#im so mad at bones rn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ravensmadreads · 1 year ago

Text

I'm... I'm not... I'm not talking to you-

I'm absolutely losing it. completely dead. done. absolutely no brain cells left. at all. nope. nothing in here at all. You kept saying it was bad bestie this is not bad this is MIND BLOWING?????

How dare you lure me here under false pretenses and then give me all these FEELINGS. The shock of the bombing, the whole chaotic moment of flashbacks, the feeling of being caved in in that interrogation room, javis worry, noonans care and yet still absolute no nonsense behaviour (literal chills i got when she said your country thanks you like fckkkkkk) the car ride back and javi hovering, that fear and frustration and exhaustion and the way you describe the smoke and the ash i wanted to literally climb out of my own skin bestie im not actually breathing as i type this I'm absolutely unhinged do you feel me cause im just losing brain cells so rapidly and oh my GODDDDDDD when javi started wrapping her hands and then he got mad and they started yelling at each other and the way they care so much but are so fucking stubborn and the freebie and the blushing javi and when he wouldn't stop and she kicked him away i was legit holding in a SCREAM and look here i go again!

FUCK YOU

I HATE YOU

ABSOLUTELY DESPISE YOU

When are you dropping the next fic

I might just sign over my soul

The smut ???? The smut ??? HOW WAS IT SO THEM AND SO HOT AND SO SO SO SO !!!!!!! Crying screaming hyperventilating !! Why do you always drop these things before i go to work and then i have to sit here for 12 freaking hours and marinate in this agony. Alone!

title: there ain't enough room in this twin bed in our shitty Bogota apartment for the two of us

rating: E (explicit - 18+)

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 13K 🫣

summary: after surviving the bomb, you and javier make it home to your apartment . . . and promptly pick up right where you left off in the car.

warnings/tags: canon typical violence, discussions of death/violence, oral (f receiving), piv sex, smut-smut-smut, edging, slight overstimulation, lots of feelings, no use of y/n

a/n: part two of Go On, I Dare Ya - the final chapter because writing smut for these two really wears me out

🤍AO3 Link 🤍Masterlist

🤍Part 1

There’s a ringing.

Smoke. Acrid and burning. It’s in your chest, your mouth, your eyes – is that why you can’t see? You cough and just breathe more in, inhaling nails that scrape your lungs. There’s a bright spot on your hip and back and palm – pain? – yes, that’s blood – fuck, where’s your gun? Why are you laying down?

There’s a ringing. A vibration. Like the world is made of brass and someone is tapping tapping tapping with their finger nail and you can actually feel the swelling ring –

There’s still smoke. Less now. Controlled. Intentional. But it still vaporizes the air in your lungs.

“Can you put that out?” You snap at the large fed standing by the doorway. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to you, frowning, as if you are being unreasonable. But eventually, your glare wins out over his and he, as if moving through molasses, reaches towards the metal table, and snuffs out the cigarette into a grimy ashtray.

You realize the ringing is someone speaking to you.

Noonan. She looks worried, pale, but determined. The lines around her mouth are sharp, distinct, as if someone with endless patience carved them out of her skin. She looks old, you think, an idea that doesn’t come to you very often, if at all. Her mouth is moving but you don’t really hear what’s coming out of it. You watch her lips move, they look like they’re made of rubber, flapping over an empty, black hole. White. Teeth. Bite.

Something warm touches your wrist and it’s like you’re sucked back into your body.

You blink, the overhead light of the empty interrogation room suddenly very bright, the scratch of the tape recorder as it rolls on in the silence. You can see yourself in the mirror over Noonan’s blue padded suit. God, you look terrible. Ashy, dirty, there’s a cut over your left eye and suddenly you’re aware of the blood there, the pain there, and in your hands and hips. By the pressure there, you know you’re going to have bruises if you don’t already. Your hands have bandages over them so you can’t see the damages, but the cloth scratches what feels like an open wound. How much blood is there?

Three sets of eyes watch you with varying mixtures of emotion. Noonan, verging on concern. The suit behind you – Ken Something – remains unimpressed. And –

The warmth on your wrist is Javi. Just the barest touch of his fingers. He gently says your name, your last name at least, and you hear it very, very clearly. You follow the bend of his fingers with your eyes, over his wrist, up his arm that has a large bandage just around the elbow, then up his shoulder – God, that white shirt is ruined, torn, bloodied, filthy – to his eyes.

Eyes you saw in the midst of all that smoke and fire. Panicked and white like searchlights. You remember him screaming your name – your first name – then.

He’s looking at you like he wishes you two are the only ones in all of existence.

“Agent,” he says softly but firmly, “the senator asked you a question.”

There’s a cut along the arch of his cheek and you want to touch it, but instead you turn back to Noonan.

“Sorry, I missed it. What did you say?”

Noonan glances at Javier, something about concern communicated, before interlocking her fingers on the table in front of her.

“I said, for the record, I’d like your account of what happened after the first bomb went off. We have Agent Peña’s and now I’d like yours.”

The microphone in front of your face feels invasive, like some streaker just flashed you before running off, giggling. You try not to scowl.

“The car bomb in front of the gambling den went off and blew out half the building. Agent Peña and I were fifty feet up the road at the intersection of Manacha and Comal. It had been a strictly routine follow up to a tip we received on Tuesday. The target, Edwardo Valasquez, was rumored to be meeting with one of the upper narcos so the mission was to watch where he went, to validate that claim. Peña and I had been tailing him all day. That night, in the car, we –,”

Your voice catches. The tape winds, black film consumed again and again. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Javier stiffen. The room still smells like smoke, but this time you can’t tell if it’s coming from your clothes or the ashtray.

You swallow. “We had been there for seven hours when the first bomb went off. The target didn’t come out before then and we didn’t see anyone mess with the rigged car. It was a trap.”

“Who do you think the intended targets were?” Noonan asks, interest overtaking the worry on her face. Those lines around her mouth go slack, and that no-nonsense senator is back.

“If someone drove it there and parked it, then most likely the target was Valasquez. It was dark, I couldn’t make out the faces of the men that drove it.”

Noonan writes something down on the yellow pad beneath her hands. “And the perpetrators? Who sent the bomb?”

“Cali.” You say simply. “They’re sending a message that no one is safe unless they’re with them.”

Noonan nods grimly. She fixes those hawk-like eyes on you again. “And the second bomb?”

“Insurance. I didn’t see it go off, but it looked like it was stationed at the exit behind us.”

“And where were you when the second bomb went off?”

You swallow, mouth filled with smoke, and it feels like, for a second, that your guts are oozing out onto the table. You cross your arms to hold them in.

“I don’t know. I was providing Agent Peña with cover when the explosion went off. There was a firefight, between the two cartels. Did I mention that? After the first bomb, the street erupted into an active warzone. They shot at us because they didn’t know who’s side we were on.”

Noonan chuckles darkly, writing down something again. “I think a bomb going off would be enough to classify the situation as a warzone, but I understand your point.”

She sighs and looks up. “We’re almost done. Just a few more questions. What happened after the second bomb went off?”

This is where it gets tricky.

You’d think after a second bomb to go off within twenty feet of the first that there’d be noise. So much noise, for so much chaos. That much destruction cannot go quietly. But of all the things you remember about tonight, the first thirty endless seconds after you opened your eyes, sideways on the pavement, hip bones grinding into the rocks and debris, gun out of your hands and lost to the smoke, those were thirty seconds of silence.

You know if given time, you could parse it out, you could construct something like a timeline. But now, in this yellow smoky room, you can’t quite put it together. You remember people, people bloodied, people dead, you remember something about gathering up an old woman in your arms and dragging her until something inside you told you to stop. You remember you couldn’t find Javier, and the sinking, horrific dread that clawed into your bones. You remember EMTs and lights and the scream of sirens and the fires and the smoke. But you don’t know the order.

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Noonan frowns. “Were you cleared for release?”

