A/N: Hey. Been a while. Here’s an update and a loose promise I’ll be better? Also thanks for all the notes, comments, and messages recently! I forget who wanted to be on the tag list, but comment and I’ll know for next time!
“It’s not serious.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Mother.”
“It’s not. You’re really overreacting.”
You curl your fingers into the bed of your palm and feel the bite of your nails digging into the flesh. “It’s cancer.”
“Psssh.”
You want to throw the phone across the room. Instead, you screw your eyes shut and lean back against the wall.
“Do you have an appointment soon?”
“You know I don’t like hospitals.” She says just as you see the deadbolt to your apartment flick unlocked. Javi pushes in seconds later, looking just as tired as you feel. You give him a little wave.
“Well weigh that dislike of hospitals against your dislike of death,” you say, turning away and putting your hand on your hip. You don’t want to burden him with this, but you see his eyebrows perk up anyway. Shit. You lower your voice. “Can’t Dad sit with you? Or Luna?”
“You worry too much.” She chides.
“You don’t worry enough!” You scold into the phone. You feel a hand around your waist and turn just in time to get a kiss on your forehead. It calms you down.
Sighing, you regain your composure. “Mom? Please promise me you’re going to go back.”
“Well of course I’ll go back, Bean, but really, I don’t want you worrying about me.” Somewhere in the background, you hear a crash behind her.
“Mom?”
“It’s just your father. He’s putting up shelves for the crystals and I think he fell. Can I call you back?”
You sigh. The only thing your mother is worse at than soothing your anxiety is calling you back.
“Yeah, sure.” You say. “But actually call?”
“I always do.”
“Hmm.”
“Bye Bean, I love you.”
“I love you too,” you say before you hear the line go dead. You put the phone back on the hook and drop your head, trying it to calm yourself down. From the couch, you hear Javi perk up.
“Sounds like you had a worse day than me.”
You look up and give him a weak smile. “We’re having a lot of those, recently.”
How long are honeymoon periods supposed to last? You would have at least guessed six months. That only seems fair, given the seven months of angst and hookups that preceded finally, finally being able to admit to one another that maybe this meant a little more than you led on. You would have taken three months, even- three months of everything just being calm and quiet and nice, where the most stressful thing to happen is burning dinner because you’re too busy fucking on the counter.
You moved to the wrong fucking city.
It wasn’t even a week after your drunken exchange of I-love-yous that it began. All those bodies piling up once more, only this time the cops and their allies were giving just as good as they had got. Bodies from both sides seemed to pile up in higher stacks all around you two. Three days hadn’t passed without you having to calm down one of your students -or worse, one of your fellow teachers- over recent events. It was getting to you, too, if you were honest. Javi had warned you against going out like you once did, and as much as you hated it, you knew he was right. You thought of the friends of friends who had disappeared or died, caught in the crossfire or in the consequences of their poor decisions. The more you heard, the more you wanted to lock yourself in your apartment, hidden away from the chaos of the outside. You managed to see your friends at work but meet-ups outside had dwindled severely. Alessa found out she was pregnant and didn’t want to risk it. Lisa’s brother-in-law got caught in between two sides of a gunfight and couldn’t work any longer, so she was helping them more around the house. Maritza was the only one who still tried to go out, but it was a rare occasion you could even gather everyone up for a dinner at home.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if you could have spent all this new, anxious free time with Javi, but if anything, he had picked up your slack when it came to existing in the outside world. Since Los Pepes had entered the picture, the man worked around the clock. Sometimes you would go the whole evening without seeing him, only to be awoken to the feeling of his body falling on the bed next to yours. While he still insisted on driving you to work every morning, he had begun staying at the office later and later, sometimes not returning until 2 am. The fire and anger that once fuelled him seemed to have died out, and the poor man is running on fumes. You could see it when you both woke in the morning in the dark circles under his eyes and the uptick in cigarettes he had been smoking. You try and take care of him - bringing him coffee in bed, rubbing his shoulders when he sits up, lost in his own thoughts. He appreciates it, he tells you as much, but no matter how hard you try he’s still as weary as ever when he finally comes back to you.
You don’t want to add to that. You know that what he’s seeing at work must be leagues beyond your little pep-talks and lonely evenings, and you don’t think it’s worth mentioning even if it has started to take its toll on you. You miss your friends. You miss days at work where the kids are sunny and mischievous, instead of withdrawn and scared. Hell, you miss your boyfriend- it feels weird calling a man his age that- you’re supposed to be in loved-up bliss, but instead it seems the universe decided to throw you another curveball. You overcame the intimacy issues only to come face to face with this bullshit not days later.
And now your mom is sick.
Javi gets up from the couch and comes to stand beside you, his tired hand dropping down to take your fingers. You smile at the effort, which seems small, but you know takes so much for him these days. You reach up to wipe a stupid tear out of your eyes.
“Swear she thinks she could cure this with sage and essential oil,” you try to joke. He doesn’t say anything, only runs his thumb along your cheek bone and tilt your chin up to look at him. You try and give him a smile before another year drops down your face. Frustrated, you press your hands into your eyes and let out a groan.
“Fuck.” You say. You drop your hands and look back at him. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for, huh?” He asks.
You shake your head.
“I don’t…I don’t know.” I’m sorry I can’t be soft and happy for you when you come home? I’m sorry that he has to spend all day on the front lines and come back to this mess? “Things have been rough lately. I don’t want to add anything to your pile.”
“It’s not my pile that’s getting added to,” he pulls you against him, pressing a kiss against your head once more. You close your eyes and let out a sigh. “You okay, hermosa?”
You nod, pulling away just enough to look him in the eyes. “They caught it early. She’s just stubborn. She’ll go, though. Her dad was an oncologist. She pretends like she doesn’t know, but…” you shake your head. “Fucking parents, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, reaching out to push a loose curl behind your ear. “Fuckin’ parents.”
You relax into him, letting your head dip down into the dip when his neck connects to his chest. He brings his arms around you to keep you there. The two of you stand like that for a moment, two idiots swaying to the silence of the world’s chaos.
“You’re not bad,” you sigh against him, snuggling in deeper. “For an alcoholic cop.”
He chuckles. “Agent.” He combs his fingers through your hair. “You’re not bad for a teacher who lets strange men finger her in a supply closet.”
You hold a finger up. “One time.”
He catches your hand and brings your fingers up to his lips, kissing the tips. It’s enough to make you melt.
“I am sorry,” he says, placing your hand against his chest and holding it there. “About your mom.”
You sigh. “What can you do?”
“Do you need to go back?”
“I’d never hear the end of it if I did,” you pull away from him and make for the coffee table, where you had set out two drinks for Javi’s arrival before your mother had called. You pick them up and extend one to him, and he takes it gratefully, dropping onto the couch next to you. “She’s convinced I worry too much. Me, her brilliant daughter who chose to live in the middle of a war zone,” you purse your lips. “Sorry,” you say.
He shakes his head. “You’re right,” he leans forward to set his drink down on the coffee table before resting his elbows on his knees, bending forward in a pose of contemplation. Sensing the shift in the air, you sit up and run your fingers along his back.
“Javi- I didn’t mean…”
He shakes his head again. “This thing…it’s a fucking mess. All of it.” He sighs. “Sick of seeing fucking bodies.”
You reach for something to say to comfort him, but you know there’s nothing. Instead, you scoot closer to him, resting your chin on his shoulder.
“Have you thought about it? Going back to Texas for a while?” He asks.
You shake your head. “She doesn’t want me to. And neither do I,” you reach up and lace your fingers through his, unclasping a worried hand. He turns to you, his eyes flicking up and down your face.
“You shouldn’t stay here because of me. You’d be safer.”
You blow a raspberry. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Sensing he took the joke to heart, you nudge him with your chin. “I’m here because I want to be here. With the kids. With you.”
He turns back to face forward, and you’re unsure if he’s satisfied with your answer before he speaks again.
“If anything happens to you…” he shakes his head. It forms a pit in your stomach.
You reach out and press his hand against the center of your chest. When he looks at you puzzled, you smile. “See? Still beating. Think that’s a good sign.”
He sighs, but not without a small smile on his face. Taking advantage of the moment, you reach out and take him by the chin, pulling him in for a long kiss. When you break away, his hands come up to pull your face back to his, and you can’t help but smile as he presses his lips against your mouth and begins to trail down your neck.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing the pulse point that makes you shiver. “I think it’s a good sign.”
You’re not great at taking care of yourself when you’re stressed out. Who is, really? You hope he hasn’t noticed, though, the way the bags under your eyes have darkened to match his or how much more quickly you seem to go through liquor bottles. You want to think he doesn’t notice- that he’s too focused on other things, but it’s getting harder to pretend. You try and rally your energy every time you see him. You want to be this bright spot for him in the middle of all this chaos and violence. You cook, you clean, and you go down on him like you want to live the rest of your life on your knees. You smile. You joke. You try to be pure sunshine in the bullshit he’s caught in.
But now your mom’s sick. And, fuck, you’re empty.
He must notice it. He has to see it when he comes home to you, and your house is a mess. He has to hear it when you spend the next few weeks by the phone, arguing with your family- Luna is too busy with the baby to go home, your father doesn’t want to believe it’s real, and your mother-fuck! - she keeps telling you not to worry. Not to worry! Like the few times she calls, she doesn’t tell you offhandedly how much worse she’s getting. Like you’re not trying to keep yourself from telling her how you hear gunshots every night, or how you can’t go a week without seeing a dead body. Like you’re not protecting everyone from your feelings because surely, they have it worse. You know everyone has it worse. How do you compete with cancer and being a foot soldier in the war on drugs? You’re just some teacher. You’re just some lady in over her head. Like everyone else in this country.
Maybe it was just a bad day when he came home that Wednesday. For both of you. One of your students’ siblings had died the day before, and you had spent the majority of the day trying not to cry alongside an eight-year-old. You had been trying to reach your mother for days, but the calls kept getting picked up by the answering machine and you couldn’t come up with any other way to say, “please call me back and tell me you’re okay”. When you finally came home, it was to a messy house - why are you so disappointed? it’s been a disaster for weeks- and you barely have enough energy to kick a few things out of a sort of path. You check your messages, willing there to be one overlooked recording of your mother’s voice assuring you she’s doing fine before her scheduled surgery, but the tape is woefully empty, just as it was yesterday and the day before. You pick the stupid machine up from the table and throw it to the ground.
