Hi! Omg I loved reading your Rhys x reader secret pregnancy fic! May I please request a Lucien x reader where he’s been cursed to stay in the form of an actual fox and the then reader comes along to break his curse? Thank you!!
Cursed
Summary: The mother liked being cruel to Lucien. First she had him lose his eye, and now his body.
•○●⛦●○•
Tw: mention of being a child of forced intimate relation, other than that, I'm not sure there is more, so let me know if i need to add anything.
A/n: my love, my heart, my baby anon. come here so i can sing you to sleep and cuddle with you because holyyyy shit i love this idea aaaahhhhh. (i am ready to be your tumblr wifey)
also, the beginning is basically our Y/n trauma/info dumping
anyways, enjoy!
(I had fun talking to you about this @artists-ally)
•○🌑○•
A twig snapped behind Y/n, and she rolled her eyes in frustration.
After wondering for a moment if she should ignore the animal, she decided to turn to look.
There, next to a mighty tree, crouched the fox. Abnormally large, fluffier than a normal fox, it had been following Y/n around for the better part of the week.
The moment Y/n met the fox's mismatched eyes, it tensed, as if ready to bolt. But then, after a moment, it relaxed, again staring at Y/n curiously.
The problem wasn't the fact that it was a fox. No, there were plenty of foxes in the forest near Y/n's home. But those foxes didn't follow her around or sit outside her door at all hours.
This one did all of that.
She wouldn't have been much bothered if it had been a normal fox following her around. But this one had a weird aura about it, like it was not an ordinary fox.
The fox suddenly moved, slowly prowling towards Y/n. She watched it, its body moving and navigating through the roots and fallen branches graciously, as if it were an elegant lady in the royal court.
Y/n shook her head, turning away and continuing on her journey to the cluster of trees deep into the forest to collect some fruit for herself.
The fox fell in step beside her.
She did her best to ignore the animal, though its unnatural aura kept her glancing at it.
Unfortunately, it also had her distracted, and she almost didn't pull up the hood of her cloak when a mortal man walked into view, carrying a bunch of firewood on his back.
But thank the forgotten gods, the man was too busy grumbling to himself to notice the pointed tips of her ears before she covered them.
Being a half fae was hard when living among mortals.
She could get killed if anyone found out about her heritage, and that was the only real reason she had for living on the outskirts of the small town, right next to where the forest started and away from the mortals.
And honestly, she cursed whoever the bastard was that had raped her mother and sired her for the inconvenience.
But she couldn't go down that path of thought, because if she did, she would just end up on the same thought that had her staying up at night and bawling her eyes out.
She was lonely.
It had nothing to do with the solitude of her house. No. It was because she was a half fae, and while other girls her age would mingle with other young men or whoever caught their fancy, she could not do so for fear of being killed.
She also had no family, her mother having died when Y/n was still young. Y/n had no siblings or relatives who could have taken her in, and so, she had learned to take care of herself.
She had also early on learned that the world didn't take kindly to people that were even remotely different from their perception of normal.
Especially beings who had a reputation to torture innocent souls for fun.
Y/n could not blame mortals for hating fae, as she herself hated them, though for completely different reasons.
It was not the best experience when you were scorned by the people you were a part of.
Hated by mortals for being a product of human-fae union, and hated by fae for being a half breed.
She sighed, shooing those thoughts away as she reached the cluster of trees she had been on the journey to, and set down her basket for a moment, stretching.
The fox settled down under an apple tree, and simply stared at Y/n as she went about plucking different fruits and berries and piling them in her basket.
Once she was done, she turned to glance at the fox, who sat unnaturally still.
She thought for a moment, then picked out a juicy apple from her basket. "You want one?"
The fox kept staring at her, and Y/n felt silly for trying to communicate with a fox. She huffed, putting the apple back in her basket and beginning to make the journey back to her little cottage.
•○🌑○•
"Do you think it will storm?"
The fox cocked its head, staring up at the sky before making a small noise, which Y/n took as affirmation.
"I think so too."
While a month ago Y/n would have laughed at herself for talking to -trying to talk to- an animal, now it had become normal. The darn fox never left her side nowadays, and Y/n had grown fond of him, letting him into her house and keeping him fed and warm. She had even named him Rusty.
Rusty glanced at Y/n before it settled down, laying his head on her lap, snuggling into the soft and fluffy material of her thick leggings.
A small smile made its way onto Y/n's face, and her hand lifted of its own accord, burying itself into the fur on the top of his head.
Y/n still remembered how she had felt uncomfortable around the fox because of the unnatural aura it gave off, but she had gotten used to it. Now, it was a companion who Y/n simply adored.
A long moment passed, and Y/n was not entirely sure it wasn't hours, but the sky darkened just a fraction.
Y/n glanced up in confusion, because she was sure it had been brighter just a moment before. Suddenly, the warmth in her lap vanished, and Y/n's head snapped down, her brows furrowed.
Rusty was no longer next to Y/n. He was across the clearing, and Y/n could not fathom how he had crossed the vast area so quickly. Her suspicions about him grew, and she realized his body was beginning to shake.
Y/n quickly rolled to her feet, her eyes growing wide when he began spasming, a tortured whine escaping him. She could do nothing but stare as his paws dug into the soft ground, pain filled sounds continuing to rip from him.
The moment Y/n stepped forward, hoping to do something to help Rusty, his head snapped up, a low growl he emitted leaving her frozen in place. And his eyes...
They were glowing.
Unnatural, completely otherworldly brightness radiated from him, his aura becoming ten times different from what it had been.
Y/n watched, her blood chilling, as he continued to struggle until the smell of something burnt reach Y/n.
Everything stilled after that, and Rusty collapsed, breaths heaving out of him.
And, the place where his paws had been, was nothing but burnt remains of the leaves fallen from the trees
Y/n studied the fox until he had gained enough strength to stand again, and his eyes stared back at Y/n.
She swallowed as the fox prowled closer. "You are not a real fox, are you?"
Rusty swung his head from side to side, his eyes boring into Y/n.
She nodded, wondering why she was even surprised. "Are you fae?"
His head dipped.
Y/n dragged her palms down her face, trying not to lose her shit.
"Why are you here? What do you want from me?"
He cocked his head, as if questioning her how he was supposed to answer.
She released a frustrated breath, going through all the reasons why a shapeshifter would follow her around.
She could only find one reasonable reason.
"Have you... have you been cursed?"
The fox dipped his head slowly, and Y/n took a step back, horrified.
"And you are here because you... what? Want me to break you free?"
The fox whined, taking a step forward.
