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lavendertales · 2 years

Text

Love in the dark: Part II**

pairing: Javier Peña x wife!reader

summary: when another argument ensues between you and Javier, you take things out on each other in the only way you know how.

word count: 4.6k

WARNINGS: this chapter is more from Javi’s perspective, so... talk of trauma & PTSD; dom!Javi, doggy, choking, hair pulling, some dirty talk (smut’s in second half)

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

gif: @djarsdin

series masterlist | AO3

“Tell me about Colombia.”

The question drops like a boulder on his head, even though he’s heard it plenty before and he’s answered it even more.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Not a moment later, he wishes he hadn’t.

He sees your face all the time. Somehow, he sees your face more often when he closes his eyes than in real life. Maybe it’s because when he closes his eyes, he sees the woman who captured his heart in the most unexpected and loving way. And when he opens his eyes… she’s barely there.

Though verbally he might say shameful things to you, he doesn’t blame you for your anger, your exhaustion. They come from a place of grief and pain as well. No, he blamed himself. He never took proper care of himself and in the past couple of years, it began to show.

The smallest things set him off in inexplicable ways; a can that wouldn’t open, hot coffee poured over his hand, ash from his cigarette staining his favorite tie… he felt this white, hot rage seeping through his every pore, boiling in his veins, and he lashed out. Loud noises seemed to be a trigger too, but at least that he could associate with the gunshots, screams and explosions back in Colombia.

He didn’t think to figure things out thought. He just assumed—God knew how—it will all go away and you’ll both be sweet to each other again.

But it didn’t go away. It kept boiling at the surface, tipping over when he lashed out and you ended up in bed together, sweaty, exhausted, and no closer to resolving the issue than you were half hour before.

It was the same routine: small things became a trigger, one of you started arguing with the other, anger-fueled sex ensued and by the very end, a cigarette was lit and alcohol was poured in a glass. The same thing the next day. And the next. And so on.

He can’t remember when the last time he kissed you was. It makes his heart ache to realize that he hadn’t kissed you in… oh God, how long has it been? And how was that even possible? You slept together, your bodies were entangled together as one, and yet—he didn’t kiss you.

It must’ve been months now. It was just a quick fix, some rough fucking that, in the end, didn’t solve anything.

When he reopens his eyes, he’s in the same office, the same Ms. Pearson looking at him, anticipating an answer from his side.

“Colombia was… hell,” he says, his voice grave like sand on paper. “There was too much blood, too much pain, too much corruption that neither one of us could expose. It went too deep and far for us DEA agents to do anything about it. After we ended Escobar and his cartel, the Cali cartel rose to power and things got… even messier, somehow. They did things with more precision, but the lengths they went to in order to protect themselves… they were monsters.”

“That couldn’t have been easy.”

He doesn’t say anything, but closes his eyes again, just momentarily, so he can see your face again. The woman who owns his entire being. Then, he breathes in and out, steadily.

“Does that help?” Ms. Pearson asks. “The deep breaths, closing your eyes… some self-soothing technique, I assume.”

“Oh. That. Yeah, it—it helps.”

“Can I ask, what do you see when you close your eyes? Do you relive those moments back in Colombia?”

Javier scoffs. “No. The only time I relive those is when I sleep.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yes.”

Ms. Pearson writes down something, but Javier pays that no mind.

“So? What do you see?”

“I see her. Whenever I close my eyes… she’s there. Smiling at me. Telling me that I can do this, that I can move on, that I can… breathe.”

“You reminisce the way your wife was, in other words.”

“More or less.”

“Why do you think that is? Your wife is right there with you, in the same house, the same bed… yet you dream of the way she was.”

He exhales loudly, staring into the ground. “I guess… I miss the way we were. Before our grief consumed us.”

“What do you grieve for, Javier?”

He frowns in the slightest, unsure of what to respond. Deep down, he knows he needn’t do much searching. The answers are all buried in the same box at the back of his mind, the box that carries all of his pain, his past issues and fears.

“Me,” he finally says with a knot in his throat. “The person I used to be, much simpler and carefree, I guess. My mom. The life I could’ve had had I not left for Colombia.”

“From what I hear, though, you are seen as a hero.”

He chuckles mockingly, rubbing his hands on his pants. “People say what they want to believe.”

“I take it you don’t feel that way.”

“I got more than I bargained for and I failed.”

Ms. Pearson nods, remaining silent for a while. Javier, for a while, starts to overthink everything.

