THIS IS THE WAY

Okay but let’s break this down for a second. Because I know y’all probably think I’m about to start with his living room couch, right? But no. I actually think there are WAY more spots in Javi’s apartment where this man likes to fuck. And honestly not just in the apartment either.

Kitchen

I just KNOW Javier is the kind of man who’d invite you over for a drink. He pours it for you in the kitchen, hands you the glass… and you end up sitting on the counter because why the hell not. You’re talking, laughing, just hanging out while Javi slowly drinks from his own glass and watches you the whole time. The way you talk. The way you smile. And then suddenly you realize he’s really fucking close. Leaning toward you. Staring at your lips. You stop talking.

And he almost looks like he’s in a trance when he slowly slides one hand between your knees and gently pushes them apart. Still watching your reaction the entire time, making sure he’s not crossing a line because let’s be honest, that man isn’t a fucking creep and he absolutely cares about consent!

But then he notices the way your body reacts. The way you shake a little under his touch. The way you clearly don’t wanna stop at just talking anymore. So he moves even closer between your thighs. Pushes your dress up slightly and slips his hand into your panties. At first he just touches you. Slow. Feeling around, getting you worked up on purpose.

And by that point your breathing is already uneven, so you carefully put your half-finished drink farther down the counter before you accidentally knock it over. Then you lean toward him while he’s practically pressed against you and whisper in his ear that you want him.

And for Javi? That’s the signal. Especially when he can already feel how wet you are. So he slides his fingers into you and fuck, that man knows EXACTLY what he’s doing. Where to touch you. How much pressure to use. When to slow down and when to speed up. Like he’s fully aware of how easily he can make you fall apart under his hands.

And after he’s gotten you properly worked up with his fingers, then comes the part you’ve both been thinking about the whole damn time. Him. And his big cock. And trust me, Javier Peña is not gentle when he finally takes you right there on that kitchen counter. He doesn’t bother carrying you to the bedroom or moving this to the couch first. Nope. He just fucks you right there, hard enough to make the counter shake a little while he keeps one hand tangled in your hair. Not rough enough to hurt, just enough to tilt your head back so he can get at your neck because yes, that man is absolutely a neck biter. 

Shower

Yeah. Javi definitely likes shower sex. It’s wet everywhere, messy as hell, and hot. His hands keep slipping over your skin while he soaps you up, and trust me, that man does not miss a single inch of your body. He’s thorough. Especially when it comes to your tits. Pretty sure he suddenly finds it VERY important to make sure they’re properly covered in soap.

Of course, you don’t keep your hands to yourself either. You start washing him too. Running your hands over his neck, his chest… and when your palms slowly move lower across his stomach, you literally feel his breathing hitch under your touch. He looks down at you for a second, squeezes one of your breasts softly in his hand.

But you keep going lower. And the second your soapy hands wrap around his cock, you feel him get even harder in your grip. Not that you have to try very hard. Javier’s a visual man. He already likes the sight of you standing there naked and soaked in front of him, touching him, letting him touch you, so he’s been hard for a while already.

You stroke him a few times, slowly running your hand along him, thumb brushing over the exposed tip, and that man is completely fucked after that. He turns you around fast, pressing your back against his chest while he leans down close to your ear and quietly tells you to put your hands against the tiles.

And you do. You let him do whatever he wants with you.

His hands slide over your breasts, your stomach, before one arm pulls you tighter against him. You can feel his hard cock pressing against your ass while he fingers you slowly from behind.

And when you start squirming under his hands, he just quietly warns you: “Don’t move, princesa…” or something like that because yeah… Javi likes control. And in the shower, when you’re falling apart under his hands, he wants every bit of it.

But he’s not trying to make you come from his fingers tonight. So after a while he pulls them out, kisses your neck for a moment, palms all over your body, playing with your breasts while he keeps you there whining and desperate, not knowing if he’s actually gonna keep going or not.

And when you finally beg him because you can’t fucking take it anymore, arching your ass back against him to give him better access, he mutters a quiet curse in Spanish before finally pushing his cock into your pussy. His hands grip your hips while he fucks you under the hot water. Hard. Fast. But every now and then he slows down just enough to drag it out. Because tonight? He wants to hear you beg for him.

