Javier Twisters - Tumblr Posts

and the old men that i've swindled really did believe i was the one

hope that anon who wanted me to write for Javi is still here cause this idea came to me while I was having my weekly Everything Shower and had evermore playing (she's defrosting guys). here's a peek at one of my many wips, this time based off of cowboy like me. I really like the idea of pre-movie Javi where he kind of doesn't care that he's chasing Riggs for money and is willing to do anything to get his business off the ground, which leads him to high society New York where he meets a girl who kind of doesn't care where the money she spends comes from either. trying not to spoil everything, but I really am enjoying writing this so far! I feel like a lot of my FMCs fall into either the grumpy or sunshine archetype, so this FMC is very fun to bring to life.

please let me know how yall feel about this, I feel like this might not have a great reception since this is pre-redemption arc javi with a morally gray FMC, but im really interested in everyones opinions, good or bad.

as always with my tip posts, unproofread. <3

The rain pattered on the tent above the tennis court where Robert Tomlinson IV’s wedding reception was being held. His wife was dressed in a beautiful silk wedding gown, outdoing all the other women in the venue, as to be expected. But from the moment Javi was introduced to her, he couldn’t even remember what the bride looked like.

A business partner of Riggs grabbed him by the elbow, one too many drinks in, and brought him to a standing table towards the center of the room. “Javier, I’d be delighted for you to meet my date for tonight! I think you two would get along wonderfully.”

The way he said his name, so whitely, irked him a bit. But Javi had no room to say no; insulting this man, no matter how drunk, could put an even deeper strain on his relationship with Riggs. And Javi needed his money. While Javi gathered that most of the men in this layer of society had married up (in the sense they married way down their age), he at least expected someone who matched the man in attractiveness. There was no outward signs that this man, who Javi eventually learned was stock broker Albert Hemingway VI and a distant relative to the Belgian royal crown, was a complete and utter creep, but the jokes he laughed at at the bar and the way his eyes lingered a moment too long on his date’s bust made it clear to Javi he was just like the other men in the room who told said jokes. This man, no matter how sleezy, had money and sway and, evidently, was a man Riggs wanted pinned to his lapels.

“Javier, this is my date, Violet.” That’s how Javi found himself eye to eye with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She wore a black silk, floor length gown that he wasn’t sure she’d be able to even sit in, paired with the reddest lipstick he’d ever seen. Her lips were wrapped around a cocktail straw, sipping lightly at the dirty martini in her hand. Her nails were a perfectly manicured nude. And she didn’t seem to care about Javi’s opinion of her at all, if anything, she was judging him. Which was fair in his eyes - he was dressed in his army dress uniform, and who in this walk of life joined the military? He was brushing shoulders with the same people who paid to dodge the Vietnam draft; these were the people whose names were on the buildings and tanks and weapons Javi interacted with every day on base. He had been mistaken as venue staff more than once, empty glasses held out to him by people who didn’t even bother to look away from their conversations.

So, he opted for a tight-lipped smile and nod of acknowledgement for the girl. Her crimson lips pulled into a small smirk. “Hello,” her voice was sultry, a note of an accent that Javi couldn’t place; he just knew that her vowels were wrong, an inkling that she was just as out of place as he was. She just played the part better.

The night proceeded on, Javi’s eyes following Violet the entire time. He had to swerve to avoid glasses and hors d’oeuvre plates being thrust at him. At one point, he accidentally took one as he fixated on the way Violet covered her mouth as she shook her shoulders and crinkled her eyes at one of Hemingway’s jokes; Javi saw the way her mouth stayed stoic behind her hand. Hemingway didn’t look at her long enough to care, instead turning his attention back to his friends. By this point, Violet had abandoned the cocktail straw and downed the rest of her glass when his hand found her waist.

The night continued. Violet was holding her liquor well; Hemingway was not. He was with other men Javi was with at the bar earlier in the night, his forehead connected to the bartop, the other men not far behind. He scanned the crowds, finding her standing outside the coverage of the tent, smoke billowing from her lips. He found himself making his way towards her, the perfectly manicured lawn of the Tomlinson’s Hamptons home squelching under his dress shoes until he made it to the small gazebo she was standing in, alone. It was clear she heard him with the noise his shoes made against the granite floor, but she didn’t turn to look at him. Under the stained glass gazebo, the rain pattered at a more comforting pitch, as though the raindrops were singing to them. A breeze tunneled through the small building. The bottom of her dress was muddied and damp.

“I think you’re in the clear, as far as sleeping with him goes.”

Violet looked at him from the side of her eyes before averting her gaze back to the front. Her voice was coated in that posh accent that he had a feeling wasn’t real. Her Gs weren’t polished and her As extended. “What if I wanted to?”

“Did you?”

She took a long drag before responding to him. “Would you?”

He let a puff of air out from his nose in a humorless laugh. “Would anyone?”

She mimicked him. “He has eight kids.”

Javi’s eyes widened and a real, shocked laugh fell from his lips. “Eight?”

“Yeah, I think he’s hopin’ I can round him out to double digits.” She laughed as well. “He and every other sad, lonely man with too much money on Wall Street.”

From the tent in the distance, a French love song began to play, the live string band increasing their volume, signaling the newlyweds were preparing to depart. A cheer went up by those who were still coherent. Javi repositioned himself, one hand behind his back. He bowed slightly to Violet. “Would you care to dance with me? Have a good moment to remember from this night?”

She tossed the cigarette onto the ground and extinguished it under the toe of her still-wet stiletto. “Dancin’ is a dangerous game, Javier.”

She departed from him, walking back to the tent, no doubt to collect the drunk Hemingway and put him in a limo back across Long Island Sound. He called after her, “It’s Javi.”

She looked back at him over her shoulder, a mischievous grin that Javi couldn’t exactly pinpoint the meaning of. “And it’s not Violet.”

She disappeared into the crowd of people as he gazed down at the extinguished cigarette drenched in red, trying to make out what was her lipstick and what was the moonlight seeping through the red, stained glass rose above him.