#elvis and kathy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chronically-ghosted · 1 year ago

Text

there ain't enough room in this Pontiac for the two of us

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

summary: 1. No sex. 2. No touching yourself. 3. No orgasms. 4. No murdering your annoying DEA partner. (A Javier Peña-shaped rift on this iconic fic)

tags/warnings: smut, dubcon/noncon elements, hand jobs (f receiving), no use y/n, javi being sexually frustrating as hell, time period compliant sexism (not from Javi)

a/n: please go read the original fic. Her’s is far superior to mine and this is but a shameful hollow echo.

🤍 AO3 Link

🤍Series Masterlist | Next |

🤍Masterlist

Bogota

11:23PM

Back before you willingly and eagerly joined the special task force between several unruly government organizations created with sole and express purpose to hunt down and catch the cartel king Pablo Escobar – before you applied to the DEA on the highest recommendation of your law professor, your criminal psychology professor, and the dean of admission, all whom believed your talents, (despite the unfortunate accident that you were a woman) would have a deep and profound impact on catching those responsible for the deaths of thousands worldwide – hell, even before you applied to Stanford and you spent your free time oscillating between color guard, JROTC, and retaking your practice SATs and ACTs until you got nearly a perfect score so that the realization that you didn’t have one single friend in the world to distract you from your single-minded almost obsessive focus to prove yourself, despite all your faults –

Before all of that –

If someone had discreetly taken you by the arm, gently sat you down, and told you what a perfect and deluded idiot you would make of yourself on a seven hour stake out on a dark, rainy night in the capital of Colombia, well, you probably would have laughed them out the door.

You aren’t one really predisposed to bouts of uncontrollable, side-splitting, “I’m laughing so hard I’m afraid to take a breath out of fear of the noise that’s going to come out of my nose” laughter, but if someone allowed you to take a good, long, healthy look at one of your more unhealthy habits – that, of course, being your almost toxic levels of competitive behavior – you might have been prone to at least one giggle.

The thing was, you really didn’t lose. Ever. You didn’t back then and you don’t now and your tenacious, unbreakable will made you not only a formidable and dogged DEA agent, but it also (and perhaps more importantly) made you a social, professional, and absolutely mental equal to men like Javier fucking Peña.

Javier Peña, whom women would literally melt into a puddle around, whom men would clamor over themselves just to get a drink with. He’s just so fucking cool, you overheard one of the office interns mutter to another, just look at him. That was also the day you spilled coffee down your entire blouse because you squeezed your styrofoam coffee cup too hard, but that was an entirely unrelated matter.

Whatever sway Peña seemed to inflict over the panties of every woman in the building, you resolutely stayed immune. When you first joined, it had been easy to avoid him. So much so, you were completely flummoxed when the man with the name you’d heard whispered in the hallways, finally made his way over to your side of the building for a meeting with your boss. He walked in with a badly-fitted suit, bags under his eyes, the reeking stench of day-old cigarettes, but by the reactions of the phone girls, you’d thought Elvis himself had just emerged from his coffin and began performing “Hound Dog” topless in bedazzled pants.

This? This is “The Guy”? The guy that women on your floor would spend their entire lunch breaks in the bathroom comparing stories over – “yes, Kathy, I heard his dick really is that huge!” “Yes, Shannon swears he made come for hours just with his tongue!”

Him?

Really?

Was it just slim pickings between married men and wheezing senators?

Never meet your heroes, I guess.

That was back in the late 80s. Back before the bombings and the kidnappings and the mutilated bodies of journalists.

Things had changed. Significantly.

Once things had gotten – let’s just say, dire – the agency started moving around teams, prioritizing certain missions over others. Which meant not only were you taken off a case you had just spent the better part of a year and a half building, but you were reassigned to a new team. Co-led by the one and only Javier. Fucking. Peña.

Now, Javier didn’t like the rain, especially not after a seven hour stake out. You knew this because every time it rained, he stormed into the pen, snorting like an enraged bull, his hair wet and his shoulders damp. Why the man couldn’t just simply go out and pick up an umbrella, you didn’t feel the need to ask. But it set your teeth on edge that a grown adult would be so annoyed by something that had such a simple solution. More than once you thought about hurling your own umbrella like a javelin at him, but your fighting matches had become legendary around the office and you refused to be provoked again by Javier’s own arrogance.

But that’s what started all of this, right?

You, with your white-hot competitive streak, and him, with his over-inflated ego, clashed again and again – until finally about the one thing both brought you a sense of pride: your sex lives.

Annoyingly, this was proving more difficult than you anticipated.

Thumbing the rim of your third lukewarm coffee of the night, you sigh, long and loud, not entirely regretful of the choices that led you here, but simply rather irked that someone had come along and finally proved to be a real challenge.

“Shut it.”

“Excuse me?”