Couch

And yes, we finally got to the couch. Honestly there’s not even that much to say here. The couch is just one of Javi’s favorite convenient options. Like… imagine you’re watching a movie together or just laying there talking. And obviously it turns into sex. Because movie night with Javier Peña is NEVER just movie night. It always somehow turns into fucking too.

At first it starts innocent. Him pulling you closer against him little by little. His hand resting on your thigh before slowly sliding higher and higher between them. Testing you a little. Seeing if you’re into it too, if you want him just as much. Not that Javi’s some desperate sex pest, oh god NO. That man loves sex. Loves having a lot of sex too, yes. But he’s still respectful about it. Always paying attention to you first. But let’s be honest here… Javier Peña is really fucking hard to resist. Living with that man would probably feel like permanent ovulation that never ends. Actually no, it gets WORSE the more he’s around, so eventually you probably end up needing the sex more than he does.

Anyway. The couch is comfortable for him. He’s got his favorite afghan blanket there, yes, the S1E2 afghan blanket, and he likes fucking there because it can be both rough and comfortable at the same time. Sometimes exactly like we saw with Helena in Narcos. But honestly? I think he likes it even more when he’s sitting down and you’re riding him.

Not because he’s lazy. Not because it’s easier. But because then you control the pace. And he gets to just sit there and watch you bounce on his cock, watch the way you take him, the way your body reacts to him. And he’s deep too. Javi LOVES being deep inside you. Plus he gets to look right into your eyes the whole time. Hands all over your back, your waist, your thighs. It feels more intimate to him that way.

And honestly? I don’t think he’d fuck just anybody like that. With Helena or random hookups it’d probably stay more like the Narcos couch scene. Hot, messy, fast. But softer, more domestic Javi? That man LOVES when you climb into his lap and ride him with his hands all over you. And when he finally comes with those loud groans slipping out of him, he’s got perfect access to your neck and collarbones so he can bite and kiss all over the spots he’s obsessed with.

Car

Yeah, you heard me right. The car. And not because Javi’s some horny teenager who can’t fuck anywhere else. But because sometimes neither of you can wait that long. You or him. Or honestly both of you. Like after a bar or dinner where, according to Javi, the waiter was looking at you a little too obviously for his liking.

And sure, ideally he’d wanna “punish” you for it later in bed or maybe in the shower like I already said above… but let’s be honest. Just imagining it already has him half hard behind the steering wheel, so at that point there’s really no saving either of you anymore.

Yeah, climbing into the backseat feels kinda ridiculous at first. Knees everywhere, awkward positioning for two seconds. But then Javi just casually pushes your panties aside like he’s done this a hundred times before, pulls you onto his lap and doesn’t waste a second before guiding you down on his cock. And fuck… the second you sink down onto him, you can already feel his hips pushing back up against you. He doesn’t wanna give you full control now. Not completely. Javi likes being active too much for that. But there’s only so many positions you can manage in the backseat of a car before somebody breaks a fucking leg. Still… it works! Especially because once you’re both moving together, sweaty and desperate in the cramped backseat, it honestly just makes it hotter.

And let’s be real here… I lowkey think part of Javi likes the risk too. Not in a reckless way, but the thought that someone could catch you? The tinted windows fogging up while he’s fucking you in the backseat? Yeah. That definitely does something to him. Especially when you start trying to stay quiet and fail miserably.

At some point he slides one hand between your bodies, finds your clit with his fingers while his cock keeps thrusting deep inside you, and suddenly it’s way too much all at once. And after a while, once he’s got you shaking and coming around him from both his cock and his fingers, you’re practically falling apart in his lap while you clamp down hard around him just as he groans and comes inside you.

And honestly? You both already know this was only round one. Round two’s waiting at home. Probably in that shower.

Bed

Classic. But for Javi? Definitely not boring. The thing is, he doesn’t fuck just anybody in his bed. Hookups stay on the couch. Maybe the kitchen if things get heated enough. But the bed? That’s for the more domestic kind of sex. The kind that only happens once he trusts you enough to actually be vulnerable around you. That’s where the more intimate positions come in. Classic missionary. Spooning sex too, and honestly that one feels VERY personal with Javi.

