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couldsewyouastitchandsavenine · 2 days ago

Text

Simmer — Javi Peña

pairings: modern times chef!javi x f!reader

word count: 4.2K

a/n: so this happened... been obsessing over javi peña as a head-chef for a long, long time. anyway, hope you enjoy it. huge shoutout to @pedroschka for reading the very first draft of this and to @iamasaddie for NOT being immune to my dad jokes. babes, this one is for you. like, share and subs— *runs out of the room*

warnings: javi peña AU, explicit smut with a bit of angst, closet sex, sneaking around, unprotected p in v., fingering, dirty talk, javi is an asshole (just a little), obligatory use of cariño (sue me!)

The air shimmers with heat as you push through the double doors into the kitchen, the weight of the produce in your arms making your muscles burn. Sweat beads along your hairline, trickling down the back of your neck to soak into the collar of your already damp shirt. You grit your teeth against the discomfort, blowing a stray tendril of hair out of your eyes with a huff of irritation.

It's too goddamn early for this, but the dinner rush waits for no one. Least of all you.

Lost in thought, you navigate the familiar maze of stainless steel countertops and simmering stovetops on autopilot. Your mind is already ten steps ahead, running through your prep list and mentally cataloguing what still needs to be done before service. So preoccupied are you that you don't notice the solid wall of muscle looming in your path until it's too late.

The collision sends you reeling, the crates tumbling from your arms to hit the floor with a dull thud. Produce scatters in every direction, onions rolling underfoot and carrots skittering across the tiles.

A large, calloused hand closes around your elbow, steadying you before you can add your body to the mess on the floor.

“Easy there, hermosa.” The low rumble of Javier's voice washes over you, his amusement evident in the way the endearment drips like honey from his tongue. Cloying. Sticky-sweet. It raises your hackles even as your traitorous pulse kicks up a notch at his proximity.

You jerk away from his touch, your skin scorched where his fingers branded you. Heat crawls up your neck to set your cheeks ablaze as you force yourself to meet his gaze head-on.

Javier's lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. The urge to slap it off his face is nearly overwhelming.

Because honestly, it unsettles you—the way he can peel you open with a glance. The way he seems to see through you, right down to your core, to all the secrets you keep buried deep. It makes you want to squirm, to hide. To lash out just to prove him wrong.

But you don’t. You never do.

Instead, you swallow hard. Ignore the way your tongue suddenly feels too thick and clumsy for your dry mouth.

"I'm fine," you rasp eventually, wincing internally at the breathless quaver in your voice.

He says nothing, just raises his hands in mock surrender and takes a deliberate step back. You tell yourself it's relief that shivers down your spine.

You're lying.

Determined to put some much-needed distance between you, you bend to start scooping up the wayward produce, dumping the armload of carrots and onions onto the counter with more force than necessary. It’s childish and it’s petty, but you have no other way to fight it. Because Javier’s gaze is still on you, a leaden weight between your shoulder blades.

So, you do the one thing that seems to be the solution. You run. Whirl on your heel and stalk towards the walk-in cooler without a backward glance.

The cool air that hits your overheated skin as you step inside is a balm to your fractured nerves. You suck in a shuddering breath, relishing the way the cold sears your lungs and clears the haze from your head. But it does little to quell the restless energy thrumming through your veins, the ache of of want that sinks its hooks into you whenever Javier is near.

With a low growl, you drag a hand through your hair, fingers snagging in the wild tangle of knots and snarls. You tug until your scalp burns with pain. Grounding you.

God, what the hell is wrong with you?

It must be the heat outside because you can’t seem to remember the last time everything felt slightly off-kilter as today. As if the whole world is just slightly out of focus, and with Javi’s dark eyes tracking your every move and that knowing half-smile playing at the corners of his unfairly distracting mouth under that ridiculous moustache, you half-wonder if you’re are caught in some strange waking dream.

You half expect to blink and find yourself waking in your own bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Alone. Untouched. Wanting.