You chain-smoked three cigarettes by your window, zoning out into the ether as night descended upon you so gradually until it was suddenly dark. You thought of your student, the one who came home to a massacred older sibling, and your stomach cramps. Before you can stop yourself, you imagine your mother in the same position they described to you that morning- spread out like a starfish on the floor, eyes wide open and dull as they stare up to the ceiling, a halo of blood around their head. Your throat itches and you light a fourth cigarette.
When you went to the refrigerator, finally, but discovered upon opening the door that you had once again forgotten to go grocery shopping. The only things that stared back at you were three-day-old pasta leftovers, some eggs, and a few beers.
“Fucking idiot,” you said to yourself.
You pulled out the carton of eggs and had begun to whisk them together when you heard the door creak open. You turned around to call out a greeting but bit your tongue when you saw his face. A deep scowl marked his otherwise handsome features, and he had already lit a cigarette before coming in.
“Hey,” he said as if he was annoyed with you. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the eggs in front of you. He made for the couch, stripping off his jacket as he walked.
“Fuck!”
You turned around to see him wavering, trying to regain his balance. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the counter, but it’s stacked so high with papers that his hand slips and he’s falling back onto the floor- but not before hitting the back of his head. You run around, dropping to your knees beside him as he pulls a bloodied hand from the back of his head.
“Hang on- “you run to the sink and grab a wet towel. Jogging back to him, you reach out to nurse the area when he snatches the rag out of your hand.
“I can do it myself,” he says. “Why is your fucking answering machine on the floor?”
You feel stupid and lost for words, like a child who just got scolded. You hold your hands in front of you.
“I want to help- “
“If you want to help, why don’t you clean the fucking apartment?” He snaps.
Your eyes widen. He’s been grumpy for weeks, surly even, but there’s an extra bit of venom in his voice tonight. Before today, maybe you would have called him on it, snatched the rag out of his hand, and told him to go fuck himself, to go to his place and bleed over his own towels.
But…fuck you’re tired. You have been hanging by a thread all day and the only thing that was keeping your eyes dry was the thought of curling up with him tonight. Maybe if one of the many, horrible things hadn’t happened today you would already be kicking his ass out, instead of standing there dumb and speechless, taking this abuse you don’t deserve.
So, you let him have the rag. You turn back and walk to the kitchen and keep making the eggs.
He has it worse. He has it worse.
You two eat dinner in silence. You can tell he’s not pleased with the meager meal, but he just grunts and shovels it into his mouth. You barely eat, picking at little bites like a bird. Instead, you think about how chemotherapy makes people lose their appetite, and wonder if your mother can eat right now. You imagine her too-long blonde hair must have begun to fall out, and for a moment you think you can feel the sickly strands tightening around your fingers. It’s all-encompassing, and you don’t hear when Javi tries to get your attention.
“Eloise!”
You jerk your head up, your blank face meeting his. He frowns.
“I said do you want a drink,”
“Oh,” you say, softly. You shake your head. “No.”
He rolls his eyes and pushes up from the table, going to the liquor cabinet. When he pulls the doors open, his head drops, disappointed.
“You’re out.”
“Oh?” You turn around. He turns and sends you a look.
“Yeah.” He says
“I forgot to go to the…” you wave your hand.
“Seems like you forgot to do a lot of things,” he sighs. You frown, a bit taken aback by his annoyance. But yet again, you bite your tongue. He sighs and walks towards the table, snatching up his keys.
“Where are you-?”
“To get some from my apartment.” He says. He swings the door open with too much power, and when it falls closed with a crack it makes your shudder.
Across the room, the phone rings.
You scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over that same answering machine that had claimed Javi. You yank the phone off the hook, shoving the phone to your ear.
“Mom?” Your voice is like a little girl’s.
“What?” The male voice says. Your shoulders deflate.
“Sorry,” you say, pressing your hand to your forehead. You look up as the door to your apartment swings open again, and Javi walks in with a storm cloud over his head, whiskey clutched in his fist. “He just walked in, hang on.” You hold the phone out to Javi. “Steve.”
He lets out a sigh and walks forward, taking the phone from your hand. In a daze, you walk towards the kitchen and begin to clean up the few dishes you dirtied, your mind zoning in and out of reality. You don’t notice you’re just standing with the water running until a hand comes from the corner of your eye and switches the tap off.
“Stop watering the pipes,” Javi says. He walks back to the table and lights a cigarette, sitting down and kicking his feet up. You turn back to look at him.
“Everything alright?” You ask.
He scoffs. “No, it’s not fucking alright.” He takes a drag and blows a plume of smoke out. He looks up to you, his eyes darting to the glass he left by your hand. He makes to sit up.
“I’ll get it,” you say, and you pick it up, walking over towards him. You’re just about to hand it to him when your ankle gives, and you drop the glass, spilling his drink over his pants.
“Goddammit!” He yelps. He looks up at you - and you know it’s not you, you know he’s had a bad day, you know there’s so much on his plate- but the snarl he has feels like a punch to the stomach.
“I’m sorry, let me- “you reach for the napkins you thought were on the table before realizing you forgot to buy those, too. Your hand flails around you as you’re caught in your anxiety.
“You’ve done enough,” he grumbles, pushing up and walking past you to pull a rag from the counter.
You’re not sure why hearing him blotting his pants behind you does it, but you feel it immediately. That hot, wet trail down your face. And once that first tear is loose, you know you can’t stop. Suddenly, you’re silently weeping, snot and water running down your face as your shoulders shake and you reach up to try and hold yourself.
You let out a long breath, but it comes out as shaky, and the sounds from behind you stop.
“…El?”
You begin to paw at your face but realize it’s a lost cause. Shaking your head, you ignore him and walk back to your bedroom, closing the door behind you before dropping against the wall.
You were doing so well. You hadn’t cried, you hadn’t screamed at him during his shittier moods, you had been an angel. You pushed through all of this bullshit, hoping that, even though you couldn’t compete with his life, he would notice. He would realize how much of toll your own, lesser bullshit had begun to take on you, and had some sympathy. More than that, you had hoped he would appreciate it- how you never pushed him to take care of you, how you were always there for him with a meal and warm arms, how you were soldiering on for him through all the stress. You wanted him to think you some sort of martyr, a girlfriend who was pushing all her needs down to take care of him when he needed it most. If he was emotionally unable to reciprocate, he could at least fucking notice.
But he didn’t. He was too up his own ass, too busy at work, too concerned with being the only person in this relationship with problems that he didn’t even fucking see how much your teeth nearly cracked every time you faked a smile for him. You were mad at yourself, too- you had folded into this smaller version of yourself after making excuses for him, and now you had the gall to be sad about it? You had paved this path. You tried to protect him from your pain, thinking it was kind, when really you were coddling him.
You feel anger rise in your chest. You clench your fists in your hands, and you’re about to scream into your knees when you hear the soft knock on the door. Furled by anger, you stand up quickly and swing the door open to see a much softer looking Javi in the doorway.
And that takes the wind out of your sails. Instead of laying into him like you wanted, you let out a pathetic sob. Immediately he’s pulling you towards him and you’re caught in a tight hold as you sob into one of his nicer shirts.
“El,” he says softly, and you choke out another sob on his shoulder. Carefully, the two of you descend to the floor of your bedroom as he keeps his hold on you, tracing his fingers up and down your back as you continue to cry against him.
His tone is soothing as he circles through what little he can say - “baby” and “I’m sorry” and “it’s okay”. As your cries come to a slow, you pull away from him and try to wipe your face.
“Baby,” he says again, reaching out to touch your cheek. You dare to make eye contact, and, fuck, it breaks your heart. He looks like a little boy who just realized he had crossed a line. You let out a pathetic little hiccup as you wipe your eyes again.
“I’ve tried- “you stutter on your words as your tears keep falling. “I- I know it’s hard for you, really fucking hard, I know my d-day to day can’t compare to the shi-shit you see,” you try to take in a deep breath. His hand runs down your arm. “But I’m not doing okay. And I’ve tried to put that aside to t-take care of you, but - fuck, I need- “you feel yourself begin to hyperventilate. Fuck, you haven’t cried this hard since you were a kid.
“What do you need, baby?”
“Fuck, Javi, my mom is dying!” You yell. “She’s dying and I can’t get a hold of her. And every day I have to go to the school and hear more awful fucking stories about other kids’ families dying. I have to let them think I have any kind of answer when I fucking don’t! I’m just as lost as they are! I’m in my godamn thirties and all I want is to hug my fucking mommy, too!” You huff a few more breaths. “But I can’t, so I pretend. And I come home to you, and I- fuck, I love you so much, and I don’t want to burden you or make you take care of me when you have it so, so much worse but today- “you swallow, your mouth dry from crying - “today she was supposed to go in for surgery. And I haven’t heard anything. I spent all of lunch not eating because an eight-year-old, a fucking eight-year-old! Was telling me that she found her brother with a gunshot wound between his eyes. And I can’t do anything to help her! Just like I can’t do anything to help my fucking mother who won’t even call her daughter back to leave a message to say ‘hey! I SURVIVED SURGERY’. And maybe if I hadn’t had all of that I could put up with your shitty moods like I have been for weeks because I know it’s hard and I know you have it worse but today I just-I fucking couldn’t! I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t take YOU yelling at me when all I wanted was for you to fucking- I don’t know! Pull me in your lap and pet my hair! Ask me how my day was! Ignore my dirty apartment the way I’ve ignored your passive-aggressive moody bullshit for a month because you understand I’m not doing the fucking best right now! And I need the person who loves me to fucking act like it!” You fall forward, sobbing again. The arm on your shoulder drops, and you expect for a moment he’s going to get up and leave you to cry into the night. Instead, though, he scoots back until his back leans against the footboard of the bed. You look up in time to see him open his arms.
“Come here,” he says.
Too eager, you scramble over to him as he pulls you against him, petting your arms and face as you keep weeping against him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I do see it. I do. I promise.”
You hiccup and he pulls you tighter.
“I know you have it worse- “you start.
“Stop,” he says, pressing your head against his chest.
You keep crying over the next half hour as he whispers sweet things to you. When you’ve exhausted yourself, you drop your head to his lap, fading in and out of consciousness as his fingers comb through your hair, soft and comforting. You don’t quite remember him urging you up and into bed, but by the time you’ve regained your senses somewhat he’s pulled your back against him, tucking his nose into the nape of your neck.