Sometimes when he really wants to get deep, he’ll throw your legs over his shoulders during missionary and pull your ass up toward him so he can fuck into you deeper. And he LOVES it like that. Deep inside you, full view of your body underneath him, while his fingers are still rubbing your clit at the same time. Honestly that combination is heaven for him. The visual part of it. The sounds you make. Feeling your body react under him while he watches you completely fall apart.

And I fully believe Javier LOVES late night sex too. Like waking up in the middle of the night while the fan hums softly somewhere in the room and he can feel your body beside him under the sheets. At first he doesn’t even mean to wake you up. He just wants the closeness. So he starts moving against you a little. Touching you. Sleepy kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your back. Hands slowly wandering over your body until eventually you wake up anyway because there’s absolutely no way you’d sleep through Javier Peña touching you like that. And because it’s him, resisting never really lasts long. So either he slowly rolls you onto your back and settles himself between your thighs again… or you climb on top of him yourself and sink down onto his cock like this was your idea all along and not exactly what he wanted from the second he woke up hard next to you.

thank you for reading!

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I wake up before the sun does. For a second I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what pulled me out of sleep this time.

Then I hear it. A tiny rustle from the nursery down the hall, followed by the softest little whine through the baby monitor. Isabela.

I turn my head.

My wife is still asleep beside me, finally. One arm tucked under the pillow, hair half over her face, breathing deep in that way that tells me she’s completely gone. Good. Because last night was rough. Isa was up every other hour, crying, fussing, needing to be held, fed, soothed, then refusing to go back down unless she had her tiny fist wrapped around her mother’s shirt.

I lost count after the third time she got up. So yeah, no way in hell I’m letting her wake up now.

I carefully slide out of bed, trying not to make the mattress creak. The floor’s cold under my feet. The apartment is still dark, quiet in that early morning way where everything feels softer.

When I step into the nursery, Isabela is already standing in her crib, little hands gripping the railing, curls a complete mess. The moment she sees me, her whole face lights up. There it is. That smile. Jesus Christ. I’m done for every single time.

“Well, look at you,” I murmur, walking over. “Wide awake already, huh?”

She lets out a tiny excited sound and bounces on unsteady little legs. One year old and already running my entire life.

I lean down and scoop her up, and she immediately presses her warm little cheek against my shoulder. Still little bit sleepy. Still smelling like baby lotion and milk.

I kiss the top of her head. “Let mama sleep, okay? She earned it.”

Isabela responds by patting my face with a damp little hand.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” I carry her into the kitchen, settling her on my hip while I flick on the small light above the stove.

She’s got one arm looped around my neck, her head resting against my shoulder, and I swear I’ve never felt anything softer in my life.

“Alright, princesa,” I say quietly. “How do you feel about pancakes?”

She blinks at me. Then reaches for my nose. I take that as a yes.

The kitchen looks like a battlefield within five minutes. Bottle warmed. Diaper changed. Tiny pink socks located after a ridiculous amount of searching.

Now comes the hard part. Cooking while holding a toddler.

I grab the pancake mix and balance Isa a little higher on my hip. She immediately leans over to inspect the bowl like she’s supervising. “You gonna help?”

A happy babble.

“Good. Because your mother married a DEA agent, not a chef.” I crack the first egg one-handed. Shell falls straight into the bowl. I stare at it.

Isa giggles.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

She laughs harder.

“Traitor.” I fish the shell out with my finger and keep going, whisking the batter while trying to stop her from grabbing the spoon. “No, mija, we do not eat raw batter.”

She absolutely tries anyway.

I turn toward the stove and grab the pan. This is where things get complicated. Because now I’ve got a squirmy one-year-old on one arm and a hot pan in the other, and somehow I’ve decided this is a good idea.

The first pancake doesn’t look very good. Uneven, slightly tragic, but somehow still edible.

Isa points at it. “Dada!”

“Don’t judge me.”

She grins.

The second one is better. By the third, I’m feeling almost cocky. “See that?” I murmur to her. “Your old man still has it.”

That’s exactly when she grabs a handful of my tshirt and leans backward, nearly taking both of us with her.

“Jesus, Isa.” I catch the pan just in time.

She squeals like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened.

I laugh under my breath. “You’re trying to kill me before breakfast.”