But no, this is real. The chilly bite of the air, the clatter of pots and the hiss of the grill just beyond the fridge door, the ache in your shoulders from too many hours hunched over a too-small apartment stove—all of it is real.

And Javi. Javi is real. Had been for a year now, ever since you started at Ríncon as his saucier. His presence is as tangible as the stainless steel counters and the scuffed tile beneath your feet, as constant as the ebb and flow of orders and the controlled chaos of the dinner rush.

He’s real and so is the memory of that night. The ghost of Javier's lips on your neck, hot and hungry as he backed you into the shelving. The rasp of his stubble against your jaw, the slick slide of his tongue against yours as he swallowed your needy whimper. The way his big hands flexed on your hips, yanking you flush against the hard planes of his body like he could fuse you together through sheer force of will alone.

And you’d like to say that you put up some token resistance that night. That you were the kind of person who had self-respect and standards and lines that couldn't be crossed.

But that would be a lie. Because the truth is, you’d spun in his arms and yanked him closer, hands fisting in the front of his chef’s jacket. The truth is, when he'd walked you backwards until the shelving bit into your spine and sealed his mouth over yours, you’d whimpered embarrassingly into the kiss.

The truth is, you’d wanted it.

Afterwards, once you’d righted your clothes and avoided each other's eyes, shame and exhilaration warring within you, he'd cleared his throat and said gruffly that it could never happen again. That it was a one-off, a momentary lapse in judgement. Nothing more.

And you had agreed. Had nodded. And then went on with your life as you normally would.

Except you couldn’t. Not even a little bit. Because that one slip had been like a crack in a dam and now the want was flooding through, unstoppable.

And so it happened again. And again. Stolen moments, illicit touches. The slam of your back against the walk-in door, the cold metal a stark contrast to the fevered heat of his skin. His fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he hitched you higher, urged your legs to wrap around his waist. Frantic coupling in the alley behind the restaurant, brick rasping your palms as you braced yourself against the wall, biting your lip till you tasted copper while he drove into you hard and fast.

Once, memorably, he’d taken you in the backseat of his car after a late catering gig. It was graceless, awkward, his elbow jabbing painfully into your kidney at some point, but God, the way he’d felt inside you. Like he was trying to crawl beneath your skin; possess you from the inside out. Like if he just fucked you hard enough, deep enough, he could leave an imprint. A mark. Proof that you were his, even if neither of you would ever say the words aloud.

And you know it's fucked up. Know that despite the dark thrill, the toe-curling pleasure, this thing between you is a disaster waiting to happen. One of you will get careless, too drunk on pleasure to maintain discretion, and it will all blow up in your faces. You’ll be the one to lose your job, your reputation in tatters. He'll be the subject of high fives and envy in the kitchen, just another conquest to boast about.

You know this. You really do.

But when he looks at you like he does, all your good intentions seem to crumble to ash. He’ll crook a finger at you, head cocked towards the storage room, and you’ll follow. You always fucking follow. Because for those stolen heartbeats when he’s buried inside of you and his hands are branding your hips, you can pretend it means something. That you mean something. To him. That you are more than a convenient warm body. More than a willing repository for his lust and stress and pent-up frustrations.

It's pathetic. You’re pathetic. Panting after him like a dog whining for scraps from the table. But self-awareness has never been much of an aphrodisiac.

So you hide.

In the walk-in where the frigid air can leach the fever from your skin. Where you don’t have to see the way his throat works when he swallows or the flex of sinewy forearms revealed by rolled up sleeves. You hide until your nipples are hard from cold instead of shameful arousal and your chest no longer feels like it might crack open from the strain of containing your idiotically rioting heart.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, you push off the shelves. Run damp palms down your thighs, thankful for the wicking fabric of your chef's pants. You just have to get through service. Keep your head down and your knife steady. Just a few more hours and you can escape to the sanctuary of your shitty apartment. Where you absolutely will not fuck yourself on your own hand to the memory of his low groan in your ear. Again.