Javier, who had been sitting next to you for the better part of the past seven hours, his long legs tucked up around the bulky wheel of the black Pontiac Firefly the agency had rented for this mission, continues to scowl through the dark and the rain at the spot where you had tracked one of Pablo’s higher ranking enforcers. A gambling den on the first floor, and a brothel in the basement, most men you tailed here spent only a few hours betting and fucking, before wandering back home, probably a little drunk and significantly less horny. But this guy – fuck – did he have the stamina of an Olympic athlete?

What had begun as a quick follow up to some intel your team received earlier in the week had turned into one of the longest and most unbearable nights of your life.

“I said, shut it.”

Your mouth drops open. “I am literally just breathing, Javier.”

“Yeah and you’re doing it too loud.” He takes a sip from the coffee between his legs then resumes his hunched, crossed arm position. “It’s annoying.”

Huffing, you sink lower in your seat, as much as the surveillance equipment and evidence boxes around your legs would allow.

“This is so stupid,” you grumble.

“This is basic DEA work, sweetheart. If you can’t cut it, I’m sure I can find someone – literally anyone – else to take your spot. Sarah’s always been eager to spend some extra time alone with me. Or what about Mac? You two get along right? Who am I kidding? You get along with e-e-everyone–,”

It is infuriating he knows exactly where to poke and prod to supercharge your competitiveness as well as your jealousy.

“I’m not talking about the sting, Javier! I’m talking about your need to always be in control. I’m talking about how, just because you can’t get your fucking rocks off, you’ve been sniping at everyone in the building.” You scowl and lean as far away from him as you can in the cramped hatchback. “Making everyone’s lives hell because you haven’t gotten your dick wet in a month.”

“Oh, sure, I’m the only one being a fucking nuisance in the office,” he sneers, scratching at his forehead with his thumbnail. “After your little meltdown at the copier machine, I think Mark from accounting would rather fist-fight God than have to ask you for a stapler again.”

You snatch up the used napkins in the cupholder between you and shred it to pieces. You chuck the little bits at him as you snap back,

“The. Stapler. Was. Right. There! He. Was. Being. Stupid!”

“Stop it! You’re going to get it in my coffee!”

With a snarl, you hurl the mangled rest of the napkin at him and he swats it out of the air. It rolls over the dashboard, fluttering in the AC that was doing absolutely nothing to combat the sticky humidity.

He did this to you. He always did this to you. Made you feel like a silly child, an overly emotional brat, for pointing out things he did time and time again. Why was he allowed to get away with it and you weren’t?

In the temporary silence, the rain patters loudly on the roof of the car. Headlights emerge from the gloom and disappear as the few unlucky caught out in this deluge run from awning to awning with magazines, newspapers, or umbrellas tucked over their heads. It had been raining for hours and it seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

You aren’t sure which irritates you more: the humidity or the stickiness gathering on the crotch of your panties.

It had been there for days, constant, a reminder, no matter how often you changed them out for some temporary escape. Your thighs tightened as close as they could, but a large storage box split your legs apart.

“You know,” Javier begins softly, almost contrite, gentle in a way you’d never heard before. He's pinching the edge of his coffee cup with his fingers, resolutely not looking at you. “If this bothers you so much, you can just quit. Call it off. No hard feelings.”

You snort. He really is the most ridiculous man alive.

“Yeah? You’d get the satisfaction of finally coming, after being hard for at least – what, a month, month and a half? – and half my next paycheck? I don’t think so.” You adjust in your seat, your left hip starting to ache from the position you’ve been maintaining for seven hours. “Well, the money’s one thing. But I think I’d rather be physically shot than have to listen to you parade around the office, gleefully spilling secrets about me as your latest conquest, bragging to all your little buddies around the water cooler how you finally bested that bitch in the bullpen. At that point, I’d rather we just actually fuck. At least that way I can finally understand what the fuck has the secretaries all in a goddamn hissy fit over.”

After nearly a third of the day spent next to you, he finally tears his gaze away from the target and looks at you. His dark eyebrows drawn down, plush lips frowning, he’s unnervingly serious. You wonder if you actually managed to make him genuinely angry.

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t brag about you to anyone, even if you lost. And I especially would never if you let me fuck you.” Let me? Now that’s a turn of phrase you definitely won’t spend hours thinking about. His frown deepens as he glances down to his coffee cup. “People – women – like to talk, but I never say anything, to anyone. I don’t encourage it, but it feels like I’m the one being checked off a list. Like I’m a space on a fucking bingo card. It’s rude.”

Gobsmacked into silence, you watch as he cranks down the window for just enough space to chuck his (and yours) empty coffee cups out onto the wet road beside the car. You let him tug it out of from between your legs without a single line of snark.

Your brain finally comes back online when the window squeaks back into place.

Hang on a second – did you really just feel bad for the office casanova? That little shit manipulated you into actually feeling sorry for the dozens of women he willingly brings home then turns out like used toilet paper. You can feel that decades old hate and disgust crack open and boil in your stomach.

