fanfiction is a rare gem and a solid, living proof that, in a world of tiktok, influencers and content posting, not everything is about money and going viral. art can still be art just for the sake of the artists’ pure love, joy and passion for the art they create. fanfic writers write 100k words and more about the characters they love for free. just because they love these characters and the art of writing so much. art is not dead and the world is still beautiful.
All four ex-wives drove him nuts but none had the pleasure to witness the rare and irrational John Munch. Years after the divorces, after long forsaking the idea of true love on top of being elbow deep into the shit that was the SVU… He might’ve thought himself incapable of the feeling weren’t for you. He believed himself to be the ideal cop; the perfect lieutenant, though he had little love for the title. He knew when to care and when to hold back, he could be withdrawn and simultaneously comforting. He denied entry to the ghastliness of every case, every grim day, and left it on the doormat.
Or so he thought.
“You’re trouble for me, sweetheart,” John recalls mumbling into the crook of your neck, smiling like a schoolboy because of a damn hug. Your open arms were an invitation he wouldn’t dream of denying, perish the thought. He’d never dabbled in drugs but right then and there, he suddenly understood how people could get addicted. Your infectious joy, your beaming smile, your sparkling eyes; all unfailing every time you saw him. Every part of you was so soft and warm, a dream to someone so cold and hardened. You smelled so good that you made him forget the scent of crappy coffee and stale rooms.
How was he, a starved man, supposed to live without you now that you’d shown him what it was like to feel full?
He couldn’t.
In all fairness he made a great attempt to not be overprotective, to leave his (metaphorical) badge at your door. He also warned you in advance, way way back when he was dissuading you from pursuing him and fooling himself into thinking you two would never work. “I can’t shut this off,” he said exasperatedly while tapping his temple, as if it was explanation enough. Truly, John was frighteningly good at his job. He knew all too well the ins and outs of a perverted criminal’s mind. Logically, he knew that even if your apartment was three feet off the ground and was pad locked to the nines and installed with security cameras, if someone wanted to break in they would find a way. He knew there was only so much he could do.
Again, you made him irrational.
“Move in with me.” He blurts out to the darkness.
On the verge of praying that you’re asleep, John’s almost grateful to receive silence. Yet his heart beats wildly against your back like it wants you to wake up and shout yes. To his continued horror, you roll over with your eyes wide open and a smile toying at your lips.
“Are you asking me for cop-related reasons or because you want me to?”
Despite the question, your tone edges on excitement.
Refusing to take his hands off you, he gives a noncommittal shrug, “Can’t it be both?”
Somehow with the gentle glow of the moonlight blocked by a dark cloud and his lack of glasses, he could sense your mirth slipping away.
“One matters more than the other, John.”
“Oh no, you sound serious.” He teases. Boy, he could kick himself really. Deflection, like old habits, die hard. Before you could debate if you wanted to roll over and go to sleep to avoid this talk, John tightened his arms around you and bit the bullet. “Sweetheart, you already know that I’m wrapped around your finger. There’s nothing I want more than for you to live with me— yes, partly because I think I can keep ya safe better than your useless cameras. But mostly ‘cause I love you, and I wanna start and end the rest of my days with you.”
This time he didn’t have to leave the admission in the air for long. Your squeezing hug was an immediate anchor he craved, just as much as your smile he could feel against his chest.
“You love me?” You squeaked.
He breathes out a laugh.
“Stupidly.”
“Madly?”
“Irrationally. Irresponsibly, foolishly, beyond all reason— I’m runnin’ out of synonyms. Any more of this lunacy and they’re gonna lock me in the looney bin.”
You snorted, reaching for his cheeks and holding him so tenderly that his heart ached. Gently, you kissed his lips and lingered against him. The moment was impossibly perfect, straight out of a fairytale he would’ve scoffed at before meeting you.
“I love you like crazy, too. I’d love to move in with you.”
John sighed in relief, tucking your head back against his chest and kissing the top of your head. The previous heavy weight on his heart dissipated at your agreement, leaving him relaxed once again. A smile pulled at his lips when the thought of living with you settled in. Someone should really look into this whole “love making people irrational” thing. Ideally before it kills him.
~
i love this old man, it’s a fudging crime there’s 10 fics for him
you steal his glasses because you like his eyes. that’s it
“You’re always doing that, stop.” He huffs indignantly, gently enveloping your wrists.
“Doing what?”
“Honey, you’ve been spending too much time with me,” he tilts his chin down and raises his brows, “yet not enough to master the art of deflection. It’s a delicate thing, see, you answer too quickly. I never answer that fast, I at least pretend to think about it. And you smile, which tells me you know exactly what.”
Your smile widens, making it hard for him to stay mad at you. If he was at all in the first place. Probably not, just mildly irritated and that’s being quickly overcome by how goddamn endearing you are.
John puts your hands on the back of his neck while his find purchase on your ribs, lifting you up slightly as he dips down to kiss you. It’s been a hell of a day, all he wanted was to forget about it.
“Maybe I’m not deflecting.” You suggest coyly against his lips, “Maybe I just really don’t know what it is that I’m doing.”
He hums, “You’re getting better.”
It’s frightening, actually. You almost completely disarm him as your fingers card through his short, salt and pepper hair. Walking him backwards, the back of his legs hit the couch and you’re straddling his lap in seconds. The day and its problems fade to nothingness as his attention hones in on you. Wonderful, smart, funny, sweet, perfect you.
He almost doesn’t register your left hand sliding from his hair but in its absence he knows exactly where it’s going. He catches your wrist a second time, giving you an incredulous but fond glare.
“Sweetheart.”
You glare right back, only yours has more heat to it, “Don’t sweetheart me. We’re home and there’s one light on. Just take them off.”
“It’s not exactly the light that’s the issue. Again I refer back to my earlier statement, you’re always trying to take off my glasses.”
“Because I like your eyes, dummy.”
His grasp falters. Your hand moves again with gentle insistence and John lets you swipe his glasses off. He blushes the minute you lock eyes without the barrier, his ears tinge pink. You set the spectacles aside carefully, because he knows you don’t hate them— not really. They’re just semi-permanently attached to his face and blocking you from your, apparent, favorite feature of his.
Your hand returns, cups his cheek so gently it hurts in his ribs. Or maybe that’s his heart trying to escape again. Who knows at this point. All he can focus on is the way your smile brightens as you look at him. Not look, admire. Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the heavy and dark crescents under his eyes not as if you want to get rid of them but as if you appreciate the detail. And since they’re apart of him, he fears he can’t deny that might be the truth of it.
“You’re so pretty.”
He chokes.
You’re ruining him.
“Ok, that’s enough.” He croaks, reaching for his glasses on the seat beside you.
“One more minute.”
John sighs at this massive inconvenience you’ve thrust upon him. How dare you? Really. How dare you touch him so reverently, shower him in praise and— worst of all— make him think he deserves any of it? He will not give you one more minute of this torture. (He gives you ten)
it is honestly amazing how much of writing and editing is just. logistics. like... do i use a name here or a pronoun? if i move this dialogue tag to the middle of this line and break it in half, does the end of the line hit harder that way? what if i move the tag to the front? what if i remove it entirely? ...wait, whose point of view am i in; can i reasonably say this character is appalled, or must i say they look or seem or sound appalled? is this a deliberate action or a step-removed one; is her hand closing on his shoulder, or is she closing her hand on his shoulder? environment environment environment, we need to break all this dialogue up with some narration, the scene is coming untethered. what! are! they doing! with! the rest of their bodies that are not hands! fuck fuck fuck FUCK i forgot we covered this two chapters ago and now i either need to cut this whole chunk or find a reason to reprise the conversation from earlier. name or pronoun? name or pronoun? name or pronoun? move this clause around in this sentence? oh i'll add this phrase-- nope, never mind, past!me added the same phrase two lines down. okay, if i add too much environmental narration it's going to take away from this bit, but not enough and it won't feel grounded. what if i move this to its own line? where the FUCK are their hands?
ok i’ve thought about this for so long but i honestly think drunk confessions with soap would happen when both of you are equally as sloshed. like a full drunken horny spiral where neither of you can shut the fuck up - all of your filter is gone, and suddenly it’s turning into a game of who can confess the nastier thought first. mutual destruction type shit. just a casual descent into unhinged oversharing and both of you realizing - oh no. we’re the same type of feral.
like the bottle is almost empty. you don’t know who had the last shot. doesn’t matter. you’re both on your asses against a wall in some dim corridor, not even trying to get up anymore. your legs are stretched out and tangled, shoulders slumped together, heads bumping every so often when one of you snorts too hard.
you’re both cackling like lunatics.
soap just made a joke about ghost looking like the kind of bloke who asks for ketchup in a steakhouse, and you’re crying. actual tears.
everything feels warm. blurry. easy.
way too fucking easy.
“you’re insane,” you laugh in between trying to catch your breath. “fulllyyy fucking insane, johnny.”
johnny sways toward you. “aye. but yer the same. same fucken’ breed.”
you know you can’t deny that. you and the scot do nothing but cause shit everywhere you go. it’s effortless, with johnny. you two feed off eachother.
and so you smirk, lifting your cup in admission. “idiots with a loaded weapon and terrible judgment? yeah. we’re practically twins.”
he snorts. “aye, but you’re the hot one.”
you turn your head slowly. “did you just call me hot?”
he doesn’t even blink.
