stockings and stars
javier peña x f!reader
summary: Still need the star putting on the top of the tree.
ive got other plans for you
Because I’m the star?
yeah you're my star and youre not going anywhere but on your back
from the late night texts world - but can still be enjoyed on its own. chapter warnings: allusion to/mentions of smut. no actual smut. javi undresses you, though. flirting. fluff. reader wears red lingerie and a dressing gown. javi flirting. sexy talk, romcom vibes ofc ✨ wordcount: 3k
an: to @goodwithcheese merry christmas from me, to you. thank you for everything, for the tuesday fun we have - i wanted nothing more than to have this out sooner, but life, you know? but, i adore you. and I'm so glad we found one another. ahuge thanks to @thetriumphantpanda who cheerleaded for me throughout.
text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi
Will I be seeing Santa Javi today? I want to decorate my tree.
one time I come to yours in a red shirt
You also had the tree under your arm and a bag of baubles, I’d class those as gifts.
keep talking baby and you can decorate your tree alone
Think I’m gonna wear that shirt you left here while I do it. Make sure I have to get up on my tip toes. Hope it doesn't rise up...
you don’t play fair
I think I’ll be in stockings too…
youre killing me
Maybe they’re white and red, and…
baby if i wasn’t putting this thing up for Pop, i’d be driving over right now
Hope you hurry up, I need someone tall to put the star on top of the tree.
how am I gonna eat you out when youre perched on the tree baby
The last thing on his to-do list from his Pop is to hang the front porch garland.
He had learnt there had been a huge difference in the front and the back porch garlands. A fifteen-minute-long difference when he'd timed the response given to his sarcastic answer.
Javi learnt there was not only one for the back porch and the front, but one which sat across the fireplace and one on the staircase.
He learnt that after he'd made a joke about mixing them up—earning himself a very pointed glare, and the task of the front porch.
Now, it’s a battle he’s losing.
Tremendously so.
While he’d never want his Pop to do the more challenging tasks, he did rather hate he hadn’t thought to trade this one in for the back porch at the very least—because that had looked fucking easy.
Holding the garland in hand, he’s suddenly hit with a second wave of nostalgia, the first having arrived when he'd pulled down the box and peered into it.
It did the same thing as it had done then, all but rushed over him, layering itself on his shoulders, sitting, nothing short of a comfortable weight on him. Letting his gaze fall out over it, he smiles at the tuffs of fabric, all the bows tied by hand, all in an array of sizes and shades.
Over time, he can see how they've become sun-dyed, remembering the first year they'd been sewn into the faux greenery by his mamá, memories of her all hunched over, humming carols.
Smiling, he rolls his lips, letting out a heavier sigh than he intended as he drags it to the post he’d begin at.
But, all he wonders is whether in the years he wasn’t here, whether it was occasionally hung—or if this year is just that special.
The mere hint that he was going to ask if you wished to spend Christmas at the ranch had sent his Pop into overdrive. Practically yanked him out of his chair like he’d been electrified, a bunch of orders being flung from under his white, wiry moustache that they needed to get ready.
He wasn't sure he'd get the image of his Pop suddenly scrambling around like a man half his age, to drag the decorations out from the cupboard, would ever be erased from his mind. Least of all the sound you'd made aww'ing down the phone when he'd given you a condensed version of the story.
Because he hasn't asked you yet, not properly.
Even though he's spent the last two days at the back of barns and spending a ridiculous amount of time at the hardware store—because we need to make sure the lights stay up, Jav.
He just hasn't found the right time to ask you. A promise each time he goes to see you left in the air. Not that his Pop remembers that, instead he's just busy thinking up ways to make it special: one of which includes decorating the trees at the entrance to the ranch.
An idea having sprouted with the newest ranch hand—one which, if Javi overheard correctly, involves rope acting like tinsel and a cowboy hat being the star on the top of the trees.
Feeling his phone vibrate, he temporarily ignores it as he begins to weave the beginning of the garland around the wood—already knowing, before he tries to move it around the spindles, that it isn’t going to be easy.
Because nothing ever fucking is.
Least of all when you’re waiting for him.
His mind begins to concoct images of you in bows and sheer material, lips painted, sat waiting, smelling nothing short of heavenly as you call out for—
“Fuck,” he shouts, dropping the garland to the ground.
It had pricked him, stabbed him right in the skin—hand shaking the pain out, face likely all scrunched. And, if it didn't have sentimental value, he's sure he'd have kicked its protesting ass with everything he had. Instead, he just narrows his eyes more than he had done moments ago as he begins again.
He feels his nostrils flare when it begins to undo itself. The sound of faux bristles on wood grates him before it will even attempt to do what he needs it to.
And it makes him want to quit, to throw it back into the box and tell his Pop it isn’t worth it. But he knows it is. Knows that his mama didn’t spend hours bent over under flickering light for it not to be seen.