“I . . .”

You trail off, unable to find the words. You think you remember someone checking for a concussion. Yes, thick, square hands grasping your elbows, forcing you to look, look at him, are you okay, are you bleeding, are you hurt –

“Yes, Senator, she was.” Javier’s voice is smooth, collected. He has his arms crossed against his chest and his left knee is bouncing. You know that look. He’s about ready to start cracking heads for a cigarette. “I saw it personally myself.”

“Okay, but why –,”

“With all due respect, ma’am, it’s shock. Plain and simple.” You don’t understand why he’s taking that tone so you look at him. To everyone else, he appears bored, disinterested, eager to get out. But to you, he’s coming apart at the seams. His dark eyes haven’t left your face since you started speaking. “This was her first bombing.”

Something about his words breaks through this numb little box you’ve found yourself in and you can feel the grime on your face pinch your skin as you frown at him. His mouth flattens; what are you looking at me like that for?

“Is that true, Agent?” Noonan pulls your attention away from Javi.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Noonan rifles through a folder to her right, another line appearing between her eyebrows. “And reports say you helped at least five civilians to safety? You did that, while experiencing shock?”

“I –,”

“Yes, she did.” Javier cuts you off and leans forward onto his elbows. He’s closer than he was before and you smell the smoke on him. “This agent performed admirably under intense pressure and I am officially recommending her for commendation.”

“Javier –,” you hiss as the air in your lungs evaporates. He won’t look back at you.

Noonan raises an eyebrow before putting her pen to the pad again. “Noted, Agent Peña.”

“Please, don’t write–,”

“Is there anything else, Senator?” Javier’s knee is incessant, liable to knock over the entire table in a single twitch. With a sigh, Noonan reaches over and switches off the recording.

“No, Peña, there’s nothing else . . . for tonight. But you can bet your ass there’ll be a shitload of crap tomorrow. I wish I could tell you both to take tomorrow off, given the hell you just went through, but there’s already inquiries coming in from the press and the government. Both ours and Colombia. What a fucking nightmare . . .”

She stands, collecting the folder and pad. She stares at you and Javier with unreadable eyes, a thick wall of distance brought about by exhaustion and concern. A house of cards straining to hold up bricks.

“Go home. Eat. Shower. Sleep. As much as you can because tomorrow we hit the ground running.” You nod while Javier just watches her go, but she stops by the door, Lurch already moving down the hall. “And off the record, your country thanks you for your service.”

Your stomach knots and she leaves, her heels clacking as she goes.

“Ready to go home?” Javier’s eyes are dark, soft. He’s filthy and he holds his hand out to you. You stand without taking it.

“Yes.”

*~*~*

By the time, Javi parks his Jeep against the curb, you can feel a bone-deep ache settling in. Exhaustion is so palpable in the air you can almost taste it. Given five more minutes, you would have dropped your forehead against the window and gone to sleep. But you fought it. You drove back the aches and the dreams and the steady pull into a dark sleep because Javier was driving and if he is awake, so are you.

The car engine shuts off, the air still warm from the heat outside, and Javi’s door opens and shuts. You fumble with the handle, pop it back, and almost stumble into the street. But he’s there. As if he had been coming around to get your door for you.

You stumble down from his Jeep and his hands catch you around your shoulders, your waist.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs to a quiet street. This neighborhood in Botoga is empty this time of night, its residents asleep beneath blankets of darkness. His thumb rubs your waist once before letting go. You’re somehow upright and steady. His hand on your shoulder remains, grounding you, centering the unstable universe. “Can you walk?”

You nod and your eyes fall to his hand on your shoulder, so he lets you go. He watches you take two steps, then go up into the apartment building. He’s always close by, a shadow you could never lose.

He’s somehow even closer, more insistent, more there when you climb the stairs to your shared apartment on the second floor. If you breathe wrong, his hand will shoot out and snatch away whatever is causing you harm. You hear the jingle of keys behind you and you realize your purse is gone.

In the midnight blue hallway, it’s like he can see your thoughts as they cross over your eyes. He’s using his own key to unlock the door. “Everything recovered was taken in as evidence. Everything from the car and everything that was found. We can get it back tomorrow. I’ll talk to Noonan personally.”

What makes you so special with Noonan, you want to say. But you can just picture your keys and purse and everything you held important to you sitting exposed in the evidence locker for anyone to rifle through.

He pauses, as if expecting something from you, but when given only silence, he nudges open the apartment door with his shoulder and the familiar smell of home greets you in your time of need. It smells like the chilaquiles you made last week. It was Javier’s birthday and you didn’t forget and the look on his face when he walked in and instantly recognized the taste of home and –

He stands by the couch, taking up too much room, quietly thinking, the keys still in his hand. He’s so fucking broad.

With a sigh, he tosses the keys onto the coffee table and they clatter against the glass, the sound loud and ringing in the silence.

That heady mixture of fatigue and exhaustion slowly peels back from your brain like water receding from the sand when he tugs that filthy ruined shirt out of his waistband. He scratches the back of his head like he’s trying to knock a thought loose before pinching his eyes. With a huff, as though frustrated, he finally looks at you.

“You wanna take the first shower?” His voice is rough, attached to the back of a truck and spun in gravely circles.

It takes you a minute to realize he’s talking to you.

“Oh, I was, I was just going to go to sleep,” you say honestly. “Just pass out, face first, you know.”

You smile, hoping that might relieve the tension that’s winding up in his shoulders like a batter taking aim. But it doesn’t. In the dark, you can’t quite make out the expression in his eyes. But you do see the whites, like searchlights, seeking you out in the smoke.

“Don’t let it sit with you. Don’t . . . hold onto it.” You think you might know the “it” he’s talking about but you aren’t sure. But his tone lessens as he continues, “just at least rinse off. I wanna check your bandages before we go to sleep.”

The thought of Javier peeling back anything on you leaves you almost rooted to the spot. You want to move but you can’t. There’s a slow, expanding heat starting in your lower stomach, but you won’t acknowledge it. Won’t look at it directly. What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Javier–,” his name is strangled in your throat, this entire night living somewhere between your memories and your windpipe.

He’s over to you in a second, hands clutching your elbows, are you hurt, are you here – I can’t find you –

“What? What do you need? Do you need me to help you?”

“Help?” Your voice is barely a whisper. You wonder if you press your thumb to the hollow of his throat, if your skin would come back gray and dirty, and there’d be a clear spot over his skin. His chest fills your vision.

“Yes. Do you need help getting into the shower?”

Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.

The memory is so suddenly clear and loud and invasive you feel like you’ve slapped with the strength of it. You jerk out of his arms, scowling.

“No. No. It’s not that.” You physically lift your arm to keep him back. “No. I’m . . . just make sure the front door’s locked, okay? I’ll be out of the shower . . . in a minute . . .”

You stagger backwards and his nostrils flare, teeth grinding in his jaw, and his eyes carry the ache you feel in your bones.

“You’re in shock. Let me help you –,”

“I’m fine. Just winded.” Turning away from him, your fingers brush the wall to guide you in the etched darkness, the lines of things just barely visible. You slide out of your shoes as you go, unbuttoning your pants and not caring if he follows.

“Can I help you into the shower?”

“No.”

“Can I wait outside?”

“No.”

“Can I sit outside the door, with it open just a crack? In case you fall.”

The fact that that was a mere possibility ran you cold. You pause with your hand on the bathroom door, the zipper of your pants undone. He’s a shadow in the dark apartment, neither one of you reaching for the lights, but you know he’s concerned, coming from a place of care, not condescension, or ire, or disgust. Something about tonight scared the shit out of him.

You nod, allowing this one transgression, and go in before you see him move. As per his request, you leave a small crack in the door and then brace yourself for the light switch. You squint against the bright blaze, the pounding in your head flaring for a second as you slowly open one eye, then two, and your vision adjusts. You meet your gaze in the mirror and gasp.