"No." She stepped back again, continuing until her back hit a tree. "Fuck. No. I will not be used and discarded by you too. I will not..."
The sadness in the fox's -Rusty's -eyes nearly brought Y/n to her knees, but the fox simply dipped its head again after a moment, turning and prowling away from the clearing and, in turn, Y/n.
She watched him go, his shoulders curved inwards, looking defeated.
And, despite her instincts telling her to go behind him, she turned away too, walking in the opposite direction, towards her small hut.
•○🌑○•
The windows shook, their sound a little too loud in the small home, and Y/n's fingers curled tighter on the book, the pages crinkling under her fingers.
Thunder cracked somewhere, and Y/n flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. With a sigh, she put her book away, tugging her blanket closer for warmth. She turned to look out the window, where it was completely dark, not one tree visible.
And, despite her attempts at trying to ignore her worries about Rusty, she could not help but wonder where he was.
Was he somewhere in the forest, getting soaked by the rain, shivering?
Was he wandering around hopelessly, hoping someone took pity on him?
Y/n shook her head, telling herself she did not care.
But of course, she did.
Since the moment she had turned away from his retreating form, she had not been able to think about anything but him.
Y/n had never had anyone that particularly cared about her, so having even a damned fox use her for his own gain cut something deep in her heart.
But then a thought occurred to her, and all her feelings of betrayal were forgotten.
What if it is a child?
Or what if it is just like me, never had anyone who cared?
What if he gets incinerated in the storm by lightning?
Oh fuck it.
The second to last thought was what snapped Y/n's restraint, and she grabbed her cloak, lit a lantern, and set off to find her Rusty.
•○🌑○•
The rain made it even harder to see in the night, but Y/n soldiered on, determined to rescue the damsel in distress. Though the damsel was a male and could probably not be in distress.
He could have found a cave to snooze in, and Y/n was setting herself up to be sick for nothing.
Her heart didn't seem to care for that judging by the way it was screeching in her ears.
A flash of light caught Y/n's eyes, and she stilled, lifting her lantern higher, hoping she had finally found the sneaky bastard.
It was just a piece of glass, and Y/n cursed whoever had thrown it here.
After a long time of searching, Y/n spied a gap in the trees, knowing it led to a small cliff. Her instincts told her to follow the trail, and she decided trusting her heart was the better option than trusting her brain.
She had decided to ignore her heart in that clearing, and now she was stuck in a storm.
Lightning brightened the world for a moment, and Y/n lifted her hand to shield herself as she reached the cliff.
Unfortunately, Rusty was not there as well.
Frustrated, Y/n sighed, turning away from the drop.
And then she paused, her eyes landing on a bush.
Under which lay Rusty, shivering and curled in on himself.
Guilt spread through Y/n, and she stepped closer with caution.
His eyes flew open, his teeth bared as he searched around for a predator.
His eyes widened when he realised it was Y/n who stood in front of him now, and he ducked his head, as if ashamed.
Y/n walked forward, and watched as his shoulders curved inwards, trying to make himself small.
She crouched, extending her hands towards him, and he stared at it for a moment, then at Y/n before taking a tentative step closer, gaining more confidence when her hand remained unwavering. He stopped a few with his face a few inches away from her hand, and she reached out to pet his nose.
"Come," she whispered, "let's go home."
He stared at her for a moment longer, and Y/n felt like there were tears in his eyes, but she couldn't be sure because it could very well be rain water.
Navigating the forest to return home was much easier and faster than it had been searching for Rusty, and Y/n was glad about that, as she could think of nothing but changing into warm clothes and getting warmed in front of her fireplace now that she had finally found Rusty. Also, she had to wash Rusty and feed him. It had been long since he had left and Y/n doubted that he had eaten anything.
As soon as Y/n stepped foot inside her home, she shucked off her cloak, setting down her lantern and turning to find that Rusty still hadn't crossed the threshold.
"Come on in, Rusty."
She beckoned to him, and he trotted in, shaking his head to get rid of the water.
"Let's get you into a warm bath first."
Y/n hurried into the bathing room and turned on the faucets, letting the tub fill with warm water. Feeling eyes on her, she glanced back to see Rusty sitting patiently by the door, like a gentleman. Y/n smiled.
"Get in." She told him when the water had filled to the point she knew he liked. "I will go and get changed, and you get yourself cleaned up until then. We can have food after."
At the last part, his head snapped up, his eyes wide. But then he jumped into the tub, and Y/n was left to wonder why he seemed so shocked.
•○🌑○•
Y/n wrapped the tiny towel around Rusty, giggling at how funny he looked before she placed the red coloured bowl in front of Rusty, his favourite.
She stared at him as he began eating, and stared, and stared.
The air changed the moment he took his first bite, growing thicker and heavier with every moment that passed.
Confused, Y/n glanced behind her, and when she turned back to rusty, she let out a small scream.
In the place that Rusty had been occupying, sat a man... naked.
Y/n had never climbed to her feet so quick in her whole life as she did then, covering her eyes. But then she peeked out from between her fingers, seeing him blushing furiously while trying to cover up his private parts with the tiny towel. It was barely enough to cover up his chest, so he had to hold it with both hands like a curtain in front of his hips.
"Who the hell are you?" Y/n screeched.
She noticed now that he had hair like liquid flame, his eyes were mismatched, and he was... fae.
Realisation washed through Y/n.
"You- You're Rusty."
He grimaced. "Yeah, though I am a little concerned with that name. Can we please not use that? Like, Rusty? Really?"
Y/n let her hands fall to her side, settling on her hips. "You bastard, you should be grateful I let you stay and gave you a name. Imagine how weird it would have been in if I called you fox."
"Yeah, I think that would have been better than Rusty."
Y/n scoffed. After a moment, she spoke again, struggling hard to keep her gaze on his. She deserved a fucking medal for it.
"So... what was your curse? And who had so much free time to put one on you?"
A hint of a smile appeared on his face. "Don't you think this is kind of inappropriate to talk about while I'm naked?"
Y/n rolled her eyes as she moved past him, walking into her bedroom. "You never had a problem before when you pranced about, wooing all the female foxes."
She was now sure he was grinning when he replied. "Yeah well, they didn't wear any clothes either. If you were to strip..."
Y/n whipped around from where she was rummaging in her closet for something to gape at him. He grinned, leaning against the doorframe, his hands folded against his chest.
That meant-
Y/n turned away from him just as fast as she had turned to him, and no matter how much she denied it, the image of him... it would be forever embedded in her mind.
"Asshole." She mumbled under her breath, her hand landing on a piece of clothing she was unfamiliar with.
