turn around and tell him you're ready to go. Ever the gentleman, he signals for you to step out of your home first.

As you brush past him, he's hit with the aroma of your perfume, and the sweetheart line of your dress offers a perfect view of your cleavage. He has to close his eyes to focus on anything else. After you lock up, he leads you to his car, takes the bag from you, and uses his free hand to help you down the steps. He opens the passenger door, puts your bag in the back seat, and goes to his seat to start the truck. You watch as he reverses, placing a hand behind your seat's headrest. His single hand moves the steering wheel, and you have to physically stop a whine from slipping past your mouth by biting your lip. You feel the wetness accumulate between your thighs, and you don't know how you'll get through the night.

The car ride over was hell on earth for both of you. Javi had to resist the urge to reach over and place his hand on your perfect thighs and move it further up. And you had to watch as Javi handled the gear stick with his big hands and thick fingers. You're both relieved to make it to your aunt's house. Javi insists on opening the door for you, and when he helps you get out of his truck, he gives you his hand to guide you. Next thing you know, he's taking the items from the back seat. Javi swings a backpack filled with his stuff, including clothes, and the bag where you have your gifts. You take it from him without him noticing, and he takes out a chocoflan.

You hear the house door open, and people beckon you over. Javi closes the door and takes your hand in his. He leads you up to the entrance, and you hear gasps and mutters coming from your family.

“¡Ay, mi sobrinita! (Oh, my little niece!)" one of your uncles yells as you're inches away from the door.

“¡Tío!” you exclaim, happy to see him. Before you can say anything else, he gives you a bear hug. You slowly push off to turn to Javi, who is still holding your hand. “Tío, this is Javier, my boyfriend." Your uncle's eyes widen a little, but it's quickly replaced with joy.

“Javi, él es mi tío Nicolás, es el tío de mi papá (Javi, this is my uncle, Nicolás, he's my dad's uncle)," you explain to your boyfriend for the night.

Javi gently untangles your laced hands and extends his hand to your uncle. “Buenas noches. ¿Cómo está? (Good evening! How are you?)"

“Hola, Chavalo. Bien gracias (Hey, kid. Fine, thanks)," your uncle replies and shakes Javi's hand. "And you?"

Their handshake ends and Javi pulls you into his side. "Me alegra. Estoy muy bien ya que estoy con ella (I'm glad to hear that. I'm very well now that I'm with her),” Javi tells your uncle, giving him a dashing smile while he gives you a lovey-dovey look.

You don't know who is happier at Javi's response—your uncle or you. "Oh, here, I brought dessert," Javier hands your uncle Nicolás the custard dessert with a chocolate cake base.

“Come in, come in,” the older man ushers you inside the house.

“Miren quien llegó (Look who arrived),” your uncle's voice rumbles throughout the house. Footsteps make their way to you three, and your family's faces light up. Voices overlap, greeting you, but they seem confused over the man beside you.

“¡Hola!” you smile. "This is Javi, he's my boyfriend," you introduce, rubbing his arm.

Javi doesn't get a word in because your cousin slaps his back and says, “¡Habla, pe causa!” Javi smiles and tells him good evening.

Once your cousin goes away, you whisper to Javi, "That was César, and he said, 'What's up, man.'"

"I knew that," Javi lies, running his tongue over his cheek.

“¡Como que ya tienes novio! (What do you mean you have a boyfriend!)" a familiar voice screeches from the living room.

You cringe as you hear your mom's angry voice and your dad telling her to calm down. Fuck, I forgot I have to tell my parents about Javi, you think.

When your parents see Javi, they physically relax. "Javi!" She gasps. “¿Él es tu novio? (He's your boyfriend?)” Your mom asks.

“Él es mi novio,” you confirm. Javi's heart leaps because somehow in Spanish, you calling him your boyfriend sounds a million times better.

"¡Ay, qué alegría! (Oh, what joy!)" She says and clasps her hands. For a long time, she's asked you if you two are anything more than friends, and she's always disappointed when you say no.

"I'm happy for you, mija," your dad tells you, hugging you.

"Thank you, Dad," you say relieved at their quick acceptance of Javi.

"Tu mamá está muy feliz (Your mom is very happy). It's just that you told your aunt first, and she was blindsided," your dad fills you in, and you hear your name being called. You whip your head to the kitchen and see your aunt coming to you with her arms extended.

“Titi Yalissa," you muffle into her curly hair. Your aunt jumps up and down with you in her arms. "Oh, I missed you so much," she says and lets go of you once she remembers what you told her. "Where's your boyfriend?"

You grab Javi's hand and bring him closer to your aunt. "Javi, this is my aunt Yalissa."

“Titi, this is the guy I told you about. His name is Javier."

"Es un placer conocer al hombre que tiene a mi niña tan feliz (It's a pleasure to meet the man who has my little girl so happy)."

Javier smiles at your aunt's happiness and decides to comment on her house and thank her for the invitation. "It's my pleasure. Tiene una casa hermosa (you have a beautiful house)," he pauses to look over at you, “como su sobrina (like your niece). Thank you for inviting me." Your heart thuds in your chest at Javi's words.

Everyone around you coos and awws, and you feel your ears burn.

"Let me show you your rooms, so you can set your things."

You and Javi follow your aunt up the stairs and into the hallway. She comments on how good you two look together and how it's adorable that you're matching. Her observation catches you off guard, and you look at both of your outfits. Oh my God! Is that why he asked me what color my dress was? Did he want to match? While you're lost in thought, you miss Javi's charming words about how perfect you look.