“Well, hey, Javi, here’s an idea. Just stop fucking the women you work with. If it bothers you so much, then stop fucking women entirely!”

“I did! I have done that and I am!” He gestures wildly with his hands, palms out as if in supplication. “Everyone in the office – including Noonan, I’m pretty sure – knows about this stupid fucking bet and for once, it’s been great to have an excuse to not have to hold up my expectation of being a great lay!”

You will not allow yourself the time to fully process the idea that not only is Javier Peña grateful to not have to fuck a skirt, but it’s you he’s doing it for, so you snarl back, as you always do.

“Then what? What’s got you so fucking wound up, if your poor dick needs a break from getting sucked?”

With a groan that starts somewhere in his lower ribcage, he falls forward into the steering wheel, his forehead on the rim.

“I’m not saying that, alright? It’s actually been nice to have my bed to myself for a bit. But Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.”

Don’t.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the way he says it. Like it’s holy.

The warmth of the humidity in the car ratchets up as your heart starts to race, your palms sweat. You wonder vaguely if there’s condensation on the inside of the windows. He shouldn’t be allowed to get you so wet by just saying the word. You swallow, clawing back that familiar anger until you feel in control again.

“So then go get it.” You wave your hand around the dark streets of Bogota. “Just go out there and end this thing once and for all. God knows I’m sick and tired of having to listen to you roll around, grunting and huffing, with a hard-on so big I can almost hear it.”

“What are you so mad at me for?” He snaps up, a much more palatable rage in his eyes. “All of this – the bet, the rules, the fact that you actually included wet dreams – you decided on!”

“You’re the one who demanded you move into my apartment for the entire duration of this hell! You’re the one who went out and bought two twin beds like a fucking maniac and made me take out my bed to put in your little torture devices to make sure neither of us cheated off the clock!”

“And you agreed to it! I’m not the only insane one here! Sometimes I think you do it on purpose – kicking and fighting with the sheets, moaning in your sleep, rubbing yourself up on the mattress. Twice now I’m pretty sure I’ve gone blind in one eye, listening to all that and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it.”

You scoff, but now slightly uneasy. You’ve been moaning in your sleep? Fuck. Taking down your overbearing and egotistical coworker a few pegs was one thing. Becoming roommates with him was something else entirely. About two weeks in, he had come out of the bedroom without his shirt on – he’s been doing that more and more lately – and you had to sit in the bathroom with your hands clamped around the toilet seat for ten minutes straight to keep from finger-fucking yourself on the living room coffee table.

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t want to install cameras in the shower just to make sure I’m not jacking off in secret. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there, Javi. You touch yourself once and I win, Javi. Stop looking at my ass when I’m wearing less clothes than a Victoria Secret model, Javi.”

“It’s summer in Bogota, you jackass,” you snipe, particularly ruffled by his high-pitched affectation of you. It stings more than it should because it sounds exactly like the shrill harpy all your male coworkers make you out to be. “What do you want me to wear?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, something terrifying like a smirk crawling across his perfect mouth and you feel the safety of annoyance crumble out from under you. He really is so fucking pretty.

“A puffy snowsuit would be lovely, actually. Arms, legs, all wrapped up. Cover your gorgeous hair in a hat too, if we’re at it. But if I knew you’d wear what I bought you, all you had to do was say so. Women always say I have excellent taste.”

You sigh, again, irritated and desperate to relieve that fist of tension in your shoulders, that gently knotting warmth between your legs. You wonder how much rubbing your crotch with the seam of your jeans you could get away with before he’d say something.

No, fuck, shit – focus. You’ve got to get a grip. This is just like those long night study sessions at the academy. All you had to do was buckle down and get serious about this. Sleep deprivation and curtailing your basic instincts didn’t scare you. You had been outlasting men like Javier your entire life and you weren’t about to get weak-kneed now.

And then something occurs to you that you hadn’t really considered before.

You had been so caught up in your own denial, in fighting your own need to hump your pillow even for a bit of relief – you hadn’t stopped to think what this might be doing to him.

Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.

Here's a crack in his resolve and you had seen it. Just for a minute. But it's there. You didn’t have to win so much as to make him lose.

Javier Peña. Nowhere to go and having nothing to fuck made him a very dangerous man. One you could easily exploit. However, and as much as it physically pained you to admit, Javier was smart. Blind-sided by his own horniness, or not, if he caught wind of you purposefully stacking the odds against him, there was no telling what he’d do in retaliation.

For a moment, your sex-deprived brain lounges in the idea of the many forms his retaliation might take.

