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kilamonster · 22 days

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Please, MARCUS PLEASE!!!

Rumor Has It: Chapter 9 Peña x f!reader x Pike

Pairings: Marcus Pike x f!reader; Javier Peña x f!reader; future Peña x f!reader x Pike

Chapter 9 Summary: Flashback: All rules go out the window the first time you and Marcus are truly alone.

Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI), Explicit sexual content, additional warnings may be added for future chapters

Chapter Warnings: no use of y/n, flashback, workplace romance, oral sex (m receiving), Marcus being the softest saddest boy, bearded!Marcus, ‘good girl’ origin story

Reader/Character notes: Reader is fem!afab; No mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color.

Words: 4.4k

Author’s Note: I wrote most of this at the same time I was writing chapter 8; I just couldn’t get this image out of my head of sad-boi!Marcus, watching his classic films, eating his pint of Ben & Jerry’s… I decided to break up this flashback as well because there is so much I want to do with bearded Marcus and the word count was getting untenable.

Thank you to my darling, my lovely beta, Kilamonster! I’m forever grateful for your unceasing encouragement and feedback. Besitos para ti 💋💜

Dividers by @saradika!

Masterlist || Previous Chapter

One Year EarlierWashington, D.C.

Pike had been acting weird ever since he went on that work trip to give a deposition. At first you thought he was just grumpy from being jet lagged, or perhaps the deposition hadn’t gone well. His office door was closed most of the time, which was very unusual for him.

The poor man looked like somebody had run over his dog. You’d never seen him look so haggard in all the months you’d been detailed to his unit. His shoulders drooped, his shirts were wrinkled, and his usually well-groomed appearance turned a bit unkempt. You had to admit the beard he’d been growing for awhile had a rakish charm about it. He’d let his hair grow out, and the forelock that fell over his forehead was simply dreamy and emphasized his large, coffee colored eyes. Apparently the sad boy look did it for you.

You saw a few members of his team try various things to engage with him, inviting him to happy hours and trivia nights, bringing him coffee and pastries each morning. He was always grateful, insisted on paying for the food and drinks, but declined all invitations. Whispers were starting to circulate about various reasons for the change in Pike’s demeanor.

You hate rumors. Which is how you find yourself sitting in your car on a Friday night, fully intending to go to the gym, but thinking about Pike instead. This had gone on long enough. Either he needed to be snapped out of it, or needed a friend to talk to about whatever he’s going through.

Instead of driving to the gym, you stop by the store to pick up a six-pack of beer you’ve seen Pike drink at happy hours, and go to his place. He’s hosted team hangouts there, always making sure to include you. The case you’re on now occasionally results in late nights with a few of the team ordering massive amounts of takeout and working late into the night, camped out in various locations around his living room. You’re always the first to nab the cozy throw blanket off the back of the couch and hunker down into the plush cushions.

Tonight is different. You’ve only been alone with Pike a few times, never for long, and never at his place. Those few times you have been alone were always work related or out at a social function for as long as it took for someone to get back with the next round. By the time you begin to second guess your decision to go over, you’re already in his neighborhood and turning down his street.

You think to yourself that it’s still not too late to turn back. Then Pike’s face from that afternoon comes to mind – those big, brown eyes of his that are usually so full of passion and intelligence had dulled the last few weeks. With your mind made up, you park in front of his townhouse and grab the six-pack from your passenger seat.

A few steps from the front door, you pause when it occurs to you that the windows are darkened. His car is there, but the only light you can see is coming from the fan-shaped window at the top of his door. He might be out, or sleeping – you check your watch – at seven o’clock on a Friday night. Or, he might have somebody over, and having a young-ish female agent from work showing up would just be an awkward mood killer.

You hesitate, then take a step forward, thinking you’ll leave the beer for him and send a text. Shaking your head, you realize that’d just be creepy, and turn around to go back to your car. Just then, you hear his front door open and whirl around to see Pike standing there in a white undershirt and joggers.

“Hey –”

“Hey!” You cut him off, a little too loudly and flinch. “Hey, sorry, um…” You’re not quite sure what to say at this point, it all sounds too dumb. He doesn’t look angry, just a bit bemused by your presence. Thankfully, Marcus ends the awkward silence first.

“Do you want to come in?” Stepping back, Marcus opens the door a bit wider and you can see that he’s barefoot. You’re not sure why you find that endearing.

“Yeah, thanks.” You step inside, noticing that most of the interior lights are off except for a couple at the back of the house. There’s faint noise coming from the TV in the living room. Not sure what else to do, you stand there and awkwardly hold up the six-pack.

