There's things I wanna say to you but I'll just let you live. Like if you hold me without hurting me you'll be the first who ever did.There's things I wanna talk about but better not to give.
summary: Javier Peña is a man who never stays, but that doesn’t stop him from showing up at your door, seeking solace in the only way he knows how.
-or-
my interpretation of Cinnamon Girl by Lana Del Rey if it was a Javi fic
warnings: mdni, 18+, unprotected emotions, unprotected p in v, a lil fingering, a lot of angst
notes: this is the doings of this tiktok (which I suggest you watch the 23 seconds of it to get in your feels before reading) AND the song that was on the tiktok Cinnamon Girl by Lana Del Rey and then I heard 2 Hands by Tate McRae and it was over for me. Thank you @milla-frenchy for doing what you did. Thank you @thundermartini my baby for reading this lil guy over for me and always hyping me up and cheerleading me with everything especially my moodboard crisis that seems to be never-ending.love you both so much 💖
masterlist
Javier Peña is a hard man to hold onto. He never stays in one place too long. Never lets anyone get too close. You’ve known that since the moment you met him.
But that doesn’t stop him from showing up at your door in the middle of the night, his knuckles rapping against the wood like he already knows you’ll let him in.
You shouldn’t.
But you do.
Javi steps inside without a word, the familiar scent of cigarettes and whiskey clinging to him, sinking into the space between you. He looks like he had a long night—tie loosened, hair a mess, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on his shoulders.
You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You could’ve called.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s humorless. “Didn’t think I needed to.”
He doesn’t. He never does. And that’s the problem.
You watch him shrug off his jacket and take off his tie, tossing them over the back of the couch like he belongs here. Like this is just another night, another excuse, another way to forget whatever the hell’s been haunting him.
Your stomach twists.
“Mmm, guess not.” You say with a voice softer than you mean it to be.
Javi looks at you—really looks. His dark eyes flicker with something unreadable, something caught between hunger and hesitation. He’s good at this game, at keeping his distance even when he’s got his hands all over you.
You should tell him no. Should tell him that you’re done being the thing he comes to when he needs to bury the parts of himself he won’t face.
But then he steps closer.
“You want me to leave?” His voice is low, rough, but there’s something vulnerable under it, something he tries to hide.
You could say yes. You should say yes.
Instead, you reach for him.
His lips crash against yours before you can even think, all teeth and desperation, almost angry, like he’s trying to take something from you—like he needs this more than he should. Your fingers slide into his hair, and he groans into your mouth, deep and ragged.
Your fingers move down and twist into his shirt, holding on like you can stop him from slipping away. But he always does, in the end.
His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the heat of him through his clothes, through yours. You hate how easily your body reacts to him, how familiar this all is, how much you want him even when you know he won’t stay.
It’s always like this. Heated, frantic, like he’s running from something. Like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
You let him back you toward the bed, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.
You break the kiss just enough to whisper, “Javi.”
He breathes against your skin, his lips dragging along your jaw, down your throat. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t say my name like that.”
Like you mean it. Like this means something.
But it does.
And you both know it.
His hands slide under your shirt, rough fingertips against soft skin, and you shiver at the way he touches you—possessive, desperate, like he’s trying to brand himself into you. Like he wants to forget everything except the way you feel beneath him.
Without a word, he grips the hem of your shirt and tugs it upward, his knuckles skimming along your sides as he peels it over your head. His eyes darken as he takes you in—bare skin, breathless anticipation, the way your chest rises and falls beneath his gaze.
His fingers find the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with a practiced ease. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, letting them slide down your arms before tossing it aside.
Javi’s hands are on you in an instant, palms rough against the softness of your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, teasing them into hardened peaks.
You let him pull you down onto the sheets, let him hold you the way he only does in the dark. His hands are reverent, his mouth sinful, his body pressing into yours like he can carve himself into your bones. And you let him, because you need this too.
And he doesn't hold back.
Javi is all over you, his hands skimming down your stomach, pushing your pants and underwear off with the kind of urgency that makes your breath catch. His fingers brush against the heat between your legs, and he exhales sharply, like the feel of you alone is enough to unravel him.
"Always so fuckin' wet for me," he mutters against your throat, his voice rough, almost angry. The way his fingers stroke over you is anything but. It's worship. It's desperation. He spreads you open, a slow, teasing drag of his fingers before he slides one inside you.
Your back arches. "Javi—”
He cuts you off with his mouth, swallowing your moan as he works another finger inside you, curling them just right, like he knows your body better than his own. Maybe he does. Maybe that's why he keeps coming back.
