#Javier pena x reader

[brinapedroswife]

uh, let's open this thread again

[simpingforjoel]

here’s some javi p summer reading 🌊

like snow on the beach

pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

summary: You're on a work trip with your boss, who you don't like and who you're convinced doesn't like you either. Unfortunately, there's only one bed.

tags/warnings: only one bed trope (ayyyy), fluff, idiots in love, alternating povs, reader has hair that drips down her neck after showering at one point but there are no texture or color descriptors, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, my nonexistent knowledge of colombian geography which i'm asking you to ignore for the sake of this silly story THANK YOU

a/n: my entry for the summer lovin' challenge brought to us by queens @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy <3 i got the moodboard you see in the header and the location by the water. i'm also posting a little early but i'm too excited and it's almost midnight here so i think it's gonna be fine hehe

biggest love to @sizzlingcloudmentality who held my hand through writing this and patiently listened to all my complaints lol. i love drinking more caffeine than pedro and writing with you while getting distracted by cats <3

dividers by @plum98!

find my full masterlist here and follow @guiltyasdavenotifs to get notified when i post a new fic :)

You’re hot, too hot. 

It’s disorienting, as you blink awake, slow to get your bearings. Arms are wrapped around you, caging you in, engulfing you in the warmth of the body pressed against your back. Hot air is fanning against your neck, accompanied by a scratching sensation on the sensitive skin. 

Your surroundings are unfamiliar, faded wallpaper in an unappealing shade of green and light filtering in through the battered up blinds. It comes back to you in pieces, the motel you’re staying at, the small Colombian town where you’re hoping to get a hold of one of the Cali cartel men. 

The obnoxious scent of Peña’s aftershave is flooding your nostrils, paired with the traces of tobacco that follow him everywhere he goes. It’s honestly embarrassing, how easily you recognize it.

It clicks into place now. The arms around you, the warmth. The scratch that you now realize is his mustache as he’s breathing against your neck.

You start wriggling around, causing the man behind you to stir, a confused groan coming out slightly muffled, his mouth still so close to your skin. He lets go of you after a second, allowing you to turn around and glare at him. 

His face is already forming his signature annoyed scowl, an expression that you’re more than well acquainted with.

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

He sounds different like this, voice still thick with sleep, a hint of the disorientation that you’ve shaken off by now. 

“What am I doing? I woke up with your arms around me, Peña.” 

He blinks, shifting to sit up and lean against the headboard. You mirror him, putting as much space between you as the rather small bed frame allows. 

“Sorry,” he allows after a beat, running a hand through his hair, tousling the mess of black strands that has formed in his sleep. “That wasn’t… appropriate. I apologize.” 

If you weren’t as annoyed right now, you’d probably think that he looks adorable like this. The you from a few months ago would most likely go wild at seeing Javier Peña right after waking up, after he held you in his arms no less. 

The you from a few months ago hadn’t experienced what an asshole of a boss he could be yet, hadn’t been taken off investigations again and again, because Peña thought you weren’t ready. She also hadn’t heard about his terrible reputation with women, hadn’t been subjected to all the office gossip that surrounded him yet. 

Now, after days of practically begging him to take you along on this trip because the whole investigation was based on information that you had gathered, you’re stuck in this motel room with him. Something about your booking of two single rooms accidentally having been processed as one double room, with no other rooms available because of course there weren’t. 

Peña had offered to sleep on the ground, or in the car, but you had waved him off, thinking about how often he had complained how his back was getting worse the older he got on the drive here. You hadn’t expected to wake up to him all but wrapped around you. 

Maybe a small, very small part of you is still going wild about it. A part that you can easily swallow down though. He’s objectively attractive, yes. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s an asshole.

“Just forget it,” you mumble, heat rising belatedly in your cheeks. Gathering your clothes for the day, you flee to the bathroom, eager to wash the whole decidedly weird situation off your body and out of your mind. You’re here because you have a job to do, not to get flustered around your boss. 

When you reemerge, wet strands of your hair dripping down your neck, he’s already dressed, clasping his hands in a way that almost seems nervous. If you weren’t pretty convinced that Javier Peña isn’t physically able to get nervous. 

“I– I’m really sorry,” he repeats, raising from the worn down arm chair he’s been sitting in. “I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position. I’m not– I’m not exactly used to sharing a bed.”

A scoff leaves you at that. Sure, Agent Peña, who’s notorious for sleeping with his informants and with at least half of the female staff of the American embassy, isn’t used to sharing his bed. 

“Don’t worry about it, Peña.” 

You turn away before he can reply, collecting your notes on the investigation that you hope will come in helpful eventually. You don’t catch the remorseful look in his eyes, or the way they linger on you as you open the door, the early morning light illuminating your figure.

It’s another day filled with nothing but waiting and growing frustration, just like the one before. The sun is beating down on the car that you’re occupying, the heat suffocating even with the windows rolled down and the cool bottle of water that you’re pressing against your neck.

Minutes tick by, turning into hours that go by too quickly and seem to last forever at the same time. Peña is surprisingly quiet, not goading you in the way you had expected him to. 

“Maybe the information was bad,” you mumble eventually, sinking deeper into the car seat. The leather is sticking uncomfortably to your skin and you can’t shake the growing feeling that you’ve insisted on coming out here for nothing.

He slowly turns his head in your direction, regarding you through the dark tint of his aviators. 

“I looked at it. We wouldn’t be here if it was bad.” 

You huff, your patience running short and shorter at the subtle indication of his superiority, his quiet arrogance, always so fucking sure of himself.

“You weren’t exactly thrilled about coming here, remember?”

He raises a brow, a hint of impatience on his own features.

“I wasn’t thrilled about you coming here.” 

You roll your eyes, openly scowling at him now. 

“It’s my intel.”

“Doesn’t make it less dangerous, does it?” 

Biting your lip, you force your blood to not boil over. He’s still your boss, at the end of the day, someone you probably shouldn’t start cussing out, no matter how openly he underestimates you and how badly it annoys you. And you’re gonna have to share that wretched bed with him again tonight. 

Javier watches your face, watches you swallow down your anger, watches your teeth digging into your plush bottom lip. He understands your frustration, understands that no part of this trip is turning out the way you expected it to. 

You’re still new to the workfield, not yet experienced with the hours upon hours of waiting, more often than not without a satisfying result to show for it. If he’s being honest with himself, he isn’t mad about it this time. He’ll rather have you frustrated than in danger. 

You want to prove yourself, you’ve made that abundantly clear. You work hard, determined to bring in results, hungry for praise. It’s not that he doesn’t see that, doesn’t think that you’re capable. But he’s seen enough, enough injuries, enough psychological trauma, enough deaths, to know that he wants you far away from that side of your work. 

Even if that means you’re angry at him more often than not, a glint of bitterness in your eyes every time he refuses to send you out yet again. 

After another few hours, accompanied by the increasing rumbling in both your stomachs, he finally calls it quits for the day. 

“We can drive back to Bogotá tomorrow,” he quietly offers on the way back to the motel, after picking up food for the both of you and refusing to let you pay for your share. “Gather more information, see why we didn’t find anything.”

You huff in return, irritated about the whole situation. The one chance you had to convince him to take you seriously, and this is what you get. “Fine,” you agree, gritting your teeth. Maybe your intel was bad. Maybe you just aren’t that good at your job.

“Keep to your side of the bed tonight,” you grumble later, after the bored woman at the reception told you that there still aren't any other rooms available. 

“Of course,” he sighs, sliding under the covers with the biggest possible distance from you.

You nod, closing your eyes and willing for sleep to take you, but it’s a losing game. You toss and turn, feeling both too hot and too cold at the same time, unable to find a comfortable position and to get the voices in your head to shut up. 

When you roll over yet again, his voice rings through the dark, somewhat agitatedly asking what’s wrong. 

“Nothing,” comes your frustrated reply, pressing your face deeper into the cushion, your eyes squeezed shut. After a few more breaths and zero sign of your brain slowing down, you turn towards him, only able to make out his silhouette in the dark. Your judgment is probably hazy with how tired you are, but the words are out of your mouth before you can think them over.

“Can I ask you a question, Agent Peña?” 

“Javier is fine.” 

Your heart gives a tiny flutter, despite your conflicted feelings about him, despite the question that you’re about to ask. 

“Why do you not like me?” 

It’s inappropriate, especially right now, lying in the dark and sharing a fucking bed with him. But you think that if you don’t ask now, you probably never will, and you need to know. 

“Why would you think that I don’t like you?” 

You huff, squinting at him. “It’s pretty obvious. You don’t trust my work, you never send me to go out, dismiss my intel most of the time–” 

It’s silent for a long time, safe for his quiet breaths. 

“That’s not–” He sighs deeply, turning his head towards you as well. “That’s not true. You’re making it about yourself when you shouldn’t. I treat you exactly like your colleagues, you’re the one taking it personal.” 

It’s curt, dismissive. Laced with carefully feigned indifference, bordering on coldness. Too carefully. You didn’t think he’d lie to you if you asked him this directly, but here you are. 

Blinking back angry tears, you roll onto your back again, unseeingly staring at the ceiling. You don’t understand why it hits you like this. You’ve had shitty bosses before, far worse than Peña. You’ve just never wanted them to like you the way you want him to. 

“Good night, Agent Peña.” You turn onto your other side, your back towards him. 

“Good night,” comes his solemn reply. 

You don’t wake up with his arms around you again, thankfully, but he hasn’t exactly kept to his side of the bed either. One hand is curled over your shoulder, like he had to reach out and hold onto you in his sleep. 

You’re the one taking it personal. 

Clearly he hasn’t been reaching for you specifically. It’s probably just second nature for him, something that usually goes well with the women sharing his bed. 

You’re able to shake his hold off without waking him up, something that you’re grateful for. 

When he wakes and repeats how he thinks you should abandon the investigation, you don’t argue. It’s a quiet affair, packing up and getting ready to leave. 