“Do you think that this internalized pain you still carry from Colombia, all this resentment for the image this town painted for you, have anything to do with the way you are lashing out?”

Javier nearly laughs in her face, but refrains himself from doing so.

“I don’t see any other reason why I’d be hurting the love of my life.”

She nods understandingly a few times. “How were things right before you met her?”

There’s no need to reminisce about that. Javier has those times tattooed on his brain for him to view every day, like a sadomasochistic montage of what his life used to be like before he wrecked it.

“It was… dark. Seemed hopeless and futile. I was so damn tired, so… sick and tired of getting close to achieving something meaningful and then having it ripped from my hands. And then I met her.”

He remembers the day perfectly. You were such perfect fit into that imperfect scenario, he almost couldn’t believe it.

It was pouring like crazy for hours, and Javier had what could only be described as one of the worst days ever. He had been late that morning, went to grab a cup of coffee from one of his favorite little places on the corner and realized he left his wallet. The waitress offered to pay for his coffee instead, gesture fortified by her wink and shy smile down his way. He promised to return the next day and pay her back. Then, some nasty, hyperactive kid clashed with him, causing him to lose balance and spill said coffee all over the floor. His mother heard him cuss—both in English and in Spanish—and he was asked to leave.

Connections were down, it seemed, as his phone wouldn’t work, and it started raining cats and dogs, leaving Javier out in the street, in a suit, without an umbrella. Exhausted and done with every single thing that had went wrong that day, he started laughing, looking up to the sky and blaming whoever it was up there that was supposedly in charge—if at all.

He waved off to the cabs passing by, one of them speeding right past him and splashing some dirty water on his suit, making matters even worse. Minutes went by when a cab finally stopped, Javier didn’t even wait and practically jumped in the backseat.

Then, he saw you.

To this day, Javier swears his heart skipped a beat when he took that first glance. He never felt anything like it.

According to you though, his face didn’t give it away. He simply stared at you, wet and grumpy and confused. He failed to look past the mesmerized look in your eyes though, the shimmer and the glitch as you observed him and encouraged him to have a seat next to you.

“Tough day, huh?” you asked.

“Very.”

It was seldom of Javier to be speechless and there he was, in that moment, with you, out of words and out of breath.

“Where do you need to go?”

He gave you and the driver the address, thinking it was best for him to go home under those circumstances. He was surprised when you asked the driver to go to that address first. He wasn’t really used to people’s kindness just like that, out of the blue.

He was used to roughness, pain, problems on end, and every bit of kindness both shocked him and scared him. People always had ulterior motives, and he hadn’t really met anyone that could be different.

There was something bizarre about his body’s reaction to being so close to yours. You were a complete stranger, and yet—he felt lighter. By simply standing next to you, he felt lighter, like all of his problems had vanished. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, unlike all of the things he believed—or didn’t.

“I take it you don’t work by that sketchy coffee shop we picked you at,” you said all of a sudden, turning towards him with a little smile.

“The coffee’s good. Better than most places.”

You snickered, looking far ahead now and providing Javier with the opportunity to sneak a peek at you.

You were dressed formally as well; wearing a pencil skirt and a white shirt tucked in, red lipstick and a flicker in your eyes that was equal parts playful and devilish.

Just like that, he fell for it.

“Aquí estamos,” the cab driver announced.

Javier looked out the window, noticing his building. He felt somewhat disappointed that he arrived so fast, and you could discern that look on his face as well. You smiled wider at him this time, causing his heart to experience trepidations so fast he could’ve fainted.

“Thanks for the ride,” he thanked the driver, handing him the money and staring right at you.

“Here.”

You snuck your hand at your feet and revealed an umbrella that you handed him. Flabbergasted, Javier could only stare back.

“You look like you could use it,” you smiled.

“I can’t take it. How am I supposed to return this to you?”

“Well, I suppose we could meet at that coffee shop you like so much, tomorrow at noon.”

You shook his hand and told him your name as he revealed his. Long after he got out of the cab and walked through the rain with your umbrella, that touch burned his skin still. It remained imprinted on his mind and on his body alike, and he knew right then that you were no ordinary woman.

“How was it? Javier?”

Ms. Pearson’s voice gradually brings him back to reality. He blinks a few times, taking a while to recover.

“She was… a breath of fresh air. I don’t know. When I met her… I’ve never felt anything like it. I knew I had to see her again, I knew that I wanted to be with her no matter what. It’s like I was slowly drowning, and she was a life vest. She was so kind and patient… loving… she still is. She’s the most passionate, fiery person that I know.”

