#HOW IS HE SO VULNERABLE AND SO SOFT AND SO TRAGIC WITHOUT SAYING A WORDDDDDDD

[ravensmadreads]

Cant. Just. Cant.

will it help?

rating: explicit 18+

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 1962

summary: javi can't sleep. he doesn't ask you but you help him anyway.

warnings: blow jobs, smoking, no y/n, ball tug

a/n: from @onmysluttyknees 's request: Peña prompt - “Everything in excess is bad, except you”

🤍Masterlist

In a post-Escobar world, things had changed. 

Cali was snatching up the remnants of the empire left and right. The crimes were dirtier, sneakier, and backed up by the government. Allies were enemies and now enemies were allies. The whole game had been changed overnight and while the DEA was playing chess, the cartels had three boards of parcheesi going on under the table. 

And, perhaps in the most horrifying change of all, Javier Peña buttoned his collar up all the way. 

He didn’t smoke. 

He wore nicotine patches.

He wore ties now.

He wore suit jackets, for christ’s sake. 

He walked hunched and in silence through the office hallways now. He didn’t drink with the team and he was often the last one at the office. No one in recent memory could remember the last time some woman called the office looking for a “Señior Peña”.

It seemed, to everyone who knew him, Javier had become a respectable agent. He reigned in his “machismo”, as it were. He had learned something about restraint. Call it the effects of war, post-war syndrome, but Javier was a changed man. 

Nope. 

To you, who actually knew him, Javier just got better at hiding it. 

He still smoked like a goddamn chimney.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know that?” 

He glances up from the floor, shirtless, in jeans, case files and documents spread around him like debris, smoke rising from in between his fingers. Three more burnt out nubs curled around gray ash in the tray. 

It’s past two in the morning. He only does this when the insomnia is particularly bad.

There are dark circles under his eyes as he lifts his gaze up your bare thighs. You didn’t take his shirt to be particularly distracting; it was the only thing you could find in the darkness and eyes bleary with sleep. But he sighs as he looks you up and down. 

“Did the light wake you up? I’m sorry – I’ll go into the kitchen next time,” he shakes his head. “Those fucking chairs are murder on my back, but –,”

“Did you already sort by date? If they’re making specific drops, there might be a pattern.” 

You sit down on the other side of the paper half-circle surrounding him against the couch, taking up the files nearest you. He watches you in the low light, his mouth not yet curled up, but his eyes are bright.

“You don’t have to do this. You can go to sleep.”

“And those things’ll kill you,” you reply, not looking up. 

He chuckles softly and puts out the half burnt cigarette. With a sigh, he picks up a few papers, collecting them and handing them to you. You notice his piles have been organized by location so you include those in the groupings, your thumbnail in your mouth as you try to see a higher pattern, a more digestible informational system. Head down, you miss the faint grin splitting his mouth open. 

With a groan, he eases up onto his feet. As he passes by you on his way to the kitchen, his fingertips trail up your shoulder, ghost up your neck, intertwine with the loose ends of your hair, nails offering a hint of pressure against the back of your skull where he knows it makes you whine. 

You arch your back up against his leg, your head against his thick thigh covered in jeans, his touch encouraging a feeling that oscillates between warm pleasure and hot arousal. Your eyes slipping close, he thumbs the line where your hair meets the skin of your forehead.

“You know I’ve cut back,” he hums quietly. 

“Mhmm, on the days that don’t end in ‘y’.” He massages the rigid bend of your skull behind your ear and you bite back a moan.

“Are you going to tell me next that I drink too much? Sleep too much?” His eyebrow arches lazily, his tone answering his own question, as he drops the pad of his finger tip across your forehead. 

You crack open an eye to look up at him. He’s smiling. 

“You know sleeping in until noon is excessive.”

He snorts. “Everything in excess is bad.” Javi’s grip slides down your cheek, his middle finger pressed against the corner of your mouth. He taps once. “Except you.”

Inhaling the warmth and burn of the cigarette still between his fingers, you reach under the cuff of his jeans to his ankle. Fine hair, just above, a dusting over the arch of his foot.

“Will it help you sleep?”

“Does that matter?” 

You dig your nails into the soft skin under his ankle. “I want you to sleep.” 

His dark eyes harden, an exposed vulnerability tugging at the corners of his eyes, his mouth, making him look younger than he is. 

“I don’t know if I can. But I want to try.”

You nod, satisfied with his sincerity. Another reward for knowing Javier the man and not only the agent; he never lied to you.

He breathes through those parted pink lips as you tuck your legs underneath you and roll up onto your knees. He stands there, an observer, as you rub your palm up his thigh, the muscles tense in anticipation and exertion. Your eyes caught with his as though tied together, you cup his half-hard length through his jeans, intentionally pressing the zipper into his growing erection. Javi swallows, a grunt so obviously caught in his throat. He doesn’t want you to have that just yet, he wants you to work for it. He needs you to make it rough. 