Sitting in the driver’s seat, he turns to you, his brow furrowed into that moody expression you’ve gotten used to. “I’ve been thinking,” he begins, eyeing you warily. “We’re not far from the ocean right now. Have you been to the beach since you came to Colombia?” 

You raise an eyebrow in mild suspicion, curious where he’s going with this. 

“I haven’t been out of Bogotá since I landed there. But–” 

His eyes grow softer, his hand twitching like he almost reached out towards you. 

“No buts. At least then it won’t have been a total waste of time to come here, right?” 

The dig towards you, towards the reason you drove all the way out here for nothing isn’t lost on you. You don’t have it in you to argue against it, so you just nod, staring straight ahead. 

Javier realizes how badly you misunderstood his words as soon as they’re out of his mouth and he sees your face. He doesn’t know how he consistently manages to fuck up his interactions with you like this. It’s not him, the blundering, the words constantly coming out all wrong, but you make him nervous in a way that he hasn’t experienced in years. 

He starts driving, hopeful to somehow still be able to turn this trip around. There’s a whole day on the road ahead of them, and he’d much rather spend those hours without feeling like he’s made you hate him. 

You do soften at the sight of the ocean, the sound of waves rolling against the shore having a soothing effect almost instantly. It’s beautiful, the water a brilliant blue, the sun glittering on the surface. You can’t be mad right now, not even at Javier, who’s keeping his distance, letting you wander along the shore by yourself. 

You focus on taking in the scenery, hoping to somehow take it with you to when you’re back in your bleak, government issued apartment, staring at the vastness of gray buildings that is of Bogotá. 

When you turn back to him, his eyes are already on you, less tense, more open than you’re used to. You don’t know how long they’ve been lingering on you, how little attention he had been paying to the nature surrounding you. How good it had felt, to see you like this, without the usual distaste in your face that you have come to regard him with most of the time. The silhouette of you against the bright sky, your skin glowing under the beaming sun. 

“Thank you,” you say, actually smiling at him. A spark of warmth grows in his chest. “This was a good idea, I– I enjoyed it.” 

“I’m glad.” He eagerly returns the smile, allows himself to reach out and graze one finger against the soft skin of your hand. Finding himself unable to stop touching you, now that he’s had a taste of it.

Confusion crosses your face before you quickly avert your eyes, but you don’t pull away. It gives him a sliver of hope, that maybe you’re starting to understand what he doesn’t know how to tell you. 

After a mostly quiet drive back, both of you too exhausted to talk much, Javier drops you off at your apartment, his hand once again hovering over yours before you get out. 

“Good night,” he breathes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. After a moment of hesitation, he continues on. “You– you’re doing good work. Don’t beat yourself up over this, okay?” 

You manage a nod, murmuring thank you, Javier before opening the car door and stepping out onto your street, illuminated by the glow of yellow lights. You only realize that you used his first name by the time that your apartment door falls shut behind you. It doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would. 

Breathing in the familiar scent of your own place, a deep relief washes over you, reveling in the knowledge that you’re gonna sleep in your own bed tonight, alone. You turn on your shower, eager to let the warm water soothe your muscles, stiff from spending the entire day in a car. 

When you exit the bathroom, wrapped into a towel and with a cloud of steam accompanying you, your answering machine is blinking. You press the button to let the message play, moving through your apartment to put on your comfiest sleepwear and ready to fall straight into bed. 

You stop in your tracks when Javier’s voice rings through the room, tripping over the words in a way that’s difficult to associate with the calm, self-assured man that you know. 

“Hey, it’s Javier. You– you’re probably showering, or already asleep. I just– I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings these past days, or– or any day, really. I wanted you to know that. You’re good at what you do, you really are, but– I worry about you, I guess. And I know that I shouldn’t, that I shouldn’t treat you differently. It’s– it’s not because I don’t like you. I like you too much, if anything, and– and now I know what it’s like to sleep next to you, and– anyway, I’m– shit, I’m making a fool of myself. Just– just call me back. Please.”

Your hand finds your phone as soon as the recording ends.

thank you for reading! as always, reblogs, comments and asks are love and absolutely make my day <3

[miriaart]

I finally did a decent Javi/Pedrito portrait! I had lots of fun with this and I’m glad I finally managed to capture his likeness after many, many, many attempts.

Javi is one of my all time favorite characters ever, he’s the loml and Pedro is a sweetheart so I just feel so proud of this one.

[theywereafairy]

Paper Rings

⋆˚࿔ Pairing:  Javier Peña x F!Reader

Wordcount: 5.6k

⋆˚࿔ Summary:

Javier brings you to a wedding in Laredo, his hometown, his past, his baggage. It’s the first time he’s brought anyone around like this, and the tension in the air is thick with small-town gossip and quiet judgment. But when someone makes a shitty comment about him, you don’t just defend him, you show them. What follows is slow, worshipful, passionate love making and the kind of soft aftercare only Javi could give.🤭

⋆˚࿔ Warnings:

Worship-level smut • established relationship • small town tension • public makeout scene • oral (f receiving) • PIV (unprotected) • grinding with clothes on • filthy talk • possessive Javi • “you’re mine” energy • praise kink • begging kink • Javier Peña being soft in love but still nasty in bed • post-orgasm aftercare • future marriage tease • overwhelming feelings and emotional vulnerability

⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note:

Hi besties 🥹 I wrote this one-shot after going to a wedding this weekend and couldn’t stop thinking about how Javier Peña would act if he brought someone back to Laredo. This man has me in a full chokehold and I need him to know what it feels like to be loved that deeply.

Hope you’re all doing okay and finding joy in little things. you deserve it. Sending hugs, hydration, and Javi smut to everyone who needs it. 💌 Would love to hear your thoughts, reblogs, or screams in the tags🫶🏼

You told Javi he didn’t have to take you.

You’d said it softly, the night he first brought it up, tracing the lines of his collarbone while his arm lay heavy around your waist. You could tell it was weighing on him, the idea of bringing you home. The hometown. The family. The questions. Not from you, never from you, but from everyone else.

Still, he asked. Told you he wanted to. Told you he wanted them to meet the woman he was with. His words, not yours. The woman I’m with. Like he still couldn’t quite bring himself to say girlfriend out loud, but every time his fingers curled around yours or his lips brushed the corner of your mouth in public, it meant the same thing.

So you said yes.

Now here you were, in a borrowed garden behind a family friend’s wedding venue, ankle-deep in gravel and stares. The sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in a gold-dusted haze, champagne flutes catching light like diamonds, laughter echoing off pergolas wrapped in string lights.

You stood there, half-finished drink in hand, and reminded yourself to breathe. The air was thick with the scent of roses and barbecue smoke, and still, still, you couldn’t stop noticing the eyes. The way they lingered too long. The brief glances exchanged between groups like they were passing a secret around.

A breeze ghosted over the lawn, catching the hem of your dress and brushing it softly against your shins. You smoothed it down with one hand, your fingers trembling just slightly. The music drifted up from the patio, slow and syrupy, a twangy country ballad you didn’t recognize.

Then he appeared at your side. Javi didn’t say anything at first, just rested his hand at the small of your back like he’d been waiting for the exact second you needed it. His fingers splayed warm and wide, grounding you instantly. The scent of his cologne hit you a moment later. Dark, smoky, familiar, and your body responded before your brain had time to catch up.

Javier Peña, in a fitted beige suit that should’ve looked too polished on him but didn’t. The shirt beneath was slightly unbuttoned, just enough to tease the hollow of his throat. His hair was combed back in a way that made you ache a little, like he’d actually tried. For you.

His eyes scanned your face like he could read the tension there, and maybe he could. Of course he could. He’d been watching you all night from across the lawn, you were sure of it. Watching the way the women tilted their heads when they looked at you. Watching the way the men did too.

You leaned into him without thinking. Just a little. And he pulled you closer without hesitation.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low, brushing the words against your temple.

You shook your head, swallowed hard. “Not with you.”

He smiled, just barely. It was a private thing, the kind of smile no one else got. The kind you’d seen in his kitchen at midnight or across his pillow in the soft haze of morning. And for a moment, the noise of the wedding dulled around you. Like none of them mattered. Like the two of you were a secret no one else deserved to understand.

But they were still looking.

You barely heard the man approach.

It wasn’t even someone you recognized, just another sharp-suited ghost from Javi’s past, someone who had probably once shared a beer with him at a high school football game, or nodded to him at a gas station before the war on drugs turned Javier Peña into something to talk about over breakfast tacos.

He said it with a laugh. That was the worst part. Like it was just some harmless joke tossed between old friends.

“Look at you,” the guy chuckled, sloshing beer over the rim of his glass. “Back in Laredo, showing off another knockout. Guess you always land on your feet, huh? One hot mess for another.”

It took a second for it to register. For the words to sink in. Your spine straightened first. Then came the cold flash of disbelief. Another?

You looked at Javi.

He wasn’t meeting your eyes. His gaze had dropped to the gravel like it was suddenly the most interesting thing at the wedding. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. His usual sharp tongue was nowhere to be found. No snide comeback. No smirk. No venom disguised as charm.

You’d never seen him like this. Never seen Javier Peña shrink. And it pissed you off.

This man, this man who held you like you were fragile and made love to you like you were made of fire. This man who touched you with reverence and kissed you like you were a prayer he didn’t think he deserved to say. This man who had lived, who had bled, who still carried ghosts he never spoke about, and some asshole thought he could reduce all of that to gossip and a cheap punchline?

Absolutely the fuck not. You turned, slow and deliberate, facing the man like you were squaring off in a ring.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice as smooth as the champagne in your glass. “Were you saying something?”

He blinked, faltered, maybe realizing just a little too late who he was dealing with.But you didn’t wait for an answer. You didn’t need one. Instead, you turned back to Javi, and without hesitation, cupped his face in both hands.

His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and confused, and you could see it, the hurt, the flicker of something raw that he hadn’t meant for you to see. He looked like he might say something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him. Hard.