“donnae act like ye don’t know it.”
your pulse stutters, but you’re too drunk to even notice. “no, johnny, shut up - you’re the hot one-“
“ye dinnae wanne start this with me lass.” he says, cutting you off with a shake of his head. “ye’ll lose.”
you swat at him. “i won’t lose shit- i’ve thought about how hot you are for months. like months. i dream about it.”
there’s a pause, at that. one that tells you that might’ve actually surprised him and is proven by the way he opens his mouth then closes it. even drunk you see it, the gears that start turning behind his eyes as he exhales a ragged breath.
“ye dinnae even know what i dream of.” he whispers with the type of slurred inflection that surfaces when he’s long past the point of reason. “ive thought about shaggin’ ye in every storage closet on this base.”
you choke.
“johnny-“
“none o’that- listen proper. i mean every. closet.” he lifts a finger like he’s testifying in court. “the one near the gym? bent over the bench. one near the barracks? legs around my waist, beggen pretty in my ear.”
your jaw drops. because holy fuck.
“you’re just saying that?!”
he grins some clueless little grin that is so signature johnny it hurts. “we're bein’ honest now, aye?”
you squint at him, trying to find the bullshit. trying to find the lie or the twitch in his brow that tells you he’s only buttering you up in hopes to get laid. but you don’t find it - you don’t see anything except for the wild in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks that tells you - fucken hell. this might just be the most honest he’s ever been, and it’s exhilarating.
so just like you always do, you match him. this time in your honesty. because it’s always like this with you two. the dance of devils - yours and his.
you shift, head buzzing wild. “alright then. ive thought about you fucking me on the shooting range.”
he blinks. “…ye what.”
you shrug, chewing on your lip. “from behind. pants halfway down while you’re tellin me to shoot it straight.”
his face twists, eyes blaring. “tha’s fucken evil.”
you giggle, nose scrunching. “you started it.”
“nah - nah nah,” he waves a hand, scrambling to face you better. “ye donnae get te drop that and just move on. ive thought about ye - fucken hell - riding me in the armoury. tools clatterin’ everywhere. no’ a care in the bloody world.”
you gasp, pretending to be oh so very scandalized. “in the armoury?! johnny!”
“right on the table. my hands on yer throat te keep ye quiet.”
you’re breathless. flushed. completely fucked but never more alive in your entire life. “oh my god.”
“aye. oh my god is right.” he leans in closer, breath hot, accent slurred and taunting. “top that. i dare ye.”
you’ve never been one to back down a dare, especially when you’re this drunk, so you lick your lips. “you, in the showers, still half-dressed. water running. me down on my knees suckin’ you off while you lean on the wall grunting my name into your fist.”
his eyes roll back and he groans - actually fucking groans like you’ve just stabbed him and slumps back against the wall. something in you begs and your thighs twitch for it.
it’s one of your favourite fantasies to date.
“jesus fucken’ christ.” he grits after a moment of attempted recomposing.
“keep up, mactavish,” you purr, all smug now. “or you tapping out?”
“no’ a fucken’ chance,” he growls, shifting up again. “i think about benden ye over the mess table while everyone else’s sleepen’. pissin myself tryen te keep ye quiet while you’re so fucken wet fer me it’s drippin.’”
every word from his mouth is like fire, scorching your nerves alight. you’re certain you’ve never been more unholy in your life, but all you do is nod like you’re not losing your fucking mind.
then you lean closer. “ive imagined you pulling me into a closet just to put your fingers in me and tell me you ‘just needed to check something.’”
he gapes. fullstop. “oh you’re proper fucked, aren’t ye?”
you’re both hysterical now, half-laughing, half-melting, cheeks burning, equally breathing heavy like the airs gone thin and its burning between you.
“you,” you manage to recollect yourself, pointing a finger in his face, “you’d be the type to say some sick shit like ‘don’t cum until i say so.’”
you freeze, eyes locked. you don’t even realize that you’ve both gone quiet until he speaks again.
“…ye would, wouldnt ye?”
“course i would.” you breathe out, jagged and cracking now until you manage to snap yourself out of it with another laugh. “christ, you’re filthy.”
he flashes you that goddamn grin again. cocky and teasing and totally fucking evil. “ye love it.”
“unfortunate,” you mutter, smiling. “makes me wanna jump you for it.”
he hums. “mm. full offence, i’d let ye kill me with your thighs.”
you blink, then almost choke on your saliva. “you’d what?”
“dead serious.” he gestures at your legs, slurring slightly. “wrap ‘em around my head, cut off the blood flow, lights out. best fucken way te go.”
“well fuck.” you shake your head, but your grin is splitting your face. “i’d let you fuck my throat til i’m cryin. full tears. no air. fingernails bleeding my scalp.”
johnny leans his head back and groans again. “im gonna combust. gonna catch fucken fire.”
you wheeze, face buried in your sleeve. “we're disgusting.”
“we’re perfect.”
and then, quiet.
not awkward. not scared. just two people hovering over the edge of something they both know they can’t fall into.
you feel his shoulder still pressed to yours. feel his breath go slow and controlled like he’s thinking about all the ways this is wrong, and all the ways you both wish it wasn’t.
“im no gonna kiss ye,” he mutters.
you don’t look at him, just whisper back, “good.”
another long beat. then-
“…but if i grabbed ye by the waist right now and dragged ye toward my room-“
“id let you.”
another pause.
“…we shouldn’t,” he whispers.
“i know.”
“ye’d fucken end me,” he adds.
you smile. “right back at you.”
you sit like that for an unknown amount of time. taut, burning, wrecked. he tilts his head toward yours again. nose brushing your temple.
“ye tell anyone about this,” he breathes into your hair, “and ill deny every word.”
you snort. “we both go down with the ship, mactavish.”
he grins, and neither of you move.
you just sit there.
emotionally edged. spiritually wrecked. cockblocked by the entire universe and metaphorically blue-balled by your own drunken stupidity.
i LOVED your javier pena fic. i can't wait for the next part! 😭
hi darling !!! thank you soooo much for the inbox 🥺 part two will be out as soon as I get a handle on my life, so before month end. have a great day !!! 🤍
Hi dear! I hope this ask finds you well :) i've been wondering about when you will bless us with the next part of "like winged steeds". Pls don't feel pressured by this ask! I loved your writing and check often for anything you post :) take as much time as you need. Have a nice week <3
hi angel !!! this inbox was so so sweet, i’m super happy that you liked the fic 🥺 the second part is 97% finished but i overestimated my ability to handle the start of the semester and editing/finishing/posting the second part 😭 i pinky promise it will be out before month end. love you lots and lots have a great day !!! 🤍
thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed
i've been working on this literally for over a year and i've been so bad at keeping up with writing - life has been a bitch recently - but i finally finished one of my favourite pieces ever!
like/interact with this post to be added to taglist :)
warnings: laredo!javi, set post s3, insecure reader, reader is implied plus!size but it is not completely centric (no other physical descriptions), some spanish dialogue, javi has a domesticity kink, body/general insecurity, soft!javi, chucho playing wingman, javi deserves a break, emotional trauma, tons of angst, age gap (javi is 35ish, reader early/mid 20's), fluff, there's also some horses because why not :)
an: the writer's block got so bad this has been sitting in my drafts for nearly a year, but it feels sooooo good to be posting again :) remember to reblog and comment to support your favourite writers!
summary: Now, though, Javier thinks he's too tired to indulge in his past bad habits, getting too old. Oh but then, there's you, he thinks. Who he could never be too tired or too old to entertain the thoughts of.
1995
There’s a horse that lingers at the edge of the property.
It’s nearly completely white, like a ghost might be, and haunts the space just within the perimeters of Javier’s peripheral view when he steps out in the crisp, still dark morning to find where his father has gone off ahead of him.
The horse is there at sunset too. When Javier’s tanned to almost a crisp, when his father pats him wearily on the back and reminds him again: one day this will all be yours.
Like he’s forgotten.
He doesn’t hate the ranch. He doesn’t hate Laredo or the work out on the land, the way he swims through the heat of the sun over it.
Javier hates himself; and that would make life difficult in Laredo as much as it would back in Bogotá.
It’s not at the front of his mind all the time - he distracts himself with the fences that need fixing and the soil that needs turning and the shed that needs rebuilding - but it lingers. Like the horse: always just in view.
Javier doesn’t know what kind it is, he doesn’t know the breeds of horses like that, but you do. It’s your horse after all.
“Out past the fence,” his father had stuck out a crooked work-worn finger in the direction of the sloping hills. “New neighbours.”
The farm house was two stories, but small for it. A faded red and if he squinted in evening light, he could make out the shape of a figure in a chair out on the porch. A single flickering light livened one of the windows upstairs.
“Just the girl and a couple rancheros, you’ll meet her.”
Javier had very much doubted it in the moment his father had prophesied it. He had little concern for horses or their owners or the working rancheros. The life he returned to make in Texas was not supposed to include any of the above.
Barely unpacked and less than three days since he’d arrived back in Laredo, you arrived like a wrapped gift on his father’s doorstep.
He wasn’t even supposed to be in the house when he was. Late afternoon curled orange and yellow over the land, Javier’s hand was wrapped over the metal of the kitchen sink and sucking down noisy gulps of water.