It was a pant she had stolen years ago, and later realised it had been too big for her. It would have to do.
Without turning, Y/n threw the pants over her shoulder, and by the lack of sound, knew Rusty had caught it.
It was a few moment before he hummed, letting her know he was done, and Y/n turned, her mouth going dry at all the muscle displayed.
She hadn't had the time to appreciate what she saw before, as she was trying not to make a fool of herself by staring at his privates, but now that he was covered from the waist down, she could not help but stare at what she could see.
"Like what you see?"
Y/n's eyes flashed up, colour staining her cheeks as she huffed.
"Of course not. You are still Rusty for me, and I'd never think of someone called Rusty as anything I like."
He scoffed. "Please, my name is Lucien. I'd appreciate it if you stop referring to me as Rusty."
She lifted her chin defiantly. "No."
He sighed. "Very well, my lady. If that is what you wish for. After all, you broke my curse, I can't really order you around anymore."
"Yes, about that curse. Care to elaborate now that you are appropriate?"
He nodded, a seriousness coming over him. He followed her as she led him back out, settling down in front of the fireplace as she boiled some water for tea.
Once the tea was ready, Y/n passed one cup to Rusty- Lucien- and studied him, watching as he fumbled a little with the cup before he got a good grip on it.
"Let's start from the beginning." She nodded her head for him to continue. "Do you remember the most recent war that happened?"
She nodded. The destruction had been immense, according to what she had heard through rumours, but she lived far enough away from the wall that no harm reached her.
"There was a continent called Hybern. One of my closest friends was pretending to aid Hybern so he could gather intel about the kingdom's and the king's inner workings so he could help Prythian when the inevitable war came. Soldiers from Hybern had stolen the cauldron from its resting place in Prythian, and they knew that it could make anyone young and immortal."
"What is the cauldron?"
Lucien glanced at Y/n with raised brows, but explained to her what the cauldron was, who the mother was, and all the things that probably didn't matter to the story just because she didn't know about them.
A power like that? People would kill for it. Y/n thought.
"My friend's past lover, who had been mated to another high lord, arrived in Hybern, and realised her sisters had been kidnapped. The king ordered the sisters to be put into the cauldron. One of them turned out to be my... mate."
The jealousy that ripped through Y/n was unmatched from anything she had ever felt. And for what? The mention of someone she did not even know? Ridiculous.
"The older one, she apparently took something from the cauldron, in turn making the cauldron take away the youth from the human queen put in after her. The queen was furious, and she allied with a powerful death sorcerer."
"He found out about my... relationship with one of the sisters, and before we killed him, put a curse on me, because I was standing the closest to him. He turned me into a fox, and I could only be turned back if someone who loathed fae gave me shelter and food, even after knowing I was fae."
"Powerful death sorcerer, and all he could think of for his last breath was to turn you into a fox." Y/n muttered under her breath.
A breathy laugh escaped Lucien, which then full on turned into howls of laughter.
"So, what, your mate could not help?"
"She probably could have, given she couldn't bear being near me, but she wouldn't have. Me being a fox gave her freedom to pursue whomever she wished."
Y/n sighed. "Is everyone from the other side of the wall dumb?"
He shook his head, staring into the embers of the fire, though a smile remained on his mouth. Y/n glanced out the window, realising the sun was starting to rise.
"We should probably get some sleep."
Lucien followed her gaze to out the window, and he nodded.
"I will take the couch, you should sleep on your bed."
"Nonsense. You have been invading my space for the past month like your life depends on it. It won't be a big deal if you sleep next to me."
"Sleep next to you, not with you?"
"You know what? You can sleep on the porch."
He laughed, standing and pulling Y/n to her feet.
He leaned down, pressing his lips to her cheek.
"Thank you."
Y/n blushed, shaking her head.
"I will leave as soon as I can."
Hurt pierced Y/n's heart like a bolt from hell. "Why?"
His brows furrowed. "Why? I have taken enough advantage of you. I don't want to impose."
She shook her head again. "I like when you impose."
He smiled.
"If you say so."
•○🌑○•
General Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686 @cassie6392
Lucien Taglist: @kennedy-brooke @hnyclover @minnieoo @mirandasidefics @sidrapotter @hnyclover
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you cut your hair, and take some space.
pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader
synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 2 !
warnings. no use of y/n, age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, officer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, so much crying ( reader spends half her time crying over javi p which is honestly a mood ), violence, undetailed depictions of sa ( not javi ), smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !
word count. 15k
hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 30k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in two parts. part two will be posted within the following weeks.
(it'a nearly 4 am as i post this, please look the other way at any typos or editing errors.)
“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.”
“i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”
I cut my nose to save some face
You cut your hair and take some space.
The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.
Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.
It’s something new to fidget with.
On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.
You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.
If you do, you’ll blame him.
Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.
You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.
They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.
Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.
You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.
You were careful all night to never speak of him.
One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.
And then it happened.
You didn’t say his name, no.
Not aloud.
You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.
But it was enough to make you want to leave.
Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?
They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.
The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.
“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”
It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.
There were usually three of them.
"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it makes you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.
“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."
It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.
“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”
You didn’t have an answer.
You didn’t get to give an answer.
“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.
You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.
Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkempt facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.
Javier Peña was none of that.
The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.
The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.
His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.
It was like, nothing.
And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?
But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?
“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”
That was never part of the plan.
Neither was skipping dinner, though.
You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.
His hair, freshly cut.
“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”
A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”
That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped up on your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.
“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”
Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.
In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.
We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky
But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?
The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.
He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.
It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?
The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.
Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.
He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.
The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.
An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.
You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.
You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.
If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.
So you stumble to the elevator.
Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.
You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.
You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.
“Déjame. (Let me.)”
Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.
He catches you.
For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.
“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.
He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.
Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.
He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.
You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.
“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.
“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.
“I’m glad.”
It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.
It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.
It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.
Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.
You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.
Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.
A thud against the nightstand.
You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.
The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.
Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.
“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”
It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.
He looks like he wants to.
His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.
Against your forehead, lips that linger.
Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.
On the forehead, way up north
Pressed the scar and found the source
Vermont, ‘98.
That’s where it all began.
Your dad, turning fifty.
Javi just hit forty.
It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.
Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.
Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?
Wrong.
The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.
Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.
A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.
Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.
The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.
The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.
You put your head down, breathed more subtly.
The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.
The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.
They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.
One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.
You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.
Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.
“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”
Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.
“Why don’cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.
You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.
So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”
And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.
Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.
You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.
“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”
“I have an early flight.”
“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”
A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.