There was nothing delicate about it. No tentative brush of lips. No polite affection. This was a kiss made for headlines. A kiss designed to scorch.

You pressed your mouth to his like you were trying to fuse your body to his, like you were trying to prove something. That he was yours. That you were his. That every whisper and sideways glance and snide little insult meant nothing compared to the way he made you feel.

His hands found your waist in half a second, tightening as he groaned into your mouth, surprised but not resisting, not even close. His fingers dug in, dragging you closer, chest to chest. You deepened the kiss, parting your lips and letting your tongue glide against his with a slow, teasing stroke that made him shudder against you.

It was obvious how the tension melted from his shoulders and the kiss turned hungry. When his grip turned bruising, when his mouth slanted over yours like he needed it. Like he needed you. Right here, right now, under the fairy lights and the weight of small-town scrutiny.

You kissed him like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, who wanted to be seen, who wanted them to watch. You licked into his mouth and moaned, just a little, just enough, and felt his breath hitch in response.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were swollen. His eyes were blown wide. His hair had come loose at the front from where your fingers had curled into it.

You turned, casually, to the man still standing there with his drink frozen halfway to his mouth. No one said anything. No one had to.

Javi’s hand slid to yours. This time, it was him who kissed you, softer now, but just as firm. Just as certain. And the silence around you was louder than any applause.

You didn’t leave his side after that. Not for the rest of the night.

Javi didn’t ask you to, didn’t need to. He stayed close like he was afraid if he let go, the crowd would close in again. And you weren’t about to let them. So you curled your fingers into his where everyone could see, laughed at all the right moments, and leaned into his side like you belonged there. Because you did.

And God, he felt it.

Every time you touched him, a hand on his chest, a brush of your lips near his ear, he melted just a little more. Loosened up. His shoulders relaxed, the corners of his mouth curled into that trademark half-smirk that made your knees weak. He was back to himself, but… softer.

Still, the comments didn’t stop completely.

“You two want a room?” someone muttered under their breath as you passed near the bar. Javi didn’t even flinch.

He just kept his arm around your waist and shot back, deadpan, “Nah. We’ll just use yours.”

You laughed, unabashed, and watched the man blink like he didn’t know what hit him. There was your Javi.

But even as the hours slipped past and he put on a good face, even as he leaned down to whisper teasing little things in your ear like bet you regret wearin’ that dress now, baby, or you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna get real fuckin’ disrespectful about it, you could still feel it. The way he held your hand tighter than usual. The way he tucked you closer every time someone walked by too slowly or looked too long. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, not like a man showing off a prize, but like someone trying to memorize a moment he thought he might not deserve.

He needed you tonight, more than he’d ever say out loud.And you were going to give him everything.

The hotel was nothing special, beige walls, scuffed floors, a bedspread with a pattern that hadn’t been in style since the nineties. But to Javi, it was sanctuary. It was privacy. It was you, alone with him and no one else’s eyes on the two of you.

You could’ve stayed at Chucho’s, he’d offered. But there was already a cousin bunking in the guest room, and Javi had leaned into your ear with a low murmur that made your thighs press together: “I need you all to myself this weekend, cariño. No interruptions.”

So when you reached the door to your room, keycard in hand, you barely had time to blink before he had you pressed up against it. His palm slapped flat against the wood beside your head, his body crowding yours, the warmth of him sinking through your dress like fire.

You gasped, but you were smiling, both of you a little tipsy, a little giddy from champagne and lust and the afterglow of shared defiance. Your back hit the door and his mouth hovered just inches from yours, his eyes dark and wild, locked onto you like you were the last thing left on Earth worth looking at.

“You tryin’ to kill me in that dress?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

“I thought you liked it,” you teased, breath catching.

“Oh, I fuckin’ love it,” he said, his lips brushing your jaw, then trailing lower. “Love it even more thinkin’ about you out of it.”

And then he kissed you. Not on the lips, not yet. He started at your collarbone, his mouth warm and open, peppering reverent little kisses across your skin. He dragged them slowly, one after another, up your neck, pausing to suck softly just below your ear before biting down, gentle but sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

You giggled, flushed and breathless, and he smiled against your skin.

“I can’t believe you’re fuckin’ mine,” he whispered, his voice ragged with sincerity. “Mine, baby. You…Jesus…you stood up for me today like it was nothin’.”

“It wasn’t nothin’,” you said, and he kissed your ear in thanks.

He finally reached for the key in your hand, unlocked the door behind you without even looking, and then you stumbled backward together into the room, lips colliding like magnets. The door clicked shut behind you. And then it was just the two of you, tangled in the dark.

Javi’s hands were on your waist, your ribs, your face, everywhere. Like he didn’t know where to touch first. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re too good for me,” he muttered as he kissed you again, deeper this time. “Too fuckin’ good.”

“Shut up and show me how much you want me,” you breathed against his lips, and that was all it took. He backed you toward the bed, mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge. Then he dropped to his knees.

You blinked, dizzy. “Javi…”

He didn’t even let you finish.

“Lemme thank you properly, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with heat as his fingers tugged your dress up your thighs, higher, higher. “Lemme take care of my girl.”

He pushed the fabric up around your hips and buried his face between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then - God.

His mouth was all heat and devotion, licking long, slow stripes through your folds like he was tasting something sacred. His tongue circled your clit, soft at first, featherlight, teasing. Then firmer. More deliberate.

“Fuck…Javi…” you gasped, one hand tangling in his hair, the other clutching the bedspread.

He groaned against you, the sound sending vibrations through your core. Loving it. Getting drunk on you.

“You hear that, baby?” he rasped, breath hot against your soaked skin. “That’s how wet you are for me. Fuckin’ perfect.”

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place, and didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. He licked and sucked like he had all the time in the world, like this, you, was the mission now. His tongue flicked faster, rhythm steady, sinful, devastating, and when he moaned again, your knees nearly buckled.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Could spend the whole night down here, cariño. Just like this. My mouth on your pussy. You let me, baby?”

You could barely breathe, your body already arching into him, heat coiling tight in your belly.

“Javi…, I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. He tightened his grip, sucked your clit into his mouth, and that was it. You shattered, thighs trembling, hips stuttering forward as he groaned into your release like it was his own.

He licked you through it, slowly now, gently, like he was savoring the aftershocks. Like he was proud.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was glistening. His eyes were dark, burning with something more than just lust.

“Look at you,” he murmured, standing, kissing your stomach, your chest, your mouth. “My perfect girl. Took me so good.”

You whimpered, still shaking, already aching for more. And the night wasn’t even close to over.

He didn’t stop touching you.

Even as your legs trembled and your chest heaved from the orgasm he’d just coaxed out of you, Javi kept his hands on you like you might float away without them. One on your hip, the other sliding up your spine, gentle and grounding. His lips found the curve of your neck again, soft, reverent, like he was trying to press all his love into your skin.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Took it so fuckin’ good, baby. You should’ve seen yourself.”

You whimpered, half-laughing, still trying to catch your breath. He was still fully dressed, his beige suit slightly wrinkled, his shirt damp with heat, and you were standing there, clinging to him, panties soaked, heart beating like a war drum.

He stepped back only enough to look at you, eyes flickering over your body like he wanted to memorize it again from scratch.

“Can I take this off you?” he asked softly, fingers already toying with the straps of your dress.

You nodded, and he smiled, a real one, wide and devastating, before slipping it down your shoulders with almost clinical precision. Slow, careful, like peeling open a gift he’d waited all night to touch. The fabric pooled at your feet in a whisper, leaving you in nothing but ruined underwear and trembling anticipation.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, running a hand down your side like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re perfect. You know that? Just fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached for him, fingers slipping under the buttons of his shirt, finally undoing them one by one, your hands greedy for skin. He let you undress him without a word, just watching your face, breathing heavily as your palms smoothed over the warm planes of his chest.

God, that chest.

Golden and dusted with bright hair, soft but strong, familiar from a thousand sleepy mornings and shirtless photos he swore he didn’t like you taking but never actually stopped you from snapping. You kissed just below his collarbone and felt the way his breath hitched, his cock pressing harder into the front of his slacks.

The bulge was impossible to ignore. Neatly contained but straining. A dark, wet patch had already formed at the tip, pressing through the fabric and smearing against your thigh as he rocked into you without meaning to.

You moaned, needy and involuntary.

He grunted, burying his face in your neck. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me,” he growled, rolling his hips against yours again. “This is what happens when you talk to me like that. When you stand up for me. Shit, baby, never knew I could get this fuckin’ hard just watchin’ you be mine.”

“Javi…”

He kissed you, hot and possessive, and kept grinding into you, rutting against your soaked underwear like it was the only thing holding him back. The friction was just right, dragging over your clit with maddening pressure. Every pass of his cock made your stomach flip, your breath catch.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “Feel what you do to me? I could get you off like this, fuck, just keep goin’, let you ride it, get you all messy before I even take it out.”

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet his thrusts.

But then, finally, he stepped back, hands going to his belt, moving with a desperation that made your mouth go dry.

He stripped in one fluid motion. Pants, briefs, finally gone. And then there he was, thick and leaking and ready, eyes locked on yours like he was about to ruin you. He held out his hand without speaking. You knew the drill.

You leaned forward, lips parted, and spit into his palm. He groaned low in his throat, spreading it over his length with slow, deliberate strokes, eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse pounded in your throat.

“Can I go raw, baby?” he asked, voice like smoke. “Need to feel you. All of you. Don’t wanna miss a fuckin’ thing.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, please.”

He leaned in close again, nudging your nose with his, his cock brushing against your stomach, hot and heavy and so ready it made you dizzy.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet when you beg, baby. Gonna make you beg again once I’m inside you. That okay?”

You nodded.

And then he reached down, lined himself up, and, slow, careful, possessive, started to slide in.

He pushed in slow. Painfully slow.

Like he wanted to savor every single inch, watch the way your mouth parted, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers clutched his arms like they were the only things keeping you tethered to earth.