“What? What is it?” His voice is panicked and you know if you don’t answer in a way that satisfies him, he’s going to break the door down.

“I’m fine, Javi. I’m just . . . I just saw myself in the mirror and I look like I’ve been run over by a semi-truck.”

Silence. “It’s not as bad as you think,” he says simply. You can almost picture him huddled up by the door, not daring to step into the strip of light. “A lot of it is swelling and that’ll go down soon. Give a day or two.”

That’s not really what you meant, but the sentiment from him is overwhelming and for the second time tonight, you struggle to find your voice.

“G-g-good to know.”

You smother his response by turning on the water behind you.

Hot. Scalding hot. You want to disintegrate into the steam. With your belligerent guardian hovering nearby, you unbutton your shirt and ease your jeans off down your hips. Everything was unsalvageable. You wonder if you could get a reimbursement for clothes caught in the crossfire, remembering the story Steve told you about the time Javi got his cash bribery to a cop paid back in full by the DEA.

Despite the things you said to him in the car, and despite what you know about him, you know he’s not eyeing you through the crack. He would never.

I wouldn’t brag about you to anyone, even if you lost.

And I especially would never if you let me fuck you.

That heat blooms in you again and you quickly shuck off your underwear. The steam is overwhelming, soothing the singed insides of your lungs with a wet compress. You step under the water and bite back a gasp. Fucking Jesus, it hurts. It burns, but it feels like it’s stripping off layers and layers of dirt and grime and destruction and smoke and chaos and holy shit, you almost died –

“Javi.” His name is in your mouth before you can stop it. It’s so heavy there, you can almost taste it.

“Yeah?” He responds instantly, cautiously.

“Uh, nothing. Sorry. I was just . . . just making sure you were awake out there.”

“I’m still here.”

He sees through your bullshit so fast it makes you flinch in anger. You scowl at the floor, focusing on watching the gray water rush down the drain. You struggle to fully wash your hair – the bandages around your palms are completely soaked but don’t come off easily – and when you go to rub soap on yourself, you pass over your hips and hiss.

Yep, bruises. Purple ones the size of your fist, up your left side, and by your ribs. You remember waking up sideways, the blast having launched you off your feet and into the road. You were grateful you didn’t knock your head against anything permanent. And lucky nothing got pierced, shattered, or snapped in two. Or crushed or bent or displaced. Two bombs and you get to go home to your bed and sleep.

And so does Javi.

Even just imagining that Javi wouldn’t make it home ran a shudder through your body so painful, the water shooting out of the shower head could have been ice cold. But the images in your mind grow and distort, his eyes wide open and no life within, his body too mangled for identification, your consciousness and his separated forever or maybe lost together in the same snarling black pit of endless nothing – tears spring into your eyes so fast it hurts as sharpness clogs your throat.

God, you came so fucking close to dying and all this petty bullshit that you’ve dragged him through just because you didn’t want to seem incapable, when in fact, he thought you were the most talented agent he’s ever seen – why the fuck are you doing this to him? The intensity in your chest swells but you beat it back, beat it down, as you wrangle back your belligerent emotions into the box where they belong. No, fuck, that’s stupid. He’s fine. You’re fine. This is what you trained for. You cannot afford to lose it now. This is standard operating procedure. He’s not crying so neither should you. Buck the fuck up.

You stand there for a full minute, every muscle in your body locked to steady yourself, mouth twisted down, hands fisted, thighs clenched, thighs locking up at the memory of him, of his promises, of the line you nearly crossed before it all went to hell.

Just fucking relax and let me take you apart.

You release, eyes open, mouth apart with a gasp. Fuck, this is so fucked up. You wanted Javi alive and breathing, to annoy every day, and to rail you within an inch of your life.

I’d make it good. I’d make it so fucking good, I swear.

He is just outside that door. Just waiting for you to say the word.

No. He didn’t go running into the next open bed just because he was sad or some shit. Sad or scared or whatever. No, you aren’t going to be that pathetic, no matter how badly you throb, no matter how much you ache, no matter how much you already know that your fingers won’t be enough – and you can’t even use them. Hissing from the hot water on your skin and the frustration that grows between your legs, you carefully, gingerly, knowing full well what would happen if you made any sort of unusual sound, stepped out of the bathtub and took a towel down from the shelf. You wrapped it around yourself, your skin warm and smarting, but no longer aching.

The door hadn’t moved an inch.

You brush your hair a few times out of habit more than anything else and squeegee it until it's no longer dripping. Now to face him. You knock on the door, feeling as though you should respect this boundary you made on both sides.

“Uh, Javi,” your chest won’t let you forget you were near tears, or the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn that insatiable animal between your legs decided to make. You try again, firmer. “Javier, I’m done.”

“Do you want me to leave so you can go to the bedroom?”

Leave? Why would you want him to leave the apartment?

No. He’s asking if you don’t want him to see you in a towel. You can almost picture his broad hand on the other handle. A phantom over your own.

“N-n-no. It’s fine. I’ll just – I’ll just come out.”

You pull back the door and he’s there against the door frame, his broad shoulders turned away from you like someone left the paddock door open and all you have to do is run, run free, run away –

“Thanks,” you murmur, not meeting his eyes as you slide past him. You don’t even fault him if he looks at your ass, but you make it to the bedroom. The bathroom door clicks shut behind you and your lungs release a pent-up breath.

He was fucking right. Getting it off you does make it better.

From your dresser, you grab just some underwear and your older brother’s old college t-shirt. It comes to your midthigh and that’s exactly what you need right now. You don’t want anything thick on you. The smell is comforting in a way you can’t describe and you inhale as all the tension eases from your body.

You drop your towel over the handle of the closet, in which Javi had somehow managed to find space for his many collared shirts despite you swearing there was not an inch of room for him, when you see something on the floor by the dresser. Call it delusion from the events of the night, but you don’t recognize it for what it is until you pick it up . . . and immediately drop it when the realization hits you like a ton of bricks.

It’s a rag, one you both (horrifyingly) use to wash your face, and it’s stiff on the inside. Not full, but hardened. Vaguely you can still hear the shower running as you contemplate what this means. For all the shit you give him, you really didn’t think he would cheat and not fess up. No, this wasn’t him consciously cheating – the rag was too casually discarded for this to be considered evidence. This is something else.

All of this – the bet, the rules, the fact that you actually included wet dreams – you decided on!

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.

This is . . . your freebie.

Your face warms, your fingers flexing around the edge of your t-shirt. Holy shit. Wet dreams. Nocturnal emissions. Holy shit.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

The shower turns off just as the warm rushes between your legs, unrestrained and unrestricted. You swear your mouth waters at the thought that you might find an ounce of relief, tonight. Even soon. Your thighs quiver.

The bathroom door opens and you all but launch yourself under the covers. Your fingers are between your thighs before you can stop them, just there, a reminder of relief and you fight off a shiver. The respect he gave you slips into your mind the second before he rounds the corner into the bedroom and you snap your eyes shut, the covers to your chin.

He moves in silence, but the things around him do not. The floor cracks where he walks. The dresser drawer groans as he opens them and shuts them. You think you hear the rustle of a towel falling, then fabric moving on skin, and the floor squeaks in protest as he walks back out of the room.

You breathe out, the air hacked up and choppy as though through between blades. You take your fingers from between your legs, but the stickiness in your underwear remains, just as it has been for a month and a half now. You might be berating yourself – what kind of fucked up were you that this is your reaction to a near-death experience? – if the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t so bright. You could take off that searing, serrated edge that’s kept you from sleeping well, from dreaming, remove your brain from the hot plate it's been sizzling in for a month and a half. You try desperately not to imagine Javi entirely naked as he moves about the room, but you can’t help it, not now that you’ve given yourself permission to marinate in those feelings, in that heat. Oh God, please can’t he just go to bed?

There’s a click and suddenly light blooms behind your eyelids. You squint open one eye to see him coming towards you with a medical kit in his hands.