You’re fine. It's fine. Everything is fine.

The fridge door swings open with a gust of frigid air, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You twist around only to find Javi leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. There is a smudge of flour on his cheek. You want to lick it off.

Instead, you curl your hands into fists, nails biting into your palms. Swallow hard around the knot in your throat.

“You plannin’ on hiding in here all day?” His voice is light, teasing. But there's an undercurrent of something else, a tension that crackles in the air between you.

Straightening, you tug at the hem of your tee. A nervous habit, one you can’t seem to break. "Just needed a minute."

He nods, dark eyes watching you. Seeing too much, as always. The silence stretches, heavy with all the things you don't say. All the things you can't say, not without shattering this fragile truce you’ve built. This careful dance of almost, maybe, not quite.

Clearing your throat, you drop your gaze. Fix it on the collar of his shirt, the sliver of bronzed skin at the hollow of his throat. The thin gold chain resting against his collarbones, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

The same chain you sometimes catch between your teeth when you’re tangled together in the dark, skin slick with sweat and hands grasping, claiming. When you’re biting back the obscene sounds that claw up your throat, desperate to hold on to some shred of control even as he takes you apart with clever fingers and wicked tongue.

Heat flares low in your belly at the memory, prickling across your skin. You shift, restless. Aching. "Well, I guess I should get back to it."

You move to brush past him, to escape the charged air of the fridge and the wanting that coils like a snake in your gut. But he's too quick, too close. Long fingers wrap around your wrist, calluses dragging against your racing pulse.

"Wait." There's a rasp to his voice, a rough edge that sends a shiver skittering down your spine.

You go still, hardly daring to breathe. This... this is new. Uncharted territory. You don't linger in each other's space like this, not when you're both fully clothed and clear-headed. It's too dangerous, too much like tempting fate.

"What is it, Javi?" It comes out softer than you intend, almost breathless.

He sighs, a harsh exhale through his nose as he drags his free hand through his hair. The dark strands fall back into artful disarray almost immediately. Everything about this man is effortless, from the way he commands a kitchen to the way he commands your body. Confident. Self-assured.

"Nothing, just..." He trails off, shaking his head. Something flickers in the depths of his dark eyes, there and gone too quickly for you to decipher. Frustration, maybe. Regret. "Nothing. Never mind."

And then he's gone, shouldering through the door and leaving you standing there, stomach twisting with that all too familiar mix of frustration and anticipation.

So you return to your station. You chop and sauté, season and taste, hands moving on autopilot as your mind wanders. Steve, the sous chef, drops by your station to crack a few jokes, his easy smile and laid-back demeanor a welcome distraction from the tangled knot of emotions in your chest. He updates you on his ideas for the new tasting menu, shares a bit of gossip he heard from the chatty sommelier—anything to fill the charged silence of the kitchen.

But even as you nod along, making all the right noises in all the right places, you can't ignore the shiver that races down your spine every time Javier passes behind you, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for a pan. Can't seem to tune out the low, authoritative cadence of his voice as he calls out orders to the line, each word wrapping around you like a physical touch.

It doesn't help that he's foregone his usual chef's whites today in favor of a thin grey tee, the worn fabric clinging lovingly to every curve and plane of his torso. So it isn’t much of a surprise that by the time service ends and the last of the dishes are washed and stacked, you’re wound tighter than a clockspring.

—

The dishrag makes a damp squelch as you wring it out, the white cloth slowly soaking up the smears and crumbs littering your workstation. It's mundane work, the kind that usually lets your mind drift, but today all your senses feel heightened, electrified. Because you can feel him behind you.

Even without looking, you know exactly how close Javi is standing - mere inches away, his body a live wire of coiled energy. The hairs on your neck prickle to attention as his breath washes over your skin, his low rasp sending a shiver down your spine as he murmurs, "Storage room. Five minutes."