No – Focus. You lick your lips, wrenching your gaze to the ceiling of the car. You had to be very careful about this.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Go at it from the side. Around back while his attention is focused elsewhere. This was fucking guerilla warfare tactics. Placate him with submission. “I didn’t realize my outfits were bothering you. It’s just . . . it’s been so hot lately. I feel like I wake up, drenched wet in sweat, and it’s just too much still. And then, with this bet, sometimes I wake up and between my legs, I’m so –,”

A fist slams against the inside of the window so hard and so loud it makes you jump. His shoulders hunched, the fist in his lap tight and white-knuckled, he doesn’t even fully open his mouth when he snarls, “Do not . . . under any circumstances . . . finish that fucking sentence.”

He’s breathing heavily, breath skipping between his ribs, and you know you’ve got your opening. Your bottom lip drawn in between your teeth, you’re as much transfixed by his control visibly slipping as you are secretly, darkly thrilled to hear him make those noises. He breathes for a few more times, eyes closed. The sound of rain makes another appearance.

His hands come up to wrap around the steering wheel, as if he were picturing something else flexing beneath his palms.

“I know what you’re doing, or what you think you’re doing. But it’s not going to work. It’s just going to make me mad and I am not above hauling you over my lap and spanking you for being such a tease.”

You aren’t sure what shorts out your brain first: the fact he caught on so quickly, or the mental image he’s painting – and how much you fucking love it. God, when did it get so hot in here? You can feel sweat pooling along the ridge of your spine, under the cups of your bra. As though reading your mind, he shucks off his notorious brown jacket and hurls it into the back seat. Your toes curl in your boots. He’s wearing that white linen shirt that expertly shows off the cut of his biceps, his forearms and is more appropriate for a beach trip in Hawaii than the mean streets of Bogota. In his movement, his infamous sunglasses clatter against his stomach – if he just buttoned his collar all the way up like any man with an ounce of decency, they wouldn’t get in the way as much. You want to tell him that, correct him yet again, but now you can see the sweat shine in his clavicle, skin slightly pink and feverish over the hollow of his throat. You had no idea you affected him this much.

“You’re right. This is ridiculous.” He huffs, tossing back his glasses too before flopping back against the seat. “This can’t be healthy, at least. Edging ourselves for weeks at a time. I keep seeing tits in the clouds.”

“So then end it already.” You don’t mean to sound breathless – it’s the opposite of what you want – but your heart rate still hasn’t settled over the idea of Javier spanking you till your ass is red. He’s so much bigger than you, broader. He’d do it rough, if you asked, you know he would. You really hate to sound like you’re begging, but maybe you are. His eyes snap open wide at your near whimper. “Javi, please. We’re not going anywhere. He’s been in there for hours and he’s not coming out any time soon. Just unbutton your pants – I can just watch you – drop your hand in your underwear and –,”

A hand that can cup you nearly from ear to ear flies across the console and claps over your mouth. Something’s changed about him. You can see it in his eyes. At this point in your partnership, you had become fairly good at identifying his emotions, given there were only a handful he ever cycled through: tired, irritated, bored, furious, frustrated, disappointed. But this . . . this is different. His shoulders still face forward, arm reached out over the console, but his thick eyebrows arch down, as if he’s considering something. His head is cocked slightly to the side. You have to stop yourself from breathing in a sigh when his tongue wets his bottom lip.

“I’ll willingly lose this godforsaken bet on one condition,” he rasps out. His hand is warm, all consuming, you can barely breathe under it. You train your entire focus into the way his hair flops over his forehead to keep from whining at what his deep voice does to your lower half. Your muscles clench and your neglected pussy drools. Fuckin’ traitor. “And the condition is, that after this is done, after this fucking doomed stakeout is finally over, I drive us home and you let me rail you against our couch. How does that sound?”

You squeak, once. That’s it, but you can already feel that tell-tale hum, that warmth that almost itches, taking root below your stomach. His eyebrows arch in surprise, in victory, that smirk threatening to make an appearance. Your nails dig into the pleather seat – you want to thrash back, to get out from under the weight of his hand, to snark back a litany of responses that are not only mean but belittling – but you don’t.

You know he can feel you swallow and his eyelids hover halfway as he licks his bottom lip. He shifts, elbow now pressing against the back of the seat, his weight leaning forward, almost pressing down on you. His other hand is dangerously close to your knee.

“I’d make it good. I’d make it so fucking good, I swear. I’ll get down on my hands and knees and eat that wet little pussy for as long as you want. Lick and suck that attitude right out of your cunt.”

The car is too small, too cramped. Heat is washing over you in waves and the ache between your thighs is burning. With him this close, you can smell his cologne, the cologne that you rib him endlessly for because you’ve watched women inhale it like a pheromone as he passes down the hall. The scent now floods your senses, choking out everything that isn’t him, and your fingers dig up around his wrist, to pry him off you. You can feel sweat trickle down your temple onto his pinkie over your cheek. He watches it with his eyes, hungry and ready to devour. You have to wrestle back some semblance of control, or else your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

With all the strength left over from keeping yourself from bucking your hips up into the center console, you shove him back across the car.