Tiny hands clap.

I’m still flipping the last pancake when I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder.

There she is. Hair messy, still wrapped in sleep, standing in the doorway in one of my shirts. My wife stops dead when she sees us.

Me in sweatpants, half-awake, holding Isabela on one arm while trying to flip pancakes with the other. The kitchen smells like butter and coffee.

Her face softens instantly. “What are you doing?”

I look back at the pan. “Apparently domestic excellence.”

She laughs, quiet and warm. “You should be in bed.”

“So should you.” I turn toward her a little more, adjusting Isa on my hip. “She had you up all night.”

Her expression shifts into that look she gets sometimes. That one that says she’s overwhelmed and soft all at once. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I did.” I glance down at Isabela, who’s now trying to grab the spatula. “Besides, your daughter insisted.”

“Our daughter.”

I give her a look. “Debatable. She’s got my eyes but your ability to cause chaos.”

She snorts. That sound alone is worth getting up early for. She walks over and gently brushes a hand over Isabela’s curls.

Our daughter immediately leans toward her. Mama’s girl. Always.

I pretend to be offended. “Wow. After everything I’ve done this morning.”

My wife smiles and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you.” It’s quiet when she says it. Real. The kind that lands somewhere under my ribs.

I shrug like it’s nothing. “It’s pancakes.”

“It’s more than pancakes.”

I look at her for a second. At the tiredness still in her eyes. At the softness there too. And I know exactly what she means. So instead of saying anything, I lean down and kiss her forehead. “You sit,” I tell her. “I’ve got this.”

She raises an eyebrow, looking at the slightly questionable stack on the plate. “Do you?”

“Listen,” I say, offended. “Nobody asked for Michelin stars.”

She laughs again and moves to sit at the table.

Isa twists in my arms, reaching for her.

I carry her over and settle her into the high chair. The second I place the little plate in front of her, she immediately squishes one pancake piece in her fist. Syrup on her fingers. On her cheeks. Probably in her hair in the next thirty seconds. Perfect.

I sit down beside them with my coffee and just look for a second. My wife half-asleep but smiling. Isabela happily destroying breakfast. Morning light starting to spill through the windows.

This. This right here. No cartel. No reports. No blood. No city burning outside.

Just home. Just them.

Isa suddenly holds up a sticky piece of pancake toward me. “Dada.”

I lean closer. “For me?”

She shoves it straight into my mouth. Cold. Too much syrup. Absolutely terrible.

I grin anyway. “Best pancake I’ve ever had.”

My wife shakes her head, smiling into her coffee.

And for the first time in a long while, everything feels quiet in the best possible way.

♡ ── ♡ ── ♡

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Morning. Both of us at the sink, half-asleep, brushing our teeth. She looks at me in the mirror, all mischief in her eyes.

Next thing I know - squeeze. Right at my stomach. The tiny little softness I’ve got there.

She snorted foam laughing, nearly choked on her toothbrush.

And I’ll admit it: yeah, I got a little belly now. Not much, just… enough. Embassy job, less running around with a gun, more late-night takeout with her. What can I say?

And she squeezed it like it was the cutest damn thing she’d ever seen.

So I laughed. Shrugged it off. “Yeah, cariño. Belly’s got a little extra, what do you want from me?”

She doesn’t answer, just smile.

Should’ve left it at that. But no. Idiot me decided to pinch her back. Tiny squeeze at her waist. Barely anything.

Her whole body froze. Toothbrush hanging midair. She spit into the sink, turned to me with eyes wide like saucers. “So I’m FAT now?!”

I almost swallowed my toothpaste whole. “No! Cariño… no, jesus christ–”

She pointed at me like I’d just insulted her entire family tree. “You think I’ve got a belly, Peña?!”

“Baby, you don’t even have a belly!” I was waving my arms like a man begging for mercy. “It was a joke! And you started it!”

Didn’t matter. She stormed off, muttering about never eating bread again, while I stood there foaming at the mouth like a lunatic.

Lesson learned: When she pinches my belly, I laugh. I accept that yes, I’ve got a tiny bit of softness, and she loves it.

But if I try to even the score? I’m the villain in this marriage until further notice.

❛ ━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━ ❜

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