“I know you’re awake. Sit up and let me dress your hands.”

The white gauze was damp and soggy from the shower, but you hadn’t really noticed. He sits down, just beyond where your toes are covered by your blanket, and sighs.

“C’mon. Faster you do this, the faster we can go to sleep.”

“Or we could just not. Just go to sleep now.” Just go over there. All the way over there. The bed sinks where he adjusts on your mattress and you swear you can feel his body heat through the covers. You bite your lip and force that whimper back down your throat.

“It’ll get infected.” He taps your thigh under the comforter. “C’mon.”

You sit up but don’t give him your hands. He’s turned on the lamp light between your two beds, not the overhead light, and it blurs all the lines of his shoulders, his jaw, his hair. His white shirt is warmly golden and you realize you had been hoping he wasn’t wearing one. He still hasn’t looked up at you. Maybe he really is irritated that he’s not asleep yet, which you marvel at – you won’t be able to fall asleep for hours, even if you weren’t low throbbing between your legs. With a sigh that’s more practice than sincerity, you stick out your palms. The gauze and tape no longer sit right over your skin and you can now see the pink skin beneath it.

Javi makes a noise in the back of his throat before digging around in the med kit for something. He pulls out a small pair of scissors and starts cutting back the gauze.

“I could do this myself, you know.” It’s petulant and bratty but you didn’t think Javier Peña was capable of the delicate touch with which he holds your hand steady.

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to do it for you.”

It is painfully obvious that you absolutely could not do this unassisted but for the life of you, you can’t imagine why he’s humoring you. You watch him as he methodically cuts through the wet gauze, inordinately careful not to catch or drag the material. He cuts down between your third and fourth knuckle on both hands, and eases the gauze away.

Exposed to the open air, the wounds on the heels of your palms sting and you hiss. Javi, who just had his head in the kit, snaps his head up to you.

“Don’t–,”

But it’s too late, you’ve already turned over your hands. Angry, red, pulsing gashes, some so deep you can see muscle, sit in matching places at the bottom of your hands. Presumably, when you were thrown, you reached out to catch yourself and your hands and hips got the brunt of the impact. But your hips had your jeans over them while your hands had nothing.

“You don’t need stitches.” Javi’s gaze is heavy, his voice low. His hands loosely hold the new roll of gauze and tape. He looks like he’s bracing himself, that he’s worried you’re about to yell at him. “I checked with the EMTs. You don’t need stitches.”

“Oh.” You won’t be able to properly close your hands for months.

“They don’t think–,” his voice catches. “They don’t think it’ll scar either. Maybe a bit, but not so much that –,”

“Where were you?” Your question isn’t accusatory, but curious. You look up at him and he flinches. “I don’t see anything on you.”

“You were closer.” The room is thick with his solemnity. “You were covering my right and I,” he swallows, his eyes fixated on your bloody hands, “I should have seen it coming.”

“Bullshit, Javi. No one could have seen that coming. No one could have stopped it.” His nostrils flare again and he not-too-gently takes your hand with his fingers. Your wrist looks so small in comparison to his fingers. He unwinds the gauze around your palm, and wraps it up against your wrist, securing it with tape, his movements tight and short. There’s real rage in his eyes.

“Yes, I could have.”

His fucking ego. It scratches against you until you feel your skin catch fire. You want to snatch back your other hand, but he’s insistent, not rough, but boasting no room for negotiation. “There’s nothing you could have done, you idiot. You’re not actually Superman.”

He grinds his teeth. “I should have just done my fucking job.”

There’s only so much you can take. This fucking man.

You snatch your hand back from him the instant the tape seals the gauze.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?” His shoulders are lined with tension. You want to kick him off your bed. His fingers dig into your mattress. “You fucking follow me around like I’m liable to break apart and then you go and pull this shit.”

“What shit?” He growls as he angrily packs up the kit and drops it on the floor.

“This! This tough guy, I’m-fucking-invincible, John-Wayne bullshit. We were both there, Javier. Both of us were in the crossfire of not one, but two explosions tonight. So don’t act like I’m the only one upset. Don’t act like this didn’t affect you.”

He goes still. His nails freeze in their excavation of your bedsheets, his shoulders hunched like he’s straining under some immense pressure. Just as you’re about to lift your eyes to find his, he stands – and moves closer to your end of the bed. You flinch, react, because this is not at all what you were expecting from him, and you pull your knees to your chest.

His hand hovers over your knee.

He’s so broad he eclipses the light until he’s all you see. There’s a twitch in his jaw and finally his hand settles down. His thumb rubs your skin once, as if to confirm you’re there.

For the first time in your partnership, his face is unreadable to you. His gaze is dark, stormy, raging, but the corners of his mouth are pulled down and his breathing is sharp. His swallow unsticks his jaw from his upper teeth.

“I thought I lost you today.” His voice is firm. Solid. Unwavering. It had been building up against his teeth, around the soft palate of his tongue. It sat in his mouth and waited for its turn. His confession makes him braver. He sits, closer to you than he was in the car, closer to you than he’s ever been. He watches his hand on your knee. How close it is to your thigh. How easy it would be to slide down to your hip. And then he shakes his head, as though physically fighting back sleep. “Don’t ask me to talk about it. Okay? I can’t. Don’t ask me about it.”

You can almost feel his gravitational pull. But you resist. You always resist.

It can’t be this easy for him. You can’t be this willing. You cannot be some stupid skirt for him or anyone to throw around.

“You told Noonan this was my first bombing, that I was in shock.”

“You were. That’s why you don’t remember what happened clearly,” he says gently, no condescension, “it’ll come to you, in a few days. You just need time to process it.” He speaks from experience and it makes you so angry. He breathes out his nose and his hand retreats, sliding back down your calf, his fingers wrapping around your ankle as if you intended to fly away and he wasn’t going to let you.

“But then why did you make it sound like I couldn’t handle it?” It’s not in your imagination when his eyes go dark, mouth flatting, when he sees you just have underwear on underneath your shirt. You watch him as his eyelids fall heavy and his head turns, just a bit.

What the fuck is wrong with you? No –

What the fuck is wrong with him?

“It has nothing to do with you,” he says softly, his gaze riding back up your knee, as slow and as steady as his hand. He stops in his touchless-roving of you and looks you in your eye. Now this look . . . this look you know. It was the same one he wore when he told you he wanted to ruin other people for you. “I’ve seen fully grown men curl up into a ball after experiencing what you went through. It was horrific. People died. There’s a natural reaction to these things. You’re only human.”

It’s a sentiment that disgusts you.

“And it’ll come to me too.” Javier admits. The words ring in the air, hovering, crawling into your ears, down your throat and taking root into your heart. Eyes never leaving your face, he suddenly comes forward, hand going across your hip, drawing his body over yours as you lean back as far as the headboard will let you go, but his broad shoulders have you pinned. You swallow a whimper in your throat. His head turns, and the electrons between the tip of his nose and your skin crackle. His breath is less close than he is. “It’ll come for me. I know it will.” He sighs as if your scent is soothing, “do you want me to help you forget?”

Just his gaze has you in a stranglehold. If you move a muscle, you’ll touch him. The tendons in his forearms flex on both sides.

“I-I-I want– I want–,”

“Tell me, baby, tell me what you want.” His voice is honey smooth, glazed with sparks and fireworks. He says one thing when he means, let me kiss you.

His nose drags down your throat, inhaling as if to savor, and he plants one chaste kiss on your collar bone, lets his lips linger. He’s tasting you for the first time. “What were you going to say? Do you need a reminder?” As quick and as hot as lightning, his hand leaves the mattress, eases around the back of your thigh and he presses his knuckles into the wet clutch of your underwear. He punches out a quiet groan as your breathing stutters – fuck, how did he know? “She seems to remember me pretty well. Remembers how I made her feel.”