"Javi, this will be your room," your aunt points at a room on the left side. She says your name and then points at the room at the end of the hall, "Your room is still untouched, and you have your clothes there if you need anything."

Someone calls her from the kitchen, and she apologizes, telling you to come downstairs when you're ready for some food.

When Javier hears her descend the stairs, he asks you, "We're not sharing a room?"

"No. She's kinda against pre-marital sex."

Javi shoots you a look that says he knows you haven't made a vow of chastity.

"Okay, she doesn't know that," you say.

Javi sets his backpack in his room, and you make your way to the small dining room.

"Nena (babygirl), how are you?”

“Tía Mercedes!” you scream once another one of your aunts comes into view.

“Every day you get more and more beautiful!” she says to you. “Oh, and where is that boyfriend of yours? Tu tío Beto me dijo que vos ya tenés uno (Your uncle Beto told me you already have one.)”

For what feels like the hundredth time, you introduce Javi. Your aunt gushes over him and is scandalized when she hears he hasn’t eaten yet.

“No puedo creer que no les han dado nada de comer (I can't believe they haven't given you anything to eat). Come here.” She leads you to where the food is laid out, and to say it’s a lot is an understatement.

"Okay, so we’ve got croquetas, empanadas, ceviche, tamales, pasteles, chuchitos, pan con pollo, carne asada, hallacas, chimichurri, tostones, hornado de chancho, pavo al horno, chipa, pan dulce, y no se qué más." Your aunt lists off the myriad of food, whether it’s side dishes or main courses.

“And to drink, there’s coquito, champurrado, atol, ponche, arroz con leche, café con queso, chocolate caliente. If you want something else, you can ask Beto. It’s probably in the kitchen.”

You and Javi grab whatever you crave and add it to your plate before heading to the larger dining room. Everything had been going well until you saw your ex. Javi noticed you tense up, and he followed your line of sight, landing on your ex-boyfriend, Caleb. With food and drinks in his hands, Javi couldn’t physically comfort you. A soft whisper from him, a simple “Hey,” was enough to unfreeze you, and you both walked to your seats, strategically far away from Caleb and his girlfriend.

Dinner went by smoothly. Your family was eager to learn about the new man in your life, and you explained that before becoming your boyfriend, he had been your best friend and someone you trusted with your life. One of your little cousins was curious about how he asked you to be his girlfriend. To your surprise, Javi spun an elaborate story about taking you stargazing and making it official under the night sky. He described the story with such vivid detail that it brought tears to your eyes, and your family found it incredibly heartwarming. Little did they know, part of those tears were tinged with sorrow, knowing that after this night, the charade of this "relationship" would come to an end. The other part of you felt pure love for Javi, appreciating the effort he was putting into making your family believe in your fake romance.

After clearing the plates and sharing the story, Javi couldn’t help but notice Caleb shooting daggers his way. Frankly, he didn’t care about Caleb's feelings, but when he saw him staring at you, Javi couldn’t suppress the desire to leap across the table and strangle him. Thankfully, one of your cousins interrupted and announced that a game of lotería would be played outside if anyone wanted to join.

You take your cup of ponche, and Javi grabs his cup of atol as you both make your way to the backyard, where a table is already set up for the game. Soon, the table of 25 is full, and some have to wait for the next round. With beans in hand, you eagerly listen for the first card to be called.

“Ahí les va la primera tarjeta (Here comes the first card),” Uriel, your favorite cousin's husband, warns. He shuffles the cards in the deck and flips the first one over.

“La Sirena (the siren).”

You squeal and instantly put your bean on top of the square where a siren is underwater. You hear groans from the people who didn’t have the siren on their cards. Javi, not having much luck, simply watched you with the biggest smile, reveling in your excitement over the lead.

Uriel flips the next card and announces, “La Luna (the moon).”

This time, neither you nor Javi has luck. Displeased, you watch as Caleb places a bean on his card.

“¡El soldado! (The soldier!)”

You look at your card—nothing. You look at Javi’s card—still nothing. A feeling of being watched makes your head turn to Caleb, and he’s smirking at Javi because he got another bean on his table. “Not good at lotería,” Caleb tuts, “is there something you’re actually good at?” he says condescendingly. 

You have half a mind to tell him all the ways Javi is perfect, even throwing in a few lies about your fake intimate life, but Javi rests his right hand on your thigh, and just like that, all your hatred bubbles away.

“Before I call the next one, does anyone have all three characters?” Whoops and cheers come from a few uncles, cousins, and family friends. “Okay, does anyone have a line nearly filled?” Uriel asks another question, and this time is met with silence.

“Bueno (Oh well),” he moves on and pulls from the deck, “La maceta (flowerpot).” You wish you had one of those to throw at Caleb’s head. Your wish is answered when someone yells, “¡Aguas!” You and Javi instantly duck, and much to your dismay (not), Caleb doesn’t, and the flying rag hits him right between his eyes. He groans in pain and starts to pick a fight with Marta, one of your cousins. Marta's fiancé stands up for your cousin, “Sos un hijo de remil putas. He told you to watch out. It's your fault you didn't listen." Everyone agrees with Flavia, and they tell Caleb he should've ducked. Your ex finally shuts up, and your family urges Uriel to draw the next card.

“El cotorro (the parrot)." Javi moves quickly and places the bean he's had in his hand for a while. You're so happy for him; that you nearly spill your drink onto the table.

A few more cards are drawn, and you haven't made as much progress, but Javi, on the other hand, has his card nearly full of beans. He needs four consecutive beans in a straight line, but he's missing two beans to win.

“La mano (The hand)." 