“I brought beer.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you.” Marcus politely takes the beer and shuts the door. As he walks back to the kitchen, he asks over his shoulder, “Did I miss a group text about a hangout?”

“No, I just…” Sighing, you hover at the threshold of his kitchen, where he’s opening two of the beer bottles. You decide to lean into the awkwardness and just go for it. “Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, of course I’m okay. Why do you ask?” Marcus answers far too quickly and casually, so you push.

“You’ve seemed…off lately.” Accepting a beer, you take a swig to steady your nerves. The words all come out in a rush. “Ever since you went to give that deposition. You just haven’t seemed yourself.”

Marcus watches you silently. You shrug, and admit, “I guess I was kind of worried.”

You pause, your stomach in knots, sure now that you’ve just been imagining things, and that you’ve overstepped the limits of your professional relationship. Marcus takes a deep breath and places both hands on the island counter, leaning with his arms straight. He fixes you with an unreadable expression.

“Did the others put you up to this?”

“No!” You assure him, stepping forward and putting your beer bottle on the counter. “Nobody put me up to this. Nobody even knows I’m here.”

Wanting him to believe you, you place a hand on his upper arm, feeling the well developed muscles flex under your touch.

“Really, Marcus. You can talk to me. What’s going on?”

Marcus sniffs, then takes a long pull from his beer.

“Have you ever seen Casablanca?”

~*~*~*~

An hour later, Casablanca plays quietly in the background, and the two of you are settled back on the couch, washing down pizza with more beer.

Turns out Marcus hadn’t expected to see you standing there when he opened his front door. He’d gotten an alert from his doorbell camera and figured it was the pizza delivery guy. You laugh together when he shows you the video captured of your exchange.

“So, wait – you were just sitting here in the dark, watching a classic romance, in your pajamas? Where’s the pint of Ben and Jerry’s?” You’re both laughing at your lighthearted ribbing. You swear Marcus blushes a bit, but the beard and dim lighting makes it hard to tell.

“In the freezer…” You laugh even harder at this revelation. “What? I was saving it for after the pizza!”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Pike?” You give him a playful push with your foot. “Go get it!”

Marcus’ smile looks almost back to normal as he gets up and pads off to the kitchen, returning with a pint of Chunky Monkey and two spoons.

“So,” you start, swallowing your first bite. “Who is she? Or he – I don’t want to assume, of course.”

“Who says there’s anyone at all?” Marcus demures, taking a large spoonful for himself. You sit facing each other on the couch, hunched over the shared ice cream.

“Seriously? The movie, the comfort food, the sweats – it’s Breakup Recovery 101, and you could teach the course.” He chuckles as you knock his spoon away with your own to go after a large piece of walnut.

“I know it’s cliche, but...”

“But it helps,” you finish for him, and he nods. Selflessly, you let him take the chunk of chocolate you were gunning for. The ice cream is starting to make you feel cold and you look around the room.

“What?” Marcus asks, turning his spoon over to lick it clean.

“Where’s the blanket that’s normally here?” You pat its usual spot on the back of the couch.

“Oh, hang on, I’ll get it.” While you dig around for another piece of chocolate, he disappears upstairs. A minute later he’s back with the cozy throw. “Sorry, I usually put it out if I know you’re coming over.”

Marcus spreads the blanket over both your laps while you hold the ice cream out of the way.

“You don’t normally keep it out here?” Marcus shakes his head.

“Nah, I don’t usually need a blanket. But you got cold the first time you came over – for the Superbowl party, I think? I went out and got one so you’d be more comfortable the next time.”

You stare at Marcus, blinking, as he picks through for the good bits. This man, who barely knew you the first time you came over, went out and bought a blanket to keep at his house on the off chance you got cold here again. You don’t even remember saying you were cold at the party, you’d just put on your jacket until the house warmed up a bit. You’re not sure what to make of the feelings stirring inside your chest.

“Thanks, Marcus. That was really thoughtful.” He shrugs in reply.

“I like my friends to be comfortable.” And that’s when you remember Marcus sees you as a friend, and you see him as one too. You swallow around a lump and clear your throat.

“I didn’t even know you’d been seeing anyone. Will you tell me what happened?”

After a deep breath, Marcus tells you everything – about his last assignment, the woman he’d briefly been engaged to when he came to D.C., and the man she stayed behind for. He tells you about seeing both of them when he went to give the deposition. And in return, you tell him what a badass he was for laying it all out for that asshole.

“Well, I don’t know about ‘badass.’ This is so embarrassing, but I actually said I’d grown the beard out for,” he raises his fingers in air quotes, “‘an undercover thing.’”