Chucho had pitied him when his knee cracked funnily under the weight of another pile of wood, sending him up to the house with an annoyed sigh.
The knock was melodic, just light enough that Javier might not have heard it if he wasn’t leaning with his eyes shut against the steel.
He’d groaned petulantly, as if the prospect of a visitor physically weighed him down, and ran a damp hand over his face - agitating the direction of the hair growth in his moustache.
The rusted handle was warm under his hand, and noisy where he turned it. A short walk, between the sink and the door, and with the barely quantifiable effort that it took to open it: there you stood.
A vision under the July sun: round-faced and soft at every bend. Fluffy clouds had been creeping over the canvased edge of the Texas sky, and Javier may not have noticed had they not been reflecting off your eyes at him like a jewel held under sharp light.
“Uh …” you’d smiled unsurely, it curled into plush ruddy cheeks. “Buenas tardes.”
He nodded: body weight finding the wooden frame of the door, hand still resting on its knob.
A tiered green skirt wrapped over your waist and flirted at the edges of your ankles, ankles hidden beneath the shiny leather of the most obnoxious cowboy boots Javier had ever seen. The second most obnoxious part had to be the matching hat on your head, like you’d walked off the set of a Clint Eastwood film to find his back step.
He found he didn’t mind the flowing white lace of your blouse, where it constructed around your breasts allowing them to spill halfway out the top.
“Well, I’m looking for Mr Peña.” You shifted your weight between your feet. “Is he home?”
Aside from your outfit and black blinking eyelashes - that were, in all honesty, making him a little dizzy - it was hard to miss the wrapped tray of what appeared to Javier as a mountain of sopapillas: gloopy yellow honey glueing the individuals together.
“That’s me.” He coughed, dragging his eyes up off the pastries.
Your face lit up, smile deepening. The tray dipped dangerously where you tried to swap it in your hands, “You must be Javier! Your dad talks about you all time.”
Javier’s brow curled, but he nodded anyway. His work-stained palms pressed down into the front of his equally dirty jeans and he wiped them uselessly there. “And you are?”
It came out colder than he’d intended it. Most things he said did - but you didn’t flinch, tilting your head back to the farm house in the distance.
“I’m your new neighbour, I guess.” The edge of the tray pressed into the already tight blouse, staining it there with a dust of cinnamon. You looked down at it. “I bought these for your dad, told him I’d let him try when I get the recipe down. If I had known you were here I would’ve made enough for both of you … I’m sorry.”
Javier eyed the pastries. There was enough there to feed the whole of Laredo, but he doesn’t mention it.
You held it out to him and he took it tentatively. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“Right.” You’re dusting your hands off softly, “it was … nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, yeah. You too.” There’s a click of your boots down the step and then of the door shutting on you.
-
Chucho barrels in through the back door just as the sun has disappeared beyond the sloping plains, the evidence of its warmth dark on his face.
Javier’s sunk down on one of the kitchen stools, pressing some ice blocks wrapped in a kitchen cloth against the bend of his neck. He’s still not convinced that the cold is doing anything for the way it aches there.
On the counter, the pile of sopapillas has long since been unwrapped - it didn’t take him long to convince himself into stealing just one. One that turned into two and three, and now he’s reaching for his fourth when his father’s calloused hand slaps away his own.
“Hey!” He grumbles, picking up the one Javier had been aiming for. “Those belong to me.”
Chucho bites into the pastry and sighs, edging around the counter to find a clean glass for the whisky that Javier has no doubt he’s about to pull out from one of the cupboards floating above him. Javier huffs, eyes rolling and reaching again, successfully, for another piece on the pile.
“So, you’ve met the new neighbour then?” The ice clinks when it hits the bottom of the class.
“Mhm.”
“And?”
Chucho pulls a tight face at the first sip of his whisky. It’s followed by a sigh, like the liquor’s relieved him of the day’s pains.
“We didn’t talk long. She was just at the door.” Javier dusts the remnants of icing sugar down the front of his already stained jeans. It leaves long white streaks that remind him of Bogotá.
At that, his father winds up affronted. “You didn’t invite her in for a coffee?”
Javier shrugs, confusion tightening his features. "No?"
Chucho tuts at him, clearly unpleased. "Did you lose your manners in Colombia, o qué? I didn't raise an animal not to invite a lady in for a cup of coffee when she brings a plate full of food."
Sighing loudly and rising out of his chair, Javier rounds the counter to where his father is perched against it: grabbing another empty glass out the cupboard beside his head. "I ... I wasn't thinking that far."
He reaches for the opened whisky bottle, tossing it's brown contents into the depths of his dusty glass. His father huffs at him again, but elects not to speak: instead knocking the side of Javier's glass with his own before downing the last of the drink.
There's a short-lived quiet where Chucho refills his glass, crickets humming beyond the threshold of the still open back door. Javier cringes around his next sip of warm, bitter liquor.
"She's pretty, no?"
He looks up at the wrinkled, sun-kissed side of his father's face. Chucho is grinning into his drink. Javier's eyes detach from him, drifting to the window over the sink: in the distance there's a porch light on at the faded red farmhouse. There's a shuffle of movement, he can't make out a silhouette but figures it has to be you.
If Chucho was talking about the girl who knocked at the door with the mountain of pastries, pretty doesn't even begin to cover it.
-
Javier can't escape you after that day, he thinks it's because he's determined not to.
When he's out at the edge of the property, winding a screw into a plank of wood or washing it with varnish: you're at the skyline like a figure from a dream. The black outline of a woman in a hat, a horse between her legs and it's running - nearly flying - so daringly fast across the field he has only seconds before you disappear.
He watches out the window in the kitchen more than he should. You're out on the porch most nights and only when he catches the eye of the white horse at the fence - it watches him more than he does you - does he creep back into the depths of his room at the cool end of the house.
Sunday is the one day a week that Chucho doesn't work. He sleeps in, until just past seven, and knocks at Javier's door asking him to come to church. Javier declines every time: you don't drown in drug blood for as long as he has and still find the stomach to kneel in the Lord's house.
The pickup truck rumbles down the overgrown driveway. He hears it disappear towards town with his toothbrush hanging half out of his mouth, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.
In the kitchen, he pours a cup of coffee from water that was left warm on the stovetop from Chucho's recent departure. Morning sun lights a strip up the counter, but the air is cool.
He's sunk down into a chair at the table when the knock draws his mind out from where it tends to linger, in Bogotá.
It's less of a knock, more of a bump. A thump, and it echoes again. The strange noise is coming from the back door and it's followed by a series of huffing and puffing and it's scraping now.
Javier's eyebrows tighten in confusion, setting his mug down noisily. He mumbles, "What now?"
There's a stray dog that wanders the property and comes begging for scraps from time to time, scraps that Chucho feeds him fondly, before disappearing again. Javier's mostly convinced it's the dog.
What he's not expecting is to open the squeaky door and narrowly miss the hard stomp of a wide black hoof where his booted foot had just occupied.
"J-Jesus!" Javier stumbles halfway back onto his ass, hand clutching the knob for support and eyes wide as he stares up at the tall white horse thumping at his doorstep. It's so much bigger this up close, round beetle-black eyes glaring down at him like he'd offended it personally.
His hand rises tentatively, hesitant where he reaches for its mane. The horse puffs and stomps again - jerking out of Javier's reach.
Javier sighs, his heart is knocking loudly in his ears. In the distance he finds where the fence has been torn up, opening the divide between your ranch and his father's land. He runs two fingers over his moustache.
Judging by the long bleeding gash down the horse's front leg, it's easy to tell who cut through the fencing.
"Alright." He sucks in a tight breath, head shaking. He doesn't know the first thing about horses, has never been so close to one before the monster that stood before him. "Let's ... let's get you home."
It takes Javier an embarrassing amount of time to figure that the horse isn't just going to follow him, that he needs to go fish out some rope from the shed. He stands a good foot from the horse, tossing the rope once or twice before it catches on its neck and fastens there.
The long grass tickles at the skin of his ankles under his jeans as he cuts across the field, holding the lead as far away from his body as he can manage. The horse seems unbothered, following the man and nudging at Javier's back with his nose every few steps. Javier jumps each time and is sure that if horses could laugh, this motherfucker would be cackling.
The chipped paint of your porch couldn't come any sooner, and when it does, he ties the end of the rope on a bannister.
It looks different this up close. He notices the rocking chair out front, attests it to the funny movement he catches when he's staring over in the evenings. There's three wide windows watching down at him from a second floor and the wooden steps creak as he climbs them.
He can hear clinking and clattering from inside. Javier raises his fist to the door, halfway tempted to just leave the horse tied there and disappear back to the safety of his easy Sunday and his cup of coffee.
He knocks anyway. The clanging pauses, he's been heard. A shuffle and a grumble of old hinges later, the door is open on your figure again.
You're smiling, like he expected you to be. An apron is wrapped over your waist looking like it was once white, but now dotted in brown and yellow spots. Some are still gloopy and wet, fresh.
"Javier." Your voice drags his eyes back up. He's trying not to let his gaze fall back to where sun-kissed shoulders and arms are propped up against your hips. "To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?"
"Mornin'." He coughs it more than says it, but at least it made it out his mouth. He motions vaguely behind him, "Your uh-- the horse ..."
You glance past him, gasping and shifting around his figure to the horse. "Ay, pobrecito ... what happened to you?"