You gasped, back arching, body trembling, as he filled you inch by inch, dragging the head of his cock along your walls with torturous precision.

“Fucking hell, baby,” Javi groaned, jaw clenched, hips straining to stay steady. “You’re so fuckin’ tight for me. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

You whimpered, burying your face in the crook of his neck, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

He sank deeper, slow, steady, intentional, until he was fully seated inside you, cock pulsing against your walls, and you swore the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

“I’ll never get used to this,” he whispered. “The way you feel. The way you melt around me like that. Jesus, mami, you’re perfect.”

He stayed there for a second, not moving, just feeling you. His forehead pressed to yours. His hand brushing hair back from your face with something that almost felt like reverence.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice barely a breath.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Move, Javi. Please.” And just like that, something in him snapped.

“Oh, I love when you beg,” he growled, hips rolling forward with a slow, deep thrust. “Say it again, baby. Say it nice for me.”

“Please,” you gasped, voice high and breaking. “Please, Javi, I need you. I need you so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” he grunted, thrusting again, harder now, his hands gripping your hips like he wanted to mold them to his. “You need this cock. Need me to fuck you nice and slow, let you feel it for days.”

You cried out, the stretch, the drag, the way he filled you completely, it was too much and not enough. The pace was maddening: slow, deep, unrelenting. His thrusts weren’t hurried. They were measured. Devastating. Like he wanted to reach every part of you and leave his name there.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

And he loved it.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Hold on to me. Let me take care of you.”

He kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. He couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop talking.

“You feel what you do to me? How fuckin’ crazy I am for you?”

“God, look at you takin’ me so good, so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

“This pussy’s mine, right? Say it, baby. Say it’s mine.”

You said it. You’d say anything he wanted.

“Yours,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “Always yours, Javi.”

That did something to him. His hips stuttered, his breath caught in his throat, and he buried his face in your neck with a low, broken sound.

“I love you,” he said, like it hurt. “Fuck, I love you. So much.”

You froze, then melted instantly, all your walls crashing down at once. That was all it took to send you spiraling.

“Javi, oh my god, I’m gonna…”

“Do it,” he whispered, hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling just right. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him, body convulsing as pleasure washed over you in waves. He groaned, a long, desperate sound, and slammed into you once, twice more before spilling inside you with a curse, holding you so tight it bordered on worship.

For a moment, the room was just breath and sweat and the sound of your hearts trying to recover.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

“You think those bastards heard this and are jealous out of their minds?” he murmured, voice rough and teasing.

You laughed, shaky, blissed out, utterly ruined. “Shut up and hold me.”

You didn’t know how long it had been.

Minutes, maybe. Maybe more. The world felt far away now, dulled and quiet, like it had exhaled with you. The room was warm, lit only by the bedside lamp Javi had turned on earlier, casting soft gold across tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets.

You were still wrapped around him, skin to skin. Your leg draped over his hip, your cheek pressed to his chest, damp with sweat. His fingers traced soft circles along your spine, over and over, like he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you.

Neither were you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gravelly from sex and sleep and everything in between. “You okay?”

“Mmm.” You nodded, breath fogging against his skin. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, you could feel it against your forehead. That lazy, post-orgasm kind of smile that only came out when he was completely at ease. When he let the walls down.

His hand slid down to your thigh, massaging gently, then back up to the curve of your hip. “I wasn’t too much?”

You lifted your head, brow furrowed. “Are you serious?”

He just shrugged, shy in that rare way you’d only seen a handful of times. Like he was still surprised someone could look at him the way you did. Like maybe it still didn’t quite compute.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft, slow, nothing urgent, just lips on lips, a quiet thank you.

“You were perfect,” you whispered.

He looked at you like you hung the stars. Then he tilted his head back against the pillow and sighed, the kind of long, content exhale that said he could stay here forever.

“When we get married,” he said suddenly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “I don’t want a wedding.”

You blinked, lips parting. “Oh?”

“No guests. No tux. No church. Just you and me. Naked. In bed.” He grinned. “Maybe with cake.”

You snorted. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Tres leches,” he said immediately, tapping your hip. “Keep it cultural.”

You laughed again, heart full and aching. But then something stuck in your mind, the way he’d said it.

When.

Not if.

You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow so you could really look at him. “When?”

His eyes flicked to yours, a beat of silence passing. Then he nodded, totally serious.

“Yeah. When.”

Your throat tightened.

“Not if?” you asked quietly.

Javi reached up and brushed your hair back from your face, eyes warm and steady.

“Obviously when,” he said, like it was obvious. Like there was never a question.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let your head drop back to his chest, your arm curling tighter around him. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, thumb stroking the back of your knuckles.

And in that moment, wrapped in him, pressed against skin still warm from love, you knew. Knew he meant it. Knew you did, too.

Eventually, he spoke again, voice soft and close to sleep.

“Let’s stay like this forever.”

And you smiled, eyes closing.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But I still want cake.”

[claredevee]

Bless vanityfair for gracing us with these new Pedro pictures.

And the interview? Wow

[rvzqt]

Can someone please write something like this 😭😭 I need a whole story out of it, I'm begging 🙏🏻 Posting the screenshot here 🫠

[kirsteng42]

Oh you have to know that Javi P is not only my fave PP boy but my favourite Tv character ever! He is just perfection from his look to his swagger and the way he treats women too. This was just perfect!!!!

A Promise

Pairing: Javier Peña x reader

Word Count: 675

Summary: Javi brings you dinner before work but he wants dessert too...

Author's Note: Just because he's so sexy and I missed him! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: he's flirty and soft too and of course sexy, implied s mut

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

A knock sounds at your door. You frown, looking at the time before you move over to the peep hole.

“I can see your feet baby. Open up.”

Just the sound of his voice makes your heart rate kick up. You unlock the door and stand  there, blocking his way in as you look him over. His button down is fitted nicely across his broad shoulders, the top two buttons open to show a hint of tanned skin that you want to kiss, and his hair is perfectly mussed, most likely from his hand running through it all day.

“Can I help you, officer?”

His dark brown eyes flicker lazily over your body, then back up to meet your eyes. He then holds up a brown paper bag you hadn’t noticed.

“I brought dinner.”

“You weren’t invited.”

He ignores your comment, wraps his other arm around your waist, and tugs you against his chest. His warm breath tickles your ear as he whispers, “I’m always invited.” Before you can give him a cheeky retort his lips ghost along your jaw, nose brushing yours every so lightly before his lips do in a kiss.

The sweetness doesn’t last and just as you’re about to moan into his mouth he pulls away and breezes past you into your apartment, setting the bag down on the table and unloading it.

“Will you grab some plates please, angel?”  

“Javi…” you start to chastise. Firstly for ending the kiss too soon and secondly for the way he’s just barged in and made himself comfortable. “You know I have to get to work soon.”

“I know. So we’ll have dinner first. I don’t want you working all night on an empty stomach.”

You sit down in the chair and wait as he fills your plate.

“Thank you.”

He winks and fills his own plate, amusement, and something more dancing in his eyes.

“You should stay home with me tonight,” he says as he stabs a piece of food.

“Because that’ll go over well on a Saturday night at the bar…”

He raises a brow.

“Maybe I’ll have to make you stay.”

“What are you going to do Javi? Handcuff me?”

His eyes darken at your words, and he fixes his gaze on you. “Not that I need an excuse to but…”

You take one more bite of food then grab your empty plate and walk to the sink. Before you can even turn the water on he has you caged against it, hands on either side of your body and his nose buried in your neck.

“Javi,” you purr and turn in his hold. “We don’t have time to play.”

His eyes quickly flicker to the clock above the stove and then the corners of his mouth tip upward.

“We’ve got an hour before you have to leave,” he murmurs, lifting his hand and rubbing the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. “I’ll have fucked you three different ways before you have to go.”

Your breath catches on a gasp.

“Maybe,” you sass, trying to regain some control. “Still doesn’t mean I’m staying home with you.”

You lean in and kiss his neck, just under his ear, delighting  it the way his muscles tense and he groans deep and low.

When you make your way across his jaw and stop at his lips he backs away before you can kiss him.

“Fine,” he says. “Go to work. I’ll pick you up after your shift...” One hand slides down your back and palms your ass, bringing your bodies flush as his hard length digs into your stomach. His lips inch closer when he whispers, “and now that I have to wait the rest of the night to get between these gorgeous legs, the rougher I’m going to be when I do.”

A breath rushes out of you, and he swallows it with a kiss, pulling away only when your knees are about to buckle.

“Be good tonight baby. You’re mine later.” Then he turns and leaves your apartment

[lowrisemiller]

ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴄʀᴏᴡʙᴀʀ

this one-shot is inspired by lana del rey’s unreleased song velvet crowbar

javier peña x DEA!fem!reader

javi gif from @perotovar divider by @uzmacchiato

you came to Colombia from New York with a badge, a mission, and no intention of getting attached. but months later when you’re scarred, restless, and unable to forget what you and javier peña went through—you’re not sure what’s left to hold onto. until one night, he shows up at her door, and nothing feels like duty anymore.

masterlist | 7.8k words | photos do not depict what reader looks like | mentions drugs, canon narcos talk, javi has a real bad drinkin problem, allusions of violence, reader gets kidnapped, slooowww burn, lots of javi pov!, smutty smut smut, he loves suckin on tits sue me, munch!javi duh, surprise surprise they hit it raw (DONT DO THAT), soft sex lots of I love you's, little bit of javi receiving head, & riding

I was addicted to you but I didn't know it .✦ You were afflicted by booze .✦ You didn't show it huh .✦ Life is a velvet crowbar Hitting you over the head .✦ You're bleeding but you want more .✦ "This is so like you," I said “Put yourself on back to bed.”

Bogotá smells like rain and grit, like wet stone and burnt coffee and something darker that never quite washes away. You step off the plane in the thick of the rainy season, boots hitting pavement slick with oil, and you already know the city will not be kind to you.