“Concha-tu-madre,” an uncle seethes in frustration as he doesn't have the hand on his card, but you know who does—Javi. 

“Ya me agüitaron (Ya’ll bummed me out). I'm going to put on music," your cousin, Darío, says, abandoning the game and hooking up his phone to the speaker. 

“El árbol (the tree.)” You sigh in disappointment as the last character Javi needs isn't called.

Music and various curse words fill the air, including but not limited to coño, jueputa, mamaguevo, japiro. 

"We have four potential winners," Uriel announces, "Y ahora... el gorrito (and now... the little hat)." 

“Mierda,” Javi's voice falls into a whisper because he doesn't have that card. By this point, he's memorized the entirety of his table, and when the hat was called, he knew it wouldn't be on his card.

You look around the table and see that Javi is among three people who need one more bean to win. 

"Let's see," Uriel says as he shuffles the cards. “El valiente (the brave man)” is yelled, and before you can react, Javi screams, "Lotería!" 

Everyone whips their head to your 'boyfriend,' and Uriel rushes to check Javi's card. You're filled with joy and practically bouncing in your seat. 

"We have a winner!" Uriel whoops, patting Javi's shoulder. 

"Beso, beso, beso (kiss, kiss, kiss)" your family chants, wanting you to celebrate with your boyfriend. Your breathing labors, and you don't know how to get out of it. Luckily, you get called to the kitchen, and Javi looks relieved. Your heart drops. He didn't want to kiss me. You excuse yourself and hurriedly make your way to the kitchen.

Javi's left in his seat trying to regulate his heartbeat. He didn't want to kiss you. Not because he didn't want to. God, he wanted to taste your lips, but he's scared that if he kisses you, he'll never stop.

In the kitchen, you scoop food into Tupperware for you and Javi, when you hear a man say, "You said he was just a friend,” the voice accuses. 

"Caleb," you spit with venom.

"You're with him now?" he asks hands in his pant pockets.

"I am. And I'm very happy with Javi," you say simply, adding rice to your blue Tupperware container.

"Come on, we were so good together. Don't you remember? We could be great again. Don't you want that?"

"No is the answer to every single thing you just said."

"What's so special about him? You didn't want to tell your family about us, but you bring him around?" Your ex is furious. When he saw you walk in with that dress and with Javi, hands intertwined and looking up at him like he was the best prize, he nearly lost it.

You turn around with your back to the entrance of the second dining room and point the spatula at your ex. "What isn't special about Javi is the better question. He's sweet, kind, determined, funny, and everything you're not. That's not all I love about him though; he makes me feel loved and heard, and he's my best friend. Javi is everyone's dream."

Caleb scoffs, and his only defense is, "What kind of name is Javi?"

You feel a possessive hand on your stomach, and it moves you back towards the owner's body. No, no, I can take care of this myself, you think, and then his cologne hits your nose, and you feel the warmth of his body, and your mantra of standing up by yourself evaporates.

"What kind of name is Caleb? Why don't you go back to your ex and leave my girlfriend alone?" Javier says, voice deeper than usual, making the rat of your ex retreat with his tail between his legs.

"Want me to kick his ass?" Javi questions.

"Nah, I have a feeling it'll ruin the holiday spirit. Thank you for that though."

You realize he could've heard your conversation with Caleb and ask, "How much of that did you hear?"

"When he made fun of my name, which is fantastic, by the way," he responds.

"Javi is a fantastic name," you assure him, "Javi," you say his name, testing it like it's the first time saying his name.

Javi nearly facepalms himself because hearing his name falling from your lips is making him harden again. Not to mention how you defended him to your ex. He's never heard kinder words about himself until you. Lately, Javi has felt like a failure. He failed to get into the DEA academy, and it was terrifying to think he would feel like that for the rest of his life. But when he's in your presence, everything else just melts away.

"How was my family while I left you unsupervised?" You ask, resting your head on his chest.

"Great. One of your cousins talked about the fact that the Christmas celebration was a pagan holiday and another about companies making a fortune based on Christmas. Your uncle, Ramon, I think started talking about los terrenos y le quitaron la corona (inherited land and they took away his corona beer.)”

"Oh god," you sound horrified, "I'm sorry about my family."

Javi slides his hands up and down your arms, "you have nothing to be sorry for. Mi familia también es así o peor (my family is like that or worse)." He knows he shouldn't say the words but can't help himself, "Our kids will have the biggest family."

Your mouth drops in surprise, and your mind flashes with images of you having a family with Javi, and your heart feels like it can explode.

"Your cousin was behind you," Javi says, looking past you.

A wave of disappointment washes over you. "Oh."

Javi lied. He didn't say that to convince your family about your relationship; he said it because he meant it.

The clock strikes 12 AM, beginning the 25th of December, and you all have to give out hugs to every single person at the party. Thankfully, it won't be awkward since Caleb and his plus-one left an hour ago. You get hugs from your entire family, and they each tell you how much they love you and how proud they are of you. When you reach Javi, you go for a side hug, but he pulls your face into his chest, and you exchange ‘feliz navidads.’ His smell is so comforting you want to stay there forever. You don’t pull away until someone announces it’s time to open gifts.

You take out the large wrapped box inside the bag you brought and give the gift to your little cousin, Gio. You bought him plenty of Hot Wheels and a racetrack that will take up a significant amount of space in his living room. Gio leaps into your arms and tells you you’re the ‘bestest cousin in the world.’ Your older cousin tells you she’ll give you her gift before going upstairs to the balcony to see the fireworks.