“She helped you fight.”

“She was the reason I fought. I guess, to some extent, she still is. Except…”

“You fight each other.”

“Yes.”

There’s sadness in his voice and on his face and he wishes he could’ve had a drink to at least numb some of the pain.

“How’s that tip working for you?”

He falters. “Not so great. We try our best, but somehow we still bicker.”

“That’s fine. It’s not magic. It won’t instantly stop the fights. What’s important is that you keep trying and making use of it.”

Javier nods, keeping the remainder of his insecurities buried alongside his other fears.

He cannot bring himself to say out loud that he’s trying to stop in order to prevent irreparable damage to your heart. He just can’t, because he promised he will fight. And he wants to. He really wants to.

It’s me. I’m too far gone.

“What about the nightmares?” Ms. Pearson asks, once again bringing him back with his feet hooked in reality.

“What about them?”

God, how he wishes he could’ve at least smoked a cigarette right about now.

“What are they about?”

He falls prey to silence once more, feeling the unmistakable throbbing of a headache bubbling up. Head buried in his hand, he sighs, struggling to compose his thoughts.

“Colombia mostly,” he answers. “Flashbacks, different scenarios… sometimes I dream of her, too.”

“You do?”

“Yes. She either dies or—or worse. And I never make it on time. She always gets hurt.”

“You’re afraid of anything happening to her.”

“Of course. I’m not dumb though, I realize the irony here.”

“What irony would you say that is?”

He sighs, visibly more frustrated. “I have nightmares about my wife dying or being raped or tortured, which means I can’t stand the idea of anything or anyone hurting her, yet here I am in this toxic ass marriage, being the one who hurts her.”

Ms. Pearson purses her lips together, and Javier despises that look. It’s pity, plain and simple.

“I don’t wanna hurt her,” he continues. “I’d never—I just don’t know how to fix things. I try to keep it all in, and then I try to let it all out… I’m failing either way, I’m—I’m a failure.”

She notices Javier’s forehead sweating, his fingers restlessly tapping on his legs.

“I fail at every fucking thing I do. I try, I swear I do, I just—it’s hard. I knew I sucked at relationships, but being a husband? I tried so hard to be as good as I can, for—for her, but I didn’t realize I’m this bad. I—I keep hurting her.”

“Javier.”

“I’m the one who hurts her the most and—she’d be better off without me.”

“Javier—“

“Do you know I haven’t even kissed her? I don’t even know how long it’s been since I last kissed her. I haven’t—“

“Javier, stop. Take a deep breath. Slow, steady.”

He doesn’t realize he’s been rambling on. He locks eyes with Ms. Pearson and follows her advice.

Breathe in… breathe out.

Breathe in…

“Have you had panic attacks before?” she asks.

“Panic—what? No.”

“This doesn’t seem to be the first time.”

He frowns, trying to look back on the past year since things really went downhill, but there is nothing that crosses his mind. All he can recall are fights that ended in either drinking on his own or fucking his frustration out.

Neither ever helped solve the core problem.

“Does it feel suffocating?”

“Sometimes. Like I’m—drowning.”

“Have you ever taken medication for anxiety or anything of the sort?”

“Yeah, I think so. Yeah, I did, uh—paroxetine. Somehow made me angrier and more sleepless.”

“Did you withdraw suddenly?”

“Yes. It didn’t really work, so I stopped it. I’m not fond of pills in general.”

“I understand. All those years working against drug owners and distributors must’ve taken its toll on you.”

He says nothing, though mentally, he could not have agreed more. The only pills he ever agreed on taking were some vitamins you insisted were good for his overall well-being and the occasional one against headaches. Anything else inspired fear. And, he supposed, also triggered very unpleasant memories.

“Tell you what,” Ms. Pearson says. “I won’t prescribe any medication since you’re against it. Instead, when you feel like drowning, I want you to take deep breaths and clear your mind. Does that sound good?”

“Great.”

“And keep using that tip, okay? It takes practice.”

It takes a lot for him not to roll his eyes at the doctor, but he manages not to.

“Alright, we’ll give it a shot.”

When he gets home, you’re in the kitchen. The house smells of roasted chicken and baked potatoes, but also of you. Your perfume is seemingly infiltrated in the walls, in every piece of furniture, in his nostrils as well.

He walks in cautiously, but there’s no need for it: you’re doing the dishes as the radio plays in the background. You welcome him with a little nod and smile, thus encouraging him to take a seat at the dinner table.