His free hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you in place like he needs you to stay right there—needs this to last. But it never does.
You reach for him, tugging at his belt, desperate for more, and he lets you, pushing his jeans down just enough to free himself. He’s already hard, already aching, the tip dragging through the slick between your thighs before he presses in, slow and deep.
Your head falls back, a whimper catching in your throat as he stretches you open, as your body takes him the way it always does. Like he belongs there. Like you were made for this.
Javi groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged. "You feel so fuckin’ good."
His hips start to move, slow at first, deep, like he wants to drag it out, like he wants to feel every inch of you. But then your fingers dig into his back, your nails biting into his skin, and something in him snaps.
He thrusts harder, deeper, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. You cling to him, gasping his name, and he hates it, hates the way it makes something crack open inside him, so he kisses you rough and messy, like he can make you forget what you just said.
You don’t.
And neither does he.
It’s fast and desperate, a little too rough, a little too much, like you’re both trying to take something from each other that neither of you can really give.
But right now, it’s enough.
For a moment, it feels like he’s yours.
For a moment, you can pretend.
His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit, dragging you closer to the edge, until you're falling, unraveling beneath him. You cry out, your body tightening around him, and Javi follows right after, a shuddering groan pressed into your skin as he spills inside you.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Heavy breathing. The warmth of his body still pressed against yours.
Then, like always, the moment starts to slip away.
Javi pulls out too soon. Rolls onto his back. And when you glance at him, when you see the way he stares at the ceiling like he’s already somewhere else, the ache in your chest spreads like wildfire.
You don’t ask him to stay. You don’t ask what this is or what it could be.
And he doesn’t offer, doesn't pretend this is anything more.
Because Javi loves like he fights—reckless, desperate, and always ready to leave before the dust settles.
Fuck it -- God bless the rural queers. God bless every dyke, faggot and tranny who lives in a town with less than 10k. God bless every queer living in red towns in red counties, in blue states or red states alike. God bless every queer who's also a redneck, who knows how to hunt and fish. God bless every queer living in a town where every other house is condemned. Where half the storefronts are empty.
I fought to keep my eyes on the road instead of the thing in the rearview mirror as the speedometer ticked higher, higher. Even so, I still caught glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye: some polymorphic shape, flowing in and out of itself.
It was gaining on us.
As it got closer, I started to notice individual features. Teeth, a wing. A face, or…not faces? But every time I thought I saw something distinguishing in what I now thought had to be more than one creature, I quickly lost track of it in the swirling cloud.
Aesa continued to fire at the swarm, and it seemed to ripple with the impacts. It didn’t slow down.
Suddenly, Aesa jumped on the hood of the car. I swerved in shock, nearly spinning out of control, but Aesa remained firmly planted where he crouched. His dark eyes locked with mine.
“Whatever happens, keep driving,” he ordered. Then he turned to face the road, coat swirling around him. He reached out, hands clawed as though he was trying to tear the air apart. The air began to shimmer and warp as he strained, the muscles on the back of his neck standing out.
The swarm was getting closer, and individual members of the group were breaking off, getting closer, closer.
Then Aesa screamed.
Energy pulsed through my being, and I saw reality rip in front of me. I had no time to react, and the next thing I knew, we were hurtling through.
I could feel the pressure around me once again, but this time it was neither soft nor gentle. It pulled at me: my hair, my skin, my eyes, dragging me backwards like a rubber band. Then the pressure snapped, and we were through to the other side.
This place did not look anything like the fields and mountains of the landscape of the inbetween I had seen before. The terrain was warped, rocky, and violet-grey, the sky a strange olive green. I jerked the wheel to avoid twisted outcroppings and instinctively hit the brakes.
“Keep going!” Aesa yelled, “We have to draw them in!” And so I gasped a prayer and stomped on the gas as my tiny vehicle rocketed through the alien landscape.
We gained a little breathing room as the swarm was forced to fight their way through the hole Aesa had ripped for us, but they quickly burst through. Before, we’d had the advantage of a straight, clear highway; now we were slowed as I desperately swerved through the uneven terrain of the other place.
And now, I could hear them. They muttered and shrieked almost words, echos of hunger and hatred and an ancient fear. However, Aesa didn’t fire on them even as they neared, crouching in wait on the trunk. Finally, he reached out again, and the hole he had made in reality began to shimmer and knit itself back together.
Distracted by the sight, I was forced to jerk the wheel to the side, barely avoiding a large rock which suddenly loomed before us, sending us between the walls of a canyon. Horrified, I realized that the canyon appeared to empty out into nothingness.