Javi also strongly suspects you’d love it. Likely run your fingers over several bows asking who made it. He can even imagine the look of joy on your face when he tells you.
It’s why, if he didn’t already suspect it anyway, he’s pretty sure his Pop loves you more than him. Because even the first Christmas he was back, there weren’t this many decorations; not nearly as much need to have them all out, either.
Not that Javi really minds—or blames him.
There’s a notable shift in energy when you stay over. Even more so in him. He can see there’s a cheer and a glow to the place—one Javi hates watching vanish when he takes you back to your place.
It's why, when—and where—he can, he fights for you to be here. Practically finds convincing ways to do so, including, crossword puzzles, dinner, and two-person showers. But, at some stage, your clothing dwindles, underwear runs low, and he has to make the painful drive into town to return you to your place.
Your fingers in his hair, practically clambered into his lap as you whisper that you’ll be back before he knows it. His fingers on your chin, thumb stroking out the words he says right back—that he’ll miss you all the same.
Javier Peña. Texan softie—what will the world think?
He only thinks one thing when he drives back—a response which had been there on his lips. Guess they’ll see just how much I love you. A thing you know, comment on, say back to him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. An array of promises there, sometimes spoken at a normal level and sometimes whispered.
You always keep them, just like the one that you are always back before he knows it.
He likes it when you are. Enjoys it when you’re nestled beside him, arm across his chest, hand close to his ribs—strumming them, tracing lines and words he tries to understand before sleep takes him.
He still always sleeps better when you’re beside him. When his breathing can mirror yours, when he can feel for you in the night when he’s awoken with nightmares and things he knows won’t ever come true.
Now, he’s fighting a different battle. One to get to you.
Halted in his path to freedom by the garland which refused to be hung, and could be labelled as giving him more grief than the horses which had banded together. A phrase he never thought he’d admit out loud, never mind think.
You still fighting with the garland?
baby its torturing me on purpose
Do you want me to come and help?
will you come in the stockings
No!! Your dad is there.
then stay there actually lie down, but do not begin without me
Still need the star putting on the top of the tree.
ive got other plans for you
Because I’m the star?
yeah you're my star and youre not going anywhere but on your back
Hurry then.
i’m hurrying
He does hurry—practically scratched up by the time he’s parking his truck outside your place.
As he takes the step up to your door, Javi realises how much he misses it here when he doesn’t visit. A place less frequent and often spent time in, even under your insistence of renting it.
It is always usually a stopping point, him parking up, letting you go in and grab what you need before you're back in his truck, heading back to his.
He does like your place though, likes how small it is, how cosy. Plus, it has all the things which make you, you. A thing his place is currently missing.
Although, as he steps through the door, and calls your name, he does have to admit it currently looks fucking ridiculous.
On a good day, he’d describe your place as crowded, but right now, it’s claustrophobic.
The tree you’d forced him to get is shoved into a corner, branches fluffed out, surrounded by the piles of unpacked boxes you’ve tried to discreetly hide. Your remaining floorspace is overtaken by a bit of rug, several piles of books (you have no room for, but continue to buy) and odd bits of furniture you find and attempt to restore.
For the most part, you’ve decorated. A thing you did inform him of.
You’ll be pleased to know when you get here your only job is the star.
managed it all yourself, did you
I’m a very competent woman, Javi.
oh i know baby ive seen you with a crossword
Does that do it for you? Me finishing a crossword.
does something to me
Get over here.
im leaving now
There’s a warm, comforting glow spread out across the place from the fairy lights you’ve hung and the array of mismatched decorations—both bought and handmade—hanging from branches.
He breathes in the scent of orange which hangs in the air, his eyes finding the culprit on your fireplace, a garland—one not dissimilar to the one he’d been battled with—places there, mocking him due to the ease of which had been laid, with oranges and little beads all entwined within it.
Snorting, he glances back at your tree, spotting the things he's been with you when you've bought. And, as promised—and informed him through text—there’s nothing at the top of your tree.
“You finally made it!”
Spinning on his heel, he comes face to face with you, and fuck if the sight of you doesn’t make it all worth it.
Dressed in a red, silky dressing gown, all tied in the middle, you're a vision. Then, there's the fact your lips are painted a shade he’d now famously dub Christmas red, a colour he wants nothing more than to be stained with. A path of it from his mouth down to the space where his jeans meet his hips. A thought which seems to only make how tight his jeans are even more uncomfortable.
“Cariño, you’re…”
You sway a little, letting the fabric move—allowing his gaze to land on the stockings. The ones he’s been thinking about all afternoon. The ones he can’t wait to feel under his palm and know whether they’ll create friction when wrapped around his waist.
“Fuck me.”
“I’m kinda banking on it,” you say, biting your red-painted lip. “But first…”
His hand crawls around your waist, feeling the smooth, soft texture under his hand—swallowing, dragging his eyes up and down you, unsure how he could ever be so lucky—how something so good could ever be here for him to unwrap.