“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”
It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.
“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”
The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.
Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.
He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.
You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.
It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.
He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.
You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.
You don’t remember which direction you turned.
“Quit running, you bitch!”
He was still following, how was he still following?
Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.
He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.
You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.
Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.
“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”
You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.
Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.
There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.
You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.
He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?
“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.
A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.
His thumb swiped over your palm.
Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.
He held you in place.
Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.
He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.
The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.
You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.
“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”
He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.
He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.
“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”
You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.
The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.
It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.
He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.
“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.
You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.
“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.
Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.
Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.
You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.
He took you back to his own cabin instead.
Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.
Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.
If you don’t love me,
Why’d you act it?
Late june brings nothing but gloom.
You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.
Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.
Tonight, you’re appeasing them.
Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.
Truth be told, you don’t want to go.
You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.
Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.
In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.
The clock sits at eight forty-seven.
They’re 2 minutes late.
You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.
You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.
Dive back in, search again.
An empty tube of lipbalm.
Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.
A broken earring.
A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.
Bile burns the back of your throat.
He opens on the fifth knock.
Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.
Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.
He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.
The air’s uncomfortably quiet.
You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.
“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”
“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.
The silence returns.
You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.
He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.
You notice his bedroom door is shut.
It’s never been shut before.
“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”
He blinks, slowly.
It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.
“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.
He doesn’t answer.
You keep talking.
“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”
“This needs to stop.”
You don’t have to question it.
You do, anyway.
“What?”
“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”
“I don’t underst-”
He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”
He’s stern.
Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.
“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”
“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”
Everything, you want to tell him.
For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.
“I just thought-”
“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”
I know, you mouth.
Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.
When he calls to make sure you got home safe.
When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.
When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.
Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.
So why does he act like it?
“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”
Kid.
That makes you angry.
He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.
“Don’t call me kid.”
“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”
“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”
“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”
At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.
Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.
He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.
Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.
Silence.
You take the lead.
“So, what? That’s it just... over?”
“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”
It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.
Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.
The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.
“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”
He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.
“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”
Too late, you want to say.
You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.
“Corazón, I’m so sor-”
The car honks, again.
You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.
Another honk.
You never make it to the line dance.
You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.
Love’s a verb
And not a bandage
In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.
A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.
Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.
All you remember is a pounding at your front door.
1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.
You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-
Pause.
This could be anyone, anything.
You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.
He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.
You let him invade your senses.
Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-
You pull back. He follows.
It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.
Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.
“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.
There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.
He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.
Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.
This time, you do trip over them.
It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.
He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.
The gold of his skin shines brighter.
The red on his skin appears darker.
“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.
“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”
Later with Javi never seems to come.
‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’
‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’
‘I’ll get these back to you later.’
He’d never made you that dinner.
He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.
You’d never gotten those panties back.
You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”
The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.
You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.
Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.
He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.
“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”
“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”
It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.
“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”
He hisses.
You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.
There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.
A splotch of red stains your skin.
“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”
It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.
A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.
There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.
“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.
Javi sighs, gives in.
He always gives in, to you, eventually.
“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”
He doesn’t finish his sentence.
He doesn’t need to.
“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.
“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”
He’s rambling.
Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.
You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.
“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”
He chokes.
On his words, on his breath, on his failure.
You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.
Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.
“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”
“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.
He nods.
“Did you help her?”
Another nod.
“Did you get her someplace safe?”
This time, a reply.
“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”
“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”
A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.
“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.
“What more could you have done?”
“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”
You whine out his name.
The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.
The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.
He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.
Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.
“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”
The words catch in your throat.
Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.
But mostly because he kisses you.
Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.
He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.
Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.
The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.
He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.
When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.
The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.
He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.
When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.
“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”
Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.
When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?
And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth)
Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)
By July, things change.
The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.
The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.
Boredom leads to hobbies.
At first, you try pottery.
Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.
Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.
You hate it, running.
You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.
But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.
The heartache.
The headache.
The agent.
You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.
Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.
The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.
But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.
Not right now.
Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.
The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.
No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.
You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.
Today, however, it’s more challenging.
The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.
You have to come, kiddo.
The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.
Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.
You’d wanted a better explanation than that.
Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.
You had no plans.
Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!
You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.
C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!
You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.
The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!
He said it, like that would persuade you.
Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.
The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.
Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!
You’d hung up.
Immediately.
Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.
Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.
All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.
Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.
It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There’s a sting of tears in your eyes.
Until you come to a screeching halt.
Double over.
Place your hands on your knees.
Dry heave.
You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.
Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.
You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.
You’ll have to see him.
Spend time near him.
Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.
It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.
For not quitting the force.
For being your dad’s friend.
For not wanting you the same you wanted him.
Want him.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.
You’re usually more careful.
You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.
You pick your pace back up.
Manage only a handful-or-two steps.
Your feet fly out in front of you.
Land ass-first on the gravel below.
Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.
You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.
You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.
Big mistake.
The hand tugs you.
You glance up.
And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.
“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”
It’s no less than you deserves, you think.
And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.
You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.
He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.
It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.
You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.
You come up empty handed.
Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.
Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?
There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.
Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.
Wedding attire, a post-party glow.
It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.
Had he smiled, then?
Had he even been there?
Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-
His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.
His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.
“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.
He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.
Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.
He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.
“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”
“I- What?” Confussion.
You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.
He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.
Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.
It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.
Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.
His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.
You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.
And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.
Or both.
“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”
“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”
A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.
Your father’s voice.
It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.
He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.
He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.
His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.
Maybe it’s sadness you see.
There’s definitely remorse.
Guilt, too.
“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.
But none of that matter, anymore.
You’re already walking away.
Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.
He calls out your name, loudly.
Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.
People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.
You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.
He reaches out for your hand.
And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.
“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”
He knows the answer.
You still give him it, “yes.”
Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.
You feel his eyes on you.
And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.
Broke me big time
It’s funny and I’m laughing baby
You think I’m alright
You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.
A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.
She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.
Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.
You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.
You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.
That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.
It’s not her fault. You know.
She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.
Your dad is.
And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.
Even from here, you can hear him bragging.
So then Peña’s on his ass.
Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!
Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.
All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.
He’s exaggerating.
The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!
He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.
Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.
He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.
Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.
If you step inside the frame, it cracks.
Shatters.
And maybe he knows that.
Knew it all along.
Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.
And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.
The feeling lasts all but four seconds.
“Kiddo!”
Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.
It takes a moment, but you wave.
“Come over ‘ere!”
Not the response you were hoping for.
Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.
Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.
“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.
“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.
The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.
He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.
“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.
In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.
It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.
Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.
It’s not a sight you want to see.
It fills you with dread.
Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.
“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”
“London.”
Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.
All eyes snap to him.
Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.
Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.
Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”
That peaks your interest.
Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”
With Javi, friends could mean anything.
A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.
For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.
So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.
“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”
“Mr... Bond?”
The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.
You can practically hear it, in his voice.
“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”
He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.
The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.
And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.
Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.
“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.
Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.
His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.
“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”
“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”
“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”
It’s too late though.
You’re already snoring against his skin.
“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”
For a minute, it feels like she knows.
She knows why Javi knows.
You should be panicking.
Both of you should.
Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.
But you aren’t. Neither of you are.
You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.
“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”
Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.
Your mom rolls her eyes.
Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.
“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”
“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.
Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.
There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.
You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.
“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.
Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.
Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.
Open, celebrated, acknowledged.
Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.
Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.
As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.
“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”
Your heart drops.
Javi’s seems to do the same.
For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.
Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.
“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”
But I’m actually bloody
Motherfucking batshit crazy
There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.
You’ve lived plenty of such moments.
But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.
And all because you heard his voice.
“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.
He’s facing a woman.
She’s pretty.
With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.
And a well-rounded belly.
“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”
You’ve never seen her before.
Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.
She’s a total stranger, to you.
But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.
A very pregnant, non-stranger.
“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”
His hand rests on her bump.
She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.
The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.
The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.
You won’t let it fester.
Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.
It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.
Was she the reason things between you and him ended?
Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?
Was he with her, all along, while he was with...
Surely, he couldn’t have.
But, then, why couldn’t he have?
You were never exclusive.
You were never anything.
“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”
Your heart’s palpitating.
Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.
Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.
Because, how could he do this to you?
Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?
Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?
Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-
“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”
At first, you think it’s spoken to you.
But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.
A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.
He’s handsome, in the typical sense.
Blonde haired, a nice smile.
There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.
“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.
“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.
The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”
The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”
“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”
The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.
The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.
Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.
And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.
Friends his own age.
Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.
Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.
“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”
The little girl perks right up at that.
Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.
“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.
“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”
“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”
Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”
You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.
“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”
In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.
Your breathing stops.
Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”
“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”
“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”
“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”
You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.
They walk away and you’re left alone, again.
Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-
He’s no longer standing on the other side.
You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.
Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.
I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs
So pour the gin and call Graham Norton
You wake up early.
You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.
Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.
The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.
The truth lies in that you can not sleep.
Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.
Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.
A quarter past six.
Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.
Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.
It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.
Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.
In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.
Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.
Your ringtone is the culprit.
Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.
Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.
You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.
“Corazón.”
It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.
You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.
Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.
Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.
“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”
“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.
It’s enough to shut him up.
Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.
“You’re in London,” he states.
“I am,” you affirm.
He hums, sips something.
Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.
“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”
“Yeah,” you spare him the details.
The truth.
The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.
“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”
“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.
You sure felt alone.
“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”
“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”
“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”
For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.
You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.
Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.
You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.
“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.
For answers, for clarity, for closure
“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”
“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.
Even then, it kills you to do so.
“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”
Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.
You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.
“What answer?”
“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.
You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.
He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.
“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”
You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.
You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.
The image doesn’t quite form.
“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”
It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.
Refuge he’s willing to share with you.
That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.
You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.
“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”
Your reply is instant, “I promise.”
“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”
“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”
I’m gonna throw you down the river
Your mum can watch it over dinner
“How you feeling, kiddo?”
You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.
“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”
Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.
All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.
Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.
She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.
Neither of them have, really.
“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”
“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”
Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.
“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”
“You’re literally in my room!”
“Which is literally in my house!”
Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.
Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.
Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.
He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.
Tupperware, clasped in his hand.
The contents are hard to decipher.
Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.
“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”
Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.
The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.
In fact, you can’t think of anything better.
“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”
He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes.
Immediately, you spot chicken.
Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.
You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.
Your father continues, practically talking to himself.
“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”
“Cazuela de ave.”
A change into warmer, drier clothes.
Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.
Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.
It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.
And that fact is partly what warms your insides.
You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.
Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.
Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.
He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.
And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.
The scent alone is enough to have you salivating.
Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.
“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.
And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.
Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.
A real date.
Only, this isn’t even a fake date.
You guys don’t do that.
“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”
Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.
He’s never mentioned his mother.
Or much about his family, really.
There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.
But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.
A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.
Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.
Open.
His eyes, his mind, his heart.
And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.
“Was she a good cook?”
Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.
“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.
Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.
A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.
It’s disturbingly beautiful.
You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.
Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.
“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”
You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing.
It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.
In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.
A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.
“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.
Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.
“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”
There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.
Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.
“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”
You don’t know what to say.
You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.
Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.
Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.
“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”
Both of you settle back in your seats.
You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-
“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”
Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.
When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.
And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.
Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.
Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.
You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.
“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”
Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.
“She would have liked you.”
You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.
They’re as open as before.
“Really?”
“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”
“Kiddo?”
You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.
“Hmm?”
“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.
“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”
“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”
Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.
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at the rainbow's end // mysta rias
pairing: mysta rias x gn!reader
word count: 4.1k
genre: fluff, staff!reader, mutual pining, wingman elira
content warning(s): swearing, unedited
summary:
After nearly a year of hearing each other's voice, you finally meet him.
a/n: this was originally going to be released as my 100 follower celebration since i hit that a while back and to make up for the lack of event since i don’t have the time to host one. but with mysta’s graduation this past weekend, i didn’t want to keep this in my drafts since i’ve been working on this for like practically a year now.
this fox-dog man means so much to me, even though i can’t really catch his streams due to timezone differences, but he means So Much to me. i got back into writing because of luxiem, but he and shu were the ones who got me back into the swing of writing which is amazing bc i love writing. i just lost all the motivation to do so until i found them last year. even though he’s no longer in niji anymore or mysta anymore, i will keep writing for him. in fact, i actually have like 3 or so mysta works in the drafts lol
and speaking of writing, this is the first long fic i’ve written in 3-4 years. i’m considering crossposting this onto my ao3 as an alternative access to read longer fics bc ik how tumblr is poopy with loading long text posts. i’m a bit rusty when it comes to writing long fics, but i hope you’ll be able to enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing this 🧡
links: luxiem m.l || main m.l || ao3 ver (if tumblr dies)
You twist your head from your phone back towards your monitor, displaying the Discord window showing your current private call with your blue dragon friend.
“Mysta’s WHAT?”
“Yeah, he’s coming along on the trip,” Elira laughed. “You didn’t know?”
“Apparent-ly! What the hell!! Luca, that motherfucker, I’m gonna beat his ass when I see him!”