“I’m sorry,” you say softly. He shakes his head.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” He says. “Go to sleep, hermosa.”
You do.
The next morning is quiet. The two of your dress quickly and rush out the door, having slept past your alarm. He tells you briefly he’s got a lot on at work today, and you take it as a sign you’ll be walking back this afternoon. You nod and give him a quick peck before running up the stairs to the school, at least somewhat happy to have avoided talking about last night.
So, you don’t expect it when you leave the school one afternoon and see him waiting for you outside, his arms crossed on his chest, aviators on, posed in front of his car like he’s in a film. You fight the urge to smirk when you drop down to the final step and his mouth jerks up at the corner.
“You look like a cliche,” you deadpan, walking up to give him a quick kiss. Only, it’s not quick- you try to pull away tastefully, but he takes you by your waist and pulls you into a deeper kiss. You give him a swat on his shoulder but return it regardless, luxuriating in the attention. It feels nice.
“Get in the car,” he says when he finally pulls away. You tilt your head.
“You takin’ me somewhere?”
“Not if you don’t get in the damn car,” he swats your ass, causing you to shriek, before beginning to walk around the front. Despite yourself, you smile as you clamber in.
You don’t ask questions throughout the whole drive, but you admit you’re a bit disappointed when you just pull back up to your apartment building. You try and mask it, hopping out of the car and waiting expectantly for him to come around and join you. He climbs the stairs quickly, beating you to the door to hold it open.
Without thinking, you reach for your keys. It’s almost muscle memory now. You haven’t been to his place for any real time in months. You think it reminds him too much of work.
Except, now he’s nodding you over to his door he’s begun to unlock. You come to stand by him, eying him as he fiddles with the lock. As the bolt clicks, he smiles, then turns to you.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“Really?”
“Fuck you. Yea really.”
With a small grin on your face, you make a show of daintily closing your eyes. You see a flash of light- him waving his hands in front of your face. Convinced you really have your eyes closed, you hear the door open, then feel a warm hand taking your own. You walk inside, blindly stepping after him until he drops his hand, and you feel his hands come to rest on your shoulders.
“Alright,” he says.
You open your eyes, and it takes you a while to realize what he’s even made a fuss about. In front of you are two plates with a single sandwich and a side of potato chips. You’re kind of annoyed for a second- when you surprise him, it’s always with a cake or really good head, never just dinner. Dinner that’s basically a sandwich.
You turn to look at him before noticing that the apartment has been cleaned up. You swivel around, taking in the sight, noticing the repaired answering machine has been put carefully back on the side table. You haven’t seen your home this clean in a while, and you realize that he must have done this, too. You start to say something, but he’s already pulling out your chair for you, urging you to sit down. Lost for words, you drop yourself into the seat and watch as he comes around to sit in front of you. He waits for you to say something, but when you don’t, he begins.
“It’s not much,” he says finally. “But you were right. I’ve been a dick, and I’m not the only one with shit on my plate.” He rubs the back of his neck. “When my mom was sick…I should be better to you. For you.” He bites his lip. When you still don’t say anything, he continues. “I’m sorry, El. You’re so…good, and I’m…” he shakes his head. You reach out your hand, covering his. There’s a flash of a smile across his face. “I called sick to work. They were having me doing bullshit paperwork, anyway. Murphy can handle that.” He clears his throat. “It’s uh, not much, but a rich guy owed me a favor, and he had a smoker. I had some old rubs from Señora Garza, the one with the hands? My dad sent me them from back home a while, and I know it’s not going home, but I know you miss the food- “you reach forward and pull the top of the sandwich off.
Brisket.
You look up at him, and you start to cry.
His face drops, alarmed. “Oh- no, baby- “
“Javi,” you wipe a tear away. “This is- this is - “you bend forward and let out another small cry. Immediately, he’s on his feet, coming around to kneel beside you. Just as he’s about to say something, you lean forward and catch his face in your hands, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s long and warm, and when he finally breaks away, you’re rewarded with a bright smile.
“You like it?”
“I love- I love it.” You say, running a hand through his hair. “This is very sweet.”
He looks down, pleased with himself. You lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead. He reaches up and takes your hands.
“I…I really love you, El,” he says, not quite daring to look you in the eyes until he’s finished his sentence. “I just hope you know that.”
You nod before pressing another kiss to his lips. “I do,” you say. “Even when…I do know, Javi.”
He nods, and the two of you sit there, blissed out together for a moment before he lets out a breath.
“Well, you better eat. Fucking thing took six hours to smoke, better not let it get too cold.”
You let out a laugh as he stands and comes to sit across from you. With a smile, the two of you eat. It’s not the perfect approximation of the food back home, but it’s enough to fill you with the comfort you had been craving for weeks. Javi watches, proud of himself as you lick the remaining sauce off a finger, smiling at the flavor.
“You did good, Peña.” You say, flicking your eyes back to him. He smiles, tossing the napkin down between the two of you before making to stand. He walks over and extends a hand down to you, and you raise your eyebrows.
“Is there more to eat?” You ask, somewhat hopeful. It’s impossible, but if he found a way to get a malt shake down here too you think you’d have to spend the next three weeks with his dick in your mouth.
“Something like that,” he says, urging you up. You send him a playful look as he reaches behind you and pulls the zipper to your skirt. With strong hands, he pulls your underwear and skirt down to your ankles, dropping to his knees to let you step out of them. With a twinkle in his eye, he smiles up at you.
“Go sit on the couch,” he orders. “And keep your knees apart.”
Turns out his surprises come with pretty good head, too.
A/N: Idk if this is of any interest but in my head Eloise is played by Phoebe Waller-Bridge. But of course, you cast her however you like!! She’s yours, too
A/N: some period-appropriate shittiness. Come get your angst, babies.
It’s not serious.
But it is different.
It started the Tuesday after your drunk weekend when you walked down the stairs and saw him waiting in his car. When you went up to give him a wave, he reached over and opened the door.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he said. “It’s on the way.”
You almost brought up the fact that no, it was not – you had been to the embassy a few times, and it was in a completely different neighborhood than your school.
Yet, you sat down and pulled the seatbelt over you anyway.
“Can I turn the siren on?” you asked.
He shot you a look before pulling out into the street.
So, he started driving you to work. So what. Friends carpool.
And maybe you started seeing him more after work. Maybe your smoke sessions got longer, the two of you sitting outside until the sun started to really go down and he would ask if you wanted a drink or you’d ask if he had eaten dinner. Maybe it became a thing, having dinner together. It was only a few times a week though. You took turns cooking. Friends do that.
Maybe he introduced you to his partner and your upstairs neighbor one morning, when you came down to the car and saw some blonde guy – Steve, he’d tell you - in your usual seat. Maybe Javier told him to get out and sit in the back, despite your protests that you didn’t care. Maybe you noticed the look he gave his friend after he dropped you off, once he thought you weren’t looking, as he annoyedly climbed back into shotgun. Maybe it made you blush.
And maybe, maybe, you were in his bed more. Not a ton, but more. But more. And sober. Maybe you were both just really good at fucking each other in particular, and you were just conveniently close and willing. Maybe that’s why his usually high number of female guests had dwindled. Maybe he moved his headboard away from the wall because he just felt like it, not because he was trying to be stealthier about his indiscretions. Maybe he only looked kind of guilty when you inevitably gave him shit about it during your morning commute because he finally found a conscience, the same way his hand kept finding your knee during the drives.
You still didn’t stay over, not since you had both passed out together from pills. He never asked you to again, and you never presumed. So after- even if it was midnight, three AM, 5 AM – you went back to your place. But you still knocked on the shared bedroom wall when you got back– three times, like you had joked, to let him know you were safe. And he’d yell back “Thanks”. Maybe you can’t fall asleep until you had hear him say that.
So, no.
Not serious.
But different.
“Bullshit.” Lisa spits.
You make a face at her before taking a sip of your beer. Beside you, Maritza giggles into her hand.
The bar you’ve all met up in is crowded, and it’s hard to hear over the buzz of talk and music. Well, it would be. If it wasn’t Lisa you were talking to.
“We’re just friends,” you say. Lisa shakes her head.
“Nope. Nope. We,” she gestures around the table. “are friends. You and he are not.”
“So we’re friends who fuck-”
“Just like me and Frankie were,” Alessa cuts in before taking a sip of her own drink. You wave her off.
“You and Frankie are different-”
“Yeah, they quit playing this bullshit denial game after two weeks,” Lisa says.
“I’m not in denial. I’m being realistic.”
“Whatever, girl,” Lisa says, shaking her head and reaching forward for her beer. Then, deciding she isn’t done after all, she leans onto the table, pointing at you. “You look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t care he’s still fucking other girls.”
You straighten your back and bulge your eyes open, holding her gaze. “I don’t care that he’s fucking other girls.”
Lisa nods. “You’re a shit liar.”
You let out an exasperated gasp. You turn to Maritza for back up, but she holds up her hands.
“I don’t care that he’s fucking other girls!” you practically shout.
“Even if it’s in front of you?” Alessa asks, her attention somewhere over your shoulder.
“What?”
She nods in the direction of where she’s looking. You twist in your seat to follow and see what she means: Javier’s there, in another fucking button-up, and that jacket you like, his back against the bar as he gives a smarmy smile to some hot, young girl practically pressing herself against him. He says something and she laughs, throwing her head back in an exaggerated gesture, a clear sign that she is down to fuck – probably against the bar if he’d take her.
“You care,” Lisa says from behind you. You spin back around to face her.
“What?”
“God, it’s painful at this point.” She finishes her beer and puts it down on the table. “Whose round?”
“Mine,” you lie, standing up. Maritza holds up her still full drink.
“I’m not –”
“You will be.” You say, pulling your purse off the chair. You turn back and see Lisa fixing you with a devilish smile, as Alessa politely looks away.
“I don’t care,” you reiterate.
“Mmmhmm.” Lisa says.
“I don’t. In fact,” you look around, desperately. Your eyes fall on an alright-looking guy standing at the bar. His facial hair is atrocious, and it looks like he hasn’t updated his closet in twenty years- not that that timely a fashion sense matters, considering you’ve been fucking Burt Reynold’s younger, Latino brother for the past few months. You point to him. “I’m going to fuck him tonight.”