“I need you to hang the star,” you continue.
“Right now?”
Nodding, you ghost your lips over his. “I’ve been so good waiting for you.”
“You're never good. You, baby, are a menace.”
“I’m your menace.”
Snorting, he presses a kiss to your lips. “Damn right, you are.”
Moving from you, reluctantly, only to pick up the gold star he assumes you want to hang, getting a nod from you that he’s right.
“Need to ask you something too.”
And even though he’s only taken a mere short step from you, he’s floored all over again about what a picture you look like when he glances back. That you’re standing all for him, dressed in nothing but cheer and ribbons all for him.
“Go on.”
Turning to your tree, he flattens his hand to the wall for stability. “I wanted…”
His concentration slides in—suddenly aware he doesn’t want to knock anything from the branches. Doesn’t want to force things to be misplaced from where they were expertly hung.
He’s also sure he’s wanting to swallow the question. A part of him, all the way deep inside of him, having been bracing—and waiting—to hear you’d be apart for the holidays. A thing the two of you have rarely been since you moved here, not a day going by he hasn’t seen you for at least an hour.
“Wanted to know if you—shit—” the star almost sitting atop, before at the last minute protesting. “I wanted to know if you wanted to spend Christmas with me—with us, me and Pop. At the ranch.”
The star slides into place, sitting more comfortably with another shove, more branch supporting it.
But he doesn’t turn, not immediately. Not as the question hums around him, swirls in the silence of you not immediately saying yes. So much so, that it takes him a second to move on his heels, to face you—to read the answer before it’s delivered.
What he sees is something his heart couldn’t have ever prepared for.
You, grinning—a silly, almost goofy, smile spreading out as you bite down on your lip, forehead slightly crinkled.
“You… you want me to spend the holidays with you?”
“Of course—cariño, I want nothing more than for you to be with me.”
It all quick to leave his mouth, mirroring the movement to be back in front of you, fingers under your chin, lifting your eyes—those beautiful, fucking eyes—to his.
“Do… do you—wanna spend it with me?”
You pull a different face before you’re nodding. One more excited, one which begins to expel out over a smile and a bunch of escaping phrases such as I can’t believe you want me with you and of course.
“Why wouldn’t I want to be with you?”
Shrugging, you scrunch your nose—an act he finds just as cute as the first time he saw it. “Guess it’s a big deal. It’s… a thing people do with families.”
Pulling you close by your hips, your hand lands flat on his chest. “You are my family.”
“Javi,” you whisper, making each letter feel so individual the way you say it, that it makes his heart double.
“It’s true. You’re it for me, cariño. All I’ve wished for.”
Eyes widening, your eyes shimmer under the lights—more so than normal. Taking a deep breath, you lift your chin before pressing a kiss to his mouth. One which turns hungry, desperate—your mouth searing, a thing he’s craved since he woke up before the sun even rose.
“Baby,” you whisper.
And he hums.
It vibrates out, able to feel it from the way his fingers cup your cheek.
“Undo me.”
Releasing your lips with a pop, he opens his eyes, studying your eyes, moving from one to the other.
“Go on,” you urge in a whisper, more breathless, more tinged with something that makes his skin hot.
Sliding his fingers over the knot, he barely has to tug before it comes undone—unveiling you, like a curtain which wishes to part. If he’d thought you’d looked good before, he’s sure every bit of you is a sin now—a Christmas sin.
Red and lace. It’s all he sees. It sitting there, against you, hugging your breasts—sitting on your hips. His mouth is suddenly dry at the thought of running his tongue over the place it meets your skin before pulling it down.
Your fingers follow his eyes, sliding between the valley to land on the bow in the centre, twisting the edge of the tie around your index finger—palm skating over your stomach, allowing him more chance to take in how you’re stood before him in see-through fabric and promises.
“How’d I get so lucky?” he asks, more to no one, than to you.
His fingers teasing the fabric sat on your hip—marvelling, unsure how to think straight until you clear your throat, forcing his eyes to meet yours.
“Hey,” you whisper, tightening your hold on his hands, bringing his arms more around your waist, pressing your front to him, feeling the heat from your skin through your clothes. “You’re all I wished for too.”
Smiling, he looks at your tree, before landing back on you. “You look so good.”
“I know. Could look better though?” His brow arches as you slowly begin to smile, the tip of your tongue sliding over your upper lip. “Everything is held in place by bows.”
Groaning, he closes his eyes, letting his hand slide down your lower back, over sheer material before his fingers find the ribbon on your hip.
“All for you.”
“Mine,” he answers, slotting his mouth over yours—staining the four letters to your lips.
His fingers slide around, brushing over soft skin, until he finds the first bow. Undoing it with ease, licking into your mouth, only to grunt against you when you whimper as the fabric falls to your feet.
“Yours,” you say back, your own hands beginning to undo him.
an: merry christmas, love you
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