She howls with laughter as you ramble on and on about how Luca told you everything about their planned trip but didn’t tell you about Mysta’s planned involvement. Once you’re done, she takes many deep breaths to calm down. “You should come with us! It’s gonna be fun. And, you’ll get to see him again.~”
You can’t really see each other’s faces, considering you’re both in a voice call. But god damn, you can hear the eyebrow wiggle in her teasing tone.
“I can’t,” you groaned, “I have finals when you’re there. As much as I wanna skip it, I really need to pass.”
“Damn, you can’t even get a referral from staff to get you here for a business meeting? Unlucky.”
“Can’t even do that anyway. I already told my professor that my trip’s been canceled, so now I have to take it.”
Though you’re not a liver for the company, you are, however, a staff member for the company. Specifically one of the staff in charge of promotions. Of course, you mainly focus on promoting EN and sometimes the other two now-merged branches. In fact, that’s how you got close to some of the livers.
As one of the staff promoters, you have to speak with the associated livers about PR stream offers and their convention appearance invites. Since you’ve been interacting with the livers the most, you’ve become friends with a few of them. Some namely Elira and Mysta.
Honestly, it’s not that you play favorites with the livers. You try your best to keep your relationships professional with them. But your bond with a specific fox-like man says otherwise.
You see, Mysta has been a joy to be around with. Although you haven’t met him in person yet, you have played some multiplayer games with him. Sometimes you check out the EN Minecraft server to see if the installed mods are working properly. Weirdly enough, almost every time you visit the server, Mysta is online. In fact, that’s how your not-so-business relationship started.
When you first entered the server, after double checking if no one was streaming at the scheduled hour, he was the first person you met. You thought you would run into Selen, Pomu, or perhaps Uki during your visit, but you were pleasantly surprised at his sudden appearance. Luckily, he was kind enough to show you around the server while teaching you some mods. With, of course, the trademark Mysta Rias experience packaged with sexual innuendos and teasing about. Well, except he didn’t go completely sexual considering it was your first time meeting him. He has some decency.
After that, you’ve run into him almost every time you visit the Minecraft server. Every visit eventually turned into hangouts, just you two (and sometimes another liver) chatting and building projects in-game. Soon enough, you and Mysta started to play other games together. You both played games such as Overwatch, Clubhouse, and sometimes League if you felt like torturing yourself for some reason.
Obviously, you had to keep the professionalism on both sides somehow. Your fellow staff members, especially some livers, noticed your close bond with the detective. So they usually send you to his DMs to discuss about any promotion offers involving him. Whenever you have your cameras on for a meeting, he somehow always flusters you with sudden flirtatious marks or something of the sort mid-conversation.
“Hello? Helloooooooo? Is someone there??”
Elira’s voice yoinks you out of your thoughts. Oh god, were you spacing out this entire time? How embarassing.
You clear your throat then respond as if you weren’t thinking of someone just now, “S-sorry, did you say something?”
“Oh my god. It’s that bad,” she mindlessly mutters.
Blink blink. “Huh?”
“Nothing,” she quickly retaliates. With a slight hum, she speaks again, “Since you’re gonna be stuck in hell… Want me to get you something? Like a souvenir or a limited edition thing? I literally have your address, man.”
Oh right, she does. Sometimes you and Elira send gifts to each other like figurines or plushies at random times.
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks for the offer, man.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’ll still probably send some pics buuut… Y’know… Just saying…”
There she goes again, doing that thing where she wiggles her eyebrows even though you can’t see her fucking face right now. Goddamn it, why did you tell her about your… thing with Mysta? You should’ve known that she’s NOT going to let it go.
You groan, “Just. Just surprise me.”
“That’s so vague! Do you know what that means?”
“Yeah? So? Surprise me.”
“Man… You have no idea how much power you just gave me.” She cackles for the next few seconds, making you start regretting your decision. “Okay, I’ll surprise you. Just don’t forget you asked me to, alright? And no complaining!”
“Okay, alright, fine! I won’t complain! Jeez… Now get to bed, nerd, you have a flight tomorrow.”
“Sheesh, what are you, my mom?” You both chuckle at her remark. “Okieee~ I’ll go pass out now, I guess. Good night!”
“Good night, Ewiwa. Have a safe trip.”
And you both leave call. Well, maybe you should get to sleep too. It’s getting super late, after all.
—
Mysta stares at Elira across the table in disbelief. “Finals? Of all times? Bruh…”
“Haha, yeah! Super uncool and lame and not something I have to worry about soon,” his penguin colleague beside him laughs with a dreadfully crazed look in her eyes. She anxiously reaches out for her soda and starts drinking rapidly.
“Wh— it’s not like I can control it or anything. Shit happens!”
“I know, it’s just…” he drawls off as his gaze lowers to the table. Admittedly, it’s difficult for him to hide his expression. So naturally, the two girls noticed his disappointment. Elira and Petra awkwardly look at each other, then to him, then back at each other.
“Hey, it’s okay, Mysta,” Petra says as she pats his back. “You can always see them next time! Like Nijifest!”
The dragon nods, “Yeah! Or you could see them the next time you take a break. Like going on another vacation or something.”
“If I have enough money for it,” he sighed. But he gives them a small smile to appreciate their attempts to soothe him.
Petra frowns. “If? Mysta, you’re literally one of the top livers in EN, like? Hello? Mr. One Million?”
“But I still don’t know when that’s gonna happen. Might as well be in a year or maybe like half a year or something.”
Elira’s eyes narrow. She quietly listens to their conversation, or bickering at this point, while taking some occasional sips of her drink.
For the past practically a year, Elira’s been one of the victims to both of your hopeless gushing.
She already knew about your friendship since you’ve talked a lot about it before. She knows the stupid hijinks and drunken confessions that you and Mysta told her about off stream. Her eyes closes as a confused thought crosses her mind, Seriously, how are you two not dating already?
Of course, she’s quite aware that the rest of Luxiem are both of your victims. Hell, when Elira’s alone with the other boys, it’s usually them talking about how astonishing that you and Mysta aren’t together. Sometimes, they make bets on who’s going to confess first. It’s obvious!
Even with the two going back and forth, practically becoming one with the background, she closes her eyes and hums in thought. Finals should be finished next week, she mused. Her visible eye opens as she takes a glance at the ashy haired male. But he’s been so busy lately that they haven’t spoken with each other…
The entire EN branch had a full schedule for the past few months. In fact, their schedule was so full that sometimes the livers couldn’t make their own streaming schedules nor stream in general. Mysta, of course, was no exception. As one of the most popular livers in EN, he’s one of the most busiest people she’s ever known. On top of that, you too have been busy recently too. You haven’t been able to hang out with him as of late despite being a staff member yourself. Life really likes to fuck anyone over, doesn’t it?