“Him?” Maritza’s face contorts.
“She’s not going to do it,” Lisa assures her. “She’s just trying to make him jealous. I doubt she’s even coming back to the table.”
“I-”
“I get it. He’s hot.” She looks back at Javier. You try to think of something scathing to say in return, but your words fail you. Lisa notices, and she smiles that cocky smile again.
“I’ll be right back,” you huff, turning and walking pointedly towards your mark. You slow down, afraid you’re coming in too hot, and stroll up beside him.
“Excuse me,” you smile at him. He turns and considers you. God, he really is a picture of the early 1970s. His hair is down to his shoulders, brushing against the too open collar. A gold chain tangles in his showy chest hair, and you wonder if it’s too late to pick someone else. You turn and see Lisa, Alessa, and Maritza watching you. Alessa and Maritza snap their attention elsewhere, but Lisa smiles and holds up her beer – cheers.
“Excuse me,” he says. You smile and lean over the bar, sticking your ass out just a bit. You try to keep your dinner down when you feel his eyes graze over it, thinking you’re oblivious as you try and get the bartender’s attention. The poor woman is overwhelmed and doesn’t see you, too busy clearing the opposite end. Before you can help yourself, you look over to where Javier is still stood at the bar. As if sensing you, his eyes flick up and meet yours.
You give him a small wave before turning your attention back to your companion, whose eyes are still glued to your ass.
You clear your throat.
His eyes snap back up to you and he gives you a smile, and it takes everything not to grimace at the state of his teeth.
“Come here often?” you ask.
He says something in response, but you’re distracted as Javier’s conquests waltzes by you, headed for the ladies room. He keeps blathering, tells you his name, where he’s from, but you’re too focused on watching as she disappears into the crowd. You wonder if Javier’s just waiting the extra five minutes before following her in as to ward off any suspicion that he’s definitely following her in to fuck her in a toilet when you feel a familiar hand on your ass.
“Sorry I’m late, baby,” you turn just in time for Javier to peck you on the lips. Beside you, your new friend’s face falls, and even though it’s loud, you’re pretty sure you hear the girls at the table let out a small shriek at the turn of events. “Work was busy,” he lifts his arm and drapes it across your shoulders before nodding to the man in front of you. “Who’s this?”
“This is…uh…” you turn back and scan the man’s face for any kind of clue. He looks between you and Javier before deciding it’s his turn to speak.
“Miguel,” he answers.
“Miguel,” Javier echoes. He brings his whiskey up to his lips. “Thanks for keeping her company til I got here.”
Miguel looks back to you, waiting for an explanation, but you are completely speechless at the turn of events. Your mouth is even open, a little. A tense moment passes, and Javier’s grip on you tightens. When you don’t move to push him off, Miguel shakes his head and pushes up and off the bar, walking away. Javier settles into his place and fixes you with a smug smile before taking another sip.
“What the fuck was that?” you ask.
“Could ask you the same,” he counters. He looks you up and down. “You look nice.”
“You can’t just do that-“
“You should be thanking me,” he says. “I did you a favor.”
“Fuck you, Javier.” you snap, turning to lean on your elbows against the bar. He smiles, finishing his drink and placing it beside you as he matches your stance. You pointedly look away from him, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
“You do look nice,” he says again. You sigh and turn back towards him.
“Thanks.” You say.
He smiles and glances you up and down again. He’s about to say something when a chipper voice cuts through the noise.
“Heyyyy,” the woman from before comes up, running his hands up his back. She’s young and beautiful and wears a dress that, if you weren’t pissed off at him (if you didn’t hate her), you’d want in your closet.
“Hey,” he turns and wraps an arm around her waist as she stands on her tiptoes and presses a long kiss on his cheek. You look up at the ceiling, trying to avoid the scene in front of you before you reach forward and grab a fistful of her aggravatingly beautiful long hair. She pulls away, a lipstick mark still on his cheek. Her smile dies, though, upon seeing you.
“Who’s this?” she wraps her arms around his arm, possessively. It makes you want to laugh.
I’m the woman he had bent over his kitchen table last night.
“My neighbor,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Oh,” she says, sizing you up. Your fist clenches beside you.
Pint-sized puta.
She turns back to Javier and pulls on his arm.
“You ready to go?” she moans.
“Just about,” he says. “Let me use the restroom, then we can go.”
“Hurry,” she smiles at him as she finally releases him from her hold. He leaves, making his way through the crowd and leaving you two alone.
She has no interest in talking to you, and you know that, but out of politeness, she turns to you with that sickly, fake kindness all mean girls possess.
“So, Javier’s neighbor?”
“…yeah,” you say, your eyes dropping from his back to her. “Next door.”
“That’s cool.” She looks over her shoulder, hoping he’d changed his mind. When he doesn’t appear, she turns back to you. “You know Javier long?”
“Oh yeah,” you nod.
“He’s great, isn’t he?”
“Oh, absolutely.” You say. “and…brave.”
She flashes you a smile. “I know.”
You clear your throat. “Yeah, I mean, most guys wouldn’t be out, trying to meet people…after a diagnosis like that.”
A flicker of concern crosses her stupid, pretty pageant-ready smile.
“Sorry?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “you know when he first got the results back, it was rough. Had him on my couch for a while, just” you bring your hand to your eyes as if to emphasize the sheer volume “bawling his eyes out. I was finally like ‘Javier, it’s not the end of the world. This isn’t America, you can get AZT so cheaply’,”
Her smile falls.
“Besides,” you shake your head. “Condoms, exist, you know? And people are really understanding if they’re decent. Like you!” you smile at her. “I told him it was just a matter of finding the right girl.”
Just before she can say anything, the bartender finally appears in front of you. Cheerfully, you rattle off your order, trying not to enjoy the smaller woman’s stunned silence beside you. When you finish and turn back, she’s staring at the floor as Javier makes his way back to you.
“Hey,” he drops his hand down her back, causing her to jump. You, in turn, give him a bright smile.
“Hey,” you say. He gives you a look but keeps his smile up. He turns back to the girl. “You ready?”
“I…yeah,” she says, pushing up from the bar. She strides forward, leaving the two of you behind.
“So nice to meet you!” you call after her. You turn back to Javier, a smug smile on your face. His face is blank, those stupid puppy dog eyes bigger under the low light.
“Your date’s getting away,” you nudge him. He looks at you and you think he’s about to say something, but pushes off the bar instead, trotting after her. Moments later, the bartender reappears with your drinks.
“What was that?” Lisa asks when you deposit the drinks on your table. True to your prediction, Maritza has long finished hers and eagerly reaches out for her second.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you shake your head, taking a seat. You reach forward and take the shot you ordered before slamming it back down on the table. You let out a satisfied ahhh. “You guys want to dance?”
When you stumble in front of your door a few hours later, you don’t even look up from your keys when you hear his door open and he steps out, arms crossed and looking like such a cop.
“You think you’re clever, huh?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you look up. You nod to his open door. “How’s your girl?”
“I wouldn’t know. The second we got out of the bar she told me she had to go home,” he takes a step forward until he’s leaning against the wall. You unlock the door and stand back up straight.
“Aw, that’s a shame.” You pout.
“Uh-huh. What did you tell her?” He asks.
You bat your eyelashes. “What makes you think I told her anything?”
“Cut the bullshit. One second she’s trying to shove her hands down my pants at the bar, the next she’s getting in the first taxi that stops for her.” He purses his lips. “What did you say.”
You stand up straight, mimicking the statcure he had at the bar, his hand around your shoulder as he scared of Miguel. “ ‘I did you a favor’ .”
“What?”
“Oh come on, you don’t want a girl like that, who runs off at the first sign of a health problem,”
“A health – what did you say?”
You shake your head. “I just told her it’s not a big deal, a lot of people have it, and the meds here are really cheap. Besides it’s not a death sentence, and only shitty conservatives who hate gay people-”
“Eloise- you didn’t.”
You take a step closer to him, looking up, daring him. “Are you mad? ‘Baby’?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, his nostrils flare as he frowns, letting out an exasperated huff. Before you can say anything else, he’s got his hand around your throat and his lips on yours. He’s pushing you back, through your door and slams it behind you as his hands continue to grab at you – your ass, your tits, anything. Determined, hard hands pull at the fly of your jeans, yanking them down and spinning you around to press you against your own door with a thud. Behind you, you hear the tinkle of his belt unbuckling and the shuffle off jeans against skin. As you turn to look, his hand grips the back of your head by the hair and turns you back forward forcefully. You let out a small laugh that soon turns into a moan when you feel him press against you. With a violent jerk of his hips, he’s inside of you, pressing you up against the shitty cheap wood of your door. You let out a pathetic little gasp as he pulls out and slams into you again. A hand comes up and grip syour breast through the fabric as you hear him grunt as he pumps into you again, his other hand bringing a slap down on your ass. You pray that no one – oh god, especially not Steve, he seemed so nice – is outside in the lobby right now.
“You’re a fucking brat,” he says, and you feel him hit that sensitive place inside you that causes you to clench your thighs together.
“Fair’s fair, baby,” you squeak again as the head of him hits that spot again. You bring a fist down on the door when he grabs the flesh of your ass and begins to pound into you relentlessly, harder than the two of you ever have.
“Keep-” you breathe, pressing the side of your face into the cool wood.
“Yeah?” he asks, bringing his hips to slap against your ass again. You let out a little cry as he pulls out all the way and does it again, then again. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you clench around him, earning a groan that falls from his lips. You smile despite yourself when he pulls your head back by your hair, biting your neck with his other hand wrapped around your throat.
“You gonna cum?” he asks.
“Mmmmmhmmmm,” you muster.
“Too bad,” he says, and then a second later he’s off you. Distressed, you turn around to see him tucking his erection, still wet from you, back into his pants.
“Wait- no!” you whine.
“Fair’s fair, baby.” He says, not without a smile. You shake your head.
“No- no that’s not-!” you huff. You try to think quickly, the best you can come up with is turning around and switch the deadbolt. You look back at him. He scoffs.
“You think that’s going to keep me here?”
You kick your jeans off from where they are around your ankles and pull your shirt up over your head. With a determined look, you march forward and pull at his button-up – his stupid fucking button-up – until the first two buttons fly off somewhere.
“Hey-!”