And then, just like that, his warmth is gone. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Javi shrug off his apron, the stained fabric hitting the hook with a dull slap as he strides purposefully towards the back.

"Fuck." The curse is barely a whisper, more a shaky exhale that you didn't realise you'd been holding in.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as your gaze darts around the bustling kitchen. Steve is leaning across the steel counter, flashing the cute new pastry chef a crooked grin as she carefully pipes delicate swirls on a tray of mille-feuille. Over by the sinks, a trio of line cooks laugh uproariously, their voices bouncing off the tiled walls as they no doubt swap exaggerated tales of culinary glory.

No one is paying you any attention. It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed, to grab your bag and walk out into the night, pretending you never heard Javi's summons. The rational part of your brain screams at you to do just that, to put an end to this dangerous game before someone gets hurt.

But even as the thought forms, you know you won't do it. Can't do it. Because as much as you hate to admit it, you crave this — the illicit thrill, the rush of sneaking around, the electric snap of connection that sizzles between you and Javi. It's a drug, and you're addicted.

Suddenly, your hands are way too clammy so you wipe them against your pants, the rough fabric scratching your skin. Then, with a last glance around to make sure no one is watching, you slip out of the kitchen and down the narrow hallway.

When you reach the storage room door, you pause, palm hovering over the knob. From within, you can hear Javi moving around - the clatter of bottles, the scrape of crates across concrete…

This is it. Your last chance to turn back, to walk away and pretend this never happened. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. You think of Javi waiting on the other side of the door, all coiled intensity and wicked smiles. Of the way his hands feel on your body, the rasp of his stubble against your throat. The broken sound he makes when he comes undone.

Fuck it.

Twisting the handle, you take a deep breath and step inside.

Javi stands in the center of the tiny room, a bottle of sherry vinegar forgotten in his hand as his gaze rakes over you. And then he’s setting the bottle down with exaggerated care, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Lock the door."

“Already did.”

Though it's unnecessary, you take a lean into the solid wood at your back. Your already racing heart kicks into overdrive as Javi stalks towards you, his movements fluid and predatory. He cages you in with his arms, his body a hot, hard line against yours. This close you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the fan of his lashes against his cheek.

His lips hover a hairsbreadth from yours, his breath a feather-light caress. "We shouldn't," he murmurs, even as he rolls his hips into you.

"I know." Your hands come up to map the broad expanse of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee. "But I don't care."

Javi makes a low sound, almost pained, and drops his forehead to rest against yours. The rasp of his stubble ignites sparks across your skin. "Me neither."

Then he's kissing you, deep and hungry, and whatever lingering reservations you had melt away like spun sugar. You open to him eagerly, hands fisting in his hair as you arch into the cradle of his hips. He licks into your mouth, hot and filthy, while his hands skim down your sides to cup your ass and pull you impossibly closer.

It's too much and not enough all at once. You hook a leg around his waist, desperate for more contact, and he growls into the kiss. His fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise as he grinds against you, the thick ridge of him hitting you just right through the layers of denim and cotton.

You tear your mouth from his with a gasp, head tipping back as he blazes a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. "Javi, please..."

He shushes you gently even as he walks you backwards, only stopping when you hit the edge of the stainless steel prep table. The cold bite of it against your overheated skin makes you hiss, but the sound is swallowed by Javi's lips as they find yours again. His clever hands make quick work of the buttons on your fly, and then he's gripping your hips and hoisting you up onto the tabletop like you weigh nothing at all.

His fingers are on you before you can fully process what’s happening, pressing against the damp cotton of your underwear. Helplessly, you buck against his hand, head falling back and eyes rolling in their sockets.

"Always so fucking ready for it," he rasps, fingers skating over the heat of you. "So wet for me, cariño."

You mewls, hips canting frantically as he circles your clit. "Please, Javi, I can't—"

"Shh, I've got you."