You’re DEA. Five years in New York. Undercover buys, dead drops, informants with trembling hands and blood under their nails. You were good at it, good enough to get noticed. Good enough to be transferred. Now you’re here, knee-deep in the worst war on drugs the agency’s ever seen, and they’ve dropped you into it like you’re a match in a powder keg.

They told you you’d be part of something bigger. That your experience was needed. What they didn’t say—what they didn’t need to say—was that you were walking into a man’s world. A dirty, blood-slicked one that doesn’t make room for women unless they’re bleeding, bruised, or biting back.

Not that you’re entirely surprised. You came from the Big Apple after all.

They talk over you at meetings. Call you mamacita under their breath. Smirk when you offer suggestions. You learn fast that respect isn’t given here. It’s taken.

So you take it.

You drag a cartel runner out of a brothel in the south side of the city, in the middle of the bustling street, cuff him with his pants around his ankles, and drive him back yourself with a cracked rib and half your blouse stained red. The next day, no one calls you sweetheart. They still don’t like you, but they know better.

The job is constant. Always moving. Surveillance, raids, interrogations, bullshit. Colombia eats agents alive. You see it in the eyes of the rookies, the twitchy ones. They come in wide-eyed and go home in body bags or not at all. You’re not sure which you’ll be yet.

You hear about Peña before you meet him. Always just out of frame, the center of every whispered rumor.

He’s the hotshot. The one who plays dirty, drinks harder than he sleeps, and somehow stays three steps ahead of Escobar’s men. Murphy says he’s bad news. Carrillo says he’s driven. Everyone else just says he’s dangerous—and not just to the people he’s chasing.

You try not to care. You’ve dealt with men like him before. Charisma surrounds him like smoke. Charm like a loaded gun. But the name lingers in your mind long after lights-out.

You see him for the first time at the embassy, late at night when the halls are empty and the fluorescent lights hum low overhead. He’s leaning against a doorframe, shirt wrinkled and stained with something too dark to be wine, tie hanging loose like a noose around his neck.

He looks at you like he already knows everything. You slow your steps, your gaze catching on the way his fingers twitch, like he’s halfway through lighting a cigarette that isn’t there.

“You’re the one from New York,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod. “That’s me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Just let his gaze drag across your face, down to the holster at your hip, then back up. “Welcome to hell, agent.”

And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor like smoke curling under a door.

You stand there a moment longer, heart thrumming in your throat, before turning away.

Later, when you finally sleep, you dream of velvet and blood and a man with whiskey eyes who looks at you like he’s already seen the ending.

The first time you’re assigned to work with Peña, it’s a stakeout.

No briefing. No welcome. Just a sharp knock on your door at 6:12 a.m., and when you open it, he’s standing there coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, aviators hanging from the neckline of a sweat-damp shirt.

“Grab your shit,” he says. “We got a lead in Teusaquillo.”

You don’t ask questions. Not because you trust him—hell no—but because you’ve learned that here, time spent talking is time someone else uses to get away.

The ride’s quiet. Bogota unfolds around you in soft gray morning light, all crumbling walls and rust-stained rooftops. Peña doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at you. He just drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, a half-lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

You steal glances. You can’t help it. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t care that you’re studying him.

You’d call it arrogance if it didn’t feel so... hollow. There’s something hollow in him. Like the violence carved out everything else and left a man made of leftover smoke and sinew.

He parks two blocks from a mechanic’s shop with boarded-up windows and an upstairs flat rumored to belong to one of Escobar’s lieutenants. You settle in. Binoculars. Radio. Notebooks. The usual. But the air’s heavy. The kind of thick that presses behind your eyes.

Four hours pass in silence. Five.

You learn the way he fidgets when nothing’s happening: thumb tapping his thigh, tongue pressing against his back molars like he’s chewing on words he won’t say. Every so often, he scribbles something in a small notebook. Names, maybe. Codes. You can’t tell.

Around hour six, you finally speak. “You always this quiet?”

Peña doesn’t look at you. “You always this nosy?”

You let the silence return, but this time, it hums with heat.

It rains at noon. Of course it does.

You shift in your seat and ask if he wants coffee, stretching your arms out, cracking your back. He doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales slowly through his nose, watching the rain hit the windshield, before he finally says, low, “Only if it’s black.”

You bring him a lukewarm cup from the vendor down the street. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours for half a second.

It feels like someone flicked a live wire against your skin.

He must feel it too. For the first time that day, he looks at you. Really looks. And you see it: the wreckage behind his eyes. The wear and tear. The man running on fumes and sheer defiance.

You think, fleetingly. 

 My baby’s on his eighth life, darling.

The thought disturbs you.

The bust happens fast. A kid leaves the upstairs flat with a duffel bag and nervous hands. Peña’s out of the car before you process the door slamming shut. You’re right behind him.

It unravels into gunfire in under three minutes.

You drop to one knee behind the car as bullets crack overhead. Peña’s already returned fire, teeth bared, eyes bright. He moves like he’s dancing with death, like he’s done this so many times it’s boring now.

Someone’s screaming. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s the kid with the duffel. You don’t know. You just fire and move and breathe until the world stills.

Three bodies lie crumpled in the alley. None of them are yours.

When it’s over, you’re sweating and shaking. Adrenaline still rattles in your bones.

You turn to him. “You good?”

He lights another cigarette with a trembling hand, breathes in deep. Then he mutters, almost absently, “You’ll get used to it.”

You want to scream at him.

Get used to it?

To the blood, the stink of it, the way your hands still feel the shape of the trigger even when it’s over?

But you don’t.

Because part of you, a dark, unspoken, shameful one is already used to it. 

Maybe always was.

He walks off to talk to Carrillo. You stay behind, staring at the blood pooled in the gutter. Your hand still trembles as you try to light your own cigarette, but it slips between your fingers twice before you finally get it.

Peña doesn’t come back for you. He knows you’ll follow.

And you do.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You lie awake in your tiny apartment, sheets tangled around your legs, fan clattering in the corner. Your body’s sore. You smell like sweat and smoke and steel.

But it’s not the mission that keeps you awake.

It’s him.

His voice. The shake in his hands. The moment he looked at you like he saw every flaw and fracture and welcomed them. Like he wanted to press his fingers into your broken places and call it comfort.

You roll onto your side and stare at the wall.

You don’t want to want him. You really don’t. But already, it’s there. Rooting itself deep. Curling around your ribs like vines.

Javier Peña is a slow kind of ruin. And you—God help you—you’ve always been a sucker for a long fall.

It’s been four days since Peña showed up to work.

At first, no one blinked. He was known for disappearing—trailing informants or losing track of time in cartel dives but by day three, even Murphy was checking his watch more than usual. You tried not to care, tried to convince yourself that agents burn out all the time.

But when his informant turned up dead in the Zona Rosa and Peña didn’t answer his radio, something shifted.

Murphy looked up from his desk, jaw clenched. “Something’s wrong.”

He’s got one kid and another on the way. A wife who’s already half out the door. When another lead comes in at the last minute, he gives you the keys to the Ford Bronco and says, “Just check on him. Please.”

You don’t answer. You just drive.

His apartment’s in a building that’s seen better decades. Faded tile, dim hallway lights, a sour mildew smell that clings to the peeling walls. You knock once, wait, knock again—harder.

No answer.

You press your ear to the door and hear it. The dull clink of glass. The buzz of a radio left on some Spanish station, low and mournful. A body shifting against leather.

You don’t hesitate. You pick the lock and slip inside.

The place is dark, except for the gray-blue light spilling in through the window. A record’s spinning in the corner, half done. The couch is soaked. Not in blood—thank God—but in spilled bourbon and sweat. And there he is.

Javier.

Flat on his back, half-dressed, arm thrown over his face. There’s a bottle on the floor beside him and at least two more empty on the coffee table.

You stand there for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight. He doesn’t even stir.

Your voice cuts the quiet like a scalpel.

“This is your big plan, Peña? Drink yourself into a coma and hope Escobar turns himself in?”

He groans, low in his throat, like he’s just now dragging himself back to consciousness. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t move.

“Didn’t ask for a babysitter,” he mumbles, voice gravel-thick.

“No,” you snap, “you didn’t. But you stopped answering your radio. You missed the last two intel briefings. You didn’t even show up when Vargas walked.”

He shifts, turning his head toward the ceiling, one eye cracking open just enough to look annoyed. “Why do you care?”

That catches you. Harder than it should.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth—the real one, the one pressed up against your ribcage isn’t for him to know. That you do care. That you haven’t stopped thinking about him since that goddamn stakeout. That every part of this job makes you feel more numb, more wrecked, more like him.

You move closer, but not enough to seem gentle. You kick an empty bottle out of the way, hard enough to make it clatter against the wall.

“You don’t get to disappear, Peña. Not now. Not when people are counting on you.”

He laughs dry and mean. “People don’t count on me. They tolerate me.”

You crouch down in front of him, low enough that he has to look at you.

“Murphy’s worried. Carrillo wants you benched. And me? I walked into this apartment half expecting to find your rotting corpse.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

His voice is quieter now. “Then why the fuck are you still here?”

You pause. Let the air thicken between you. Then say, soft but sharp, “Because I didn’t want you to drink your own regrets alone.”

That lands.

His face tightens. The mask he wears that’s cool, untouchable, cynical slips, just for a second. Enough for you to see the exhaustion underneath. The guilt. The part of him that knows he’s falling apart and doesn’t care enough to stop it.

You stand again, dragging your gaze over the mess he’s let himself become.

“I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re still here when I return, I’m dragging your ass into a cold shower and then straight to Carrillo. You’ll wish you’d died when I found you.”

You walk to the door.

Just before you open it, he says your name.

Quiet. Hoarse. No apology in it. No plea.

Just your name, the way someone might say it in the dark to remind themselves they’re not alone.

You don’t look back.

You just say, “Sober up,” and leave the door open behind you.

It’s been a week since you found him in his own personal graveyard of booze and guilt. A week since he said your name like it was something sacred, then disappeared into silence.