You grasp his chin and bring it down against your mouth, teeth clicking as you kiss him. The fire reignited, he spins you around, bending you over the arm of your couch. You push yourself up, sticking your ass out as he removes his shirt and pants quickly. A hand snakes up through your hair again, jerking slightly as he enters you again. You claw at the leather, as you feel your orgasm start to build again. You smile to yourself when you hear him grunt behind you. You clench yourself around him again, biting your lip when you hear him whine at the sensation.
“Fuck,” he says. He reaches forward and presses you down, face into the couch. He drops his hand down between your legs, circling you there until your thighs begin to shake.
“Ahh-!” you cry out, finally cumming around him. He follows moments later, falling on top of you with a final grunt. The two of you lie there for a moment, huffing from exertion. After about a minute, you push yourself up, urging him back. He pulls out of you and you disappear to the restroom, returning a few minutes later with your last cigarette and a blanket from your bed wrapped around your shoulders. You sit down next to him on the couch, your turn to hand him a lit cigarette. He takes it and leans back, taking a long drag as the two sit in content silence.
“What would you have said?” he asks suddenly. You turn.
“What?”
“If you thought I was sick but wanted to take you home,” he brings his cigarette to his lips again. Smiling, you move over and throw your leg over his lap, straddling him.
“Baby,” you say, taking the cigarette from his mouth. He looks up at you expectantly as you bring it to your lips. “I would have asked what pharmacy you want me to pick your meds up from.”
—————
It’s a week later and late in the night when you hear the knock. You perk up from where you lay on your bed, reading some new, horrible paperback your mother had sent you the week earlier. Putting it to the side, you throw your legs out of bed and make for the hallway.
Your living room is dark, so you go to turn on a lamp on the end table when another knock comes, harder.
“I’m coming,” you call out. You flick the deadbolt and swing the door open to find Javi standing there.
“What’s wrong?” you ask. When he doesn’t answer, you reach forward and take his hand in yours, pulling him in. You close the door behind him before coming back around and cupping his face in your hand.
“Javier? What’s the matter? Is it Steve? Did something happen?”
For the first time, his eyes meet yours. They’re darker than you’ve ever seen them, shining like they’re threatening to overflow.
“You’re scaring me,” you say.
“There was an ambush tonight.” He says. He swallows. “A lot of guys…fuck,” he runs a hand through his hair. You squeeze the hand you’re holding. “It was information I got. Gave them. Turned out to be a setup. I sent them into a trap.” He pushes past you and sits on your couch.
You stand still, waiting for him to say something else. You have the empty, pitting feeling in your stomach, the kind that accompanies the feeling of something being so unbearable real. It’s the same feeling you got when you were pulled into the staff room months ago and informed of the fifth graders that had died in a bomb.
Helpless.
“I’d be with them- if I hadn’t-” he lets out a shaky sigh. “I should be with them. In a fucking body bag.” He brings a fist up to his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pad over, sitting beside him. You try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. It’s not his fault? It’s going to be okay? Who actually wants to hear that, when they’re so low?
Why say anything?
Instead, you reach to the side table and pull two cigarettes from your pack. You hold them in your mouth, lighting them, before passing him one. He takes it without looking at you, and the two of you sit there in silence. Tentatively, you rest your hand on his leg, squeezing lightly as he stares ahead, lost in his own thoughts.
When he’s let his cigarette burn down to ash, you take it from his fingers and deposit the two butts in the ashtray. You walk to the door and make sure its locked before standing before him and holding your hand out. He looks up at you, his eyes still shining and wide, and takes it. You turn the lamp off and begin to lead him back to your bedroom, moving quietly in the dark. Once you’re in your room, you begin to unbutton his shirt for him slowly, as if he may fall apart beneath your fingers. Once its open, you shuffle it off his shoulders, drawing it down his arms. You fold it and put it on the dresser before dropping to your knees and unlacing his shoes. You tap his ankle, urging him to lift his foot so you can slip them both off. Standing up again, you begin to fuss with the buckle of his belt, then his zipper, before you’ve got his pants down and around his ankles. You stand straight back up and look him in the eye before you pull your sleep shirt over your head. He lets out a sigh when you reach down and take his hand, leading him to the bed.
He allows you to set him down and pull the covers over the two of you. Reaching to the table, you turn the lamp off before reaching out to him in the dark. You guide his head to your bare chest, pulling him onto you. He clutches at your skin, his breaths against you heavy and shaking. You run your fingernails through his hair before bending forward and pressing a long, soft kiss to his crown. In response, he squeezes you tighter, burying his face into your breasts, letting out a small sob. You hold him back just as fiercely, rubbing patterns on his back until he falls asleep.
When you wake, it’s still dark. You stir before you feel a gentle hand on your cheek.
“Javi-?”
“Ssh,” he says. Soft lips press against yours. There’s no urgency behind the kiss, and you relax into it and its slowness. So softly, like he’s afraid he’s going to break you, he pulls you closer to him, hands running up and down the sides of your body like he’s trying to memorize each inch of skin. Your mouth opens, letting his tongue press into you as he comes to lay atop of you. Those soft hands are tugging at your underwear, urging them down. You raise your hips to help him, and the fabric ghosts down your legs before you’re completely bare beneath him. A hand urges your legs to open, and he settles between them. You bring your hands to the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. You hold his gaze as he pushes into you, letting out a small sigh when he’s fully inside. As he begins to move his hips, he dips his mouth down and captures yours in a long kiss. When he breaks away, his grip on you tightens as you find his eyes again in what little light can make it into your room. You refuse to look away, like doing so would be tantamount to leaving him to deal with this on his own. Instead, you lift your legs and pull him closer, making his slow thrusts deeper.
It’s so slow. It’s so slow and soft and genuine and vulnerable it makes you want to cry. Instead, you bend forward and kiss him with the same gentleness, urging his mouth open. The two of you continue like this in almost silence, the only noises being the small breathy gasps exchanged. When it happens, you pull him closer as you let out a small whine as he sucks on your neck, following soon after.
The two of you lay there, breathing deeply, together. He stays inside of you, your sweaty bodies wrapped together in a tangle of limbs and warmth. He’s still holding you tightly as if he’s afraid you’re going to float away if he relaxes his grip even a bit. As if reassuring him, you bring your hand up to his back, dragging your fingertips up and down his spine as his breath evens out, and you feel him drop back into sleep, leaving you to stare up at the ceiling.
It’s…
It’s not…
You sigh and squeeze your eyes shut.
Under your fingertips, under the moonlight, you think his skin is the softest thing you’ve ever felt.
Two adults can sleep together and be fine. You’ve done it before. It’s kind of nice, actually – you get the milk and don’t have to put up with the emotionally unavailable cow. And even though you’ve only known him for a few weeks, you know that’s what Javier is: emotionally available. Physically available? Different story. He lets you know as much when, after a few more rounds, you start to get dressed.
“So, should I leave the money on the dresser?” you ask as you come back into the room, your skirt crumpled in your hand. He smiles around his third cigarette as you shimmy the skirt back up. You don’t really know why you’re bothering, to be honest- your apartment is five feet away and it’s 3 AM on a Wednesday. Anyone who would see you rush to the door in your underwear probably has a lot more going on than to be distracted by a half nude school teacher doing the world’s shortest slut strut.
“It’s about 100,” he jokes back. You twist your face as you bend down to snatch your shirt from the floor and pull it over your shoulders.
“Pricey, but fair.” Somewhat dressed, you stalk over to his side of the bed and pluck the cigarette from his lips, taking a long drag yourself. His hand comes to rest on your thigh as you exhale.
“This isn’t going to be weird, is it?” you ask, flicking your eyes back down to him. “It was good, but I hope I didn’t lose my smoking buddy.”
‘Buddy’? God. You hang out with kids too much.
He smiles and reaches up to take back the cigarette you hold out. “Don’t worry, hermosa. I don’t scare easy.”
“Friends then?”
His eyes flick up and down your body before falling back on your face. He takes a drag.
“Yeah, friends.”
The way he enunciates tells you exactly what being friends with Javier is going to entail. You smile and bend down, catching his mouth in a quick peck.
“See you later, friend.” You stand up and give him a quick smile before picking up your purse from where you left it by the door and saunter out to the hall.
You don’t see him until the late afternoon Sunday when you take a break from grading to go stand on y’all’s usual spot to light up. He’s already there, smoking a cigarette that’s more ash than tobacco. He doesn’t even look up when you saunter up next to him, your hair up in a nest, and light your own.
“Lot on your mind?” you ask.
“What?” his voice is more on edge than you expected. You frown and gesture to his smoke.
“Think you forgot to ash,” you say.
He huffs and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, pressing it into the concrete on the steps with more vigor than is required.
“Something up?”
“Mind your own fucking business, will you?” he snaps. You physically recoil from him as he starts down the stairs, his hands in his pockets. You’re too stunned to say anything, watching his back until he’s out of earshot. Annoyed, and suddenly not in the mood, you stub out your mostly intact cigarette and head inside.
To be honest, you’re still steaming about it when there’s a knock on your door that night. Already in your sleepwear, you push yourself up from where you’ve been lounging on the couch, reading some trashy paperback you picked up from the airport months ago. You leave against the door, avoiding looking through the peephole – some trick your dad taught you.
“Yeah?” you call out.
“It’s me.”
You frown. You do want to open the door, but there’s a question of self-respect. Do you let the man you’re casually having sex with, who then treated you like shit, into your house, where you know you could happily drop your pants for him once again if he looks at you with even the slightest bit of regret and/or horniness? You’re a strong woman but you’ve been walking funny all weekend, and if you’re honest it’s been pretty nice.
Your indecision speaks for you because from the other side you hear:
“I thought- I’d explain. About earlier.”
Yeah, there goes that resolve. You flick the deadbolt and swing the door open so you’re sat in the doorway, your hand still resting on the doorknob as you consider him with a look you hope is at least a little intimidating, although it’s hard to maintain upon seeing him. He looks rough.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you echo back.
“…What’s up?” he asks.
“Mostly just minding my own fucking business.”
He purses his lips and looks beyond you. “I deserve that.”
A beat passes. You try and keep up your icy, indifferent demeanor, daring him to explain himself, despite the teacher in you wanting to pull him into a hug or potentially ask him to express his emotion through a crayon drawing. Instead, you fight the urge and just raise your eyebrows expectantly.