“Aesa!” I screamed. He turned, sprinting to the front of the car.
“Just keep going!” He told me.
The swarm was right behind us now. Gas pedal pressed to the floor, I stared helplessly as we speed towards the edge of the cliff. Tires kicked up violet dust and pebbles before spinning uselessly as we hurtled over the edge. For a moment, all I saw was the olive sky. As we began to fall, I saw a deep abyss beneath us, sparkling with neon flame. I closed my eyes, the screams of the swarm enveloping me.
A moment later the pressure embraced me again, and by the time I opened my eyes we were flung back into the world. Gravity shifted, and instead of falling nose first, we crashed wheels down into the middle of a field of wheat, deploying my airbags as dirt spraying around us and we skidded to a stop.
Aesa flung up his arms to seal the hole, but the swarm was already forcing its way through. Three managed to squeeze their way through before the final cracks glistened and disappeared, severing another as they did.
Aesa drew his weapon and fired off three shots in quick succession, the final stray exploding into a grey mist beside my window.
I clung to the steering wheel and breathed as the wheat shivered and stilled. Everything fell silent. Aesa sighed, slumped his shoulders, and fell off the back of my car. I threw open my car door and tried to run to him, but my legs gave out. I fell to my knees and vomited.
On the ground beside me, the last remnants of the thing bubbled away into nothingness.
Breathing heavily, I crawled over to where Aesa lay, crumpled. He seemed almost ethereal, more a shadow than a man. I reached out a trembling hand to touch him.
“No,” he whispered, “no help, not safe, just, rest, a minute, please.”
I drew back and let myself sink into the crushed wheat, moving only to try to spit the foulness out my mouth.
Finally, Aesa stirred. When he spoke, I could barely hear his voice.
“We need, get back, people. Safer.” I dragged my eyes to his face. He wore a thousand-yard stare. “If, I can’t, another. Need others.” He began to drag himself back to the car, and I followed suit. I shoved the airbags out of the way and strapped myself into the seat.
I reached for the steering wheel and then stopped, trembling.
“What was that thing?”
Aesa didn’t look at me.
“I’ll tell what I can later. Rest now. Please.”
I looked at him sitting there, barely present, as though he might fracture at lightest touch. I pushed away my fear and made myself go numb.
I pulled out onto the highway, speeding away from unspoken terrors and a field of crumpled wheat.
No one prepares you for how crippling grief is, last year my mom died of cancer. I watched her decline so rapidly that my brain couldn't understand who I was looking at by the time she passed. I couldn't understand who I was by the time she passed because I had to become a vessel who makes appointments, dresses, nurses, cooks and an entity who does not sleep. I did it all alone. The reality is that cancer eats away at everything, it lives on even after the patient dies. It ate away at every part of me, I couldn't get out of bed, I had sleep paralysis, I couldn't stop seeing her... like that. They asked me if she's my grandmother when they carried her out of the house. She was in her early 50s. Do you understand? In 3 months, she began to look like she was 80. Everyone wanted me to move on after a month, no one called anymore, not even a text. I thought I was alone when she was alive, but this was a new type of isolation. One that I barely survived. (thank you to my mutuals and tumblr for being an outlet)
It's been a year and 6 months, today I realized she's not the first thing I think of in the morning, or the last thing I think of before I fall asleep. I couldn't even call to do paperwork before, now I'm forgetting why it was even that difficult.
The sun's out, I think i'm going to get ice cream without feeling guilty that it's not something she can do anymore.
Today marks two years since she has passed, and it still doesn’t feel real. In a lot of ways, her death had crippled me. I still feel alone, like an orphan, but the days are much easier. I don’t think too much about her but when I do it’s mostly in bewilderment that she is gone.
My process is not linear, I’ve had more bad days with grief than good. I lost my friend to suicide in 2019 also and I don’t know how to stop missing them and wishing they were still here. “Does it get better?” No, but there will be days where it’s not like a stab in the chest, and there will be days where you want the earth to swallow you up too.
I wanna share something about my mom, something that was really funny. In the last years of her life, I made her watch Hannibal and during the ladder scene she looked at me all scandalized and I want you to imagine the strongest Hungarian accent. She said “is this gay??” yes mom, it’s gay. Rest in peace.
Okay so my brother has never watched Good Omens, nor wants to see it. But he wanted to give me something he was sure I would like. So he opened his computer, looked for some references and made me this:
I now have a gorgeous Good Omens poster to put in my room, made by my own brother, and I haven't shut up about it since 🤩
izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
janainaart
yousharknotpass
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
