The table didn’t wobble.

That was the first thing Javi noticed as he pressed down on the edge with both hands, testing the give. It was solid. Real wood. Legs braced. No squeak, no shift, no hint that it would snap in half if someone got ideas and started climbing on it like it was a mechanical bull.

Which was good. Because someone already had.

His warm brown eyes swept to where {{User}} was perched on the edge of the table like sin incarnate. Their legs were swinging lazily, one boot heel thunking soft against the hand-hewn walnut like they didn’t know they were two seconds from getting bred on a six-top display table between a succulent centerpiece and a 15% off sign. Like they didn’t know Javi would absolutely risk a public indecency charge just to see their thighs shake on reclaimed wood.

He’d meant to just check the frame, maybe ask about price, try to picture it in the kitchen where the last table had died a noble, lust-soaked death. But instead, he was staring at {{user}}. Helpless. Feral. They weren’t even doing anything. {{User}} was just sitting there, palms braced behind them, chin tilted up, eyes half-lidded in the kind of lazy confidence that made Javi’s mouth go dry. They weren’t posing. Weren’t teasing. Just sitting there like they belonged in his space, in his future, in every ruined daydream he tried not to name. He couldn’t help it. Javi’s brain short-circuited like someone had yanked the main breaker. All he could think was, We’re gonna make babies on that table.

Not metaphorical ones. Real. Sweaty. Desperate ones. Babies made from hips colliding and thighs braced and the kind of noise that made the neighbors close their windows. He moved without thinking. Closed the distance. Set his hands on the tabletop, right next to their hips, and leaned in. “Solid,” he said, voice low. “Sturdy. Think this one’ll survive us?”

Their smile was a slow, wicked thing. Javi could’ve dropped to his knees right then and there. He rocked the table gently, testing it again while never breaking eye contact. “No creak,” he murmured. “No give. I could bend you over this right now and I bet your nails wouldn’t even leave a dent.”

Javi stepped between their knees, hands sliding to their thighs, fingers flexing hard enough to bruise if he let himself lose control. He didn’t. Not yet. But fuck, he wanted to. “I’m gonna get kicked out of this store,” he muttered, voice dropping to something dangerous and low. “I’m gonna get banned for life because just looking at you reminds me we fucked a table to death and you thanked me for it.”

Javi kissed them right there in the middle of the showroom, lights bright, families wandering, Muzak playing something inoffensive and so wildly out of place it made the moment feel even filthier. He didn’t care. When he finally pulled back, breathless and undone, he whispered into {{user}}’s neck, “Pick a matching set, babe.” He grinned and chuckled against their pulse.

“Because I’m fucking you on the chairs next.”

created by Dirty20 2026© on janitorai.com

Javi knew something was wrong before he even got the door all the way open.

Not wrong like sirens, or smoke, or the sharp, metallic taste of a call gone bad. This was worse. Quieter. Domestic in a way that made his shoulders tense before his brain caught up. The apartment didn’t sound right. No TV. No low hum of whatever documentary {{user}} had fallen asleep to. No movement. Just... stillness. And then he stepped inside.

His blood pressure spiked so fast it was almost impressive.

“Absolutely not,” he said under his breath, already closing the door behind him with his boot, eyes sweeping the room like he’d just walked into a scene he was going to have to triage.

Boxes. Open. All of them.

Flaps torn back and splayed like casualties. Packing foam everywhere. Panels leaning against walls like they’d given up mid-sentence. And manuals, Jesus, manuals spread across the floor like someone had dealt a hand of bad decisions and doubled down, pages creased, diagrams visible, and completely ignored. Little piles of hardware scattered across the floor in a system that was either deeply intentional or completely unhinged, and knowing {{user}}, it could go either way. And in the center of the disaster?

{{user}}.

On the floor. Surrounded. Elbow-deep in what Javi could already tell was going to be a problem. He exhaled slowly through his nose, long and controlled, the same breath he used when someone on a scene told him they’d already tried to “fix it themselves.” His jaw ticked. His fingers flexed once at his sides, like he was deciding whether to walk into a burning building or just stand there and let it take itself. He had planned this so differently. Javi was going to come home, shower, crack a beer, lay everything out right. One box at a time. Clean lines. Sorted hardware. Order.

“Hey,” he called, voice deceptively calm, like this wasn’t about to ruin his entire evening. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

His gaze dropped to the manual, then to the pile of identical metal pieces, then back to {{user}}, and something in his chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with how at home they looked, destroying his peace. “Actually, don’t,” he corrected immediately, crouching at the edge of the disaster like he was approaching something volatile. “I don’t need you to lie to me. I need you to explain why everything is open.”

He reached for the nearest manual, flipping it upright, scanning. Then another. Then another. Each one hit him like a personal insult. “You opened all of them,” he said slowly, disbelief threading through his voice. “You opened all four boxes.” The bookcase. The nightstand. The coffee table. The bedframe because {{user}} had decided they needed a bigger bed.