You snag him by the wrist, your other elbow quaking, your breathing small and tight. This is it, this is how it all ends. You look him in the eye, knowing whatever is rapidly expanding in your chest has made it into your gaze, into the set of your jaw, and Javi looks like he wants to drink whatever’s in your mouth right out of your lips.

“I found the rag.”

Tonight’s full of firsts, it seems; Javier Pena fucking blushes.

“That wasn’t– I was sleeping, that doesn’t count. I can’t control it.”

Your breathing hitches, victory squeezing your lungs.

“F-f-fine,” you murmur. Slowly, you push his fingers back into your wet panties. You think you might melt from the intensity of his stare alone, “but I want a f-f-freebie too.”

You watch as Javi’s irises plunge into darkness.

“You want me to make you come, and it won’t count? The bet’s still on?”

You nod, frantically, rolling your hips against his fingers and he hisses, yanking back from you.

“Fucking finally. But we’re doing this my way.”

“What do you–,”

Snagging you by the hips, he twists you perpendicular to the bed as he sinks to his knees on the floor. Your heart is pounding in your throat as you watch him toss your knees over his shoulders, eyes fixated on that wet spot on your crotch.

“Javi, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Bed’s too small,” he murmurs, licking his lips, still focused on you. “Can’t stretch out with the dresser. Knees are gonna fucking kill me but . . .”

As though called, Javi drops his head and kisses where your clit would be over your underwear. All strength is suddenly zapped from your elbows and you flop back, the sound of his corresponding groan forever imprinted on your hips.

“Oh, fuck, Javi, what are you–,”

His fingers curve around the waistband of your underwear and with his nose hovering just over where the waistline sits, he tugs, over one leg and then the other. You feel his breath warm over the dampness in the thatch of your curls and you cannot fight the noise that breaks out of your chest. Your fingers dive into his hair and he hasn’t even touched you.

“Just the one, right?” He licks the inside of your thigh and you arch, just a bit. God, you are so oversensitive and it’s fucking embarrasing – but it’s been so goddamn, fucking long and it’s him.

“Y-y-yes, just, just the one.”

He surges forward, mutters something that sounds like, “we’ll see”, and licks the entire length of your slit.

He is relentless. He is relentless and talented and so very, very, very eager –

Head thrown back, you press your shoulders into the mattress as he licks the slick from your cunt, washing your clit with his spit and your slick. He plays there, twisting and swirling, and just at the peak of pleasure, he sinks two fingers into you and a moan rockets out of you.

“JaviJaviJavi–,”

His responding moan sends shivers across your skin as he opens his jaw wider to lick you even deeper. He shifts attention, focuses on your fluttering cunt while his thumb makes laps around that sweet bundle of nerves. With every heartbeat, you can feel his hands, his tongue, the tip of his nose, flush with your slick. It’s like he’s bleeding you dry, wringing every bit of pleasure from you while he still can.

His fingers pump hard and fast without warning and you jolt, thighs tensing, sending a crackle down your spine that thrusts your hips into his face. Oh god, they are so much bigger than your own fingers. Oh god, he’s right. Oh god, oh god, oh god –

The white-knuckled terror of what happened tonight snaps in half as your back arches against his chest. You can feel the hold it had on you crack as he beckons you forward, beckons you back to that knife-edge of relief, as he drags you out of this broken, horrified shell. How did he know exactly what you needed? That coil springs red hot and tight, pleasure rocketing between your legs and up your spine.

“Worst thought I had all night was that I’d never get back inside this sweet pussy,” he mutters into your thigh. He doesn’t even ask when he adds a third finger, his other hand ridiculously stroking under your knee, as if you’d ever be calm, ever be rational again.

“Do you hear that, baby? She’s crying for me. She missed me so much,” he grunts directly into your sopping wet pussy. He groans at the sound. Eyes fluttering, he drops his head and licks around your clit again, his wrist snapping against you so roughly you bounce up the mattress.

Goddamn it, Javier.

Your core starts to flutter, this orgasm that has been mounting for weeks every time you look at him roaring down on you. It's the one from the car that’s been lurking just out of sight. It’s the one from when you sat on the toilet as he paraded around topless, so consumed with hatred and blind lust you couldn’t move. It’s the one that sparked out, unwanted and unbidden when he smirked at you over his desk, and said, “fine, I’ll take your fucking bet.”

Your nails scratch at his head, fingers knotting his hair, that enormous, crushing orgasm just out of reach, with every muscle in your body extended out to reach it – if you could just get a finger on it –

“You come for me, now. Only me.” His gaze is transfixed on you, mouth, chin, cheeks shining in the low light, but the blazing in his eyes has a direct line to the white-lighting thundering behind the thrust of his fingers. Your eyes roll back in your head as he flicks his wrist faster, the precision of his thumb on your clit mind-numbing.

“Oh, Javi, Jesus Christ, I—,”

“Just let me take you apart.”

He curls his fingers, and sucks on your clit hard.

You’re launched.

Launched off the ground. Into the stratosphere. White noise, propelling you higher and higher, static where your limbs should be.

There’s the height, the peak, the intensity almost burning out your nerve-endings to numbness, you’re pretty sure you’ve stopped breathing, toes curled against his back, heels digging into his spine –

– and then –

He french-kisses your cunt and you slam back down so hard you curl inwards. It knocks you flat back against the mattress, your fingers ooze away from the crown of his head and flop against your stomach. You do not possess the willpower or ability to open your eyes. The warmth between your legs settles, purrs, satiated.

“J-Javi,” you try and speak through a completely dry mouth. “J-Javi, come here.”

He grunts, uh-uh, and slowly, as feeling returns to your legs, you feel his hands around your hips, fingers pulling you down, down into his open mouth where he’s still –

You whimper, that simmer ticking up again. There is no energy left inside of you to stop him, and you don’t want to. Not really. Not when he’s rocking you smoothly, gently with three fingers, through your first high and leading you towards another. He twists his wrist, middle finger brushing you yourself could never quite reach and your hips buck up, wavering on the edged line between pain and pleasure. He presses a wet, salty kiss into your hip bone, keeping you still.

Your own breathing seems to set you off, as if any movement at all is liable to heat that spark, make you clench tighter and tighter on his fingers. “Javi, please – it’s only-only supposed to be the o-one–,”

He groans, rubbing his forehead against you as his fingers plug you up again and again. He licks a patch of skin just below your hip bone and you shiver.

“You come for me when I tell you to come,” he tongues your clit and you twist, not entirely overstimulation, but god it makes you ache. “You come, you frustrating hermosita, and you let me give you as many orgasms as I want and you forget this stupid fucking bet–,”

Your trembling thigh pulls out of his grasp, heel digging into his shoulder, and with a jerk you pry him off you, out of you, and your second orgasm is wrenched away from you so fast, you actually black out for a second. You kick out, gasping in shock and agony, and he falls back on his ass on the floor. But you were too close, on the heels of what quite possibility was the biggest orgasm of your life, too sensitive and freshly fucked. A gyroscope of blinding heat and pulsing wet, you’re oscillating between pain and pleasure, and you clamp your legs shut, hand springing to your mouth. This is it, this is the moment you cry, the moment you break down. You can’t take it anymore. Not after a month, not after all this time as his partner, not after almost dying–

You feel like your body is actively rebelling against you, punishing you for being so fucking stupid.

And you know you’re being stupid too, but it's a reaction. It’s an instinct at this point – self-preservation above all else. Groaning, you roll onto your side, trying to breathe through it, trying to swallow it all down – but your thighs – they’re sticky, and wet, and you can feel your slick all the way down to the curve of your ass – and it makes you just –

“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned the bet,” and he laughs. Easy, a little disbelieving, but not angry. You wrench your eyes open, mustering all that throbbing into a glare that you hope burns his skin. He’s climbed into the far end of the bed, leaning back against the dresser at the foot of your bed, thick cock fully tenting his shorts, but looking so smug you want to kick him again. You weakly bat at his ankle with your toe.