“How was it?” you ask.

“Therapeutic.”

You roll your eyes at him, washing the dishes still.

“We’re not really supposed to talk about—“Javier starts, digging into the food.

“I know. But it’s the one thing we can talk about without being angry.”

Javier shrugs, knowing you have a point. He makes sure to eat the string bean as well, knowing how bent out of shape you get when he doesn’t get his daily intake of veggies and fruits.

“Talked about my PTSD,” he says with his mouth half full. “Panic attacks.”

“I told you that’s what they were.”

“You did. And per usual, I didn’t give a damn.”

You stop the water, turning towards him. “Don’t start. Please.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Neither of us wants to and yet it still happens.”

Finishing the dishes is by far better than watching Javier devour the food or engage in dangerous conversations.

But when Javier adds his plate to the sink, just as you were finished, something inside of you snaps.

“Javier,” you say in a serious tone.

“Hm?”

You huff, reaching to remove the sauce from the corner of his lips, and he freezes. It’s the closest he’s gotten to kissing you in months and suddenly, a whole other craving emerges.

“When you do stuff like putting your plate in the sink when I am done, it makes me feel like all I’m good for is housework,” you say.

He understands and follows your lead, even if he loathes it.

“I hear what you’re saying, and I am sorry. Last thing I would want is to make you feel unwelcome in your own home.”

“Thank you.”

“But when you say stuff like that, it makes me feel like a lousy husband.”

You take a deep breath, feeling anger overcome you.

“It’s not my job to make you feel like a man,” you say.

It’s bold and risky, you know it, but it’s the truth. And you know Javier knows it, too. The question remains, would he accept it?

“Can’t even use a fucking tip to save our asses, huh,” he grins.

“We could if you’d really try.”

“It’s my fault. Isn’t it?”

You shrug, but you don’t step away from him.

“Say it,” he instigates. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Fine. Why yes, Javier, it is your fault. It is your fault for not taking care of your fucking trauma earlier and lashing out like this. It is your fault for thinking you can handle all of this by yourself and not once thinking, ‘hey, I should talk to my wife about this’!”

Javier’s breath tickles your face as he stares you down. He doesn’t fight you back like he usually does and something about that makes you tremble. Not in fear though; you were never afraid of Javier. If anything, he made you feel like his arms were the safest place in the world.

You just had gotten so used to the fighting and its subsequent aftermath that anything new made you shiver.

Trauma.

“You never let me in, not completely,” you say. “When we said ‘for better or for worse’, I assumed your shit would be my shit as well. And vice versa.”

“Gross.”

You might’ve chuckled if you wouldn’t be so fired up.

“If that makes me a bad husband, then—“

Now you laugh. A hollow and pained sound emerges from your chest.

“Stop victimizing yourself. You are not a bad husband. But I suppose you wanted to hear that, you wanted the reassurance like you always do because I somehow end up picking the pieces of yourself.”

He wets his lips as he devours your figure, inspecting you up and down. You know that look all too well, the one of insatiable hunger and desire, and it is still one of the most attractive views you have ever witnessed. Even you share a fraction of his craving, heat pooling in your belly exponentially.

“How much do you hate me right now?” he asks.

You falter, breaths hitched inside your chest. “Little bit, not gonna lie.”

“Yeah?”

His hand travels south, cupping your ass in a tight grip. You gasp, allowing your body to go numb in his arms. Then, you welcome his presence like a tall glass of cold water after a torrid day, his lips pressed harshly on yours. You melt into the kiss, falling apart in the sweetest yet most morally ambiguous ways. You both know how this ends; you both know this isn’t therapy, this isn’t really helping, but it is undeniable that your bodies long for one another.

“Don’t lie,” he says coyly, leaving a wet trail of kisses down your jaw and neck as he presses you into the kitchen counter. “You like this as much as I do.”

“Never said—I didn’t.”

You’re losing consciousness with each hot breath transformed into a hasty kiss, but indeed, there is no denying. You like your husband impulsive and in charge. It always has been part of his charm, what made you fall for him.

“You like it angry and rough,” he continues, hands at the hem of your t-shirt, boldly tugging. “You’re just as feisty as me. And needy. And dirty.”

A smile forms from the corners of your lips as your hands find his belt and start pulling.

“Dirtiest woman I’ve ever met,” he tells you just as he kisses you again.