He came back to work the next morning clean-shaven, wearing a shirt that didn’t smell like whiskey, hair combed and expression unreadable. Murphy gave him shit, Carrillo gave him orders, and you gave him nothing.

Not even a nod.

It wasn’t punishment, it was survival. Whatever passed between you in that apartment, it’s a crack in the wall neither of you knows how to patch. So you kept the silence and he respected it.

But he’s different now.

Not better. Not worse.

Just... watching.

You feel his eyes sometimes. When you walk past. When you speak in meetings. When you laugh, when you don’t. He’s not hitting on you he never did. It’s not sleazy or careless. It’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s waiting for something.

Like he’s still thinking about the fact that you didn’t look back.

You’re in the records room when he finally speaks to you again.

It’s late. The embassy’s mostly empty, the halls hushed. You’re surrounded by heat-stained files and the buzz of a dying fluorescent light. You’re tired, sweating under your blouse, hair tied back with a pencil you forgot to remove.

The door creaks behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

He doesn’t say your name this time.

“Didn’t think you were the type to stay late.”

You slide a folder back into its drawer. “Didn’t think you were the type to come back.”

He huffs something like a laugh, quiet and sharp. Then, softer, “Touché.”

You don’t face him. You just keep filing.

“You want something, Peña?”

“Just saw the light on,” he says, “and thought—”

You cut him off. “If you’re about to say something stupid like ‘thanks,’ don’t.”

Silence.

Then: “Wasn’t gonna.”

But he doesn’t leave. He steps into the room and leans against the metal cabinet nearest you, arms crossed. His shoulder brushes the edge of yours—just enough contact to feel it, not enough to call attention to.

“You ever wonder why we do this?” he asks after a beat. “Why we stay?”

You glance at him, frowning. “Because if we don’t, Escobar wins.”

“That’s the company line.” He meets your gaze now, his own unreadable. “I mean you. Why you stay.”

You should shut it down. Should tell him to get out and take his existential bullshit with him.

But instead, you say, “Because I’m good at it. Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space. Because when it’s quiet, I start thinking about all the people I didn’t save.”

It’s too honest. It slips out raw.

You don’t meet his eyes again. You just move to the next drawer.

But Peña doesn’t flinch. He shifts closer. Not enough to crowd you—he never does—but enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him.

“I think about that night,” he says. “You kicking my bottle across the room like you wanted to kill me with it.”

You smile despite yourself. “I still might.”

“You could’ve reported me. Could’ve let Carrillo have my badge. Would’ve been easier.”

You close the drawer. Turn to him. “Would’ve been cowardly.”

His expression softens. Just barely. The hard angles of him blur under the soft buzz of the dying light.

“You scare me a little, you know that?” he says, voice low.

You blink. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth.”

You let the silence stretch this time. Let it sit.

There’s something simmering between you now. Not fire. Not yet. But heat. Potential.

He reaches past you, grabs a file he has no reason to touch, lets his fingers brush yours as he does.

This time, you don’t pull away.

And when you finally speak, your voice is quieter. Thicker. “This changes nothing.”

He nods once. Serious and firm. “I know.”

But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

He can’t stop thinking about her hands.

That’s the thing. Not her mouth, not her ass—though God knows his brain’s tried to go there out of habit. But no. What keeps looping through his skull at night, in the dark, is the way her fingers looked pressed against his chest that night on the couch.

The callus on her trigger finger. The precise anger in her grip when she shoved the empty bottle away from him like it insulted her personally. The way her hand shook, just once, when she thought he couldn’t see.

It’s pathetic. He knows it. But he thinks about her hands when someone else’s are on him.

The woman in his bed tonight smells like coconut oil and cheap cigarettes. She’s some informant’s cousin—or maybe she said she worked at the bar in El Cartucho. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t ask.

She moans his name like she means it, like she knows him.

She doesn’t.

He’s already halfway gone.

He rolls off her when it’s over and lights a cigarette he doesn’t want. She tries to cuddle. He gets up and shrugs his jeans back on, muttering something about early meetings. She doesn’t press. They never do.

By the time he’s back in his car, windows rolled down, sweat drying on his skin, he’s already thinking about her.

Not the woman he just fucked.

Her.

The one who hasn’t so much as smiled at him since she landed in Colombia. The one who walked into his filth-stained apartment and looked at him like he was still worth saving.

He’d rather be punched in the face.

He’s seen it happen to other men—DEA guys who get that wide-eyed thing about one of their own, fall into bed with someone who carries a badge and a temper, only to get left holding the guilt when the mission takes her out first.

Not him. He keeps his women outside the building, off the books, out of the way.

Except... Now he doesn’t want any of them. Not for more than a night.

And he doesn’t want her either.

He wants her gone. Out of his head. Out of his space. But every time she walks by—blouse clinging to her spine in the Bogotá heat, voice calm and sharp in meetings, he finds himself holding his breath.

And when she leaves the room, he has to exhale.

He watches her sometimes. He hates himself for it.

From the breakroom. From the side of a hallway. From the back row of a briefing.

She doesn’t even glance at him anymore. Not since the records room. Not since she looked him dead in the eye and said this changes nothing.

He believed her.

But it had. It changed everything.

He still flirts with the receptionist. Still lets his fingers linger when passing intel to the blonde who runs field logistics. Still makes some dumb comment when the ambassador’s wife brings lunch to the office.

But he never touches her.

Never jokes. Never asks if she’s free Friday. Never offers her a light for her cigarette when she’s outside, leaning on the brick wall like she’s holding the building up by herself.

Because she’s not like the others.

She’s the kind of woman who makes you want to quit drinking—not because she asks you to, but because you suddenly want to deserve to be seen by her again.

And that’s the most dangerous thing in the world.

He dreams about her sometimes. In the dreams, she never says a word. Just looks at him the way she did that night—tight-lipped, furious, afraid.

In the dreams, he always wakes up sweating. Alone.

Sometimes it’s the best part of his day.

He hangs on to all those little moments that occur during the day.  

Like when she passes him a manila folder one morning during briefing—fingers grazing his knuckles, just barely. He feels it like a fucking static shock. He doesn’t flinch, but it coils deep in his stomach.

Later, he’ll forget what the folder even said. But he won’t forget the brush of her hand.

Another day. It’s hot. She’s got her sleeves rolled to the elbows and a smear of dirt across her cheek from a bust in the jungle. He watches her gulp down lukewarm water from a dented thermos, her throat flexing, eyes closed.

He has to look away.

When he lights a cigarette, she asks for one. Doesn’t look at him when he hands it over. Doesn’t thank him, either.

Still, he holds that image like it means something.

He dreams of her in that records room.

Not naked. Not moaning his name.

Just standing there, arm crossed, and sweat on her brow.

He wakes up hard anyway.

She starts wearing her hair down. Probably not for him. But maybe.

He watches it stick to the back of her neck. He thinks about moving it aside. He thinks about kissing the skin underneath. He thinks about what she’d do. How she’d slap him, shove him against the wall, maybe kiss him right back.

He doesn’t do it.

A month passes like that. And then, everything breaks.

It’s supposed to be clean.

In and out. Intercept a delivery. Get the courier. Bring him in before breakfast.

They don’t even get a scream on the radio.

Just static.

Then Carrillo’s voice: “We’ve lost eyes on the second vehicle. Peña, respond.”

He’s already grabbing his vest before the words finish.

She was in that car.

The wreck is still smoking when he gets there. Blood on the ground, no bodies. Signs of a struggle. Boot prints. Drag marks. Her weapon on the gravel, clip half-ejected, as if she’d tried to reload mid-scramble.

He finds a smear of blood on the passenger door.

Too much to ignore. Not enough to prove she's gone.

He doesn’t wait for backup.

He doesn’t wait for anything.

He just starts hunting.

Three men die in an alley within the hour.

He doesn’t even ask the first one a question—just shoots him in the kneecap and watches the others panic. The second gives up a name. A warehouse. East end. Off the grid.

He doesn’t thank him.

He doesn’t feel anything.

The warehouse is rotting, windowless, stinking of rust and piss. He doesn’t go in there quietly.

The first two men barely have time to look up. The third draws a gun. Javier shoots him in the throat.

He’s breathing like an animal now. Can’t hear anything over the pulse in his skull. His blood feels radioactive.

Then he sees her.

Tied to a chair. Hands behind her back. Duct tape on her mouth. Blood crusted at her temple.

But she’s breathing.

And she’s looking right at him.

He moves like he’s underwater. Crosses the floor in seconds but it feels like years. Drops to his knees in front of her, pulling a knife from his belt.

Her eyes are wide. There’s no fear in them.

Just recognition. Relief. And something else.

Something fragile.

He cuts the tape from her mouth, and she gasps in air, voice ragged: “You came.”

He can’t speak. He just cups her face, thumbs brushing dried blood, trying to convince himself she’s whole. Her cheek presses into his palm like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“I thought—” she starts, then chokes on it.

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t.”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

And now he’s the one breaking.

“I would’ve burned this whole city down,” he says, voice shaking. “I would’ve leveled it.”

She closes her eyes, leans forward until their foreheads touch. Her breath fans over his lips. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The others arrive twenty minutes later.

He doesn’t let go of her until the medics make him.

Even then, his hands hover—like he might need to grab her again. Like she might disappear.

She doesn’t.

She looks at him over her shoulder as they load her into the van. And for once, she does smile. A small one.

Not wide. Not flirtatious.

But real.

And it guts him.

He goes home that night, covered in blood—some hers, some theirs, some his.

Lights a cigarette.

He doesn’t sleep.

He doesn’t dream.

Just stares at the wall and thinks of the way she whispered You came, like he wasn’t the one who needed saving.

She didn’t mean to start thinking about him.

It wasn’t part of the plan. Bogotá was supposed to be all work. Just another station. Just another hunt. Get in, track Escobar, do the job.

She’d dealt with worse than this before—misogynists, cartel hits, bad coffee. She could’ve handled it.