When Sandra leaves, Javi calls your attention. "Amor ven," the nickname falls easily from his beautiful lips; it makes you swoon. He pats the seat next to him, and in a few seconds, you’re next to him.

“I got you something,” Javi says nervously reaching into his pants pocket. He retrieves a square box and hands it to you gently like he’s scared you’ll move your hand and drop it.

You take the box fully into your hand. You lift the top, and your eyes begin to water. You scold yourself internally that this shouldn’t make you cry, but the beautiful necklace makes it impossible not to. It’s not because it’s a pretty necklace but you’re tearing up because of the letter attached to the gold chain – a J for Javier.

Javi misconstrues your tears for hatred. “I can exchange it for something else,” he’s quick to spit out."

“I love it, Javi,” you promise, words dripping with sincerity. “¿Me lo pones? (Can you put it on me?)” you ask him, getting ready for him to clasp the necklace.

His fingertips make contact with your nape, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You briefly wonder if that will happen every time you make the slightest contact tonight. Javi adjusts the necklace and clasps it, ensuring he doesn’t accidentally get some of your skin, which he was afraid he’d do because his hands were developing a thin layer of sweat.

“Done,” he tells you breathlessly, and you turn around to show him.

He feels ridiculous that seeing his initial on your chest makes him go crazy. Yes, part of him feels beyond happy that you liked your gift. When he was shopping, trying to find you a gift, he stumbled upon a jewelry store, and he knew he had to get it for you. He didn’t buy it to ‘brand you’. Javi genuinely wanted you to carry a part of him, just like he always carries you everywhere he goes.

You hear the first fireworks go off, and Javi says, “Ya es hora para los cuetes (it’s time for the fireworks).” He helps you get up, and everyone makes their way up the mahogany stairway. You meet Sandra on the 2nd floor, and she gives you a white and red striped metallic-wrapped box. That childhood excitement of opening presents is still there. You feel giddy and tug at the taped ends to rip the paper. Once you’re able to see a sliver of the actual gift, you hold it to your chest.

“Sandra! You did not just gift me a sex toy!” You whisper-yell, the shock and embarrassment evident in your tone.

Sandra was known for being direct; she was your older cousin but more of a big sister. She had been a reliable source of guidance, especially when it came to your body, relationships, and intimacy. In fact, you had learned more from her than from your mandatory sixth-grade sex Ed class. You'd often sought her advice, grateful for her non-judgmental attitude. Sandra was always there to help, whether it was explaining innuendos or first-period crises. You remember when you got your first period, you ran to her after your mom called her for moral support. So, in a way, you shouldn't have been surprised by the gift when you complained to her about your trusty wand giving up on you.

“I recall getting a phone call telling me one of your favorites was no longer working. But with that boyfriend of yours, I don’t think you’ll be needing this, so I can take it back,” she smirks, enjoying making you flustered and sputtering on your words.

“A gift is a gift. You can’t take it back,” you argue, hugging it further into your chest. With the night you’ve had, you’re 100% certain the toy will have its grand premiere.

“Ooo using it with your man tonight to spice things up, I like that.”

You turn around and see Javi standing there with his hands by his side. His pretty lips are parted in an ‘o,’ and you can’t believe he just saw your cousin gifting you a sex toy for Christmas.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Sandra gives you a peck on the cheek and slips past you to go to the stairs and up another floor.

“Woah. That’s certainly a gift,” Javi states.

You want the ground to swallow you whole. Here you are hugging a fucking sex toy in the middle of the hallway with the man you love staring at the gift.

“I’m going to put this in my room,” you say robotically and make a run for your room. Oh my god, oh my god, he did not just see that. With the box still in your arms, hoping you don’t run into anyone, you open the door to your room just enough to slip inside and shut the door. Your heart is beating erratically, and you consider staying in your room for the rest of the night, but you know they’ll be calling for you soon. You finally unlock your arms and take the gift into your hands. There’s still wrapping paper covering the gift, so you take it off and take in the toy for the first time. You mistook the handle for a dildo. It wasn’t a plastic dick you thought you received; it was a clit stimulator. Color? Red.

After you placed your new gift on top of your bed and covered it with a sweater, you found the courage to face Javi. You opened your door and found Javi with his fist raised as if he was a second away from knocking.

“Let’s go,” you croak, hoping he won’t ever bring up what happened a few minutes ago.

Javi wordlessly agrees, and you both walk to the stairs in silence to go to the balcony. As you approach the final stairs, you hear more fireworks go off, but their timing isn’t consecutive, so you know the big event is yet to come. Once you’re outside, near the entrance, there’s a table with drinks that range from alcohol to traditional beverages to a mix. You take a Corona, and Javi picks up a glass of coquito. The balcony is packed, but it's big enough that you don’t feel like packed sardines. Music is blasting on the speakers; some of your family is off dancing, and some men are huddled around talking about work, while your younger cousins are playing with their new toys in a corner. You still haven’t talked to Javi, and it’s slowly killing him. He didn’t mean to embarrass you by walking in on Sandra giving you your gift, but when he overheard the term 'sex toy,' it was as if an invisible force nailed him to the floor. Javi racks his brain for how to start a conversation with you. He knows the firework show will commence any minute now, and he won’t be able to get a word in.

"You look beautiful," he blurts out before his brain can catch up with his mouth. Okay, not what he wanted to start off with, but it’s definitely not a lie.

“Thank you,” you say sheepishly as the fireworks start going off one after another.

“I mean, you look beautiful every day,” Javi says in the midst of a chrysanthemum exploding in the sky.

"What?" you reply, struggling to make out his words over the resounding explosions.