The kisses turn sloppy and greedy; one moment Javier is grinding in between your legs, the other he’s bending you over the kitchen counter, pulling down your shorts and giving your ass a good smacking. He watches the flesh redden, smiling like a madman, then kneads the sensitive flesh with his calloused hands, closely listening to your whimpers.

You can barely breathe, but it’s more a statement of the blood boiling in your veins rather than the hot weather. You hear him working against his jeans, your cunt aching and getting wetter with each second you spend waiting.

He smacks your ass again, leaning over to grab the back of your neck and kiss your earlobe and cheek. “Still hate me?”

“Shut up.”

He grins, searching in his pocket for a condom. He wastes no more time in ripping the little packet and placing the condom on his erection. God, it hurt to even do that. You always managed to get him ridiculously hard, to the point where he could’ve came with a single stroke.

He knows he’s probably not gonna last long. And, judging by how soaked he feels you when he rubs his digits against your slit, you won’t either.

He doesn’t care.

He moans brokenly as he parts your thighs for more access, his cock pushing past your soaked lips in what can only be described as forbidden bliss. It feels somehow wrong to be doing this when you’re undergoing marriage counseling, especially considering this is only a means for physical release and is in no way, shape or form aiding your problems, but fuck, it feels too good to withdraw from it.

“Oh God,” you gasp, breasts squished on the countertop as your body welcomed Javier’s.

“It’s just me here, baby.”

He pushes himself inside you as far as he can, body trembling as he does so. It’s the most intimate feeling he had ever experienced. He slides out only to push back in with one swift motion, causing you to moan out loud.

“Oh, that’s right,” he teases, starting to fuck into you with speed. “You like it from behind, don’t you?”

“You’re—such an asshole sometimes, I swear—“

“Is that so?”

He curls your hair in his fist, to the best of his abilities, pulling your upper half to meet with his face as he starts to rail you. Grunts and moans fill the kitchen, with Javier sneaking glances at how well you’re taking him, how your body feels as if it was made to fit him and only him.

His other hand reaches to slap your ass yet again; Javier is basically using your body as counterweight for him to fuck into and you’re enamored by the filthy way he’s handling you.

“How come you get so wet then, hm?” he asks. “Look how good you—take me. Fuck, baby, just like that…”

You can only moan brokenly, struggling to breathe properly. You grunt when Javier snakes a hand to grab your neck, letting your hair flow down your back as he rocks your body.

“Filthiest woman—I have ever met,” Javier says through a wicked smile.

His orgasm is nearing, he can feel it in his whole body, yet he fights it; he needs to feel you first.

“Fuck—J-Javi—“

“That’s right—say my name. Say… my fucking name…”

Sanity begins to slip away from him and body threatens to explode at any moment, but none of that matters.

“Hear that?”

“Mmm—“

“Answer me.”

He applies some pressure to your throat and you smile. You fucking smile in ecstasy, ears picking up the glib sounds emerging from the way his cock was going in and out of you, balls slapping against your ass as sweat begins to drip down your bodies.

“Y-Yes.”

“You hear how wet you fucking are? How—how good you take me?”

“Yes—“

His grunts fill the kitchen, whole body shaking as his orgasm finally hits him, unable to keep it at bay. His cock twitches inside of you, and your walls start to clench around him, feeling as if you were swallowing him whole and milking him of every drop of his seed. Javier moans, arching your back so he can kiss your earlobe and cheek, and at last, your lips.

Your full, delicious lips he hadn’t kissed in so long.

And even now, it fails to feel like a real kiss. There’s nothing sensual about it; it’s needy and desperate, even in post-coital bliss.

“Don’t leave—“

“What?”

He stops, though you feel his cock twitching and throbbing deep inside you even so. You struggle to catch your breath as you’re being bent upwards at Javier’s filthy will.

“Don’t leave yet,” you plea again. “When you pull out… we’ll be right back at each other’s throats.”

“Aren’t we doing that right now?”

You chuckle as Javier grunts, burying himself to the hilt in you.

“You think I’d leave the best pussy I’ve ever had?”

He holds the back of your neck in a tight grip, arching you all the way so his mouth bites your earlobe, his hot breath tickling your senses.

“I don’t know,” you breathe and smile. “You might.”

He starts to snap his hips against yours again, pace furious and greedy like those times back in Colombia when all he had were five minutes into some questionable place.

“Nah,” Javier smiles in his blissful mania, chasing another orgasm from you and him both. “Could never—you’re the best—fucking thing… best pussy in the world…”

Then you’re back to square one, with Javier pounding into you and your problems in the same place.

But tomorrow is another day to worry about that.

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