But not him.

Not Javier Peña.

It started small. The cigarette passed between my fingers. The quick glances over briefing reports. The way his eyes found you across rooms he had no business being in.

At first, you thought he was just another man trying to get under your skin.

Then he stopped trying.

And it got worse.

Before the mission, you’d dreamed about him. Not even a sex dream. Just a quiet one. His shoulder against yours on a bench. His hand on your knee. The kind of domestic nothing you didn’t let yourself think about anymore.

You woke up unsettled. Then got in the SUV. Then got taken.

And the whole time you were being dragged through that hell, wrists zip-tied, head pounding, all you could think was: I’ll never see him again.

Not your parents. Not Murphy. Him.

It should’ve scared you more than it did.

Now it’s three days later, and your apartment feels like a jail cell.

You’re healing. Bruised ribs. Scrapes. Nothing major, nothing deep. The medic said you were lucky.

You don’t feel lucky.

Your hands still shake when you’re pouring water. Your dreams are full of gravel and duct tape. And behind all of it is him..

Not the version from the office. The version who found you.

Bloody. Breathless. Eyes like thunder.

When he said I would’ve leveled this city, you believed him.

And you haven't been able to shake the way he said I didn’t have a choice.

It’s almost dark when the knock comes.

You don't expect it to be him.

You open the door anyway, and there he is. Standing in the hall like something scraped raw. His jacket’s slung over one shoulder. His shirt’s wrinkled. He smells like smoke, sweat, and aftershave.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then:

“I should’ve called,” he says, voice low.

You blinked. “You don’t call.”

His mouth twists at that—something between guilt and a smile.

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“You saw the report,” you say, stepping aside anyway.

“I didn’t believe it.”

You stand awkwardly in your living room, hands stuffed in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. You’re in a pair of shorts and an oversized tee, hair damp from the shower, still smelling faintly of antiseptic.

“Did you come here to check on me,” you ask, “or because you needed to see it for yourself?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since the warehouse. Eyes tracing your bruises like they’re war maps. Stopping at the butterfly bandage near your temple. The tenderness at your ribs.

Then he swallows hard.

“I needed to see you,” he says.

You sit on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

Then you say softly, “You killed six men looking for me.”

“Seven,” he says. “One of ‘em just didn’t die right away.”

Your throat tightens. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he says. “It’s supposed to tell you I’d do it again.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And there it is.

That shift. The thing they’ve both been dancing around since day one. It’s not about sex. Not anymore. It’s about something bigger. Louder. More terrifying.

He cared.

And now they’re both stuck with that truth.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you say.

He nods. “Right back at you.”

“You shouldn’t have come alone.”

“I always come alone.”

You snorted. “Yeah, I know.”

He breathes out a laugh at that. Runs a hand through his hair.

Then: “Can I sit?”

You gesture to the space beside you.

When he sinks into the couch, the cushion shifts. Their knees touch.

It’s the first time they’ve been this close since that night in the records room. But it’s different now. Slower. Like every inch is charged with memory.

You turn toward him. “Why are you really here?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“I’ve been trying to forget about you,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“Thought if I slept around enough, drank enough, worked enough, I’d stop.”

You stay quiet.

“I can’t,” he says finally. “I can’t stop.”

Your voice is just above a whisper. “You respect me too much to flirt. But not enough to stay away.”

He closes his eyes for a beat. “That about sums it up.”

And then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, head in his hands.

“I fucked this up,” he mutters. “I let you get taken. I—”

You grab his wrist.

Not gently. Not softly. Just firm.

He looks up.

“You saved me.”

He searches your face like he’s not sure he’s allowed to believe you.

“I didn’t come out of that warehouse afraid of you,” you say. “I came out knowing exactly who I’d trust to come for me.”

Something in him breaks open then.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just leans in until their foreheads rest together in the quiet.

They stay like that. Breathing the same air.

And maybe that’s all they need right now.

He’s been to her apartment more times in the last three weeks than he has to his own.

At first, it was to check on her. Drop off meds. Bring her dinner when she wouldn’t remember to eat. Make sure she wasn’t trying to get back in the field too soon.

Then she started teasing him about it. Called him Nurse Peña. Said he should get her a little bell to ring when she needed things.

And somehow—somehow—he didn’t run.

She laughs more now.

Not a lot. Not like it’s easy. But it happens.

The first time she laughed at one of his stupid jokes, he almost dropped the coffee mug he was handing her. The sound startled him. It was warm. Unforced. Real.

He didn’t think he’d ever hear her laugh like that.

Didn’t think he’d deserve to.

There’s a new rhythm between them now.

She gives him shit about his taste in music. He tells her she grinds her teeth when she reads case files. They eat on her couch and sometimes fall asleep watching badly dubbed telenovelas with the volume low.

It’s not domestic. Not exactly.

But it’s the closest he’s had in years.

He flirts with her now.

Just a little.

She rolls her eyes every time. Calls him a menace. But she never tells him to stop.

He brings her a sandwich one night after a long debrief. She’s got her feet up on the coffee table, bandage finally off her temple, a yellow legal pad in her lap.

When he sets the sandwich down, she glances up. “Will you always feed me when I’m injured?”

“Nah,” he says. “Only when you look like you’re gonna forget to eat.”

“Oh, so now you care about my nutrition.”

“Wouldn’t want you to pass out mid-briefing. Then Murphy would cry and I’d have to console him.”

She snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”

He grins. “I’d charge you.”

She tosses a crumpled sticky note at him, and he dodges it like a pro. “So rude,” she says.

He shrugs. “You like me rude.”

And it’s there—again. That flicker.

She looks at him a second too long. Then shakes her head and opens the sandwich.

He watches her take a bite and pretends it doesn’t do anything to him.

He doesn’t fuck around anymore.

No informants. No girls at the bars.

He doesn’t have it in him. Not now. Not since every time he closes his eyes, he sees her in that warehouse chair and remembers how empty the world felt until she looked up at him.

She’s healing.

Not just the bruises. The rest of her. He can see it. In the way she stretches without wincing. The way she walks like she owns the floor again.

But there’s still a mark on her. Something permanent.

He knows. Because he’s got it too.

She catches him watching her one night, and instead of brushing it off, she asks softly, “What?”

He almost says I thought you were gone.

He almost says I haven’t slept properly since.

He almost says Don’t get hurt like that again. I don’t think I’d survive it.

Instead he says, “Just making sure you’re alive.”

She blinks. That’s all. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect.

She just says, “I am.”

And for the first time in weeks, he breathes like his lungs aren’t on fire.

She’s been cleared to return.

He knew it was coming. Could feel it in the way she moved it was less careful, more sure. The bruises had gone from purple to green to nothing. The bandages were long gone. Her eyes had that fire again.

But it hits him harder than he thought when she says the words.

“I’m cleared. Back in the field next week.”

He nods. Stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on her windowsill. Says something like, that’s good, or you ready?

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stands in the kitchen, twisting the ring of condensation on her glass of water. She’s in one of his old shirts again—says it’s softer than hers—and it’s hanging off her like it always belonged to her.

Then she says it, quiet, like a sin:

“I never wanted to get better.”

He freezes.

She keeps staring down at the glass like it’ll forgive her for saying it.

“Not really,” she murmurs. “I mean—I knew I couldn’t stay like that forever. I didn’t want to be helpless.”

“But?” he hears himself say, voice low, unsteady.

She finally looks at him.

“But if I got better… I figured you’d stop showing up.”

He could laugh. He could make a joke.

But nothing comes out.

Because something’s burning in his chest now ugly, raw, relentless, and it’s got nowhere to go.

He crosses the room without thinking. Leans on the counter across from her. Close enough to feel her breath.

“You think I only came because you were hurt?”

“No,” she says. “I think you only let yourself come because I was.”

That wrecks him.

Because it’s true.

He should say something else. He doesn’t.

Not for a full minute. Just lets the silence sit there between them, thick and humming like power lines in the heat.

She breaks it first, whisper-soft: “It’s been nice. Having you.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

That’s when the thing he’s been swallowing for weeks claws its way up his throat and refuses to die quiet.

“I love you.”

Her eyes widen.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

He steps back, like it’ll soften the blow.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I did.”

She still doesn’t speak. Just walked closer to him. 

Stops in front of him.

And when she reaches out, he thinks she’s going to slap him or shove him or say something final.

Instead, her hand lands flat on his chest. Right over his heart.

Her voice is wrecked. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

She closes her eyes. Like she needs it to settle. Like it hurts.

Then:

“I love you too.”

He doesn’t kiss her.

He could. He wants to—God, does he want to—but something tells him this isn’t about that. Not yet. Not tonight.

Instead, he pulls her in.

Arms around her. Her face against his neck. Her hand fisting in the back of his shirt.

He holds her like a man holding the thing he almost lost.

Like she’s air and blood and whatever’s left of his soul.

And she doesn’t pull away.

They stay like that for a long time.

No words. No next steps. Just the heat of skin against skin and the quiet promise: this is real now.

And when he finally leans back and presses his forehead to hers, he says, “You’re going back in the field. I can’t stop that.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that too.”

And somehow, that’s everything.

And when she pulls back enough to meet his eyes, her voice is barely there. “Stay tonight?”

He nods. Doesn’t even pretend to play it cool.

“I was already going to.”

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But her body was warm beside him, curled into the crook of his arm, wearing his shirt and nothing else. And for the first time in years, his chest didn’t feel tight. For the first time ever, he wasn’t running.

So he let go. Just for a moment.

And when he wakes—it’s to her fingers tracing his chest, lazy and slow.

“Javi,” she whispers.

He blinks, meets her gaze in the low light. Her voice is hushed, but her eyes are wide awake. Wanting.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

She’s over him before he can speak, thighs slipping around his waist, mouth already on his.

And it’s soft at first. Like every kiss they almost shared. Like every moment that made him ache.

He wraps his arms around her waist, palms splaying across her bare back. She’s not wearing panties. Just his shirt, hitched up around her thighs.