Javier answers for the horse: "He broke through the fencing, must have been last night. Cut himself up by the looks of it."
You're crouched down at the horses hooves, pressing gentle fingers around the wound and it's nudging its nose lovingly into your side. "Really? Oh, I'm so sorry Javier."
He can't help think that the sympathy is misplaced. It's the damn horse that's bleeding.
"It's ... it's fine. Easy fix." He says, voice anything but steady. "Found him at my back door, funny enough."
You giggle gently and Javier immediately wishes you'd do it again. "He's too smart for his own good."
Rising to your feet, you pat at the horse's mane and kiss against the side of it's face before turning up the stairs towards Javier again.
"What's his name?"
Javier's wish is granted because you laugh again, this time a little louder and your face flushes a little.
"You're not gonna like it." You say, eyes meeting his bashfully.
His eyebrow tightens again, moustache pursing to one side. "Go on."
"I should mention that it was your father who named him." Your hands tuck into your elbows, head tilting to one side as you look up at him. "Blanco como la cocaína de Pablo, he said."
The horse huffs loudly, like he knows he's topic of conversation.
"His name is Pablo."
It's Javier's turn to laugh. He nods, chin tucked against his chest as it rumbles. "Right, of course."
"You're not mad?" You ask tentatively, fingers playing with the edge of your apron.
"No, it's fine. He's dead. I made sure."
A silence swells in the space between you that Javier can't help feel guilty for creating. You don't look uncomfortable, arms folded: biceps plush against your thin black tank. You're soft, softer than the girls in Bogotá would ever allow themselves to become and Javier wants to sink his fingers into the padded mounds of your hips.
"You want to come in for a coffee?" Your voice cuts through the quiet, "Sorry I look a mess, I'm trying to figure out this sugar cookie recipe--"
"No, no." Javier is shaking his head, not entirely sure why. "I should get back, get started on the fence ... y'know."
You deflate and he wants to crack his skull against the bannister at the sight.
"ʼOh." You say. "Yes, of course. Just let me know if you need any help or ... or something."
He nods awkwardly. You're walking away, untying Pablo's lead and offering him a last wave before disappearing behind the house: the horse following in suit.
"What the fuck is wrong with me ..." Javier mutters to himself, suddenly itching for a cigarette.
He ponders that question the whole walk back, under the sun that's become vehemently warmer since he'd crossed his property to yours.
There was a time that Javier Peña was the smoothest talker in all of Colombia, a time where he needed to be. When nights were worse than they are now: hot and steeped in a guilt so unshakeable that the solace of a few hours with a woman did the most good.
That Javier is dead, he thinks. He couldn’t imagine a worse idea right now than crawling into the bed of a lady he’s met just tonight and letting her warm the other side of the matress.
Not that he could. Laredo was small, everybody knew everybody, and God forbid he jump the bones of someone across the pew from his father in church.
But you, you were new. Nobody’s sister or daughter or aunt or twice-removed cousin.
He shakes off that thought. He does that a lot, thinking of you and then forcing himself to stop.
You’re young, a consensus might agree too young. Gentle and un-scorched by the scalding touch of life, looking like a fucking edible delight in your little baking apron or on the back of your horse.
Javier couldn’t do that. Couldn’t ruin you like he ruined everything else he touched.
So he doesn’t turn, as much as he’d like to.
-
“No, no me gustan esos.” Chucho waves him off with a dismissive hand.
Javier looks down to the can of beans in his hand. The weight of a plastic shopping basket in the other.
"Take those ones."
His father points at another row. The same exact kind, just a blue label instead of the red in his grasp. He sighs, setting the red-labelled can back and replacing it with the blue.
Javier’s not sure how his life became so fucking dull. It’s what he wanted, coming back to Texas, but somehow he finds he’s appreciating it a little less more every day.
The grocery store was small, but large for Laredo. The closest to the property, and he'd grabbed at the opportunity for a chance to leave the ranch for a visit anywhere that wasn't the church.
"Muy bien, let's go."
Chucho's marching down the aisle, fast for a senior his age. A tall man Javier vaguely recognises nods at them as they pass, Chucho tips his hat at him.
At the back of the store is a little butcher's counter. Narrow and slotted almost completely against the wall. Javier wouldn't have even looked if he hadn't found your silhouette in the corner of his eye.
His footsteps stutter. You're leaning on the tips of your booted toes, pointing at a slab of steak hanging behind the glass counter and giggling kindly at the boy working there. Mateo, the son of some guy Javier had graduated with.
He keens under your gaze, unlatching the meat.
It had been the bane of Javier's existence as a boy, Chucho's observance. Catching the lightest whiff of liquor off his son's breath after a night in town or standing post at the same window he'd attempted to climb through in the hours past curfew. As it turns out, some things never change, because he's followed Javier's eyeline before he's had a chance to rip it away.
He's marching towards you.
"Dad ..." Javier attempts, but it's in vain. Chucho's at your side already. You've turned, smiling up at him too.
"Ah, hija." He leans down, kissing your cheek, and Javier has no choice but to follow. "How are you?"
"I'm good, tío. I'm good."
You're holding your hat at your hip, decked out in a skirt again. Hair up out of your face and sun-darkened cheeks on display when your eyes find him.
"Hello Javier." You nod.
Chucho takes the packet where Mateo is offering it over the counter morosely, clearly upset that you've been interrupted, and hands it to you. Javier can't blame him.
"Morning." He settles. Trying to keep his eyes steady where they're insistent on dashing over your figure.
"Javi was just telling me how beautiful you look today."
Face running hot, Javier chokes on the spit at the back of his throat. "Dad--"
You're blushing harder. Chucho is grinning like a dog with a bone.
"W-Well thank you, Javier." Your hand fiddles over the brim of your hat. "You look very handsome today, too."
He's spared from answering when another voice is calling over the store. "Javi!"
Swanking over in quick steps is a woman: Sofia, clad in gym tights and a sports bra: beaming. She's leaning in to kiss his cheek, then Chucho's.
"Tío, how are you?"
Sofia was in class with Javier in school, and beautiful. She's carried the beauty with her through the years. All long dark hair, slim waist and bright brown eyes.
She's turned to you, eyes alight in surprise. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met. I'm Sofia."
Sofia offers her hand. Javier notices you squirm under her gaze, you take it kindly though. Smiling, introducing yourself. "Y/n".
A hand finds his shoulder, pressing there languidly. It's Sofia's. "You've been back for so long, why has it taken so long for me to see you!"
In the corner of his eye, you're tucking your packet of meat into your basket and shifting between your feet: eyes roving down Sofia's figure.
"Well, anyways, I've got my hands on you now." Sofia's giggling. Hand meandering from his shoulder down to his elbow. "We should get coffee or something, when your papa isn't working you so hard down there on the ranch."
Chucho chuckles gruffly.
You move, gently caressing Chucho's arm and still smiling softly. "I should get going, I've got a riding class soon ... I'll see you tío, Javier. It was nice meeting you, Sofia."
Sofia nods cheerfully, "Yes, of course."
You're gone before Javier can say anything, he watches you disappear between the aisles: tongue sitting heavy behind his teeth.
"How's your father, Sofia?" Chucho's hands find his hips, and it's the sign for Javier to settle in for a long conversation. He's suddenly regretting venturing into town.
They stand for almost a half hour, Javier makes niceties. He endures the inevitable questions about Colombia, about Pablo Escobar and Medellín and Cali. Answers them vaguely and off-handedly like he's used to doing. After long enough, Sofia bids them well and heads off with a basketful of greens and smoothie mixes. She winks at him as she goes.
Once she's out of earshot, he turns to Chucho. "What was that?"
"Sofia?" His father plays dumb, digging in his pocket for his wallet and walking ahead of Javier for the counter.
He rolls his eyes, "No, not Sofia."
Chucho laughs hoarsely. "You mean our neighbour?"
"Yes, I mean our neighbour."
He shrugs. "I'm getting old, mijo. I want to see some grandchildren before I'm gone."
Javier sputters out a half-formed laugh, more huffing than anything. "Grandchildren, pops?"
Chucho dismisses him with an aged hand.
"You might be a big-shot there in Colombia, but you're still my son." He sets their basket on the counter, tipping his hat at the woman behind the till. "And still as easy to read as a book. Just like when you were a boy around all those pretty schoolgirls."
Javier's face runs warm again.
"You're being ridiculous." he mutters.
Chucho gives him a look out the side of his eye before shrugging completely insincerely. "Hm. Maybe I am."
-
Mornings are cold, and raw.
It's dark when you creep out of bed, dark when you return to it too.
The days all pass this way and some mornings you can't face your reflection, deciding today that you regret the move out into the lonely land beyond Laredo.
Times like that have lessened though. Since Chucho Peña came by with a heavy knock and gruff laugh, said I'm just next door if you need anything, okay?
You'd exploited his offer, you lament. Broken stable door? You're at his door. Rain-wrecked porch steps? He's on his old knees with a crowbar and fresh planks of wood.
No, por favor, no te preocupes, he said each time.
It's what prompted your recent dive into the world of baking. You couldn't arrive each time, young and struggling, at his door empty handed. You were raised better than that.
Since then, you'd picked up a couple rancheros. Some hands to handle the horses and the stables and the early mornings. It made life less alone.