“Y-you . . . shut the fuck up,” you groan, your thighs quavering. You gulp down air, seeing

the other side of it, but it’s not going away fast enough.

He sighs, adjusting himself in his pants, but not trying to hide in the slightest. “Stop squeezing. You’re making it worse.”

“What?” you pant.

Javi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark, then lifts his hands, a universal white-flag, and he gently takes your ankle, pulling it back across the mattress. It spreads your legs, the cold air in the room against your overripe and exposed cunt almost tickling, but the pressure lessens, eases. You might have been embarrassed to be so completely exposed to him but you stopped worrying about dignity a long time ago.

“Relax. And breathe.”

You throw your crossed wrists over your forehead, sucking in lungfuls of air, as he slowly parts your thighs as they finally stop shaking. Inhaling, exhaling, you bury the sensation until it isn’t overwhelming anymore. He gently thumbs your ankle.

“There you go. You did it . . . whatever it is you’re trying to do.” You open your eyes to his smile, no longer smug, but a little delirious. He shakes his head, laughing a bit as he looks at the ceiling. “Do you feel better?”

You scowl at him and haul yourself to the other end of the bed, closing your legs that have completely turned to jelly. You curl away from him.

“No, you fucking asshat, I don’t feel better.” You eye his still-tented pants. “Do you?”

He sighs, a fraction of his control slipping, and he traces mustache with his forefinger and thumb.

“Not particularly.” He watches your ankles move on the blankets with interest, gaze hardening as it curves over your thigh. “So what’s your next move? What’s your plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just going to deny yourself, forever?”

“No, just until you come first. Then, fuck, I think I’m going to join a swingers club.”

“Not funny.”

“It is if you’re me.”

His cock is softening, easing back down, and he sulkily rubs himself. The hum between your legs has finally gone to sleep. You could turn your foot and brush his calf. This bed is definitely not meant to hold two fully grown adults.

You can tell he’s itching for a cigarette.

“Why do you want to win so much?” He crosses his arms, contemplative instead of sour. “I mean, you prove to them that you have more willpower than the rest of the building combined and every man at the DEA knows not to fuck with you. But then what? What do you get then?”

You push back with your shoulders, turning so that you’re facing him, your foot now near his knee. There’s a birthmark on his left inner thigh you’ve never seen before. Never before has anyone tried so hard to understand you.

“Peace,” you answer, the answer coming to you immediately. “Quiet. I can finally do my job without worrying about some mouth-breather taking a photo up my skirt.”

His eyes darken, an unsettling rage sparking to life. “Did someone actually do that to you?”

You pick at a thread on your shirt. “It’s none of your concern. And if it did, you don’t have to worry because I fucking launched his camera out the third story window.”

“Good. But I want you to tell me who it was.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

“What if this was just for me? What if I don’t want to work with a fucking asshole who takes pictures of my female colleagues? What if I’ve had a shitty month and a half and I want to kick someone ass, huh?”

You sit up a little straighter, his diatribe flushing something warm inside you. He shakes his head, but you can see his gears turning about how to sneak employee records from the old lady in HR. But he brings himself back to the moment, to you.

“Okay, so peace, quiet. Fucking dead men who take pictures up your skirt. What now?”

“Now I live uninterrupted. My work is judged on its merit not what’s between my legs. I’m finally left alone.”

“Alone? Isn’t that . . . well, lonely?”

“Doesn’t matter when you’re queen of the mountain,” you smile. And that’s what you always believed. That was the goal. That was the end. Whatever you had to crawl your way through, whatever monstrous form your ambition took, there was always the mountain.

Javi chews on the skin behind his bottom lip as he looks at you. If there ever comes a time when he’s not frowning at you, there’s something probably very wrong.

And then he turns his head, as if seeing a light in the distance.

“So you’re queen of the mountain top. Ice queen, frost witch, all alone.”

Something in his voice tears at a vulnerable place inside you. “Javier, don’t. Just drop it, okay?”

“All alone and no one to call you a monster. What was your phrasing, a nagging bitch?”

“Get off my bed, Javier. Right now. Get out.”

“If I make you come first, I’ll tell everyone I went first.” His brown eyes catch the lamplight and burn gold for an instant.

You tuck your legs underneath you, your heart rate doubling. He’s cutting a line through your emotions, jerking you back and forth between anger, sadness, embarrassment, fear — you’d swear he was using a scalpel.

“Why is it so fucking important to you that I get off?” You snap. “Why do you want to be the one to do it? Why did you t-touch me like that? Why do you care?”

He moves quicker than he has all night, probably now that he knows you can’t out run him. That you don’t actually want to. You want him to catch you every single time. Javi crawls forward, follows your legs up to your chest, and cages you between his thighs. Your feet slid under the space between his calves and the mattress.

He’s not trying to crowd you, not trying to intimidate you. But he does want you to be overwhelmed by him. To let only him exist in your mind.

Gently, but this time because he wants to savor every delicious second, he takes your hand again and kisses your wrist, eyes closed.

“Cariño,” he murmurs in his native language and it’s like someone dropped a bucket between your legs. Your cunt bottoms out at that single word. His other hand scoops down around your waist, encouraging you forward, and of course you go willingly, until you’ve got your thighs around his hips and your head tucked into the curve of his neck. He breathes deep . . . And he holds you. Just holds you.

It’s so raw you’re trembling.

He lifts the collar of your shirt and presses his lips to your skin.

“Te han lastimado antes. No otra vez. No conmigo.” He puts his forehead against your temple. “You know exactly why I care. I thought it was obvious when I nearly lost my goddamn mind in the street tonight. I couldn’t find you in the smoke. I knew I was being too obvious, but I couldn’t care. It was written all over my face.”

He’s plucking back your exposed wiring, to the meat of you. To the fleshy tender bits. The thing you always feared the most.

And yet, with him, it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like you’re losing, when he discovers your secrets. When he learns the truth of you. And more importantly, he doesn’t flinch away.

That’s quite literally never happened before.

Tears flood your eyes before you can stop them and you bury your face in his throat. You’ve gotten very good at silent crying but a single breath and he has his broad hands rubbing up and down your spine.

“I think even Noonan knows. But what’s she gonna do?” He snorts, characteristically cavalier about his career in the face of what he finds most important.

You feel very small against his chest, a position you never wanted to be in your most terrifying nightmares.

But looking back, there’s a lot you would tell your past self.

You lift your head, not trying to hide your tears as you gaze up at him. “Noonan knows what, Javi?”

His smile is sad, still disbelieving, but warm. Gentle. Loving. It pricks at your heart.

“Ask me again in the morning, baby. Okay? Pregúntame entonces.”

You nod and he wipes back the streaks of tears with his thumbs.

“Can I please make you come now?”

You swallow, that heat sparking from his hands on your cheeks, down your spine, and into the very center of you.

“Okay.”

You reach forward and cup the back of his head, fingers twisting into his hair, and you realize this is the first time you've ever touched him like this. You sniffle.

“Okay, Peña. Do your worst.”

He snorts. “It’s not supposed to feel like ripping off a bandaid.”

Logically, you don’t disagree. But . . .

“I know.”

Do you?

His eyes search your face, his hand on your cheek almost firm as if inspecting you. “We’ll come at the same time, alright? No winners, no losers, just us.”

You nod frantically, eyes tracing his lips, his nose, his chin. “Yeah. Just us. Just us, Javi.”

“Only us,” he murmurs breathily, gaze locked onto your mouth, and your hands tighten around the back of his neck. Shifting more into his knees, his fingers tug at his shorts, dragging them down over his hips and once you realize what he’s doing, your pulse instantly skyrockets.

His waistband slips down and his cocks springs free, tapping against your thigh and it’s suddenly too real – his arm around you is crushing the wind out of you, but it’s not enough and too much. Is that what was in his jeans? Is that what he rubbed up against the steering wheel over and over again?