He sinks two fingers into you. Crooks them just right and just like that you’re gone, the tension and the waiting too much to handle. You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming out, your body spasming and shaking. Javi just grins slowly as he wraps his other arm around you, gentling his touch before bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean.

“Want me inside you?” he asks and there’s that smirk again, tugging at his lips, but you’re too preoccupied with the need and want to care. So you nod, frantically. “Well, then, turn around. Hands on the table.”

You scramble to comply, anticipation zipping down your spine as you flip over and brace yourself against the cool steel.

This is wrong, some distant part of you whispers. It's reckless and stupid and is going to blow up in both your faces. But as Javi steps in close behind you, the hot press of him against your back and the whisper of his breath on your neck, you find it impossible to care.

“Ja—” you bite out as he nudges his thickness against your entrance.

“Say you want it,” he rasps, bending over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One hand slides around your hip to press against your belly, holding you steady. "Say you want me to fuck you."

"I want it," you gasp, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, Javi, please—"

He doesn't make you ask twice. With a growl that vibrates through you, he snaps his hips, sheathing himself in your heat with one hard thrust. The breath punches out of your lungs, fingernails scrabbling against stainless steel for something to hold onto.

Dimly, you register the harsh screech of the table beneath you, the way it shudders with each slam of Javi's hips against yours. But it's distant, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears and the filthy litany falling from Javier's lips.

"Fuck, you feel incredible." His chest drapes along your back, damp with sweat, as he mouths at the side of your neck. "So tight. So perfect."

He snakes a hand around your hip, fingers seeking out your aching clit. The first rough press of his fingertips against the sensitive bundle of nerves has you jerking in his hold, a high, threadbare sound tearing from your throat.

"That's it, baby." Javi's breath is a humid rush against your ear, his words nearly lost in the damp tendrils of your hair. "Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

It's like a tripwire snapping. Your orgasm crashes into you, a tidal wave of sensation that obliterates everything in its path. You're vaguely aware of Javi cursing, of his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. Then his body goes taut against yours, a low groan rumbling through his chest as he spills himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, there is only the ragged sound of your breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. Javier doesn't move, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his softening length still nestled in the clutch of your body.

And then he's pulling away and you can only push yourself upright on shaking arms, biting back a wince at the protestations of your muscles. Behind you, the rustle of fabric tells you Javier is making himself presentable, but you can't bring yourself to turn around.

When you finally do, he simply hands you your clothes without a word. You take them, grateful for the excuse to keep your eyes averted. The silence stretches, thick and cloying, as you both dress with perfunctory movements.

This is always the worst part. The part where reality reasserts itself, cold and unforgiving. The part where you're forced to confront the stark truth of what you've done, of the lines you've crossed.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons of your trousers, clumsy and numb. Across the cramped space, you can feel the tension radiating off Javier in waves. See the rigid set of his shoulders from the corner of your eye. Your chest aches with a nameless emotion, the jagged pieces of your heart grinding together like broken glass.

This has to stop. You can't keep doing this, can't keep tearing each other apart in dark corners and hidden rooms. It's not sustainable, this twisted thing between you. Sooner or later, something will give. Someone will give.

And you're terrified it will be you.

"Javi..." The word feels too loud in the oppressive quiet. You swallow hard, dragging your gaze up to his face. His expression is carefully blank, but you can see the tick in his jaw, the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He cuts you off before you can continue. "I'll clean up in here." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "You should go."

It's an out, and you're too much of a coward not to take it. You nod, more to yourself than to him, not trusting your voice. Then, on numb legs, you slip past him into the deserted hallway, the snick of the door closing behind you sounding like a gunshot in the hush.

The back alley is blessedly empty when you stumble out into the balmy night air. The rough brick of the restaurant's exterior scrapes your spine through your thin shirt as you sag against it, eyes squeezing shut. You breathe deeply, trying to will away the hot press of tears, the yawning emptiness carving itself into your chest.

This has to stop. It will stop.

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.

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