“You fucking . . . stay over there,” you croak, gulping down air as if you had been deprived. He sprawls back, arms outstretched across the window ledge and the back of his seat. “Don’t ever fucking t-touch me again. Those things y-you said. I should report you–,”

“Why?” he chuckles. “You liked it. Thought you were going to eat me there for a minute . . . and I would’ve let you.”

It’s remarkably easy how your white-knuckled, lightning-sparked anticipation for him to do exactly what he said he’d do quickly morphs into a near-blinding rage. He doesn’t get it – he still doesn’t get it – he thinks this all a fucking game, when every minute of every day, your entire self-worth was put on the line.

But this is how you danced with him – right up to the edge, barking, screaming, yelling, then when it got real, or even almost real, you backed down. And he knew it.

“You really deserve someone who knows what they’re doing,” he continues. He folds his arms across his chest, grinning wildly. “Maybe that would teach you to be nice. Is that why you’re so nasty all the time? Someone who cares about you to properly stuff up that sweet little pussy in the way you need it?”

You feel fire crackle up and down your spine, plunging low to lick your insides every time he muses about the state of your cunt, then sky-rocketing back into this rage you’ve built out like walls.

It’s your turn to twist in the seat, to push against the windows as if you could expand and break out from this twisted scrap of metal that kept you chained to him.

“This is not about sex, Javier.” Your teeth ache from grounding out the words. “This is about proving to every single man out there that I deserve to be here. That I’m not just some cock-struck idiot who falls to her knees just because you snap your fingers. I don’t care what you think I need or what you want to do to me. I don’t care because until I come out of this bet the winner, all they’ll ever see is a pair of tits who negs them to do their fucking jobs.”

That wipes the smirk instantly off his face.

His eyes go soft and that might be worse than when he threatened your cunt.

“You think I don’t respect you.” It wasn’t a question but a surprised, almost hurt, statement. He sits up as best he can while still facing you. You were both irate and appreciative that you didn’t have to put it all into words. Words that would make you, again, feel like an overly emotional wimp. Someone with feelings. “You think I’m doing this – that I’m still doing this – because I want to humiliate you.”

You wait in silence for the pricking in your throat to subside before continuing on. “Is that not why? To bend that bitch as far as she’ll go before she breaks so everyone can see how much of a child she really is?”

His nostrils flare. “That’s the second time you’ve called yourself that tonight and I won’t stand for a third. Do you understand?”

His protectiveness flares so fast you aren’t quite sure what to do with it, so you nod.

“Good.”

Javier turns back around, his knees spread outright around the edge of the steering wheel, and picks the packet of cigarettes from underneath the radio. He wheels down the window again, rain spitting inside the inner ledge, and he lights up for the first time all night. His breath is shaky as he exhales through the crack he made. You can’t stop staring at the shine against his throat. What was rain and what was sweat? The golden lights from the store fronts and shops make the curls around his neck glow.

“I’m sorry that by fighting with you, I made you feel inferior. If you can believe it, I actually respect the living shit out of you and I . . .” He taps out ash before dropping his gaze to his lap. “That was never my intention, but Christ alive, you drive me crazy.”

If anyone ever asked, with a gun to your head, what was the one thing that immediately turned you on, you would without question answer with: Javier’s voice. How deep it got when he barked orders. How stern and serious it was when he directed raids and stationed soldiers. How playful it could be when you stopped trying to claw his eyes out.

He inhales slowly, thoughtfully, before blowing out again, fully turning his shoulders away from you as if something he is ashamed to admit is crawling up his chest into his mouth. He presses back against the seat, his unoccupied fingers tapping on his thigh.

“I think you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever met,” he confesses quietly. “Which should be the only opinion that matters, actually. I don’t say that to be egotistical – this bet isn’t about them. It’s between you and me, so fuck them. They’re all idiots and you know that. They know you know that and that’s why they want to take you down. Some men can’t stand it when a woman is smarter than them.”

Your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth. There is a heady mixture of pride, relief, and lust swirling lower and lower. He thought you were one of the best agents he’s ever met. Your lower half tightens at the praise, especially coming from him. “And you? What do you think?”

Javier grins. He flicks the butt end of the cigarette out the window and rolls it all the way up as he says,

“It’s a fucking turn on, is what I think.” His hips adjust towards you, that obnoxious belt buckle gleaming in the low light. Do not look at his crotch. He presses the backs of his two fingers against his mouth as he watches you. “But I’m not going to let you win this bet because you flutter your pretty eyes at me.”

He knocks his temple against the headrest, gaze shamelessly sweeping up your thighs, your wrists – of course, your tits – your neck and then your lips. You had caught glimpses of this look from him before – when you were reporting to a room full of slobbering men with precision and direction, or when you kneed a suspect into the ground, pinning him down and cuffing him with the other hand or that one time you joined the game of volleyball at the agency picnic in nothing but a sports bra and swim trunks. But now, that unique Javi look that seemed reserved only for you, it barrels down on you in full force – not another agent or superior around the corner to drag his attention away. Without restraint, he let those dirty, nasty little thoughts spring into his mind and you can almost hear the moans you're making in his head.