You'd figured your way around the books better, started up riding classes for the children in town and found some buyers for the surplus of horses in the pen in front of your house. You still regret each one you hand over, like you had when you were a child. Kiss each one on their long hairy noses and lead them out into the carriage.
Despite it all, you still lean on Chucho when you need a shoulder or an ear, or a drink. Like tonight, out on his porch step with a hand wrapped around a glass of warm whisky.
"I don't have any ice, but it's better like this anyways. Will put some hair on your chest."
His laugh was soothing, albeit rough: like dragging a bag of fertiliser over a cobbled driveway. It was your remedy for a tight throat and heavy heart, like the father you were too far from to find solace in.
You'd laughed too, "It's fine, tío."
The sun had set on your little gathering. Javier was in town buying some rope, Chucho had said and you tried not to care.
You’d been trying not to care for a while. It wasn’t the first time, you’re sure, that Javier’s caught a woman’s eye. He’s a celebrity where he comes from, a hero.
Heroes don’t look at you, and you make peace with that. Make peace with the brown eyes that watch you when you close your own late at night in an empty bed.
“Martin did a good job on finishing the porch.” Chucho comments, leaning further back in his chair. The brown liquor swills around his glass under the starchy yellow light illuminating the porch. Beyond it, the land is dark: you can just make out the lights of town in the distance.
You nod, taking a tight sip at the liquor. It burns like it always does and you try not to let him see. Hope he doesn’t notice that you’re still on your first glass of the vile liquid, but you’d be surprised if he did: already four glasses down himself.
“He works hard. I’m very glad to have him, and his wife is very lovely, she comes by sometimes.”
Chucho’s winding up to respond when a door bangs around the back of the house: “Dad!”
Your heart leaps into your throat. The footsteps are heavy and there’s a long moment you listen to them grow closer until the door to the porch swings open and Javier is looking down at the scene.
“Javi,” Chucho’s voice sways with the effects of his whisky. “Come, come. Join us.”
There’s very clearly only two seats, both occupied. Javier’s still looking at you, he nods slightly. “Evening.”
Your lips curl at the edge, desperate to smile but careful that it’s not too wide. “Hey.”
Chucho’s rising shakily, hand steadying himself at the arm of the chair. “Siéntate, mijo. Keep our guest company, your old man needs to go to bed.”
“Dad,“ he reaches out to help his father up, but Chucho brushes him off with a grunt. “I don’t think—“
“I should also go, tío—“
“Nonsense, nonsense! Both of you.” Chucho shoves his half-empty glass into Javier’s hand. “Javi, drink something and sit with the lady.”
You’re just about ready to dissolve into your seat. Javier’s hesitance, rather clear distain, at the prospect of joining you is making every muscle in your body twitch. Nausea rolls over you, embarrassment hot at your cheeks.
Chucho leans down and offers a kiss at your forehead. “Goodnight, cariño.”
You mumble after him. “Goodnight.”
Javier’s still in the doorway. He looks back as his father shuffles around the kitchen, leaned down into the fridge he’s just opened.
There’s a soft click of the door when he pushes off the frame and sits down into the seat Chucho’s just vacated. He sips at the whisky.
“Don’t worry,” you can’t help but say. “I’ll head out as soon as he’s gone to his room.”
He looks at you, but you’re focused on the liquid in your glass.
“Got some place to be?”
You’re surprised by the response, tilting your chin up to him. He rests his head against the back of the chair.
Instinctively, you shift in your seat: adjusting your shirt like you always did when in the presence of people. Like it may be an inconvenience for them to see you.
“Don’t want to keep you.” You dare another sip.
He shrugs, “I don’t mind.”
That one pulls a laugh from within you, it’s self-deprecating but you’re pleased to find it doesn’t come out too pitiful.
“You this charming with all the ladies, or is it just for me?”
Javier smiles, with teeth. He adjusts his seat. "Sorry. I'm not the best with words."
You glance back towards the kitchen. Chucho's loud sigh can be heard even through the door, he flicks the kitchen light off and fades into the corridor out of sight.
"Stay." You look at Javier. He's earnest the way he says it: "Please."
He's kitted out in a beige buttoned shirt, dark moustache twitching at you. His eyes look even more beautiful under this light. It persuades you to stay in your seat, as bad as an idea you already know it is.
So you settle back, eyeing your glass, and nod.
There's quiet for a long moment. It's broken by the click of a lighter, he's holding a cigarette to his lips. He offers you one but you dismiss him with a shake.
"Your horse is starting to creep me out."
You laugh, following his line of vision. At the edge of the property, Pablo is leaning his long neck over the built-up planks of wood. "He's all bark, no bite."
"I don't know, he nearly trampled me to death that day he came to visit. Maybe he's more like his namesake than you think."
It's not the first time he's mentioned Pablo before, but it still takes you aback. Chucho's spoken about Javier and his time in Colombia, told you about how he sent his son into the clutches of Bogotá and a different man had returned wearing his face.
"You would know better than me." You settle.
Javier takes a long drag of his cigarette. "Not much more. Never met him."
"Oh?"
He flicks the end of the cigarette, tilting his face at you and nodding. His eyes flicker, like it's all playing over in his mind.
"How you finding farm life, Javier?"
"Javi." He says. "Call me Javi, everyone does."
You take the dive, tossing the last of the whisky down in one gulp and cringe at it. "So I've heard. Javi, the people's hero."
"It's fine. The farm." He brushes over your comment like you'd said nothing at all. "I like the quiet. What about you, and the horses?"
Smiling, you don't take his dismissal to heart. "Lonely."
His chestnut gaze finds you again.
"But good." You continue, "I like them, the horses. The kids I teach are great, too. You, however, don't strike me as a horses kind of man."
He chuckles gruffly, it reminds you of his father's. "What gave it away?"
A lizard creeps up over the lip of the porch, you watch it as it nears your foot tentatively.
"That day you came by with Pablo." Your voice tilts with a teasing edge. "You looked at him like he was holding a gun at you."
"I'm used to guns. Not used to giant dogs with teeth that can bite my hand off."
In this light, Javier looks so mild. Like a normal Texas boy who's never seen the horrors of war: soft around his lips and sweat soaked hair stuck to his crinkled forehead. You can't stop yourself from looking, from wishing you could run a gentle thumb over that wiry moustache, kiss at his temple.
You force your eyes away, choosing to laugh. Choosing to remember quietly that men like Javier Peña were not men that could grant you that second glance that it took to fall in love. You with your swells and baker's build. Stout and soft. Men like him looked to belles like Sofia, in her carefree confidence that draws them to her like crows to shiny gold.
"You're being dramatic." You say with a light laugh, drowning out the noise in your head. The remnants of the whisky are helping. "You should come by for a riding lesson or two. I have a class for twelve year olds, I'm sure you'd fit right in."
“Not a chance I’m getting on top one of those things.”
"Famous last words."
He chuckles at that.
"Just you out there?" He asks, gaze swimming at the bottom of his glass. A wave of smoke passes over you on the evening wind.
"Just me." You try not to sigh. "And the horses, of course. So never really alone."
He nods, still not looking at you. "No husband?"
It's your turn to chuckle. "Not unless you count Pablito over there."
You can make out his ghostly figure over the stretch of grass between your property and Chucho's, grazing on some grass in the front paddock. You try to remember if Martin said if he'd fed him before he left.
"Another drink?" He lifts his own empty glass at you, meeting your eyes for the first time in what feels like the hours you've been sitting there with him.
"Oh no," you shudder. "Not my kind of drink. Just took it to appease your dad."
He shakes his head. "You shouldn't."
You shrug. "He does more than enough for me."
There's a silence that blankets the porch, the dim bulb fizzling into the quiet.
"I should really get going." You break it. "Have to sort out some stuff before bed."
He stands as you do. "Right."
You're both standing, just looking at each other. He clears his throat, ducking his eyes again.
"Right," he repeats. "You're okay to walk back?"
"I'll be fine." You smile, "Javi."
He nods. "Goodnight."
And you slip off through the grass into the darkness.
-
Javier’s never understood Chucho’s need to have people over. Since he was a kid and had to pass out on the couch at three in the morning with Quimbara blasting from the radio in the living room, people drinking and dancing through the house.
This indifference, however, never stopped his father. And now standing at the edge of the property, cigarette hanging from his mouth, Chucho mentions that he's having people over on Saturday. Javier sighs like someone's died.
Saturday, all his friends from town and some tías Javier barely ever sees. For no particular reason beyond sometimes a drink and a dance is good for your health.
Chucho grunts where he lifts up a pole of wood over his shoulder. He looks back at his son, "I want you to go by later and invite our neighbour."
Javier pushes his glasses up his sweating nose. "Come on, what is your preoccupation with me and her?"
The pole clunks to the floor between the grass. "You don't like her?"
Rolling his eyes and reaching for the hammer, Javier sighs again. "I … do, but you're becoming overwhelming."
Chucho laughs at that. "Someone's gotta be. You're as timid as a mouse, so unlike you used to be."
"Yeah." Javier shrugs, "Well ... I'm not the man I used to be. The one you seem to remember so well."
It's how he ends up crunching through the grassy path to the perimeter of your ranch. At the fence he can make out eight children in the paddock in front of your house, each on a different coloured horse trotting around striped poles stacked into short jumps.
He can hear you before he sees you, "Elena! Lighten up on those reigns, sweetheart."