And she smells like sleep, vanilla, and him.

“Baby,” he breathes against her lips. “You sure?”

“I’ve been sure,” she says. “Since the first time you bled on my floor and tried to leave without saying thank you.”

He huffs a laugh. And then he kisses her like he’s starving.

She peels the shirt off slowly. Her nipples are already hard, pebbled from the air and his gaze. He sits up, chest to chest, and buries his mouth between them.

“I dreamed about this,” he murmurs against her skin. “Fucking dreamed about your tits in my mouth.”

Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as he suckles at her breast, teasing the other with his thumb. She gasps when he scrapes his teeth lightly across her nipple, then soothes it with his tongue.

“I’m gonna take my time,” he says, looking up at her. “You deserve that.”

She lies back when he pushes gently at her waist, guiding her onto the sheets.

And he gets between her legs like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

Her thighs fall open for him without hesitation. And she’s soaked—slick and glistening, flushed with heat and arousal. He doesn’t touch her right away. Just presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, then higher—

“Javi—”

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he whispers, breathing hot over her folds. “I’m gonna taste you, baby.”

And he does.

Tongue dragging slow through her heat, lips wrapping around her clit like a kiss. She cries out—his name on her lips like a plea. He groans into her, drunk on her, grinding his hips into the mattress as he eats her like a man half his age.

She fists the sheets. Her back arches. He flattens his tongue and devours, letting her ride his mouth, letting her fuck herself on his face.

“You taste so sweet,” he groans. “Fuck, I could live here. Come for me, cariño. Give it to me.”

She does—with a sob, legs trembling, body shaking against his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop until she begs.

He’s on her before she can catch her breath. Mouth bruising hers, hand stroking his cock between them.

“Condom’s in my wallet,” he says roughly.

“No,” she gasps, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I want you. All of you.”

He nearly comes right then.

He pushes into her slow. So slow. They both groan—hers high and broken, his deep and reverent.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he pants. “So fucking perfect. You’re gonna ruin me.”

Their foreheads press together. Hands clutch. Bodies lock.

He moves like he’s worshipping her—like she’s holy and he’s been faithless his whole life.

And she moans every time he bottoms out. Whimpers when he pulls out nearly to the tip and slides back in, thick and hard and home.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much.”

He chokes on his own breath.

“I’ve never—never loved anyone like this,” he gasps. “Fuck, baby. You own me.”

They come together, trembling and breathless, clinging like the world might end if they let go.

She’s grinning.

“What?” he asks, brushing her hair back.

“I’m not broken anymore.”

And then she flips them.

Her mouth is on his neck before he can blink. Her nails drag down his chest. She slides down, wraps her lips around his cock, and moans.

“Holy fuck—” he gasps, gripping the sheets.

She sucks him deep, slow at first—then faster, wetter, until he’s bucking up into her mouth.

But before he can come, she stops.

Straddles him.

Guides him back inside.

And rides him hard.

Her hands on his chest, hips slamming down, tits bouncing, his name falling from her lips like a threat and a promise.

He grabs her ass, helps her grind deeper.

“You wanted rough, baby?” he groans. “Wanted me to fuck you like I’ve been dreaming about every goddamn night?”

“Yes—yes, Javi—fuck me—”

He flips her, fucks into her hard and fast, hair fisted in his hand, her face buried in the pillow.

“You’re mine now,” he growls. “You hear me? Mine.”

She screams when she comes. Screams.

He spills into her moments later, biting her shoulder, whispering I love you again and again and again.

They fall asleep like that.

Skin to skin. Heart to heart. No lies. No walls.

Just them.

Finally.

divider by 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlejoels @millersdoll @gothcsz @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @mysticalgalaxysalad @amyispxnk @aj0elap0l0gist @bluekat707 @yellowbrickyeti @romancherry @wayward-dreamer @xfanficluvrx @mystickittytaco @axshadows

[andy-15-07]

Hi, could you please write a Javier Peña x daugther reader oneshot where one of last remaing Escobars' men tried to kill her? Like using a motorcycle, or any kind of vehicle, really, and then tries fatally striking her with melee weapon on the head. Luckily, it didn't instantly kill her, but it did put her in a coma. She barely knows Javier and was actually raised by her grandpa. So when she does eventually wake up after a long period of time, she's surprised to see him with her at the hospital.

The Last Name That Matters

PAIRING:Javier Pena x daughter!reader

WORD COUNT: 1060| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Bogotá was loud that day.

You hated how the motorcycles never stopped screaming down the alley by your apartment building. Grandpa always warned you to stay alert. “You’re not like the other girls,” he’d say. “You’ve got Peña blood, and that means trouble.”

You thought he was being dramatic.

Until the engine cut off right behind you.

You barely had time to turn around before the man was on you.

He didn’t speak , just moved. The handle of the machete glinted in the late sun before it cracked against your head. One second, you were walking home with a bag of pan dulce. The next, there was blood in your eyes and the concrete rushing up to meet you.

And then: silence.

Javier Peña got the call just past midnight.

He was at his kitchen table, whiskey warming his throat, when his old landline buzzed to life. When he picked up, it wasn’t what he expected , no agency business, no intel.

It was your grandfather’s voice, cracking and desperate.

“It’s her,” he said. “It’s Y/N. They tried to kill her.”

The next hours were a blur. Sirens. Dust. Nurses shouting. A glimpse of you on the stretcher with blood matted in your hair, tubes in your nose, your body still.

She’s in a coma, they told him.

She might not wake up.

He hadn’t been a father. Not really.

You were a baby when he left. Your mother wanted nothing to do with cartel wars or agents who came home with their hands shaking. She left, and you stayed behind , with your grandfather.

Javier had told himself it was safer that way. That it was better for you to grow up away from his world.

Now you were lying in a hospital bed because of it.

One of Escobar’s men, they confirmed. A loyalist who never stopped hunting. You were just the next name on a bloodstained list.

She’s not even in the game, Javier had yelled. She’s a kid.

Didn’t matter.

Peña blood.

He didn’t leave the hospital for two weeks.

Your grandfather came during the day. Javier stayed at night.

He sat beside your bed, quiet. Watched the machines blink. Watched the bruises on your forehead turn from deep purple to a sick yellow-green. Your chest rising and falling, painfully slow.

He brought books, once. Left a worn-out copy of The Little Prince on your side table. A nurse told him you used to read it on the park bench outside your building.

He learned all your routines by watching them break.

She doesn’t eat spicy food, the nurses said. Her lips twitch when she dreams. She talks in her sleep , sometimes in Spanish, sometimes in English.

He kept waiting for your eyes to open.

They didn’t.

The morning you woke up, the sky was a sharp blue , the kind that makes your head hurt.

Your eyes fluttered once. Then again.

The light overhead buzzed, too loud. Your mouth was dry. Your whole body ached.

You didn’t know where you were. Or why your throat felt like sandpaper. Or why everything smelled like antiseptic and sadness.

You turned your head slowly. There was a man in the chair beside your bed.

He was asleep , or pretending to be. One leg stretched out, his arms crossed. His face worn from time, jaw shadowed with stubble. But his head jerked up the second you made a sound.

Your voice cracked. “Who...?”

He stood immediately. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You blinked at him, disoriented.

The machines beeped louder. A nurse’s voice echoed down the hallway. Your eyes started to fill with tears , your brain working too slow to make sense of anything.

He stepped closer, hands raised in surrender. “You’re in the hospital. Bogotá Central. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

“Who are you?” you whispered.

He hesitated.

Then: “I’m your father.”

You stared.

“No. No, you’re not. My dad’s... he’s,”

“Gone. I know.” His jaw tightened. “I wasn’t there. Not like I should’ve been. But I’m here now.”

You felt your stomach turn.

You remembered your grandfather’s voice. The way he never talked about your real father unless pressed. How he’d change the subject. “He’s out there somewhere,” he’d mutter. “But he made his choice.”

“You left,” you said.

“Yes,” Javier answered quietly. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Tears slipped down your cheek.

He didn’t move to touch you. Just stood there, letting you look at him. Letting you hate him if that’s what you needed.

Finally, your voice shook: “Why are you here now?”

He sat down slowly. Rubbed a hand over his face. “Because the second I heard what happened, I realized I couldn’t lose you. Not like this. Not before I even got to know you.”

You swallowed.

He leaned forward. “You were targeted because of me. Because of my name. And I swear to you, Y/N , I’ll never let anything happen to you again.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The exhaustion pressed down too hard.

But before your eyes slipped closed again, you whispered: “Don’t lie.”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

You fell asleep with his voice in your ears.

Recovery was slow.

You lost weeks in your coma. Muscle atrophy made walking hard. The headaches were constant. But little by little, you came back.

So did Javier.

He brought you real food when the cafeteria trays got too depressing. Told you dumb stories about how bad he was at high school algebra. Sat with you through physical therapy, awkwardly quiet until you made fun of him.

“You’re not very good at this whole parenting thing,” you said one day.

He smirked. “I was a DEA agent, not a babysitter.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure those overlap.”

He chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

You still didn’t trust him. Not fully. But something in you , something broken and stitched up , wanted to.

One evening, as the sun dipped low behind the hospital towers, you caught him staring out the window.

“You could leave,” you said. “I mean... I’m awake now.”

He didn’t turn around. “Do you want me to?”

You hesitated.

“No.”

He looked back at you. “Then I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You looked away. “I still don’t know you.”

“You will,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

You nodded once. Small. Careful.

“Okay.”

[brinapedroswife]

WHAT THE FUCK

W H A T T H E F U C K

PEDRO PASCAL???????

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[missyorkswhore]

Alright… headphones on, volume max. Nighty night ✨❤️

[l0caltiredgirl]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[xbeababyx]

Big fan of small waists and big dicks.

[moonxnite]

y’all ever fantasize about a fictional character a little too hard to the point you’re convinced you should be admitted to a mental hospital?

[luffyssa]