“Can I come in?”
You pretend to think about it for a moment before making a show of stepping aside and waving your hand into your apartment dramatically. He nods before walking in and stopping at the edge of your couch, letting you close the door behind him. He turns around at the sound, his hands on his hips pushing his jacket back just so. You both wait a minute, daring the other to speak, before giving in at the same time.
“Do you want something to drink – “ “I’m sorry about earlier-“
You both stop, waiting for the other to finish. He speaks first.
“Yeah, what you got?”
“Water, beer, or tequila.” You say, gliding past him to the small kitchen that overlooks the living room. You turn back, awaiting an answer. He’s still a thousand miles away.
“Beer.” He says finally. You nod and go to the fridge, retrieving two cans from the bottom shelf. Closing the door with your foot, you walk forward and hold the can out for him. He takes it but doesn’t open it. Annoyed, you make for your spot on the couch and plop down, pulling the tab back as you tuck your legs under you.
“You can sit down,” you say.
As if snapped out of a trance, he comes forward and sits on the opposite end of the couch. In a fluid motion, he opens the beer and throws it back for a long gulp. You study him from your perch, nursing the cold can in your hand. When he finishes his gulp, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The air around the two of you is tense, and the stomach makes your stomach flip.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says. You sit up, prompting him to look up at you. You bring the beer to your lips and take a sip, letting him know he’s got to offer a little more than that. He shakes his head.
“It’s- it’s a shit excuse. It’s just work.” He says.
“Yeah? Did the embassy cut the janitorial budget? No more Comet?”
He shakes his head. “You’re smarter than that,”
You fall silent and look at the space between you. You both know you never bought the excuse he gave you that night out, you just let him have it because it was easier to let him have his secrets, even if he noticed your eyes lingering on the gun strapped to his side when he first went up to the bar.
It was just supposed to be a drink.
Nothing serious.
“I am,” you say, setting your beer on the coffee table. You sit up and wait for him to respond. Instead, he takes another sip of his beer and makes to stand.
“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” he says, adjusting his jacket. “I’ll let you get back to your evening-“
“Javier,” you say. As you see him making for the door, you pounce up and grab his arm. He stills, and you drop it as if you just breached a barrier.
“You’re not bothering me,” you say. “You can tell me…or you don’t have to. It’s fine.”
He turns back and regards you with those eyes. Those fucking eyes. In this light, with the beers you’ve had, you feel suddenly so undressed in front of him. You bring an arm up to hold the opposite arm. It makes you feel less exposed
“Friends, remember?” you say, trying to recapture the jokey feeling from the previous night. Trying to make him feel comfortable. Like he can be light in here. With you.
He’s still for a second, but just as quickly as he popped up from the couch he’s got his hands on your face, pulling you into a desperate kiss. It’s messy and hard, but you let him take the lead, opening your mouth when he presses his tongue between your lips. His hands drop to your waist and clutch at you, pushing your ugly, old University shirt up to touch your skin. Everything feels so urgent like if he let his hold on you relax even a little you’d float away from him. You feel the hardness in his jeans as he holds you against him, and you try to kiss him back with equal ferocity before realizing maybe he needs this kind of harsh control. So you relax, letting him take the lead and paw and gnaw at you. He leaves a trail of harsh, open mouth kisses along your neck that you know are going to leave marks, and you make a mental note to wear a turtle neck tomorrow to avoid the inevitable, unintentionally shaming little innocent voices asking “Señora, qué es esto?”.
Why do little kids notice everything?
Eagerly, as if he’s realized it’s the one thing that’s been keeping him from peace all day, he pulls your shirt over your head and throws it somewhere behind you. You’ve already taken your bra off, and his head dips down to take one of your nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the point before giving it a quick, testing bite. You let out a little gasp as he switches to the other, and for a moment you forget his face at your door – sad, like a puppy dog that got kicked – and the dullness of his voice, so different from just a few days earlier. This feels different too- not so much fun, but release.
You’ll let him have it.
Your knees hit the edge of the couch and, a creative idea coming to your head, you drop from the kiss and sit yourself on the arm, focus now on undoing his belt. Above you he strips his jacket off, dropping it to the floor. You pull the belt out of the loops with all the show of a circus lion tamer cracking a whip and immediately being to pull at the buttons and zipper. Aggressively, -maybe too aggressively, calm down, the dick isn’t going anywhere, Eloise- you pull the jeans down past his ass and lurch forward, catching the head of his cock between your lips and sucking. Above you, he hisses, and you bring your hand to him, wrapping your fingers around the top as if it were an extension of your mouth. Gathering spit from the back of your throat, you take him deeper, trying to coat his length. His hands come up to grab at your hair, and you’re encouraged to go faster. Suddenly taking care of him is the only thing that matters anymore. Your other hand reaches forward and presses up against his sac, and the groan from above you is enough of an indication that he approves. You pull him out of your mouth and flick your eyes up forward, holding eye contact as you lick along the side of him. The way his mouth falls open is enough encouragement to return to your work in earnest, and for the next five minutes, you’re working your jaw like a fucking snake – pulling him into the back of your throat, tickling the underside of him all the while before returning to give attention to the head.
Without warning, you feel hands on your shoulders, and before you can protest – no, I want to do this, I want to do this for you – your back is against the leather of the couch cushions. You stare up at him as he finishes undressing, his eyes are so dark and focused as he drops the clothes to his feet. In a fluid motion, he pulls your night shorts and underwear down, depositing them with the rest of his clothes as he crawls over you. You scoot back until your head is pressed against the pillow just fifteen minutes earlier you had nearly fallen asleep drooling on. He hooks your leg up, opening you up for him as he slithers up to kiss you again.
“Are you-?”
“Yeah,” you say.
It’s enough. Seconds later he’s sheathing himself inside of you, and despite yourself, despite that stupid cool disposition you opened the door with, you let out a moan. Harsh fingers grab your chin and pull you back into a kiss, cutting you off as he continues to pound into you at an unforgiving pace. God, it feels good. It’s been years since you’ve had sex without a condom, and you’ve forgotten how nice and right it can feel to have someone inside you without a barrier. You hum into his mouth as he pulls away, dropping his lips to your neck as he continues, hard and unforgiving and perfectly painful in a way that you’ll carry in your walk for a week. Embarrassingly, you’re so wet, and the excess slick only makes the sounds coming from between the two of you more obscene. You clench yourself around him, earning yourself a moan as he sucks a bruise onto your collarbone – it’s okay, remember, turtleneck -and bucks into you, faster than before.
“Fuck,” you breathe as he continues. “Fuck!”
“Yeah?” he asks, his hand coming up to grab your breast. He pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and you let out another moan. Instead of answering, you dig your nails into the meat of his ass, urging him forward and deeper into you. It must have an effect because it’s his turn to moan into your ear, for you to hear the string of curse words that tumble from his stupid, perfect mouth. Encouraged, you press against his back, bringing him closer as you ride him from below. He sucks as his teeth and leans into it when you try again. You bend down and suck at the spot where his neck and shoulder meet, doing your best to leave a mark. Fair’s fair.
A few more minutes into this and you don’t think you can hold it off any longer. Opening your legs as much as possible, begging him to go as deep as he can, you finally let your body go. It’s deep and internal, a different sensation than when you’re circling yourself alone in your bed. It seems to pull him deeper and crush him in between the impossibly strong spasms. You let out a little cry, which is all it takes for him to finish. Seconds later you feel him pulse inside you, warmth spreading deep inside of you. He falls atop of you, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from the high. You both stay like that for a moment, two sweaty bodies flopped atop of the other, basking in the afterglow. After another minute he pulls back and kisses your chin before pulling himself from you – you’re proud, you only let out a small pathetic sound of disapproval – before he’s up, making for your kitchen. He returns a moment later, a wet rag in his hand. You try not to remember that you used that same cloth to clean up split orange juice that morning as you take it, pressing it between your legs as you sit up. You reach forward for your beer and take a sip as he settles beside you, two cigarettes once again caught between his lips. He lights yours first and passes it to you, which you take gratefully. For a moment, the two of you relax in the afterglow, naked and sweating on your shitty couch, sucking on cigarettes and waiting for your heart rate to go back down.
“I saw a kid get shot,” he says out of nowhere. It’s enough to jolt you upward. You turn to look at him, but he’s staring forward, lost in his own thoughts. He brings the cigarette to his lips again.
“…Fuck.” You say. Because what else can you say? Try and make him feel better, tell him you’ve lost students to the same bullshit he seems to be fighting? Yes, that’s always the solution- more dead kids.
“Couldn’t have been older than nineteen,” he says. “Other…kids were there. Saw it.”
You bite your lip and study his profile. You’re not sure what to say. Is there anything? If you were in his position, you’d probably hate someone trying to fill the silence. To make you feel better. Like people can’t just sit with something uncomfortable and true. It reminds you home, of the family you grew up in. You want to show him that isn’t you.
So, you swing your legs onto the ground and move to sit closer to him. He notices but says nothing. The two of you sit in silence, the smoke from your cigarettes intermingling in the smell of sex and sweat that permeates the air around you. He finishes his cigarette first, and you stub yours out – in what, solidarity? – before reaching to catch his hand in your own. He stills, but lets you interlace your fingers.
“You don’t have to-”
“Friends, Javier.” You say again. He turns to look at you and you hold his gaze, daring him to say something against you. A beat passes, and he drops his head. Reaching out, you pull his head to your lips and press a kiss against his temple. Leaning back, you pull him down with you, letting his head lay on your chest as you pull the ratty blanket over the two of you. You listen to his breaths go in and out, as you trace mindless patterns through his hair. After a few moments, his breathing evens out, and you realize he’s asleep. Letting out a sigh, you close your eyes and soon follow suit.
The next morning, when you wake up alone on your couch, you try not to let the ache in your chest settle. When you leave that morning, alone for the first time in weeks, you try not to overthink it. And later, then night, when you’re lying in bed and hear another woman’s groans permeate the wall between your bedrooms, you try not to finger the bruises on your neck and ignore the ache between your legs.
Summary: Well, your new neighbor certainly knows how to entertain his guests
It’s not serious
At least, not enough that you’d complain. It’s just sex. And it’s not unbearably loud. Honestly, you’re happy someone is having a good time. Unlike his bedroom (and, from the sound of it, his couch, his kitchen island, his front door), yours has been woefully quiet since you moved in. So, even though it’s annoying, those nights you can’t sleep and you’re staring up at the ceiling as the muffled moans and groans echo through the wall, you have to think:
Good for her.