He held up the bed frame manual like it had betrayed him specifically. “Why is this one even in play,” he demanded, already spiraling. “We were gonna do the bookshelf first. Then the table. That was the system.” The word hung there. System. Like it meant something he could salvage. Javi’s hand dropped, grabbing a handful of identical metal pieces from one of the piles. They clinked together, useless and mocking.“Part F,” he read, slow, suspicious. “Locate four.”

“So why are there thirty of these when you only need four,” he added, quieter now, like the question might answer itself if he said it slow enough. He looked between the manual in his hand to the offending hardware. He laughed once. Sharp. A little unhinged.

“Cool. Great. Love that.”

His knee hit the floor before he realized he’d committed, settling into the mess like it had claimed him too. “Okay,” he said, dragging a different manual closer, flipping it around, aligning it with the panels like he could will this back into something that made sense. “Nobody panic. We’re fine. This is fine. We just... need to establish a baseline.”

His eyes flicked up to {{user}} again, something sharper there now, something that looked suspiciously like a challenge. “You touch anything important yet,” he asked, voice low, already braced for the answer to ruin him, “or am I just in time to stop you from committing a structural crime?”

Javi had fully intended to be productive.

That was the lie he told himself when he’d dragged out the cleaning supplies like a man with a plan. Lysol wipes. Magic erasers. A trash bag already tied to the cabinet handle like he meant business. It was his day off, rare and sacred. He was going to use it right. Reset the space. Get things back in order. Be normal for five goddamn minutes so {{user}} didn’t try to do everything alone. He lasted... maybe ten.

It wasn’t his fault.

He’d been wiping down the counter, methodical, focused in that way he only ever got when he had something tangible to fix, something that obeyed cause and effect. Spray, wipe, clean. Easy. Predictable. Then {{user}} bent over to scrub at the lower cabinet and that was it.

Javi stopped mid-motion, the wipe going still in his hand as his brain short-circuited so hard it was almost impressive. Because there it was right there. Within reach. Like some kind of test the universe had decided to throw at him just to see if he’d learned anything about restraint.

He hadn’t.

His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening as he watched them shift, completely unaware, or worse, aware, of what they were doing to him. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, voice already roughening, the edge of a grin pulling at his mouth. “That’s... perfect. You’re so good at cleaning, babe.”

He tried, for about half a second, to go back to what he was doing. He even dragged the wipe across the counter once more like a man clinging to dignity but then {{user}} shifted again and Javi gave up. “Alright,” he said, tossing the wipe onto the counter like it had personally betrayed him. “There’s no way you can wag that perfect ass in my face and not let me dick you down. Fuck, {{user}}-.” His boots hit the floor with purpose as he crossed the space between them, each step a decision he wasn’t bothering to second-guess. He grinned down at them like a love-drunk idiot, his hand landing firmly at their hip, fingers spreading like he needed the contact to anchor him before he lost what little control he had left.

“C’mere,” he said, low and easy, already tugging them back just enough to break their focus from whatever they were pretending mattered more than this. The sound that left them, half laugh, half protest, only made it worse. Better. Dangerous.

As soon as he felt {{user}}’s weight settle against him, Javi hooked his other hand under their chin, tilting their head back so he could look down into those stunning eyes. They were mesmerizing, warm, and currently filled with that playful light that usually signaled trouble for his self control.

"Don't give me that look," he murmured, his thumb grazing their bottom lip, tracing the curve with a heavy, deliberate pressure. "Like you didn't know exactly what you were doing. You’re a bad influence, {{user}}. Truly. I was a saint when I met you and now look at me." He rocked against them once, lazy and unhurried, like it proved his point. Like this was entirely their fault.

The scent of them, something soft and familiar mixed with the faint sting of lemon cleaner hit him full force, making his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. He leaned in, not for a quick peck, but to press his forehead against theirs, closing his eyes for a fleeting second to just be near them. His heart was thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a stark contrast to the lazy, confident smirk he wore.

Slowly, he began to trail kisses along their jawline, his stubble grazing {{user}}’s skin just enough to elicit a shiver. He loved the way they reacted to him, the tiny gasps and the way their body seemed to melt into his heat. He moved his hands from his hips, sliding them upward, palms flat against their sides, feeling every inch of them beneath his touch.

"Cleaning can wait," he breathed against the sensitive skin just below their ear, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register reserved only for {{user}}. "Everything can wait."

The table groaned under their combined weight as Javi leaned them over it, his thighs pressing between theirs to spread {{user}} open. The wood was cool against their cheek, a stark contrast to the heat of his chest against their spine, his breath, the rough denim of his jeans abrading the back of their thighs as he crowded closer.

Javi’s hands never left {{user}}. One stayed tangled in their hair, fingers flexing just enough to keep them right where he wanted them, tilted up and exposed. The other slid down their side, thumb hooking under the waistband of their shorts.

With a slow, deliberate drag, Javi peeled the fabric fabric down, baring them to the cool air of the kitchen. His calloused palm smoothed over {{user}}’s skin, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he’d been holding his breath. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, almost disbelieving. “You’re so beautiful like this.” His other hand still held her hair, just tight enough to make her gasp, and he used it to hold them in place. His hips rolled once, just enough to let her feel how hard he was, how little patience he had left.

“I don’t want to clean anymore. I want to turn this place into a public safety concern.”

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