Once the sounds die down, your aunt Odilia passes by, catching sight of you and Javi standing closer, facing each other. “¿Como están los enamorados? (How are the lovebirds?),” she says with adoration before moving on. Her statement prompts a few head turns from your family, who go on to comment about how cute you look with your boyfriend.

"I said," Javi begins, lowering himself to your ear, "You look beautiful. You always do, but tonight..." He stands up straight, locking eyes with you. Javi delicately strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Es como si me hubieras puesto bajo tu hechizo (It’s like you’ve put me under your spell),” he confesses softly, his voice filled with adoration.

You find yourself unable to conjure a reply. Your entire focus is consumed by him—the way he smiles, the dimple on full display, the stray curls tousled from dancing, and the warmth of his fingers against your cheek. His nails graze your skin ever so slightly, leaving you questioning if it's a figment of your imagination. A fleeting thought crosses your mind, wondering what it would be like to feel his nails embedded into your hips as he guides you in rhythmic movement. Taking a deep breath to regain composure, you inhale his scent, causing your head to spin. In the midst of your reverie, Javi's voice pulls you back.

"Your family is expecting a kiss. May I?" he asks, breaking the spell.

"What?" you respond, dumbfounded. While you heard him, the question leaves you in disbelief.

“¿Te puedo besar?” he repeats, his heart seemingly pounding out of his chest, laying his intentions bare.

As you nod and rasp out a breathless "yes,", Javi cups your cheeks with a gentle urgency, bringing his lips to yours in a passionate collision. It feels like heaven with his mouth molding seamlessly with yours. His taste is a delightful concoction of coconut, Don Q rum, cinnamon, and condensed milk—remnants of the coquito he had earlier. In the intoxicating embrace, you clutch his shirt, pulling him closer, savoring every fleeting second because it could be the first and last kiss you'll ever share.

Opening your mouth wider, you send a silent invitation, and he responds, his tongue tangling with yours, the passionate sounds blending harmoniously with the distant fireworks. Amid the explosive bursts in the night sky, the sounds of your fervent kiss are almost lost, and worked up and lost in the moment, you can't help but whimper into his mouth. When the sound of your own desire reaches Javi's ear, he knows he should pull away before the intensity escalates. Reluctantly, Javi breaks the kiss, mindful of the familial audience surrounding you. Both your chests rise and fall in tandem, the shared breathlessness lingering in the air. The post-kiss silence is punctuated by the distant echoes of the ongoing fireworks.

Separated but still entwined in the magic of the moment, you catch your breath. You admire the way Javi's brown eyes reflect the vibrant colors bursting in the sky. Javi gazes back into your eyes, marveling at the way they brighten with each explosion in the sky. It's a parallel to his own feelings as if miniature fireworks detonate in his heart whenever he looks at you. His earlier realization holds true; having kissed you, he never wants to stop.

"Okay, well, I'm going to bed," you say, gesturing toward the door, your eyes avoiding his gaze.

“Buenas noches,” he replies, a tinge of sadness coloring his voice.

You steal one last glance at him and urge yourself to get to your room before you throw your friendship down the drain for another kiss. So that’s what you do; you open the door, whisper one last goodbye, and shut the door. Javi closes his eyes, scolding himself for making things awkward. As he goes to his room, he focuses on thinking about what to do to fix your friendship. One thing he knows is that he can’t lose you.

Inside your room, you press against the wooden door. You have no idea how you’ll get through tomorrow, much less through the rest of your life. our eyes wander around, taking in the familiar walls of the room. You’ve had your own room at your aunt's house since you were a little girl, and there are some things that have remained the same. There's a shelf against a wall that contains a few of your stuffed animals from your childhood. You took down your posters from when you were a teen but kept the same paint color of dark red because you knew you couldn’t have your room all black. 

Realizing you still wear Javi's jacket, you gently remove it, placing it on your bed. You hate that it looks like it belongs in your room. You sigh and go to your bathroom to get ready to toss and turn in your bed.

In the midst of removing your makeup, having already brushed your teeth, a soft knock interrupts the quiet solitude of your room. Confused, you quickly dry your face and rush to open the door, wondering who it could be. It’s Javi. He's outside your door, his hair a mess like he ran his hands through it repeatedly.

"Can I come in?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.

"Javi! They'll kill me if they see you in my room," you whisper.

"Please, cariño?" 

His tone is filled with a vulnerability that softens your resolve. You take a quick glance down the hallway and find it deserted, so you quickly pull him into your room and shut the door quietly. As you assess him, clad in grey sweats and a black long-sleeve compression shirt, a rush of desire floods your body. Thoughts of peeling off his clothes and kissing him all over stir a wetness between your legs, leaving you certain your underwear is ruined after spending the day with Javi. 

"I'm sorry," he interrupts your dirty thoughts, and confusion crosses your face.

Sorry? Why is he sorry?

He sees the confusion written all over your face and continues, “I’m sorry for kissing you.”

What?

“If I knew it would make you uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have done it. Your friendship means the world to me. I’m sorry I ruined it. Cariño, what do I need to do to make us go back to normal? I’ll do anything,” Javi pleads with you.

You shake your head furiously. “No, Javi, you didn’t ruin anything. It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you promise.

He breathes out a sigh of relief after you tell him he didn’t mess up the best thing that’s happened to him. “Why did you shut down after… after we kissed?”

“I don’t know, Jav,” you shrug, looking away. You feel your eyes sting at the tone of his voice. He sounds hurt. You've hurt the person you love, and you want to take him into your arms and apologize.

“Please don’t do that,” he implores, reaching for your hand. “Dime (tell me).”