Maybe it’s not a conventional way to learn your neighbor’s name, but after a week sharing a wall you’re pretty confident it’s Javi. Javier, if the woman he’s entertaining is feeling particularly formal. You’ve never seen him – heard him plenty, sure – but what little glimpses you almost catch are always just as he’s disappearing into his apartment or out the door. You’re not sure what you’d say, anyway – hey, I’m your neighbor, you have quite the voluminous orgasm – so you don’t make an effort to introduce yourself. Besides, if your shared wall is anything to go by, he seems quite busy.
Still, that doesn’t stop you from imagining it. You haven’t had time to meet many men since you moved down to begin your teaching job, and you haven’t made enough friends to go out with and find some. So, your first few months are just you, your hand, and what inspiration leaks through the walls you are increasingly becoming convinced are made of rice paper. You’re not proud of it, but it’s a healthier stress reliever than the cigarettes in your purse or the tequila you keep in your kitchen. Besides, if he was worried about someone listening, he could move his fucking bed. Or at least put a sock or something between the wall and the headboard.
One night though, you’re reckless. It’s been a particularly rough day at the school – how do you tell a bunch of kids some of their classmates died in a bombing? – and you’ve drunk your dinner and smoked dessert. Now you’re on your bed, hand down the front of your trousers, fingering yourself like a virgin trying to break their hymen so prom night won’t be a disaster. Behind you, Javier – well, Javi! tonight – is absolutely wrecking some lucky woman. Luckily, she doesn’t have that breathy baby voice the girl Saturday had, and every sound that came from the two of them was enough for you to lose yourself in the fantasy. It’s probably – well, that and the alcohol, the insane amount of stress and just a general lack of shits to give – why you let out such a loud moan when you finally cum on your fingers, unaware that your vocal contribution was not, as you assumed it would be, covered by the sounds coming from the next room, and instead cut through the rare silence that interspersed your neighbor’s rounds. It’s only when you’ve come down from your high that you snap back up with the shattering realization that they definitely heard you.
The shame is multiplied in the morning, when your head is aching you sleep past your alarm. You try to shove it down, along with what little stomach contents you have left, as you pull your work clothes on and rush towards the door, a black heel in your hand as you turn the doorknob and rush outside. You lock the door before bracing against it to put your shoe on, your messy bun flopping forward when you see a pair of blue jeans and shoes standing in front of his own door.
Of course it’s today.
With your shoe secure, you stand back up and make eye contact with the subject of your masturbation sessions for the past three months. You two stand there for a moment, taking the other in. Annoyingly, he is good-looking. You’re somewhat lost in his eyes a bit before you catch yourself, and remember you’ve got fifteen minutes before a class full of eight-year-olds are left in a room with no supervision, scissors, and a very old and anxious pet hamster.
“Good morning, Javier,” you say before you can stop yourself. His eyebrows raise in surprise as you make a b-line for the doors, throwing them open and walking your burning face outside.
Maybe, deep down, you wanted this to happen. You never smoke outside your building, especially not once you got that window seat set up. Still, here you are at 5:30 pm standing outside your apartment complex smoking your second cigarette. You’re not sure if he’s home already, or held up doing whatever he does, but you still feel the desire to try. So you take another long drag and lean your head back, exhaling the puff of smoke into the sky above.
You jump when the door behind you swings open and there he is, his own cigarette caught between his lips. He doesn’t notice you at first, too concentrated on lighting the end. After a few attempts, he sighs and shoves the lighter back into his pocket.
“Need a light?” You ask.
He looks up and regards you for the second time that day. You extend your hand out, offering the cheap red lighter you bought from a corner shop your first night here. He hesitates a moment before reaching out and taking it from you.
You take a drag, considering his profile as he sparks up. You like his nose in particular and the way his dark eyes focus on the simple task at hand. You’re so entranced you visibly snap back when his eyes meet yours, handing back the lighter.
“Thanks,” he says around the cigarette. You wave your wrist before dropping the thing back in your purse. The two of you stand in the silence for a second, watching the empty street before you.
“So, you’re the new neighbor?”
You shrug. “Newish.”
“New to me,” he says. He turns towards you and extends a hand. “What’s your name?”
You mirror him and lean against the handrail by the stairs. “Eloise.”
He chuckles. “Like the kids’ books?”
“Yeah, my mom was the author.” You say with a straight face. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Really?” he asks.
“No. I’m fucking with you,” you bring the cigarette back up to your lips. His stupid, handsome face breaks out into a smile before he turns back to the front.
“Got me.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales again before turning to look at you.
“Thanks for the light, Eloise.”
“Anytime.”
He gives you a nod before he starts down the stairs. You watch him, letting the cigarette in your hand burn and die as your eyes follow him down the block until he disappears around a turn.
You’re not sure if it’s unconscious, but you run into him in the mornings a lot more now. Sometimes he’s got his nightly companions with him, but most mornings it’s the two of you rushing out of your respective apartments. It starts with the usual greetings followed by an awkward, silent, shared walk through the doors and down the stairs before unceremoniously parting at their end. Sometimes he holds the door open for you, and you give him a hurried smile and nod as you rush through, your heels click-clacking against the tile before stepping down onto the concrete stairs. You can feel his eyes on your back when you walk down before him those days. It makes your face hot.
Perhaps a week into this routine you notice he’s begun smoking outside more when you return from work. He nods at you, and most evenings you find yourself joining him. As if payback for your early generosity, he always holds out his lighter to spark your cigarette. At first, it’s just silent smoking sessions, the two of you standing in the quiet until someone finishes and throws their butt to the ground first. Then the little questions start. That second talk you discover you’re both from Texas – him from Laredo, you from El Paso. He asks if you know some shithead kids he went to school with, and you actually recognize one of the names. When he smiles at that, you find yourself wishing you knew them all.
One Friday when you return, you find him in his usual spot, leaning against the wall in those too tight blue jeans and a stupid pastel button-up– you’ve never seen a man with so many button-ups. You instinctively reach for your pack when he speaks up.
“You want to get a drink, neighbor?”
It’s nothing serious.
It’s just a drink. Or three.
You’re sat across from him, a slowly filling ashtray between the two of you. The conversation has stayed mostly light – how was your day, how was work (he works at the embassy, you’re not sure doing what), want another? It’s perfectly plain, and it almost feels like a drink you’d get with your brother when he finally asks:
“How’d you know my name?”
You almost choke on the sip you were taking. Coughing, you put the glass on the table and ask him to repeat himself, as if you didn’t hear him the first time.
“My name,” he says, and the way his voice emphasizes the word sends a tingle down your spine. “The morning we met.”
You wonder if you’re drunk enough to answer this truthfully. You take a drag of your cigarette.
“You’re smiling,” he says, breaking out into a grin. Underneath the table, you feel his knee hit yours and it’s like a shock across your skin.
“It’s, uh,” you exhale, taking the excuse to look anywhere else but at him. Emboldened by the drink, or maybe it’s just him, he nudges your hand.
“Go on, then.”
“Your, ah, guests.” You laugh.
“My-” he stops, realizing what you’re saying. The two of you hold eye contact for a second before descending into a fit of giggles.
“I, uh,” his hand goes to the back of his neck. “Ha…wow.”
“Hey, you should be proud,” you say. “It sounds like they’re having a great time.” You reach out for his lighter to re-light your cigarette. “Should move that fucking headboard, though. Like a drum major, some nights.”
He watches you as you inhale, running his thumb across his annoyingly puffy, never quite closed lips. You don’t realize you’re staring at them until his knee hits yours once again, jolting you back to the present.
“Maybe my guests could learn some manners from yours,” he says. You shake your head, too drunk to let the compliment lie.
“What guests,” you laugh.
“You know. Your gentleman callers.” He jokes. You roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink.
“Haven’t had a gentleman caller since I moved down here,” you admit. His eyebrows raise and you shoot him a look.
“Oh shut up,”
“I’m just surprised is all,” he says. “You…look like you. I thought you’d be knocking them back with a bat.”
“Flirt,” you chide. You shake your head. “Sadly, no. Only room for one Cassanova on the bottom floor,” you wink at him.
“There was-“ he begins, then closes his mouth. He reaches for his drink.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he smiles. You kick him under the table.
“What,”
“It’s not polite,” he teases you.
“Go on, I’m drunk enough.”
“I heard something…once. First time I realized someone actually lived there.” He laughs, bringing the glass to his lips. “Sounded like fun. Lucky guy.”
You laugh.
“…girl?” he offers, a sly smile playing across his lips.
“You could say that,” you laugh. He holds your gaze for a moment and you burst into giggles under his scrutiny. “Look, sometimes a girl is lonely and…” you giggle again. You’re definitely drunk. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“No, go on, I’m intrigued,” he says, placing his drink back down and leaning forward. You flick your eyes back up to him.
“I mean…you’d get a bit jealous, wouldn’t you? Some woman next door is having the time of her life-”
“ ‘Time of her life’? I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You roll your eyes and swirl your empty drink. “and you’re just…look, it’s been a long….”
Oh god. You do the math and cringe at the duration since the last time you got laid. You shake your head.
“A girl’s got needs. You seem to know all about that.” You laugh.
“Do I?” he asks, his voice noticeably deeper. You look up at him and see how dark his eyes are. His tongue darts out and wets his lips as those same eyes dip down from your face to your chest, your hands, back up to your lips.
“I…” you smile.
…Fuck.
It’s not serious.
It’s not.
It’s just two neighbors, very neighborly, fucking each other absolutely senseless.
You knew this is where it was going when you agreed to drinks. If you hadn’t, you knew the minute he asked you that question.
Do I?
Fuck off.
So when he offered to buy another round, you agreed. When he came back and sat next to you on the bench, you let him. By the end of the fourth drink, his hand was on your thigh, having pushed up your cute pencil skirt, and his mouth was on your ear, whispering the kinds of things he must have used on countless women before you. It worked, though, because after that last drink you were taking the hand he offered and following him out of the bar, down the street, and back into his apartment.
Once he got you inside, he was surprised to see you taking it all in. He came up behind you, his hands slipping around your waist as his mouth nipped at your neck.