She could tell that you two haven’t been able to find the time to talk with each other. The staff picked up many projects that practically almost everyone is unavailable, and you were one of said unavailable members. The only times the livers could contact you was through Slack or by email for business inquiries. But things should be slightly slowing down, for now that is.
Although, it would be nice to have you two meet each other once at the same time, even if it’s a coincidental encounter.
Wait a minute…
A devious smirk lifts her lips, her eyes glinting with mischief in mind. She chuckles to herself as she entertains the thought. Hell, it even looks kinda creepy to the other patrons. ESPECIALLY to her coworkers who’s now staring at her with confusion and a hint of fear.
“…Elira? Are you okay?” Petra asked the dragon.
“Hm?” She blinks out of her thoughts as the penguin’s voice pulls her back into reality. Elira stares at her and Mysta, who also looks a bit dumbfounded, before grinning at them. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Just thought of something.”
Blink blink. “Like what?” Mysta asked this time.
Again, she lets out a chuckle and flicks her wrist to wave off the concern. “Like I said! Don’t worry about it! Y’all will see it eventually.”
Soon enough, the waitress arrives with their orders. Elira turns to face her and helps her with the food. On the other side of the table, the two livers tilt their heads in confusion and eventually give each other an unknowing look as the table is served.
—
You lie in bed snuggled underneath your covers, but the lights are still on as you scroll through Twitter on your phone.
It’s been about a couple weeks since your call with Elira. She’s been sending you updates, videos, and pictures of the group’s adventures in Japan. Sometimes, she’d call you before going to bed to tell you what happened during the trip in case it was a story she couldn’t explain over text. Of course, there were times when another liver like Reimu and Nina would join in the call and give you the tea. As much as you wished you wanted to be there while dying in exams, you felt warm as you saw the livers enjoying themselves on their vacation.
Then, you noticed how fast the month flew by. Eventually, it was time for the livers to fly home and say goodbye for a while. They all had different flights, obviously, but there was a specific person who didn’t leave the country yet.
You were looking on Twitter while watching the members’ story time streams on a pop-up viewer. Although, you didn’t see Mysta’s waiting room or tweet indicating his return to streaming yet.
Suddenly, you remembered why.
“He wants to stay back for a bit,” Elira answered over the sound of her packing. “Dunno why, but I don’t blame him. He was in Japan for work last time.”
That he was. Though disappointing it is that you can’t hang with him for a while longer, at least he’s having fun.
“Oh, remember the thing I asked you about?”
She asked you something? When?
“What thing?” You asked.
“Uh… The souvenir thing?”
Oh shit, you forgot about that. And apparently, she noticed your forgetfulness as indicated by her laughter.
“I got you something,” Elira continued, “but I’ll send it to you when I get back.”
“Why not now? You can just ask headquarters to send it to me.”
“It’s not something in a box though.”
You blinked in confusion, unanswering.
On the other end of the line, you heard her chuckle, “You’ll see.”
Your brief conversation did, in fact, make you scared. Although it’s Elira, your local dependable dragon, sometimes she can be as unpredictable as… well… the rest of Nijisanji. Not just EN, but Nijisanji in general. Remember that one time you watched her stream where she suddenly jumped into a hole in that Forest collab? Yeah…
Now, some time has passed since the trip and she’s been home for about almost a week. It’s something not in a box, right? So what’s taking her so long? Is it digital? Or did she fuck up somewhere with the delivery?
Currently, you’ve been juggling schoolwork, personal work, and work-work. Needless to say, it’s been a stressful time, especially around this type of year. Seriously, why is everyone so goddamn busy around this time? Idle thoughts aside, you’ve also been anxiously waiting for Elira’s souvenir. For the past week, you’d constantly check your phone and your PC for any email or DM from Slack and Discord with Elira’s name attached to it. Every time you get DM’ed or emailed, it’s always been another liver or staff member whose name doesn’t start with Elira and end with Pendora.
But hey, at least you got funny memes from Luca and Mysta in the mean time!
Honestly, at this point, you might as well just give up. Maybe she did run into issues, or she just forgot.
You let out a sigh as you refreshed your feed for the umpteenth time tonight, accompanied by the ghost’s voice eminating through your speakers. Yet suddenly, a notification banner from Discord slides down onto the screen.
Elira Pendora
SURPRISE!!!!
Oh.
Huh.
So she didn’t forget??
Confused yet astonished at the same time, you pull down your notifications bar and tap on the DM to see what she sent.
As the iconic Discord logo pops up on your screen, it eventually loads your conversation with Elira. When you look past your previous chat, a message larger than it should be fills about a third of your screen.
A plane ticket to London next week. Seat number and all. And most notably, it has your name.
…
“HUH?”
You frantically tap on the textbox and type.
You
GIRL
WHAGT THE FUCK IS THIS
Elira Pendora
your souvenir! ☺️
You
WDYM SOUVENIR THATS NOT EVEN RELATED TO JAPAN??? 😭😭😭😭
also
HOW DID YUO GET MY NUMBER??? AND MY EMAIL????? :monkas:
Elira Pendora
I had to pull a few strings with staff
just normal coworker things
You
:thonk:
“normal”
Elira Pendora
but like you should go!!!
I didn’t go through all that just for you to not see him
and you really needed a break so 😎
You
??????
but hes Still in japan?????
Elira Pendora
yeah but he’s flying back home next week
I asked him earlier and had to like try to figure out how to get you to meet him at the same time
or like
around the same time 😌
You
man idk if i should thank you or yell at you
Elira Pendora
LMAO EITHER WORKS IT’S OKAY MAN
better get ready!!!
You
wait what about the hotel
Elira Pendora
what hotel? ☺️
i’m sure he wouldn’t mind letting you stay for a few days tbh
and yes I will also pay for your return trip
You
BUT YOUR LEN FUNDS……
Elira Pendora
I KNOW 😭😭😭
but it’s worth it! go get your man bitch!!
but :thonk:
I think I’ll try to pass out now since I have something scheduled tomorrow soooo
GOOD NIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!
You
gn ewiwa :D
Well! Looks like you have a trip to prepare for.
—
The gray haired detective lounged comfortably in the AirBnB’s living room, resting on the sofa as he scrolled through Twitter. He let out a chuckle here and there, sometimes full on laughing whenever a funny meme popped up on his timeline.
“Meesta!” Elira called out to him from the kitchen island.
He turned around to look at the unusually giddy dragon. Confused, he asked, “What’s up?”