The desire that had been reduced to a simmer suddenly flares up in a fever pitch. Between your legs, your cunt aches at the mere hint of attention.

“Javier, don’t,” you warn. You try to back away, try to cut the argument in half like you do in the office by storming away down a hallway or into the bathroom or your car. But you can’t. You’re pinned by proximity under the weight of his stare. You’re not even fighting with him and he’s making you angry.

Angry? God, leave it to fucking Javier Peña to prove to you that the line between rage and being outrageously turned on was a razor-thin edge.

“I’m not even doing anything, baby,” he croons. He rounds his shoulders as if trying to lean forward, cover himself with his body. If you couldn’t see the whites of his knuckles around his clasped hands, you would have feared you would have been making this all up. “I’m not touching you, just like you asked.”

“Thank you, Javi,” you squeak out. “Now, please let's just get back to–,”

“I could, though, if you change your mind.” His eyes follow a very predictable path up the curve of your throat. “I could touch you. Are you going to change your mind?”

Even now, on the knife edge, even when he has been extraordinarily honest with you, you can’t make yourself say it. Can’t ask for it.

“It’s against the rules.” Because she's a traitor to you, your cunt leaks when you meet his jet black gaze. You feel the sweat on your neck return so fast you shiver. “I will kick you if you come over here again.”

“You’re so mean to me but, fuck, I love it so much.” He smirks. With mounting horror, you watch as he lifts his hand, the same one that flew over your mouth, up to the lip of the center console. “Here I am pouring my goddamn heart out, and you want to resort to violence.”

Not so much cautious, but more with the slow, syrupy flow of direct and deliberate intention, he brushes the backs of his fingers against your thigh. You jolt back, a muffed gasp caught between your teeth, but you don’t move to snatch his hand away.

He watches your face for any hint of resistance. When he doesn’t find any, he continues, casually flowing the pads of his fingers from the top of your knee, all the way up to your hip.

“Do you wanna know what I think, baby?” He purrs. “I think, somewhere along the way, someone came along and really fucked you up. Hurt you beyond comprehension.” His touch is more insistent now, more of his fingers, his palm occasionally. His thumbs sweeps your inner thigh and your cunt clenches down onto nothing and your teeth ache in your head.

“Javier–,”

His eyes flutter for a minute at the sound of his name tearing through your mouth. “Fuck, you’re getting me distracted . . . what was I saying? Oh, yeah . . . I think someone fucked you up and like the fucking warrior you are, you built up safeguards to never let that happen again.” His eyebrow arches lazily as he palms your waist. By the sheer grace of God, you had tucked your shirt into your pants today, never wanting to give the men in the bullpen the satisfaction of an accidental flash of skin. But Javier just tuts at the intrusion. His knuckles digging into your skin, he pinches out the edge of your shirt, bit by bit. “Problem is, you kept building until you locked yourself in and now you don’t know how to get out. You don’t know how to ask nicely at all.”

His broad palm slides uninterrupted under your shirt, smoothing the rough pads of his fingers across your stomach, and then up to the underwire of your bra. That’s enough to jerk you out of this dizzying haze.

“Javi, you can’t–,” you squeeze your eyes shut, as tight as your cunt, as he threatens to brush his thumb over your teased nipple. “I–I don’t wanna – I don’t wanna lose –,”

“Fuck the bet, sweetheart. You can tell them I lost for all I care. Right now, I just wanna feel you gush between my fingers.”

He doesn’t even need to touch your tit to yank that first moan out of you, but the breeze of his thumb only elongates the noise. Your own hand claps over your mouth this time, to muffle half of that stifled sound.

“None of that now,” he purrs, switching the direction of his hand and going lower on your body. “It’s fine when we’re in public, but here, I want you hoarse from screaming my name as loud as you can.”

“Javi, please–,”

His hips twitch. Twitch so hard they jerk off the seat, the side of his crotch rubbing the steering wheel. His eyes roll back in his head.

“Juuust like that, baby. Keep saying my name just like that.”

His fingers don’t slow down as they breach the waistband of your pants. He didn’t even unzip you so his entire warm hand is shoved right up against your coarse, damp hairs.

“Fuck, is this sweat, baby, or is it from me? Please fucking lie if it's not and tell me it’s for me.”

The pad of his middle finger skims the top of your lips, terrifyingly close to your clit and you finally react. Your clit throbbing, your fingers clamp down on his wrist and he freezes. But he’s panting, breathing harshly across the seat.

“Don’t ask me to stop. Not right now. Please don’t –,”

Your hips buck into his palm and your head drops back against the window. You end up pressing him harder against you and you moan.

“It’s you, Javier, I’m dripping for you.”