When he finds you, standing in the dust with some dark wash overalls and pink t-shirt, a smile can't help but find his face. He notes the hat and the boots, always the boots.
You're leaned against the wooden planks of the paddock barriers, and as Javier nears, he makes out a fluffy head of dark curls over your shoulder. When you turn, he's surprised to find that it's a child.
A little boy, shoeless, and sucking his thumb: his face tucked into your neck. You sway lightly with him all curled up in your arms as the child watches the riders with flushed and tear-streaked cheeks.
"Javi!" You call him over, grinning too.
His work shoes collect auburn dust until they stand opposite your boots.
"Hey." He comments gently. You strain your eyes against the light when you look up at him and Javier thinks it's the most endearing thing he's seen yet.
"Good morning." You giggle softly.
Javier is quiet, looking down at the child who is staring at him with wide pecan-coloured eyes.
"Oh, this is Miguel." You bump him higher up on your hip. Javier thinks he can't be older than four. "Say hola, Señor Peña."
The child whines loudly before hiding his face in your neck, gripping tighter at the straps of your overalls. You cock an eyebrow at him, "Miguelito, have you lost your manners?"
There's a long pause before a muffled, "Hola Señor Peña" vibrates from the depths of your shoulder. He still doesn't look up, but it seems to appease you: running a hand over his dark curls and kissing against his head.
"He's upset that he's not old enough to ride the horses," you whisper at Javier. Nudging an elbow over to a girl with a long braid sticking out from the bottom of her helmet on a horse in the paddock. "He comes with his sister, Isabela."
Javier has given little thought to children - at least not for many years - but the sheer visual of Miguel in your arms, his clear fondness for you and how you pet at him, is making something gurgle deep in his stomach. The image of a life he could never deserve swims behind his eyes, your silhouette amidst the waves. He swallows hard.
"I see." He takes another look at the children on the horses, one of your rancheros is directing them to canter in circles. "Well, I came over to invite you over. My dad's having a party ... type thing, it's on Saturday night. If you're free, he'd like you to come?"
"He'd like me to come?" You press, purposefully ignoring everything else he'd said, and grinning like a cat who'd snatched a bird right out the sky.
Javier's eyes roll, chin tucking into his chest but unable to force down his own guilty smile. "We'd both like you to come."
"I'd love to come, Señor Peña." You nod, Miguel has gone back to peering curiously up at him from the safety of your shoulder. "What should I bring?"
"Just bring yours--"
"I'll bake something! I saw this recipe for cannolis the other day in one of the baking magazines down at the gas station ..."
You're rocking again on the tips of your toes and Javier can't even find the energy to argue that you really don't need to bring anything because you're smiling so fucking wide and it's making his head buzz like he's drunk.
"Fine." He finally nods. "Bring whatever you want, it’ll make me-- us happy either way."
You hike Miguel higher up your side. “Good. I’ll be there then.”
When Javier arrives back in the kitchen, his father is standing at the counter fanning his sweating face with his hat.
“She said she’s coming.”
Chucho nods, “good, good. I just got off the phone with Andres, Sofia’s father. They’ll be coming too.”
Javier pauses where he’s unbuttoning another notch on his shirt, “you invited Sofia? Ah, pops, why’d you do that?”
“We saw her the other day in town!” Chucho raises his hands in surrender, “I wanted her father to come, I couldn’t not invite her. It’s what you call manners, son.”
Javier can’t help be taken back to you scolding Miguel for his own lack of social etiquette. He’s four years old, Javier reminds himself.
So he elects to sighing. “Fine, but if she invites me for another coffee date I’m spending the night in my room.”
“You’re too cynical, mijo. What’s wrong with a little coffee and an afternoon with a beautiful woman?”
Grumbling, but not answering, Javier digs through the freezer for any loose ice to press against his sweating neck. He finds none.
“Oh right,” Chucho laughs wickedly. “You can’t go out with Sofia because she’s not her.”
There’s only one person her could be.
Javier slams the freezer shut. “Is that a crime now?”
A heavy hand falls onto his shoulder, shaking him there jovially. “Not at all.”
-
Saturday comes quickly, despite Javier’s best attempts at holding out.
He’s been hauled into town nearly four times since the start of the week, crating boxes of beer and tequila, packets of crisps, plastic cups and more ice than could fit in their tiny fridge, until the house looked like the inside of a tavern before opening day.
It’s optimistically sunny out on the day of the event. Chucho’s more than chuffed by the light streaming in, humming as he sets out cups and cuts limes into little wedges. He’s dressed in a blue button-up, and went to the effort of digging through Javier’s cupboard and laying out a pink shirt that he hasn’t seen since Curaçao for him to wear: freshly-ironed.
"This one looks good on you."
He’s leaned over Chucho’s old record player - the one that his father refuses to replace even after all these years - trying to get it to play a record he’s pulled out from a dusty cabinet when the first guests arrive. The sun is already almost at the edge of the skyline, threatening to dip behind it, and Chucho goes out to greet them eagerly.
It’s not long before his living room is buzzing with people. Mostly old people, his father’s age and older: people he remembers from a time long ago, and they all clap him on the back with congratulations and compliments.
Well done!’s and We’re so proud of you!’s. He takes them in stride.
They flood the porch outside too, Chucho the centre of attention as a small group laughs at something he’s said: grinning so widely that it just about makes the whole thing bearable to Javier.
He’s pouring tequila into plastic cups and handing over bottles of beer faster than he can keep track and the music has already seeped into his skin when he finally cracks open his own.
"I thought I would find you in here." The voice startles him, almost sloshing his beer down the front of his shirt when he turns to find Sofia walking slowly to wear he’s leaned against the living room wall like a fly in the corner. "Ranchero, DEA agent and bartender? Man of many talents."
Her dark hair is tied up in a ponytail flowing down the back of her neck, the ends of a flowery dress stirring down at her ankles. Silver jewellery jingles where she reaches up to tuck an invisible strand of hair behind her ear.
"Sofia." He nods, smiling politely. It’s what you call manners, son. "It was good of you to come."
"How could I miss it?" She leans in closer, "Your father’s parties are always the talk of Laredo."
Javier smiles, "He'll be glad to hear that."
Sofia's perched on the end of the table, glancing down at the strewn out drinks. "So, you gonna pour me a tequila or not?"
Nodding quickly, Javier grabs for the tall, pretentiously ornate bottle of golden liquor. "Of course."
The smell is strong as it pours out, splattering into the depths of the red cup.
"Pour one for you too." She presses, watching him closely. "Lots to celebrate."
When he hands her the cup, Sofia raises it and knocks it against his. "To your return to Laredo."
The tequila is cool from where it's been waiting three days in the fridge and barely finished burning its way to the base of his throat when she speaks again.
"Why didn't you take me up on a catch-up, Javi?"
He just about coughs his drink back up, hacking as quietly as he can.
"Uh, just--" he croaks, "--just been busy around here. Forgot."
Sofia's gaze is heavy, and more than a little suspicious. "I see. Maybe soon, though?"
"Yeah. Definitely." He promises falsely.
There was once a time where Javier would've accepted her offer without another thought. Endured pretentious coffee with the hopes of a trip back to the apartment he knows she keeps in town, maybe called her after. Maybe. Now, though, he thinks he's too tired to indulge in his past bad habits, getting too old. Oh but then, there's you, he thinks. Who he could never be too tired or too old to entertain the thoughts of.
"Oh look. It’s that girl."
Hablando del rey de Roma…
He practically stumbles back on his heels to turn. Out on the porch, in the shortest, most haunting, little yellow dress, you're leaning up to kiss Chucho's cheek. Javier's heart crawls up into his throat.
You're carrying a wide blue platter, stacked over with what he assumes are the products of your baking. Chucho says something and you toss your head back in laugher. His hand finds your shoulder and he leads you over to his friends, you shake hands and smile widely at them.
"How do you guys know her?" Sofia's voice echoes as if from the end of a long corridor. He blinks, looking back at her.
"She ... uhm, she owns the next ranch over." His mouth dries over and his stomach gurgles with exhilaration. He reaches for the tequila bottle again, pouring more than necessary back into his cup. God, is he back in high school?
"The horse ranch?"
He nods from behind the cup where it's tilted against his mouth. The pursuit to not stare too long is proving fruitless and Javier looks back again: you've unwrapped the tray and a couple of the tías are chewing your pastry, nodding and chirping approvingly. You're beaming, mouth forming around a "really?".
"Young thing. She got a husband or something out there with her?"
Javier shakes his head, not peeling his eyes where Chucho is patting you proudly on the arm.
Sofia guffaws, "Surely she's not running that place alone?"
He shrugs. "Couple rancheros. My dad helps her out a lot."
"Oh, I see."
When Javier looks back up, your boots are knocking against the tiles floor over to where he stands with Sofia: face flushed and glowing with the attention you've just escaped out on the porch.
The music dims to a soft thrum when you smile at him, glancing to Sofia as well.
"Evening, guys." You greet, shifting the weight of the plate between your hands. The pile noticeably smaller than when you'd arrived.
Up close, he has a better view of your dress and the light makeup you've clearly put on just for tonight. He thinks you were better for his mental well-being while you still stood further out under the porch-light.
"Hi, it's good to see you again!" Sofia leans down, greeting you with a peck against your cheek.