“I’m gonna do it right, I swear,” he promises your sternum as he knees out of his shorts. “I’m gonna eat your pussy for as long as you can take it, but I –,”

His gaze flickers to your hand as you drop your shirt off the side of the bed and he stills for just a second. Then he looks back up at you, those dark brown pupils blown wide in lust and awe, and you feel the air sucked from your lungs. You are, in every sense of the word, naked in front of Javier Peña.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, pulling him on top of you, your nipples rubbing roughly against his shirt. He sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, to ready you, but you shake your head, the lack of oxygen in your brain making you slightly light-headed as if you’ve been tumbling down the side of a hill.

“It’s fine, Javi, I just need – I want –,”

He nods because he understands you – he fucking sees you, he always, always had – and he lifts your thighs. His breath shortens in anticipation as he works your hips, your damp folds rubbing against his length.

“I’m gonna – I’m gonna do it right, I s-swear –,”

Your nails dig into the back of his neck and he groans.

“Javi, just do it now.”

He settles you down and lets the weight of you take him in, inch by agonizing inch, up into your warm, dripping center. After almost two months of aching emptiness, the sudden burst of pleasure nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“Oh, fuck,” the stretch is magnificent, ecstacy rippling through you, and you claw yourself closer to him. He grunts in your ear and his other hand latches onto the headboard.

“Ngh– fuck, I know.”

He grip on your waist tightens, either fighting the urge to come or fuck up into you, as you sink down onto him. Your eyes flutter and you feel sweat spark out down your spine. Your hand lifts the back of his shirt and you press your palm into the small of his back.

“Take-take this off.” He complies, shifting you both and you open-mouth gasp at the change in pressure. He sags forward, his head on your shoulder, and his forearm binding you to him. His teeth nip at your skin.

Nothing has ever felt this good. Nothing in your entire life.

God, he is going to ruin you.

“Javier, please move—,”

He nods, and sits back. “Yeah – yeah, okay –,”

He rolls his hips once and fuck, you are never going to do this to yourself again. It’s not just that you haven’t had sex in almost two months but you had been teasing yourself around him, some primal part of your brain throwing a fit that you didn’t give into your baser instinct for him. It was him specifically that wound you tighter than a wet knot and now you are in danger of coming so hard and so fast from just a single thrust.

He shifts you more so your weight is more on top of him, pressing your low back closer, and finally he starts rolling his hips, dragging the length of him just enough out. You swear you can follow the line of your orgasm on the lines of his hips.

“I just – I need to take the edge off–,” He confesses to your throat, in a low, wrecked voice. “Just a bit.”

“I don’t care, Javi,” you squeeze your thighs and you can hear the headboard groan behind you. “Just move!”

He bucks up into you, rougher, all in one go, giving himself over to your demands, to his own and starts hammering into your hips. It hurts, but fuck it feels good too. He sets a pace that has your mouth go slack, his hip bones rubbing right up against your clit over and over and over again, overheating every inch of your skin and making your mouth water. You think you feel him up in your cervix.

“Fuck, why did we wait so long to do this?” he murmurs against your jaw. “Huh? Been living with you for a month – nghh – this’s what we could’ve been doing instead?”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull your warm tits against his chest. He groans, and his fingers slip down to the bottom of your spine, one resting against the crack of your ass.

“Month in a half–,” you correct him breathlessly. “‘ve had to watch you walk around topless in the morning . . . for a month and a half.”

He releases something between a growl and a groan from his chest and he drops you a bit, angling his hips down, and you gasp at the angle. You lean back and scrape your nails down his chest.

He drops his mouth open and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, rolls it between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue. When you jolt, he seeks out the other one, nipping just hard enough it makes you gasp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Javi–,”

“You like that?” he smirks, his sideburns damp, “yeah, you do.”

You barely nod before he turns you both onto the bed, but he grabs your knees from his hips and splits them. Switching from that rough bounce, Javi grinds his cock deeper into you, brushing a place inside of you that flicks the heat like a lighter. You want to hold your legs open for him.

“Can’t wait to see you come like this,” he grunts. His hand leaves your knee and starts to tease your clit again. You’re leaking into the mattress, your cunt fluttering as though electrified. “See you turn off that fucking gorgeous brain of yours. Maybe then you’ll be nice to me.”

“Never.”

He smirks above you and you can’t help but grin back.

“You’re such a tease, you know that?” His grinds are long, deep, allowing for the sound of your cunt sucking him in to punctuate the silence.

“Only for you.” You want to take it back the second it's out of your mouth, but you can’t and he is . . . the expression on your face, it makes him bite down on his back molars.

His eyes flutter and he rewards you with a swift rub on your clit. You shudder, feeling so full, you can barely form sentences, much less words.

“Yeah? Only me?” His damp hand leaves your clit and slides up your ribs, taking his time as he fucks you so deep, you’re going to feel it tomorrow in your guts. He cups the heavy flesh of your breast, and circles your nipple with his thumb. You arch into his touch and his mouth drops. “All this – just for me, baby?”

You squeeze him once, your fingers wrapped around his forearms, and his rhythm slips. “You fucking heard me the first time. Don’t stop.”

He slows, his irises jet black and wide, lust-blown. His sweaty chest heaving, droplets running down the back of his neck, he pins you to the mattress with just his gaze. His hips draw little figure eights and you fight to keep your eyes from rolling back, to force that oncoming orgasm at bay.

“Still with that mouth. That goddamn attitude.”

You swallow, because oh god, you’ve really done it now. “Yeah. I remember something about fucking that attitude out of me.”

His head cocks to the side. His hands leave your knees, hovering as they tease the microscopic hairs on your skin, until he’s braced over you. You wrap your legs around his hips, bringing them down to you.

“Do you want that?” He husks, nose trailing over yours, then your mouth, your chin, as drops of sweat patter onto your neck, your chest. The Bogota heat is really unforgivable. You know you’re staining your sheets with multiple fluids. “You want me to fuck the attitude out of you?”

“A lady never repeats herself,” you mutter, your hands combing through his damp curls. “Javi, I’m so close, please. . .” One of those disbelieving eyebrows arch up. He doesn’t seem to hear you.

“A lady, huh? Well, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I came first, so why don’t you just . . .” He unwinds one of your legs from his hips, balances it over his shoulder, and grinds down. Your snarky retort is lost to the recess of your brain and the tension flares within you, forcing a breathy moan out of your mouth. His gaze follows your nose as you arch back and come down. “There we go, just needed it right, huh?”

“Just–,” thrust, “a little–,” thrust, “attention–,”

“God, Javi–,” you cry out.

His new pace is even more staggering than the last. At this angle, you feel like you’re being split up, carved out, taking him in until there’s more of him than you. His thrusts are just as deep as the last but harder, rougher, faster–

Oh, god, so fast, so, so, so fast–

He’s fucking you down into the mattress and you deliriously consider the sturdiness of this fucking twin bed. It squeaks and rocks.

“So fucking tight,” Javi mutters to himself more than you, his jaw locked. “So fucking good.”

You’re right at the peak in a fraction of the time, your walls no longer fighting him. He groans deep as you start to flutter, start to come– when he stops – again.

“Javi,” the halting of your orgasm is officially painful, your stomach tight and your cunt clenching. And fuck, you’re crying. “Javi, please, please don’t stop. I’ll do anything. Anything you ask, but please, please let me come.”

He half-chuckles, half-pants as he lifts your hips up and sets a pillow down under them.

“When I said I was going to fuck you and make it good, I meant it. Besides,” he swings your other leg over his shoulder again, rocking over you and nearly splitting you in half. He fills you in a single, rough stroke and at the new angle, where he’s deeper than ever, and now the tears stream out the corner of your eyes as you gasp at the sensation. “I thought you said you didn’t want to come.” You whine, high-pitched and needy, as he drags all the way back out and plummets down again, making you feel every inch of him. You’re a sobbing mess when he does it again.