A wave of apprehension washes over you; confessing your feelings is a leap into the unknown. You worry about the potential shift in dynamics, but you sense that Javi believes your withdrawal stems from him. “If I tell you, and you don’t like what I say, promise me we’ll forget this conversation,” you request, your lip caught between your teeth.

“What’s so bad you can’t tell me?” 

“Promise me, Jav,” you repeat, aware of the simplicity but needing that ounce of reassurance.

He nods solemnly. “Te lo prometo (I promise you).”

“Javi, I like you. So much,” your voice falls to a whisper. The ball is now in his court, freeing you from the weight of what-ifs.

Javi's reaction is priceless. The tension that once knitted his eyebrows together dissipates, giving way to a radiant smile that stretches from ear to ear. Leaning in, he cradles your chin in his hand and kisses you, a taste of mint lingering on his lips. This time, the kiss is tender, and gentle—a dance of shared feelings that leaves him dizzy and his stomach aflutter. As he withdraws, his forehead presses against yours.

“I like you too. For a long time now,” he confesses, the words clear and resolute.

“Really?” you ask incredulously, feeling like you're walking on air. This moment, a culmination of countless fantasies, was the very last scenario you expected to become reality.

“Yeah,” he affirms with a nod. The truth lingers on the tip of his tongue. “De hecho, te amo (In fact, I love you).”

“I love you too,” you reply with a smile, your hands slowly tracing up his chest. One hand passes his broad shoulders and reaches his nape. A gentle brush of your hands against his skin sends a surge of warmth through him. Your fingers run through his hair, eliciting a low groan from Javi, and you yearn to hear more.

“Javi, te necesito (Javi, I need you),” you murmur with half-lidded eyes.

He doesn't want to risk embarrassing himself with words, so he gently takes your hand off his hair and guides you towards your bed.

Walking with playful curiosity, he asks, "Am I the first guy you've sneaked into your room?"

"Mmm... I plead the fifth," you decide to answer coyly.

He narrows his eyes, "That's a yes then."

"¿Si te pones celoso, porque me preguntas? (If you get jealous, why would you ask me?)" you question him playfully as you hit the bed.

Javi's jaw ticks, and he says, "I'll make you forget about them."

His tone stirs a needy feeling in you, and you reply, " Sigue de perico, y no vamos hacer todo lo que quiero (Keep talking, and we won't be able to do everything I want)."

Tugging down on his shirt, you give him the signal. He promptly takes it off, treating you to your very own private show.

"Oh my god," you groan appreciatively when you see him shirtless—tan skin, toned stomach, and freckles on display. The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, showcasing the V line and a dark patch of hair.

Javi revels in the effect he has on you. ”Turn around," he commands with dark eyes.

You instantly comply, spinning around so he can reach your zipper. Instead of tearing your dress off, he hugs you from behind.

“I don’t know if I told you before, but I really love this dress,” Javi says, running his hands over the velvet material. “Do you know how many times you made me hard tonight?” He confesses to having excused himself to the restroom multiple times to handle his hard-on discreetly.

"Javi," you whine impatiently, the revelation only intensifying the sticky mess between your thighs.

He pulls your zipper down, but you turn around, reaching your shoulders to slip the dress off, letting it pool on the hardwood floor.

"Dios mío (My God)," he exhales with a shaky breath.

"¿Te gusta? (Do you like it?)" you ask, referring to your lingerie that matches your dress. You're wearing a burgundy thong and a matching bra with lace material, revealing pebbled nipples. His fingers twitch, and he pulls you by the waist.

"Me encanta (I love it)," Javi whispers in your ear. His voice makes you slump against him as he unclasps your bra. “Why did you wear this?” he asks, his kisses trailing down your bare shoulder, devoid of judgment or ill will, just curiosity.

"You know what they say, 'to hope for the best, plan for the best.'"

"I don't think that's how it goes, baby," Javi chuckles into your shoulder and then presses his lips on your neck.

“Oh,” you say dumbly, savoring his kisses.

"Thank you for the outfit, my beautiful girl," he says, instructing you to get on the bed. As you settle on the mattress, you watch as Javi begins to remove his pants.

You watch in awe as his swollen cock presses against his stomach, and an undeniable desire to have it in your mouth engulfs you. Can a dick be pretty? God, his is so beautiful, you think to yourself. Javi gracefully crawls onto the bed, his hand reaching for your unclothed breasts.

“Mmm… so beautiful,” he hums, popping one of your tits into his mouth.

“Oh!” you exclaim, a mix of shock and pleasure coursing through you. Your arms extend onto the bed, and in the throes of passion, you accidentally hit something. The noise prompts Javi to lift his mouth from you and remove the blue sweater that conceals whatever your hands came in contact with. To his surprise, he discovers the present your cousin gifted you earlier.

“Clit and nipple stimulator,” he reads off the box.

Embarrassment washes over you, even though he just had your nipple in his mouth. Before you can say anything, Javi tears the box open and retrieves the toy. He presses the 'on' button, and it comes to life with a soft hum.

“Mi color favorito,” he says with a smirk.

Your brain struggles to form a coherent sentence. Javi sets the suction toy beside you and resumes attending to your nipples with his mouth. Lost in the sensation, your head falls back onto the bed. Suddenly, you feel a vibration around your other nipple. Lifting your head, you see Javi using the red wand on your right nipple.

“Oh God, Javi, I need you inside me,” you moan.

His response is muffled by your soft breasts. Gripping his hair, you lift him off you with a bit of force.

“I need to taste your pussy first,” he says with blown-out eyes.

“No,” you protest, craving him desperately.