“Shit,” he snarls and rubs himself against the steering wheel again, anything to relieve the pressure. His fingers slide around the edges of your puffy, swollen lips, skitters across your pulsating clit, and you nearly orgasm from the direct touch. You jerk back, the denial of your orgasm almost painful, but because your waistband binds him to you, his fingers come with you and you bump into them again. You almost cry out at the intrusion, but his hand is still.

“Can I touch you– c-can I put them inside you, baby – please?”

Tight-lipped, you shake your head furiously, muffling nuh uh between your teeth. He hisses darkly.

“This can’t possibly still be about this stupid fucking bet –,”

“I don’t – w-w-wanna lose – I-I-I don’t wanna lose –,” you swallow, voice breaking, and you yank his hand out from your soaking underwear. You can’t bear to look at his fingertips, assuming from the ocean between your thighs, they’ll come out pruny. But the ache doesn’t go away. It lingers, waiting and lurking for the next touch. It’s been denied too many times tonight. Your head spinning, you gasp for breath for the split second he’ll allow.

“You know, for such a smart woman, you really don’t get what’s best for you.” His other hand finally comes around and grabs your knee, pinning you apart with his broad hand and his other elbow as his fingers dive for the buttons of your pants. You try to shut your legs, but the box at your feet is immovable. “Just fucking relax and let me take you apart.”

“W-w-wait, Javier, that’s not–,”

His gaze pinning you down as much as his weight is, his fingers deftly unzipping your pants, sliding through the opening, and pressing up against your sodden panties. You gasp. It’s relief, painful, throbbing relief, but it comes at the cost of fire licking your spine.

“But that’s not what you need, is it, pretty baby? That’s only part of it. Touching is one thing, but you need someone inside of you, don't you? Need someone to fuck up into that pretty cunt.” Your pussy swollen, you fight to breathe as much as it to fight off your impending orgasm. “Just say thank you, Javi when we’re done, alright?”

Unrelenting and deaf to your cries, his fingers strip back your underwear and finally, finally, finally, he sinks two fingers into your hot, pulsating core. His shoulders shudder as you arch back, letting out a wail. Your thighs quake around the box in front of you.

“‘Is so good. So warm.” He slurs. His hand releases your knee and slides up your hip to palm as much of your ass as he can reach. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He inhales like he wants to haul you over the console into his lap, but that you resolutely cannot allow, because there would be no coming back from that. You can still see the other side of your orgasm, enough to stifle it back down, sequester it. He strokes your inner muscles, in and out, the wet sound obscene – you must be gushing – and he hums. “Listen to that, sweetheart. God, the things I could do with that. Put you over my fucking shoulder, for one.”

Your release is roaring at you, the razor-edge of pain and pleasure digging into the meat of your pussy, as you fight again to deny what you actually really want. You plant your heels, rolling your hips against his fingers because if you were going to fucking lose, you were going to be the one to make you do it. Not him.

And then unprompted, he retreats his fingers and all but shoves them into his mouth. His hips buck up again and he’s not breathing properly. You shudder at the loss of contact but at least the edges of your vision return. God, you’re not sure how much more you can take. But there is some respite, even for a moment. Javi seems to have momentarily forgotten how close he had come to winning.

Saliva and your thready cum dripping from between his lip, Javier sucks on his fingers as if someone were threatening to cut off his hand. His hips bump lazily, distractedly, against the steering wheel as his other hand white-knuckles his knee. He licks his wrist up to the meaty side of his palm, never one to waste excess.

“Fuck, fuck, f-f-fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. The sight has you flushing again. “I’m gonna eat that cunt whole if it’s the last thing I do. Gonna put you in my lap and bounce you on my cock until you beg me to let you –,”

“Come.” You command, sanity finally snapping as you use the same voice to scold rowdy students at the academy or talkative agents in a presentation. It’s forceful, direct, and you are hoping that it throws him off enough to do exactly that. Come, so you win fair and square. Because that means you can finally come too.

It works.

Or it nearly does.

Javier’s spine goes rigid, hips still, his soaked fingertips hovering inches from his wet lips. His eyes snap open and oh, shit, you’ve done it now, you’ve really done it now. His once blissed out face contorts into that scowl of primal determination that only comes down for raids. For meetings with sketchy CIs. Moments when lives are at stake.

“What did you just say to me?” The growl is more gnarled wolf than human. You immediately back up as far as the car will allow, the front of your pants still undone.

“Javi, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry –,” By his expression, you half-expect him to throw open the door, storm around to your side, yank you to your feet and start fucking you against the car window. Your cunt is throwing a fucking riot at this point. She’s so pissed at you, she’s squeezing so tightly, you think she’ll suck the air right out of you. “I wasn’t thinking – i-i-it just slipped out –,”

He unbuttons two more of his buttons on his shirt and you think, deliriously, he’s going to take his shirt off, but no, he’s just letting more heat escape. More steam rise from his sweaty back. He seems to grow, fill out, until he takes up the entire front seat of the car.