“See something interesting?” he asked, annoyed your focus wasn’t solely on him.
“Feels like I’ve been let backstage,” you laugh, turning around and looping your arms around his neck.
“Yeah?” he leans forward and captures your mouth for the first time in a loud, puckering peck. You smile when he pulls away.
“Yeah, you won’t believe what I had to do to the security guard to get back here,” you shake your head.
“I think I can imagine,” he pulls you back into a kiss. His hands trail down your sides, traveling further down until he’s grasping at your ass through your skirt. You let out a sigh and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. You let out a small groan at the intrusion, reaching up and threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. You bite his top lip as his hands glide up to fiddle with the zipper at the back of your skirt. Breaking the kiss, you begin to play with the button at the nape of his neck.
“You have…”
“What?” he breathes. The zipper is down and his hand slips between the fabric, grabbing your bare ass. God, what a good day to wear a thong.
You laugh. “So many button-ups,” you spring the first button free and dip your face down to kiss his neck in a show of appreciation. He lets out a soft moan as you continue to work the buttons free, your hands taking a moment to explore the expanse of skin before moving on to the next. You feel him shimmy your skirt down and you aid him by working your hips until the fabric falls to the floor. As if he’s out of patience, he pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere, his attention back on your lips as he cups your face and brings you in for another deep, searing kiss. And god, what a mouth. It’s plump and plush and so soft.
It takes a lot to break away from them.
“Bed, I think,” you huff. He nods, his hand dropping down to grab your hand and pull you along the empty hallways towards the bedroom – a strange mirror to your own apartment. Once he’s got the door open he pulls you inside until you tumble into him, pressed against his front with a giggle.
“Take this off,” he says, pulling at the hem of your shirt. You let him pull it over your head and drop it to the floor. In a move that’s too practiced, he unclasps your bra and lets it fall with the shirt before cupping your breasts in his big, warm hands. Heat pools between your thighs – god, it really has been long – and you find yourself pushing him back towards the bed. He falls back with a thump, looking up at you expectantly.
You reach up, pulling your hair out of its hold and letting it fall to your shoulders. Holding his gaze, you hook your fingers around the hem of your underwear and pull them down until you can pull one leg out. Tossing them somewhere in the dark, you lower yourself onto him, crawling up his body until you sit astride his hips and begin to unbuckle his belt and fiddle with the zipper. When he springs free, you smile.
“Of course you don’t wear underwear,” you say. He smiles as he sits up, reaching to pull your mouth down to his.
“Just gets in the way,” he says before his lips press against yours again. You reach down and take him in your hand, slowly jerking up and down as he lets out little breathy sighs in your mouth. You increase the pace, enjoying hearing his noises for once before he pulls away from you and sits upon his knees on the bed.
“What-”
“Lay back,” he instructs, pulling the jeans down before falling onto his back and kicking them off. You lower yourself down, watching as he rolls off the bed and stalks towards its end. One hand wraps around your ankle and pulls you down, causing you to squeak in surprise. His hands trace up the insides of your legs, and it’s a beat before you realize what he’s about to do. His lips follow his finger’s trail, leaving open mouth kisses until he’s there and his hot breath on you is enough to make you cum right then and there. You screw your eyes shut as you feel a finger enter you, and despite yourself you let out a small moan. Proud of himself, he pulls back and thrusts back into you before bringing his lips down to wrap around your clit. You buck up against him, which only encourages him to add another finger and swirl his tongue around you.
“Fuck-” you breathe, reaching down to fist the sheet beside you. He pumps into you again and you try your best to keep the moan threatening to escape caught in your throat. He sucks at you, lazily pumping in until you’re too slick and squirming against him, urging him to go faster because you’re so so so close. Devilishly, he licks your length before circling your bundle of nerves with his thumbs, looking up at you as your back arches and your foot kicks out.
“Keep- keep-”
Then.
Then.
The fucking bastard pulls his hand back.
Absolutely outraged you shoot up to see him standing, sucking his fingers.
“Why did you stop?” You breathe. He smiles as he pulls his hand from his mouth.
“Was wondering why you’re being so quiet,” he laughs. “Thought I wasn’t living up to the hype.”
“You were,” you insist. He smiles as he walks around to his nightstand and pulls the drawer open. You hear the foil packet tear before you can see the glint in the light.
“I think I’ll have to do better,” he says once he’s settled back on the bed. He pulls you astride of him, and you feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. You let out a shaky breath as his hands grip at your hips.
“Don’t be afraid to make noise,” he says, kissing along your jaw. “My neighbor likes to listen.”
“Oh fuck y-” the words turn into a moan as he pushes up into you, stretching you out across him. You let out a fluttering gasp as you take all of him in, so warm and big and good. When he bucks up into you again, you let out a girly, breathy gasp, then again when he rocks your hips back and forth. Before you know it you’re pressing him down into the mattress, righting yourself against the banging headboard as you bounce on top of him, impaling yourself on him and the aching stretch of him inside you. You let out another moan as he brings a hand up and slaps your ass, and you suddenly realize how easy it must have been for these women to lose themselves shamelessly in the noise and feeling.
“Like that,” he says, his own voice deep and breathy. “Just like that, baby.”
You hum as you roll your hips against his, your clit pressed against the wiry hairs that cover his public bone. Without warning, though, you find yourself being knocked onto your side and hauled up on your hands and knees. Before you can say anything, he rocks back into you, causing you to let out another loud gasp as he begins to fuck you from behind. You bite your lip as he plunges in and out of you, the pace is more quick and unforgiving than it had been. The feeling inside you builds and you squeeze your eyes shut, reaching up in between your legs to touch yourself.
“Fuck…fuck,” you head from behind you. You speed your fingers up and he continues to fuck you, your moans coming fast and ragged now. What was happening? You were never particularly loud before, but now-
“I’m going-“ you warn him. He slams back into you as if encouraging you, and you’re just so full of him and that sweet slide of him inside you and your fingers working in small circles. You’re surprised, then, when you feel his hand fall on your shoulder and pull you up onto your knees, his hands groping at your breasts as he bites where your neck meets your shoulder. You let out a groan as he pinches a nipple and fucks up and into you.
“I’m-”
“Cum,” he instructs, and it’s enough. You clench around him, harder than you have in months. You let out a cry as you ride out the spasms, the firmness of him inside you feeling so impossibly good and foreign. He follows not long after, and you feel him pulse inside you as he cums, a little pathetic cry escaping his lips.
The two of you stay like that for a moment, panting and sweaty. After a moment, you feel his hands on your hips relax, and slowly, almost tenderly, he pulls out of you Exhausted, as if he was the only thing keeping you up, you fall forward onto your stomach, letting out a hefty exhale.
Behind you, you hear him shuffle around, take off the condom, and go dispose of it in the kitchen. A minute later you feel his weight on the bed once more next to you, and you turn to look up at him. He’s got two cigarettes in his mouth and lights one after the other. Satisfied they won’t go out, he plucks one from his lips and holds one out to you.
“What a gentleman,” you say, bringing it to your lips. He chuckles and relaxes down next to you.
“What was it you said? I know all about a girl’s needs?” he sends you an impish look. You roll your eyes.
“One fuck after nine months of celibacy doesn’t make you a god,” you laugh, taking a drag. He shakes his head.
moodboard for @holographic-carmenno easy way down okay so like javi + nyc + sexy porn director + badass lady partner = fucking amazing fic. seriously i am so in love with this story already. it’s also hot af. so there’s that.
this is apart of the 700 follower moodboard giveaway
if you would like to participate here is a link to the post
Summary: The aftermath of the undercover op weights heavily on Javi, creating a ripple effect through his entire existence in NYC.
Rating: M - Overall, this fic is for 18+ only.
Word Count: 11.9k
Pairing: Javier Peña/OFC
Notes: I know this has taken a while and I am sure I’ve lost some folks! For those toughing it out, thank you! All previous chapters have been archived at Ao3 for easier reading. This chapter is pretty narrative heavy as well.
Warnings: Discussions of job-related violence. Brief discussions of medical procedures. Some of the chapter takes place in a hospital setting. Discord and stress abound in this chapter. Angst. Additional warnings on Ao3.
Black Coffee In Bed - No Easy Way Down [Interlude]
Summary:Sleepy mornings, coffee, and Fleetwood Mac.
Rating: E, This is for 18+ folks only!
Word Count: 5.2k
Pairing:Javier Peña/OFC
Notes: I really wanted to write the morning after from Javi’s POV. I also wanted to write a bit of fluff before I got into the next chapter of the story. I do love a soft!Javi. And for me this is SOFT. This piece doesn’t really advance the plot in any way, just makes me happy to write and is completely self-indulgent. This occurs before Javi heads back to work in Chapter 3. It doesn’t really work as as stand alone, but I suppose you could read it without the other chapters, may be a bit confusing though!
Warnings: Slow morning spoon sex, quick and dirty sex, feelings, frank discussions of sex work. Additional warnings on Ao3!
Summary: Javi and Sheila make things happen; Javi confronts his new boss, and finally goes on an undercover sting.
Rating: E - This is for 18+ folks only!
Word Count: 8k
Pairing:Javier Peña/OFC
Notes: Javi is obviously younger (around 30) so he doesn’t have all the world weariness we see in Narcos, but I imagine this (and other experiences) have created that veneer we see in the show itself. I really want to explore a up-and-coming Javier Peña to piece together what makes him who he ends up becoming.
Warnings: M/F sexual situations (oral, intercourse) and dirty talk. There is also job-related violence in this chapter as well related to a secondary character. But no one in this story dies, because I can’t bear to do that to my OC’s! Additional warnings on Ao3.
Summary: Javi is sent off on temporary assignment to assist in taking down a major drug ring in the summer of 1977 in NYC and finds a way to pass the time.
Pairing: Javier Peña/OFC
Notes: Set before the events of Narcos. I am taking liberties with Javi’s timeline and general events of the crimes discussed, but much of what is in here is based on my research as well as being a New Yorker.
Rating: M - overall this story is for 18+ adult audiences only.
Warning: Period-typical sexism, and some violence. For this chapter, teasing, kissing and some light making out. Frank discussions of, and writing about, lives of sex work/ers. I am am an ally and supporter of workers and believe in making sex work a safe and legal form of work. Additional warnings on Ao3!