It's not what he wanted to hear. “Please?” he insists. “I know I’ll cum embarrassingly fast, and I need to give you something before that happens.”

No. I want you now, you beautiful man. “Just a little bit,” you compromise. Normally, you'd eagerly jump at the prospect of him expressing a desire to eat your pussy, but you're so unbelievably turned on.

He toys with the band of your thong, and you lift your hips to let him remove it. Soon, they're in his hands, tossed aside on the floor. Laid bare for him, you're naked except for your jewelry. The gold 'J' nestles between your breasts, the left one still wet from his saliva, while your pussy glistens with slick accumulated throughout the night.

“Eres tan hermosa. Nunca he visto nada como tú y nada se compara (You're so beautiful. I've never seen anything like you, and nothing compares),” he confesses sincerely. Seeing you laid out before him, looking at him like he hangs the stars, leaves him breathless. He kneels on the floor, gently pulling your legs to be on either side of his face. Javi wastes no time as he begins to lick your cunt.

You gasp, placing one leg on his shoulder for added support. Responding to your silent request, Javi lifts your other leg onto his opposite shoulder.

“Ahh!” you cry out when his mouth presses closer onto your pussy, and he begins to devour you. His tongue explores, collecting all of your wetness into his mouth. Fuck, she tastes so good. I've been waiting to have her in my mouth for so long.

“So sweet, baby girl,” he murmurs between your thighs, causing vibrations that intensify the pleasure. You're already sweating and out of breath, unable to believe how quickly his mouth is bringing you to the edge.

He momentarily stops licking your folds and wraps his lips around your pearl. Your legs jerk, and you can't help but scream out his name. Javi quickly shushes you, urging you to be quiet, though his own noises betray the arousal he feels. He promises himself that once he can take you to his place, he'll never ask you to quiet down.

Opening your eyes, you're captivated by a sinful sight. Javi's intense and piercing gaze meets yours, the obsidian of his eyes seamlessly bleeding into the rich brown of his irises. Simultaneously, his tongue delves into your entrance, a sensation so electrifying that you can no longer endure the sweet torture.

“You’ve made me wetter, Javi, please fuck me.”

“No,” he objects.

“Javi por favor. Mañana podemos hacer de todo, pero te necesito ahora mismo (Javi, please. Tomorrow we can do everything, but I need you now.)”

He chides, “terca (stubborn girl),” but relents, releasing your legs. Taking matters into your own hands, quite literally, you guide him onto your bed, pushing him to lie back as you straddle him.

He believes he's died and gone to heaven, with you on top of him—a dream come true. “Condom?” he rasps out.

“I’m clean and on Nexplanon,” you nod toward your arm. “Are you okay with that?”

Feeling his cock pulse at the thought of being with you without a barrier, Javi nods vigorously and says, “Me matas bebita (you kill me, baby girl).”

His words draw a smile from you as you reach behind, feeling the velvety skin of his arousal in your hand. With deliberate slowness, you stroke him up and down.

“Uhh… fuck!” Javi groans, tossing his head back onto your pillow. The raw, guttural sounds escaping him become music to your ears, encouraging you to keep stroking him. Precome coats your hand, and you use it to slickly spread the moisture over him as makeshift lube. Javi continues panting, and you decide it's enough.

Rising on your knees, you guide him to your entrance. His head breaches you, and an involuntary whine escapes your lips.

“Oh,” you gasp, squirming on his lap. 

“Mmm!” Javi’s jaw drops, unable to believe that you're creating such intensity with just his tip inside

You ride him to open up, moving yourself on his head. “God, Javi!” your body burns as you straddle him. 

“Told you…” he pauses, gritting his teeth. “I should've s-tretched you.” 

You shake your head. “I can take you. I just- uh! I just need some time.” Javi is big and thick, prolonging the process, but you'd rather struggle than have him prep you.

As you keep bouncing on his tip, Javi thrusts up into you, causing both of you to moan. He places both hands, previously gripping your sheets, on either side of your waist, helping him fit more of his cock inside you. You rock back, feeling yourself open up, and you lower yourself down.

Your mouth hangs open, and you wail as the thickest part of him is embraced by your walls. Javi groans heavily and embeds his nails on your waist. You moan at the small ripple of pain and work yourself to sink down some more.

“I-I thought- ah! que me querías calladita, (that you wanted me to quiet down) and look at you…uhh louder than me.”

“You feel s-oh!” Javi can’t finish his response because you fully sit on his cock. Your hips are flush with his, and he swears he can cum this instant. 

“Hold on,” he tells you, breathing heavily, eyelids closed, and stilling you.

Once he feels he’s regained some composure, he lifts you off him. You slowly start to rock back and forth, chewing your lip to keep from screaming out. 

“Does it feel good?” Javi asks, eyes open once more.

You meet his dark eyes and moan, “Mhm, s-so good… Oh! Javi," you whine, "So big… you’re so big.”

He pulsates inside you, a low groan escaping his lips. "You can't say that," he mutters, shaking his head, not to express disagreement but to calm himself. Not yet, not yet, he chants. 

“Why not? It’s true.” You argue, throwing your head back at the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Shit, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep going. Then I won’t earn first place for the best sex this room’s ever seen,” he laughs lightly to mask his mortification because he knows he’ll be cumming soon.

"You're so much better than anyone else,” you assure him, seeing through the self-deprecating comment he made.

He lights up at your praise. "Yeah?”