You look nervous, again, under Sofia's gaze. "Yes, of course. From the store."
"Hey." Javier adds in pathetically, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. "I'm glad you came."
Laughing gently you nod, "Me too. Everyone here is so nice."
"Laredo makes the best people, I agree." Sofia replies easily.
The room is stuffier, Javier finds, than before you'd arrived. You shift between your feet, eyes flickering everywhere except over to him: drinking in the sights and sounds of the party stirring around you.
"Can I make you a drink?" Javier asks.
Your gaze finds his quickly, then to the table and back. You shake your head, lifting the pastries.
"I should go stick these in the kitchen. Do you guys want one?" Your face flushes again, looking down at the pastries like you're still not sure of them. "They're the cannolis I told you about, Javi. Took me all night, I messed up the first batch and then I couldn't sleep worrying about it--"
"No, no." Sofia pulls a tight face. "Can't do so much sugar tonight. Training for a marathon at the moment."
Your face falls, but you catch it quickly. You nod, smiling sheepishly. "Yes. Of course, right."
Javier's trying not to comment on it, Sofia's response or the way your sad little expression is making him sick. Instead, he reaches down for one of the cannolis: "I'm starving, they look great."
There's a crunch where he bites through the hard exterior before it melts into pillowy softness at the centre. He doesn't mean to keen so loudly.
"It's really good." His voice is muffled around the pastry and you're glowing again. "Delicious."
"You think?" You're doing that thing again, bouncing lightly on the tips of your boots. "It's the recipe I was telling you about from that magazine."
"Yeah, no, it's ... incredible. You did a great job."
There's another wave of silence where Javier's chewing and he can feel Sofia's eyes on him.
"Well. I'm gonna go set these down." You smile, turning for the kitchen but not before one of his father's friends stop you on the way, pointing down at the plate and taking one off it. You'd swear she'd handed you a Nobel Prize, the way you beam.
You hips sway all the way through the room, disappearing beyond the corridor.
Javier doesn’t often wish he was the man he used to be, but right now: seeing you in this dress, flittering through the house and laughing so easily - it makes him wish he still had his old nerve to propel himself over, to lean down and tuck your lips against his. Not the way he’d done to faceless women in Colombia - not seeking to appease himself and his own rampant carnal desires - but to let you feel him, to just ask you god, how am I’m so obsessed with you without saying the words. If he could, he’d lead you away, revel in your softness against this tanned sheets: that fucking dizzying dress decorating his bedroom floor.
"Uh--" he's promptly reminded of where he is, looking back to Sofia. He offers her the last bit of his cannoli, hopeful that she'll decline. "You sure you don't want any?"
She shakes her head.
-
Somehow, Javier is roped into conversation out on the porch with Sofia and her father about the cars he fixes up at his garage.
He's stuck out there for longer than any conversation about cars should last.
The music thrums through the house, rattling the windows and some of the guests have shifted chairs to form a make-shift dance floor inside, just in view of the deck.
They swirl and sway to the beat, the buzzing record player humming Vida Parrandera: his father's favourite.
You've found your way - rather, dragged by Chucho's hand - to the centre. Javier's been half-watching you all night and it's hard to miss the shining yellow.
Chucho's stepping slowly, holding you at the elbows, your eyes down on your feet as you try to follow the instructions he's shouting above the music. You fall into step with him slowly, and soon he's spinning you around: dress flying.
Javier's father had always wanted a daughter. His mother died too young to bless him with a little sister and Chucho had sworn to never love again, but that didn't plug the complaints that flowed over the years.
Chucho's wish that he'd had the chance to splash around money for a showy and over-the-top quinceañera, to chase boyfriend's off the property with a shotgun and spoil some little princess rotten.
His white moustache twitches when he smiles at you, laughing hoarsely when you nearly trip back over your own boots.
When Javier looks again, you're off the dance floor, being introduced to some more people. You nod and smile, and the old-timers eat you up.
"And what about you, Javi?" Andres, Sofia's father, tugs his attention back. "You happy working here with your old man? Cause I've always got a spot open for you at the shop if you need."
He nods, eyes flickering back and forth from the image of you disappearing towards the kitchen again. "Yes, sir. I'm very happy here, but I'll let you know if that changes."
"Good, good. Sofia was telling me--"
"I'm sorry, but can I just ..." he points vaguely in the direction of inside, "I'll be right back."
Sofia looks affronted but her father nods earnestly, "Yes, yes ..."
Javier doesn't look back. He knocks shoulders through the crowded living room, apologising over his shoulder but most are too drunk to notice him.
When he brushes through the bar doors into the kitchen, you're leaned against his counter with a red cup tipped up against your mouth. You look back, face wet with the stuffy heat of the house and the dancing.
"Hey." You test, chuckling timidly. "Sorry, I just needed a sec. Your dad is busy on his feet, for his age."
Javier nods. He nears, settling against the counter beside you, "Tried to warn you."
You offer him your cup, he takes it - trying not to think about how his fingers brush yours - and sips it. His face curls, realising it's lukewarm tequila. Your giggle hums against echo of the music in the room over.
On the counter, he notices your blue plate: wiped clean. He motions down to it, "See the people liked your cannolis."
Nodding eagerly, you take the cup back and sip it without making a face. "Yes! You don't know how glad I am."
There's a pause. You sip again and sigh quietly, Javier's watching down the slope of your nose.
"So, you and Sofia huh?"
He's taken aback, eyebrows scrunched and frowning when he shakes his head. "No."
You reach for the tequila bottle off to the side, lifting to refill your glass. Your face is half-way hidden the way you've turned, but unreadable on the sliver the light still illuminates. "Why not? She's nice."
"She's fine."
"Just thought she seems like your type."
He's not sure whether this idea has sprung about just tonight or if the townspeople have been talking again about the Agent Javier Peña they once knew, but either way: Javier is irritated and pushes off the counter to meet your face.
"My type? what do you think is my type?"
You shrug innocuously, spinning the cap back on the bottle. "I don't know, Bogotá girls. Pretty, lively ... nice bodies."
Javier is confused. Beyond confused.
"I like all kinds of women." He says, voice laced in his growing skepticism. "Just, she's not ... I don't--"
Your laugh tinkles, but not as merrily as it normally does. You pat his chest, and his skin crackles under the touch. "Don't injure yourself, Javi."
Turning to the door you quip, "I should get out there. I promised one of your tías that I'd love to see the photos of her grandchildren."
This time, you're not getting away as easily and Javier's grasped for your wrist before you can dissolve into the party again. He finds himself almost against your chest, your lashes batting startled up at him.
"Why are you so insistent that I like her?"
"I-I'm not." You suck in a sharp breath, eyes still sparkling under the shade of his looming silhouette.
Impossibly, he shifts closer - forgetting where he was or what his original point in avoiding ever touching you was - until the front of your dress is pressed up against his pink button-up. "I don't like her."
"It doesn't matter to me. Was ... just asking." It comes out breathless.
"Good." He's leaning much further than he should be, nose just brushing yours. "Cause I don't like anyone else."
His lips graze yours, hand winding around your waist where yours finds his chin. "Else?"
"Else."
God the pressure of your lips barely touching his is driving him fucking insane and he's less than a fraction of a second from diving against them -- when the bar doors slam back against the tiled wall.
You leap back and Javier groans, eyes clamping shut before opening on a wide-eyed guest in the doorway. She smiles sheepishly, "Disculpe, ¿el baño?"
Javier sighs, in the corner of his eye you're flattening out the front of your dress. "Down the hallway, door on the left."
The woman nods, "gracias."
She's barely gone when you speak again. "I'm gonna ... gonna head out there."
Javier's lost his nerve. He nods. "Yeah."
-
You weren't above a good bit of gossip, far from it in fact. It's a fun little guilty pleasure that's mostly harmless, and in a small town like Laredo, you were never in short supply.
The women at the hair salon were chirping about any and everyone when you stopped in the first time to look for a new shampoo, in the supply shop the man helping you find new bridal hooks couldn't stop telling you about his neighbour's loud arguments that he listens to from over the wall. He's a cheating bastard, I'm telling you.
You listen intently, make appropriate facial expressions and hum as they explain, but when it has nothing to do with you it's easy to go on and forget. To forget about the cheating neighbours, stolen inheritance and undercover boob jobs from town.
Until you'd driven back in after your final riding class one day, following the somewhat-enthusiastic invite to a party at the Peñas. You'd only had one destination in mind: the gas station where you'd spotted a brightly coloured baking magazine with a lively "Full-proof recipe for Cannolis, perfect every time!" printed out in curly red text on the front.
Tina's at the counter when the bells jingle overhead. She smiles at you, youth deep-set in her smile lines.
"Hey." she'd grinned, lowering the volume on the box-set television behind the counter. Some or other reality show.
You grabbed the magazine off the stand, letting it fall against the linoleum counter separating you from her, smiling back at her. "What'cha up to, kiddo?"
She leaned back in her chair, hands cradling the back of her head. "Oh, you know. Just fulfilling all my potential in life."
Tina's mother owned the gas station, and sixteen year-old Tina worked the counter after school. You regularly brought your baking magazines from there and brought her some samples for testing: it's how her usual teenage, lip-pierced scowl dissolved into smiles when you came in.
You'd laughed. "Of course. Just this one."
Lifting the magazine, she eyed it closely: "cannolis?"