“When are you heading back?”
“Uh…” Pulling out his phone, he quickly went through his gallery to find a screenshot of his ticket. Once he found it, he examined the ticket for its boarding time and date then put it away. “In like a couple or so weeks. I thought I told you?”
“I don’t think you did,” she answered.
She motioned him to give her the device, or at least show her the screen. Of course, he complied. Though insane she is, he does have immense respect for her and Lazulight. Mysta stood up from his seat and approached her. Once in the kitchen area, he flipped his phone towards her, letting her singular visible eye take a peek.
Elira hummed as she inspected the ticket details then pulled back. “Cool. Thanks man!”
She walked away from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water upstairs leaving him even more confused.
It’s been three weeks since his unusual encounter with Elira. He sits idly at a bench by a luggage conveyor in the airport, waiting for his bags to unload from the plane. While waiting, he leans back into his seat and lets out an exhausted sigh. Luckily, no one is seated beside him, so he could just take up all the space on this uncomfortable bench. Still, he couldn’t help but reminisce onto their conversation.
Was she planning something? Was she just curious? What was she cooking?
Now, he’s back in the dreaded land of England, land of the beloathed. He pulls out his phone and immediately checks Discord. The EN server is lively as always, everyone’s practically home but the sense of energy radiates from the screen despite being digital. Like any other liver, he hops in the conversation a bit, sometimes memeing around with the others in the general channel.
Although, he noticed that your icon hasn’t appeared at least once since he landed. He was even paying attention to the top left corner of his screen for a red dot indicating your message. Normally, you’d send him a meme or something to see while he’s asleep or busy. But strangely enough, you haven’t yet. Maybe he should send you something? Or maybe call?
Mysta continues to catch up and reflect on the livers’ vacation in Japan on the server, his attention eventually caught by a familiar bag on the conveyor.
Welp. Looks like he’ll call you later.
—
Thank god Elira had the brain cells to make sure your flight isn’t after his own. Of course, she had to take in account about the flight times since you’re both literally across the globe from each other going to London. To avoid missing him right after landing, you were booked super early into the morning. But sometimes, there’s a possibility that you might be too early when he lands. And, unfortunately, that seems to be the case.
“He lands around midnight,” Elira told you on phone prior to checking in. “So you should be a biiiit early.”
Yeah, by like, 2 hours.
Man, what the hell are you supposed to do for two whole hours? Well, at least you have your phone AND your luggage. You could even people watch in the lobby. But that’s 2 hours!
What’s even more fucked up is that you can’t really use your phone unless you find the wifi. But airport wifi is kinda shitty, especially in England of all places. Talk about a British debuff.
You let out a heavy sigh and collapse into your seat. Napping is out of the question, even though you’re still kind of tired from the flight. Don’t wanna risk missing him by a smidgen, of course. So you ended up roaming around the airport for a while, getting yourself some drinks and snacks to keep you occupied while waiting for your friend. Luckily there were plenty of places to lounge while waiting, so you found a place to sit and enjoy your haul of snacks while waiting.
You did get to connect to the public wifi to look at some memes, but again, it’s the airport wifi. With how slow your phone’s been loading, you eventually disconnect yourself from the wifi after moments of mindless scrolling.
But then you realized something.
You have absolutely no idea what gate he’s in.
Panicked, you scramble to pick up your bags from your side and stand up. Shit, did Elira tell you what airline he took? God, having data in another country would be so helpful. There’s absolutely no way you’re gonna reconnect to the public wifi, it’s too damn slow! If you did have data, you’d look back to your DMs and scrub through your brief conversation from last night.
With a quick glance at your phone, the clock flashes briefly on the screen. 9:20pm, that means his flight’s arriving in less than an hour. Oh shit.
Immediately, you pace briskly throughout the terminals. As you scrounge through the crowds just to take a good look at the terminals, you ask staff for international flights from Japan along the way to help narrow down as much as possible. Throughout the search, you occasionally checked the clock on your phone. 9:40? Shit, his flight should be here now or soon.
“Mysta!” You suddenly shout, passerbys looking at you strangely as you start calling for his name. Your luggage rolls and bumps against the crevices of the floor, bags jostling as you promptly continue your search throughout the terminals. “Mysta Rias!”
Meanwhile, in the same area…
An ashy gray haired man stands in front of the carousel, waiting for the rest of his bags to drop onto the conveyor belt. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, taking a quick glance at his notifications and Discord. His mouth lowers into a frown, his brows furrowing in worry as he notices the lack of notifications from you. Did they really fall asleep?
Clink-clang!
Sunset kissed eyes shift towards the carousel at the sound. Spotting his luggage on the conveyor belt, he walks over to his revolving baggage and lifts them onto the ground. Maybe he’ll shoot you a dm later when he gets home. The handle on his large case clicks as he pulls it up, soon dragging it on its wheels behind him as he heads towards the direction of the exit.
You continue running and searching for him, frantically calling his name throughout the terminal. Your head turns left and right as you look into the surrounding late night crowd, your gaze briefly analyzing each arrival for any hint of his gray hair or his tallness. As you remain standing in the middle of the hall, looking for him, you see a tall man wearing small shades on the bridge of his nose. Gray side hairs framing his face sway into the air as he lugs his bags from the baggage claim and towards the nearest exit.
Without a second thought, your feet starts moving towards him. “Mysta—“ you call. “Mysta!”
After seconds and minutes of searching for him, calling his name and pushing through the crowd as you chase after him. Just a little more…!
“MYSTA!”
And finally… Finally, you see him.
With a clear shout of his name, the gray haired man halts.
Bewildered, he looks left and right until he turns around to see you panting. His heart stopped as he stares at you astonishly. The ambience of the crowd and muffled intercom speakers drowned out as he zoned onto you.
He looked at you.
The person standing just centimeters away from him.
The person who he thought was someone he’d never meet face to face ever.
The person who helped him find a reason to keep going even in the darkest of times.
It felt like hours just staring at each other. It didn’t even feel like there was an ocean of people swarming about and passing by. Without a second thought, Mysta slowly approaches you as if he were to scare you off. As if he didn’t want to wake up, if he is dreaming.
As he gets closer and closer, you didn’t make a move. No, you merely stared at him with wonder and excitement im your eyes.
You both stood across each other, only a few centimeters apart. He blinks several times, even pinching his wrists to disprove his thoughts. But he felt a stinging pain on each part.
An airy huff somewhat resembling a laugh escapes from him. Relief washes over him, and he whispers with a smile, “…Hi.”
You smile back.
“Hi.”
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