"Yes! You make me so full,” you sigh, bouncing on him a little faster. Your hand movement transitions from his hips to both hands sprawled on his abdomen. Pressing your body closer to him at an angle, both of you shake with pleasure. You keep rocking against him, and all he can do is watch. Javi takes in the way your breasts bounce and the way your necklace shines. Overcome with desire and possessiveness, he sits up suddenly, making you whine when you feel his sweaty and hot body against yours.

Javi seeks your mouth, and you eagerly comply. Your mouths crash, and it's all tongue and teeth. He's moving you slowly against him, but it's still a delicious sensation, and you can't help but moan into his mouth. The air in your lungs is slowly decreasing, so you pull away, and your head falls onto his shoulder. With your mouth away from him, he's able to wrap his arms around you and rock up, up, up with intensity. His pace ignites something within you, and you bite his wet tan skin to muffle your cries. Javi feels you tighten on him, and he pants out, “How are you so perfect? No entiendo (I don’t understand.)”

You can't answer him; you just bounce on him, feeling the telltale sensation of your lower stomach nearing the finish line.

“Amor,” he groans. The word sounds like sweet honey coming from Javi's lips, and it makes you gasp. Javi catches on and asks you, “¿Te gusta cuando te digo así? (Do you like it when I call you like that?)”

“Sí,” you confirm. He adjusts the angle of your legs, causing the wind to knock out of you, and the only words you're capable of saying are, “Amor, amor, amor…” This is the first time you've ever called Javi ‘amor’, and it does something to him. He knows he’s got a minute max before he blows his load.

Frantically, he takes one hand off your body and scrambles to find something on the bed. Lost in ecstasy, you don't notice, but then you feel a vibration on your pearled nub, and you jump from surprise. In an instant, you look down and see Javi has the red toy and is using it against your clit. Your eyes begin to water as you reel in the feeling of the man you love inside you and the delicious sucking of the toy.

You don't warn him; you don't even process the thought yourself, but you begin to shake on top of Javi. You feel every nerve in your body— all seven trillion of them—explode. You come in silence with your mouth into a perfect ‘o’. 

Javi doesn’t let up his ministrations; he keeps thrusting his hips upwards and using the red wand, prolonging your high. “That’s it, amor, you look so pretty cumming for me,” he whispers full of adoration. “Good girl, good girl,” he chants as he works you through the most intense orgasm of your life.

Javi bites his lower lip, determined to make this moment last longer; he never wants it to end. Once your vocal cords start functioning again, you cup his face with one hand and, with desperation, you tell him, "Ven, amor, relléname (Come, my love, cum in me).”

Javi feels like fireworks are going off in his body. He keens at your words filled with love and desire for him; he has no choice but to obey. The dam in his abdomen breaks, and “Ahh!” he groans, voice broken and raspy, letting go of the toy. You feel his hips stutter as they lose their steady rhythm, and he pulsates and spasms, the warmth of his seed fills you as he climaxes in ropes. Your body is overworked and sensitive, but you keep bouncing on him to milk every drop. You can't look away from him. His eyelids are heavy, his mouth is parted and panting as he moans and growls hoarsely, his neck is extended showing all the veins, and his skin is flushed in a beautiful red hue. Javi repeats your name over and over as his high washes over him. You caress his nape and run your fingers through his hair as he comes down from it. His spend and yours drip out of you and onto Javi.

"Holy fuck, that was amazing," Javi laughs, and you feel the rumble in his chest.

"Yeah?" you ask coyly.

“Best of my life," he sighs and rolls you over so you're underneath him.

You laugh and crane your neck to give him a peck on the corner of his mouth. God, that sound, Javi thinks. "I love you," he says, knowing he'll never stop telling you those three words.

"I love you," you echo. "Come on, let's sleep," you tell him.

"I've got to clean you up first," he says, climbing off and pulling out of you. You whine at the loss and miss him inside of you already.

His expression looks pained as he looks between your parted thighs, seeing his seed seeping out of your puffy cunt. Javi fights with himself as he debates leaving you with his cum inside. His index and middle fingers are taken by you and guided to your opening.

"Push it all inside," you command, knowing he doesn't really want to wipe it away.

"But your bed and—"

“Me vale (I don’t care)," you interrupt. Javi has always been concerned about how his actions affect you, and you find it sweet. However, you want this. You know he won’t give in to his desires if he thinks you don’t want this. So, you have to convince him you do. “Please,” and just like that, he’s collecting the creamy liquid around your labia and pressing it back inside you. 

You're oversensitive, but you melt at the feeling of his thick and long fingers inside you. Gripping onto his bicep, you savor the sensation as he makes sure most of the sticky substance goes back inside you. Whatever remnants are on his fingers, he sucks them and closes his eyes at the taste. You stare up at him and swear you could go another round if he didn’t fuck the energy out of you. 

“Should I go back to my room?” Javi asks. He doesn’t want to, but maybe you’d rather sleep alone.

“Please stay,” you tell him, gripping his arm tighter.

He nods. “Okay, baby, I’ll stay.” You sit up on your bed and undo your covers. Javi walks across the room to turn off the light, and when he comes back, you’re underneath your quilt. He climbs in next to you and extends his left arm so you can snuggle to his side. 

“Buenas noches, amor,” he whispers.

“Good night, amor. I can’t wait to wake up next to you,” you tell Javi before you drift to sleep.

In the silence, he admires your features and says, “I can’t wait to make you my wife and wake up next to you for the rest of our lives. Feliz Navidad, mi vida”

Extended A/N: I wrote this when Frankie didn’t exist yet; I promise I just don’t write for Javi! 

The last chapter of IYW should be out next week if I’m able to recolor the gifs I need. Thank you for reading!

#my heart is glowing 💗