“Please, please, don’t make me come, Javi.” You cry, shrinking back as far as you can. You might actually die from this. From him or a lack thereof. Either way, Javier Peña is going to destroy you.

“I should leave you alone, you know.” He growls. “I should just leave you there to fucking drool into your jeans, smart little cunt knotted up so tight, I could breath on you and make you come. The kind of shit you pulled tonight, you fucking deserve to suffer. But I’m not going to do that and you know why?”

Without warning, his hand snatches around your wrist, yanking you up against the center console. He’s right, you’re so fucking close, the movement rubs you wrong and you squeak again.

Slowly, with superhuman restraint, his nose delicately strokes the underside of your jaw by your ear, then down your neck, as if inhaling the goosebumps that burst out across your skin. You shudder. “J-J-Javi, p-p-please –,”

His other hand slides back up under your shirt, his fingers slotting in between your ribs, your back as arched as it can go. He feels you breath shakily and he closes his eyes. His next words are so soft, spoken so close to your cheek, you can feel the hairs there vibrate with the frequency of his voice.

“I’m not going to do that because I want you to know exactly what the fuck has the secretaries in a goddamn hissy fit over. I want you to think of me and me only every time you try to open your legs for anyone else. I want you to cry in frustration every time you can’t make yourself come with just your fingers because they’re not mine – they’re nowhere close to mine – and I want you to scream in frustration when I don’t pick up the phone. After tonight, I’m going to ruin you for everyone else.”

He pauses, as if expecting an answer, but he couldn’t possibly think you are capable of responding, of dredging actual human thought up out of the murk he held you under. His lips drag gently over the arc of your cheek as he leans into your ear. His voice rumbles and you whine, embarrassed, at the sound alone.

“Because that’s what you’ve done to me.”

No, no, that can’t possibly be right – it’s a trick. It’s a trap. It’s a lie. Javier Peña can’t actually be –

And then, in that same, slow timbre of voice, Javi says,

“I’m gonna finger-fuck you now, okay?”

Any chance of fighting back, of arguing still, is obliterated when his hand shoots back down between your thighs, surges past your underwear, and hooks his fingers up inside you again. This time it’s fast, he’s not waiting for you to gather your sense, he’s going to split you open, here in this fucking Pontiac.

The force of his thrusts make your spine turn to ooze and you drop forward onto his shoulder.

Fine. It’s fine. You’ll fucking lose. Who cares about your precious pride?

You don’t realize you’re whimpering in time with his fingers until you try to say his name. He cups the back of your head, reverently, as he spews more filth into your ear. As if the lewd noises he’s evoking from your pussy isn’t enough.

“I’m going to take care of you, you little sweet cunt. I’m going to take care of you the way no one else has. That’s right, that’s a good little pussy, squealing for me. Hmm, tell me, does she like this?”

His thumb merely brushes your clit, the lone survivor in all of this, and your hips jolt in his hand. He holds you steady against his shoulder. Your fingernails dig into his bicep.

“Oh, yeah, she does. Of course, she does. I can do that for as long as you like, alright?”

That white heat curls your body inwards, tearing your mouth open, and sending your eyes to the back of your head. “JaviJaviJaviJavi – please –,”

He tsks into your ear. “You keep saying that but you never tell me what you’re begging for.”

It’s coming. It’s staggering. It eclipses everything and it’s just out of reach. You feel it start to expand and after all this time, it’s actually a fucking relief to give yourself over. To let yourself be rent asunder by something this huge and overwhelming.

His fingers, the ones not rocketing you towards the biggest orgasm of your life, gently wind up into your hair, sweetly caressing the soft skin behind your earlobe. His voice is quiet, coaxing, kind. His lips almost kiss the ridges of your ear.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll tell you what to say. Say, Javi, I want you to make me come.”

“Javi, I–,”

There’s an explosion.

No, not like that. He’s not that good.

It’s a literal explosion in the street, with flashes of flames and heat that rattle the car. Alarms go off, your vision goes white – because of a pipe bomb stationed out underneath a car parked outside the part-time gambling den, part-time brothel. Javi’s arm flings out in front of you as the car is rocked from the impact. Flames lick the charred out husk of the front of the building. Only when your ears stop ringing, do you finally hear the screaming.

And then patter of bullets.

“Baby, get your gun and stay low!” He roars, as the windshield of the car behind you shatters, the popping of gunfire echoing the distance. He lunges back and grabs his jacket, fumbling for his gun. The panic in his voice shakes you awake and you dig into the glove box for your own handheld.

It’s a firefight for your lives, in the middle of the rain, in the middle of chaos and smoke.

It’s time to go to work.

🤍Part 2

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena smut #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x y/n #javier pena fic #javier pena one shot #javier pena x ofc #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier peña x you #narcos #narcos netflix

282 notes · View notes