You unbutton his jeans, fingers grazing the trail of hair that sinks beneath the waistband. He barely twitches. You unzip, the sound almost strikingly loud in the silence, over the distant wailing of sirens, over the almost buzzing heat of Bogota. You drop his gaze, wanting to watch this part, your lower muscles cramping in excitement. Javi breathes sharply through his nose when you reach in and bring out his cock.

In the days of Machismo Javi, there was a secret office bet going around about what his cock looked like. Shape, color, length, girth – there was money to be made all around. You are pleased to say that no one ever got it right.

Flush, darker than his skin, but redder than his nipples, you can honestly say you drool at the size of it every single fucking time. 

You swallow, your mouth flushed with spit.

“Hey, save some of that for me.” Oh, the bastard is smug. But his touch is tender, affection as he rubs his thumb under your bottom lip. 

You eye him as his grows, lengths, aroused by just you looking at him. You nip at his thumb, hands squeezing his thighs.

“Yes, sir.” 

You aren’t sure if the noise he makes comes from your words or the fact that you swallow him nearly to the hilt in one go. Fully erect in your mouth, hot and pulsing, Javi’s eyes roll back in his head and he drops his head against his shoulders. 

“Oh, fuck, baby, that fucking mouth on you,” he groans. 

You breathe out through your nose, pleased at his reaction. You shift higher on your knees, the pressure between your legs already verging on uncomfortable. There is a reason you loved riding him; with this fucking cock, it felt like he was going to split you open, his feet planted, hips bucking up into you.

Fuck. Focus. 

You drag your mouth back, taking time to drag as much spit and drool along his length as possible. You come to the end, swirl your tongue as if you are sucking up the curve of an ice cream cone against the thick vein underneath his cock and he audibly moans, the sound like the plates of the earth shifting to relieve volcanic duress. 

His hands fly to your hair, his hips bucking to chase the heat of your mouth, but your hands at his thighs hold him back. 

“Fuck, sorry.” 

You accept his apology with the tip of your tongue catching on the head of his cock – he trembles under your palms – before taking him in half way, then all the way, then halfway again. You fuck him with your mouth like he fucks your cunt. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching your scalp. 

“Tha’s it, suck my cock, baby, suck it.” 

You slide all the way down, your tongue rubbing against the ridges, your cheeks hallowed in, your mouth a vacuum seal, and your nose brushes the short, harsh hairs around his groin. And then you do, indeed, suck. 

His hips lurch forward, you are expecting that, knowing exactly what that does to him, but still, he pounds the back of your throat and you gag, mouthful of him. Your eyes water, lashes suddenly wet, but he wipes them with his thumb, turning your jaw up to look at him.

Eyes pitch black, mouth agape, chest heaving, Javi looks like you could ask for the moon and he’d go out and find his best lasso. He swallows, the air jagged as he gulps it down. 

“Eres tan sucia. Lo tomas sin que te lo pida. Te lo tomas tan bien.”

You can’t help but grin, spit dribbling around the corner of your mouth. He’s started speaking rapid, almost unintelligible Spanish, it won’t be long now. 

He continues spewing filthy dirty things at you so you drop your jaw out of his grip, pull back out all the way, a string of spittle caught between your lips and the head of his cock, and kitten-lick the precum from his flushed skin. He punches out a groan. With your hand thoughtfully placed on the inside of his thigh, you lick him again, tug his balls just barely, and then release your jaw to swallow him entirely. 

His knees buckle, a pink flush erupting up his chest, and he spews down the back of your throat with such force, you gag again. But you hold on, your nails digging into his jeans, eyes streaming until he stops, his hips slow in their thrusting, his fingers tightly latched on the crown of your head. 

You can’t really understand him but you catch phrases in both Spanish and English as his body relaxes.

Oh my god

Holy shit

Fuck fuck fuck

Oh my god

You drag back mindfully of his sensitivity, your cheeks and jaw damp with tears. You finally swallow when he’s gone from your mouth, but it’s too much and his cum leaks out of the corner of your mouth. 

“Oh, baby, what a fucking mess.”

He drops to his knees, wiping your lips clean with his thumb. He sucks his own thumb once before dropping his mouth to kiss you hotly on the mouth. Javier was always better at using his body, his actions to express how he feels than using words, and you can practically taste the praise, the appreciation, the awe he transfers in that kiss. 

He’s shaking a bit when he pulls back. He continues back, pulling you with him until you’re both on your backs, looking up at the popcorn ceiling. 

His thumb is tracing lazily whorls on the back of your neck.

“If you think those chairs on murder on your back, this floor is going to annihilate you.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in his chest beneath your palm. 

“I know, cariño.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” 

He rubs his face as he sits up. You follow him and take his hand, intertwining your fingers. He looks at your hand in his, contemplative as ever. But the storm clouds often present in his eyes aren’t there. He looks, shockingly, relaxed. 

He nods.

“I’m willing to try.”