“Fuck, Javi, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please keep doing that–,”

With little half-thrusts, he kisses your left temple, right over where the tears flowed into the sheets.

“You did everything right tonight.” You split open your watery lashes to see him watching you. He looks about as wrecked as you feel, brow furrowed, cheeks pink. How does he fucking maintain control like this? “You’re doing everything right. You did so good. But let me do this. I want to – I’ve wanted, for s’long –,”

Your breathing stutters between the tears and his words. You can only nod, your bottom lip trembling, as Javi picks up his speed again, steady at first, then harder. He grunts with every stroke, like he’s trying to prove something. The slap of hips against yours is outrageous. Every thrust threatens to shatter the very center of you. Detonate something precious and vulnerable inside of you.

“You’re close, aren’t you? God, I can feel it. I can fucking feel it.”

He thrusts down more, faster, like he’s chasing you, chasing your orgasm. He grits his teeth, neck muscles corded. He hitches your leg higher.

“C’mon, ba-by, that’s- it, that’s it– lemme fe-el it–,”

But you are seconds away and he’s still not there, still sprinting after you. So you do the only thing you can think of.

You lean up, your knee falling off his shoulder, and you kiss him. Hand clutching his neck, you kiss him with every last ounce of your awareness, of self-preservation, of fucking adoration because this man is the only creature on the planet with a willpower to match your own. And you fucking love it.

He grunts and thrusts one more time and that’s it.

Your vision whites out, your thighs trembling, tension snapping, and sends you hurling over the edge. Both of you over the edge. You whine against his mouth, as he cock drives deep, deep within you one last time. You feel his warm ropey cum paint the inside of you, cock twitching, your walls rippling, sucking him dry, and his entire body sags down into you. You have to turn your head to breath, to gasp in air, oxygen flooding your brain, and he pants into your neck. His bicep trembles where he’s trying and failing to keep his weight off you.

“Jesus, fuck–,” he mutters against your skin, the sweat on his forehead mixing with your own wet salt. He’s shaking above you, his pulse pounding so hard in his neck, you feel it on your skin. You wonder vaguely where he can feel your pulse. He takes a few more steadying breaths before lifting his head slightly.

“This isn’t how I usually do things after,” he pants between words, “but, uh, there is literally no room for me to roll off you.”

You laugh, the motion stealing precious air from you, you can feel your stomach expand against his, and he finally meets your gaze. You eye the embarrassing lack of space in this ridiculously tiny bed.

“And here I thought you just wanted to cuddle.” This close, you feel the flush of his breath as he chuckles. “Here, lean up a second.”

He groans, ��mi jodida espalda. Creo que me desgarré un músculo,” but manages to get high enough for you to scoot to the edge of the bed and he dips his shoulder into the open space between you and the wall. Your bodies are so tightly pressed together, he manages to stay inside of you the whole time.

With anyone else, you would have just gotten out of the bed. Moved away. You’ve never been one to linger after sex – either your partner was already asleep or you had better things to do – but Javi seemed intent on studying your face as his breathing slows and your heart rate eases. His softening cock slips out of you and you fight a groan at the sensation. He tucks his bicep under his head like a pillow. Sweat rolls over his tight muscle.

“What? No post-cigarette sex?” You smirk to cover the rising blush on your cheeks, the longer he stares. “No slap on the ass, ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’?”

His face is expressionless when he asks, “is that what that was to you?”

You swallow, feeling a bit like you’re being scolded. “No, of course not, I just–,”

“Good. It wasn’t like that for me either.”

He cups the back of your head and brings you closer, closer than you possibly could be, and kisses your mouth, soft, easy, with a hint of tongue.

Something sickening like adoration claws through your chest because fuck, what if he doesn’t ever kiss you like that again? What are you going to do when he walks through the office doors coated in another woman’s perfume, his scent all over her and –

You break apart, hands on his chest. His brow furrows.

“What? What did you think about just now?”

Like he wants to know what’s going on inside your brain.

“So we tied. What a great story that’ll be. I’m sure the office will laugh themselves silly on how we both won and lost at the same time–,”

He says your name firmly, once, with his fingers wrapped tightly around your bicep. He cuts off your ramblings instantly.

“Stop,” he begs quietly. “Why are you talking like that, querida? What are you thinking about?”

His dark brown eyes are sad, hurt even. Why do you keep pulling away from me?

It’s been such a long night. It’s been such a long month. Year. You’ve been fighting for so, so long and all it takes is for him to knock at your door, and everything comes crashing down. You feel exposed, a live wire, a nerve rubbed raw – too much, Javi, too much – and tears rim your lashes before you can stop them. You shrug, the vice grip around your throat painful and choking. You shrug weakly, unable to meet his eyes.

“I’m just preparing myself for something funny to tell the bullpen when you walk in after you’ve fucked the secretary on the second floor. She’s been eying you for months and it wouldn’t be fair to deny her!” Your voice swings, high-pitched and pathetic on that last word, and you clamp your mouth shut, tears rushing down your cheeks. You expect him to sit up, snarling, grab his clothes and storm out the door. It would be fair. It is what you would do if he tried to pull the same bullshit you are right now. It’s too late to act like an adult right now, but at least you can try and salvage something. “You don’t owe me anything, Javi. Not after this. Not after this insane crap I put you through. I didn’t have any expectations then and I don’t now. You don’t owe me anything.”

Your gaze focused on the crux of his elbow.

“Can you please look at me?” Soft. Gentle. Patient. But firm. Brimming with shame, you lift your eyes up to him.

Brown eyes. Sad. Hurt. He wipes your tears with his thumb, before cradling your neck. He runs one finger up and down the skin in a motion that is instantly soothing. He watches you, cautiously, and then he brings his face forward, his lips catching yours as his finger strokes your chin. He kisses you until you’re flat on your back and the tension eases from your shoulders, from your fingers, your mouth. When your lips freely receive him, he pulls back, hovering over you, hand gently settling on the cup of your jaw.

“Since I’ve clearly not been able to convince you with anything else I’ve done, I’m just going to come out and say it.” His nose flares and he nips at his bottom lip before opening his mouth and saying, “I like you. I really like you. I really, really like you and more importantly, I want to date you. Only you. No one else. Do you understand that?”

Your mouth hangs open and a brush of his thumb makes you shiver and shut it.

“Nod so I know you understand.”

Slowly, you nod.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Let me prove that.” He shifts closer and you nod frantically. “I’m going to take you out and we’re going to drink, you’re going to try and dance very badly . . . I’m not going to let anything bad ever happen to you.”

And, fuck, you believe him. You do. You really do.

His lips press a promise into yours and you swallow the swelling emotion. He’s making you feel small but that’s suddenly not so bad. He pulls back and you can feel a grin spread across his lips.

“So, now that I’ve seen you naked,” he whispers against your skin. “Does this mean I can finally be in the shower with you?”

“Sure, but lemme take out that camera I put in there first.” He smirks as he pinches your nipple and you giggle as you slip off the edge of the bed. “What? I was very committed to winning the bet.”

“Oh, yeah? Had no idea.”

He lets you pull him to his feet and he stumbles into you. He kisses you again, crowding you to get moving.

If someone had told you that this is where all of it, everything, would end up . . .

You wouldn’t have believed them.

#javier pena x reader #i am so fuckgign mad at you #so pissed off rn #cant wait till you wake up gonna shake your bones #that was so freaking hot i had to sit there for 15 minutes and pull myself together before i could be a human again #javi is so hot already and when he gets cocky like that i literally started crying how dare you make him x2000 hotter?!?#i just ascended to a whole different planet when he started talking FHFHDIN HELL #CANT EVEN MAKE WORDS RN #and then the softness and tenderness and the way javi has to literally DRILL it that he CARES #like genuinely cares #like #im emotional about these two #brb gonna go scream into the void #speechless

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