"Yep. Maybe I'll bring you some if you pass that maths test you mentioned last time."
The machine beeps where she scanned it. "Fat chance."
Behind you, the bell above door had jingled again. You glanced just barely over your shoulder at the woman, heels clicking against the floor with a complaining child at her side.
"Come on, we'll be quick baby."
There wouldn't have been the need for a second look, had Tina's expression not curled mischievously. She spoke in an almost-whisper as soon as the woman's figure turned into the aisle, "look who it is."
You turned back to the aisle, the top of the woman's head barely visible over it. "Who?"
"Lorraine Anderson. Almost Peña." She chuckled off the end, slipping your magazine into a plastic bag.
The blood rushed a little louder past your ears, face warming. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, you don't know?" Tina leaned over the counter, talking in a hushed voice. "She was engaged to Javier Peña like way back in the day, but he apparently cut it off to become a DEA agent or something. Now she's all married with kids and stuff, was torn up about the whole thing for years my mom said. I wonder if they've seen each other since he got back."
Breath coming out in short ribbons, all you could get out was a short: "oh."
"But you know Javier Peña, he likes all these bimbo types." Tina's mouth curled into a grin, far too young to know anything about what she was talking about.
Your mind reeled and with the pit in your stomach deepening, she kept talking. "My mom says that if he can't drink it, smoke it or fuck it, Javier's not interested."
You'd let out a raggedy laugh, just to save face.
"But you said you're neighbours with them, I thought you'd know?"
"Yeah ..." you'd nodded, tightening your grip on the plastic bag in your hand. "We don't talk much, I guess."
The echo of heels clicked through the space. Holding onto a young boy in one hand, a bag of ice in the other: Lorraine appeared behind you in line.
You shifted your money over the counter quickly. The till clicked open and Tina shuffled among coins while you watched the woman in the corner of your eye.
To call her beautiful would be a devastating understatement.
Blonde hair flowing over her shoulder, porcelain face atop a model's body. She smiled politely at you and you shifted your eyes back, feeling all too quickly that you might be sick.
Tina's hand reached over, letting the coins drop into yours.
"I'll figure out the maths test, so save me a couple cannolis. Okay?"
You smiled at her. "Of course, kiddo."
The drive back to the ranch was long, swallowing down a dry throat and a sinking feeling. It's not like you didn't know that, though? Javier Peña was a ladies man, the ladies man.
The spiralling sensation of falling for him had always been a bad idea, because it's not you. It's never you.
You and your horses and your lonely existence down at the ranch.
The feeling is perpetuated as you stand now at the Peña's backdoor, party still not dying down in the depth of the house despite the sun daring to peek over the hill bringing morning.
Chucho is protesting, breath heavy with whisky, "It's still early, hija. Come on! One more dance?"
You laugh, empty plate in hand, "I got to head back, tío, have to be up in a few hours."
"Let Javi walk you back at least?"
No. Absolutely not.
"I don't wanna disturb him. I'll be fine."
"Disturb who?" Like his name had summoned him, Javier appeared in the doorway.
"Walk the lady home, Javi." Chucho kisses at your cheek. "Thank you for coming, I'll see you."
He disappears into the music and dark of the house.
Javier's eyebrows tighten, "You're leaving?"
You can barely look at him, electing to nudge a crumb off the side of the plate. Your head has been spinning since your little interaction in the kitchen.
"Yeah. It's late."
He steps out onto the grass, "I can walk you back?"
But you know Javier Peña, he likes all these bimbo types.
You wouldn't -- couldn't -- be a quick fuck for Javier's entertainment. Not with him, not with Javi. You're already too wrapped up in your feelings for him and the thought alone is enough to shatter your lonely little world.
He's used to a different type of girl. The type you're not. Why does he bother, though, to feed you with little snippets like he did in the kitchen. Cause I don't like anyone else.
A man like him can't possibly be capable of what you need from him, what you so desperately crave.
"No, it's ... it's okay. I'll be fine, you should go enjoy the party."
Javier's hands find his hips. God, that pink button-up isn't helping: looking so damn good, delectable enough to peel off.
"Hard to enjoy without you here."
You look down again, flushing. Your brain can't spit out a decent enough answer, so you stay quiet. In the absence of your eyes, Javier's closed the space and let his hand find your wrist.
Glancing back up, it's hard to blink away the growing blurriness on your waterline. His face twists in concern. "You don't have to leave, you know?"
"Javi." You breath quietly. Night hums in the space, the buzz of crickets and the glimmer of dawn over his face.
"What?" He responds just as hushed, tequila sewn breath fanning your top lip.
"I can't."
"Can't what? Stay? You don't have to if you don't want--"
"This. I-- we can't do this."
Javier's hand falls from your wrist. His moustache twitches down at you. "What's wrong?"
"It's, there's--"
"Is this about what you said in the kitchen?"
The air around you is growing warmer, stuffier. Words escaping you. How does one explain, I can hardly sleep at night because I'm falling in love and you are gonna hate me for it--
"I just ... I don't think we're looking for the same thing."
He takes a step back, growing the space. "You don't know what I'm looking for."
"I know what you're looking for."
It's the wrong thing to say, you know that immediately. Javier's frown deepens, he nods slowly and it's making the tears well up faster.
"Javi, that's not--"
"What did they tell you, huh?" He presses, an expression you've never seen painting his face. "I assume you've heard the talk. Everyone in this town always knows better, that's why I fucking left in the first place."
"Javi. Nobody said--"
"Come on," he interrupts you again. "That's the only place you would've heard all this bullshit, because I've never said you anything about my past. Never said anything because I knew it'd scare you off and I didn't fucking want that."
The empty plate is digging into your side, messing the yellow there with icing sugar. You don't look away this time, sinking into his brown eyes.
"I met Lorraine."
The brown hair over his forehead shifts where he shakes his head. "Lorraine was a long time ago."
"If he can't drink it, smoke it or fuck it, Javier Peña isn't interested." Your voice comes out shakier than you hoped it would. "That's what they said."
The anger is growing on his face, it's unfamiliar and discomforting.
"And you think I'd do that to you?" His voice is rising, still softer than the thrum of music erupting through all the windows of the house behind him. "To my dad, who's probably the only person more obsessed with you than I am?"
"I don't know! I don't know what you would or wouldn't do Javi. I don't know you and I'm just some girl who lives next door to you, falling for the same charming schtick you've probably pulled for all the women before me."
You can feel where a warm tear has raced down over your cheek, where it lands with a soft pat on the top of your dress. He blinks at you like you've slapped him.
Silence reigns for so long it's making all your bones itch.
"You're right. You should go." He breaks, nodding as his eyes glance back over your shoulder to your house in the distance. "Horses need feeding, right?"
"Javi ..."
The door slams behind him and the music still blasts.
i've been working on this literally for over a year and i've been so bad at keeping up with writing - life has been a bitch recently - but i finally finished one of my favourite pieces ever!
like/interact with this post to be added to taglist :)
You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.
You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.
For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.
Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.
You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.
You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”
You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.
Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.
“Here, sweetheart,” he says.
You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”
“Can I make it for you?” he asks.
Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”
Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.
You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Are you sharing?”
“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.
“Thank you.”
Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”
“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.
He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”
“That explains why it’s still warm.”
He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.
“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.
You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”
“Do you have big dinner plans?”
“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”
“Why not?”
You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”
“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.
“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”
He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.
It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.
“I’ll bring you some if it does.”
“I’d like that.”
You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.
“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”
“I can be punctual,” he promises.
“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”
“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”
You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.
“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).
Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”
Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.
Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.
When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.
It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.
And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.
You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.
—
The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.
“That smells amazing.”
You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”
“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”
His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.
The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.
“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.
“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”
“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.
He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”
If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.
His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.
You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.
Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.
“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.
You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.
“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”
You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.
“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.
You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.
“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.
There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.
“It’s a little brave,” you say.
“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”
You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.
—
Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.
You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.
“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.
“I’m not worried about the sun.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.
He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”
You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.
So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.
“Do you worry about that a lot?”
“Hm?”
“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”
“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.
He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”
You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”
Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”
He makes everything sound so satiny.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.
“Promise?”
Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”
You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.
A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.
It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.
Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”
“And?”
“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.
He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.
“What’s amazing?”
You remember where you are urgently.
“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.
Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”
You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.
“Morning,” Clark says.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”
You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”
“You look good.”
Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”
“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.
Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.
“You do look good,” he says again.
You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”
You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.
“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.
“What?”
His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.
“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”
“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”
His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.
Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.
“Don’t.”
“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”
“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”
“Take me somewhere else.”
His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.
He hits the button for the basement as you step in.
“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”
No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.
“Clark!” you say.
“Can I kiss you?”
He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.
You raise your hand to wipe it away.
“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.
Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.
Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.
“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
“Really?”
“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”
“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.
His eyebrows pinch. “What?”
“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”
“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”
His neck goes all shades of rose.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”
You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.
He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.
“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”
The elevator chugs back to life.
—
You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.
“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”
You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.
“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”
You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.
“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.
His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.
“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.
“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”
“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”
You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”
“Everyone’s safe.”
You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.
“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”
Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.
You shake your head, not without fondness.
All boys are the same.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times
i've been working on this literally for over a year and i've been so bad at keeping up with writing - life has been a bitch recently - but i finally finished one of my favourite pieces ever!
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