You try not to laugh, but fail miserably. “Aw, that’s not so bad.” Marcus rolls his eyes.

“No, really! Once after a bad breakup I dyed my hair blue and sent my ex a glitter bomb.” Marcus laughs and tugs playfully at a lock of your hair.

“I bet you looked cute as hell with blue hair.”

“Trust me, I didn’t look nearly as cute with blue hair as you do with a beard.” You reach up and stroke the side of his scruff. The shared laughter fades, and you’re left just looking at each other, taking one another in.

The words bubble up in your chest and flow out, “She was so stupid, Marcus. I bet she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Marcus smiles ruefully and ducks his head, and you leave your spoon in the carton so you can take his face in both of your hands. His cheeks are soft and warm under your touch.

“I’m serious. You’re an amazing agent, an incredible friend, and an even better human being. I mean it when I say it’s her loss.”

Marcus’ eyes go soft and he swallows. You realize you’re still holding his face and begin to retreat, but he holds one of your hands in place, his fingers cold from the forgotten ice cream in his lap. Closing his eyes, he takes a breath and turns his face to kiss your palm.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Your chest is tight from holding back the urge to do – what, you’re not exactly sure. Anything, whatever it takes to bring that smile back to his face and erase the sadness from his eyes. Leaning in, you brush a gentle kiss across his cheek, then another.

And then his lips are on yours, warm and soft, slightly sticky from the ice cream. Marcus is moving, setting the half-melted ice cream on the coffee table and letting your spoons clatter, his lips never leaving yours.

Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer and you can smell the sweetness of the dessert on his beard. When he deepens the kiss, you sigh into his mouth, enjoying how his tongue tastes and feels against yours.

The scratch of the stubble doesn’t hurt, but the hairs on his upper lip tickle at your nose when you suck gently on his bottom lip. He moans, which seems to surprise him, and he pulls away, breathless.

You try to follow but he holds your upper arms while saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have – so many reasons…”

You can see he’s overthinking everything, so you put it plainly.

“I want this, and I want you. Is that how you feel too?”

Marcus says emphatically, “God, yes. But–”

“Let me make you feel good, Marcus.” You press your forehead to his and stroke his cheek. Placing light kisses to the corner of his mouth, then the apple of his cheek, the scruff on his jaw, you add a soft, “Please.”

Marcus inhales sharply through his nose, and his hands flex, tightening their grip on your arms for a second. You lay a kiss at the corner of his eye, the place that crinkles so sweetly when he smiles. Turning his face into yours, he nudges your cheek with the gentle slope of his nose. His arms encircle you, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck.

“Let me help you forget.”

Smoothing your hands over his chest, you try to slow your breathing. Being in Marcus’ arms, practically in his lap, is making you feel desperate. You’d do anything to make him feel better, anything to make him feel cherished.

“Just for tonight?” A hint of pleading enters your voice. Slowly, you pull your feet under you, kneeling on the couch. Marcus swallows thickly, and when he finally speaks, his words come out hoarse.

“Say it again.”

Not quite sure what he means, you pause for a moment, pulling back to bring him into focus. His pupils are blown, his soft lips parted. Marcus looks as wrecked as you feel.

“Say ‘please’ again.” The words send tingles straight between your legs.

“Please, Marcus.”

It comes out in a whisper, immediately followed by his mouth on yours. His broad chest feels hot under your hands where you grasp the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

He slips his large hands under the hem of your sweatshirt, then molds them to your ass. Putting your arms around the back of his neck, he lifts and helps you clamber over until you're straddling his lap.

“I want to make you feel good too,” he pants between your lips.

Marcus leaves a scorching trail of kisses and licks down your neck until you gasp and grab a fistful of his soft hair to hold him to the spot that makes you dizzy. Feeling the evidence of his growing arousal, you roll your hips to press against him, sighing from the relief the friction gives you. Marcus lets out a soft grunt and pulls you into him again, this time lifting his hips up to meet yours.

Unzipping the loose hoodie you’d intended for the gym, Marcus helps you free your arms from the fitted cuffs and tosses it somewhere on the floor behind you. You’re only wearing a lightweight tank top over your sports bra, and, in the back of your mind, you’re happy you happen to be wearing the nice one that actually makes your tits look good.

Deciding to show them off, you strip the tank top over your head and toss it to the side of the couch you’d been sitting on. Marcus lets out a breath and pauses to admire your body, running his hands up and down your exposed midriff. As his hands caress your breasts, your nipples harden against the soft fabric of your bra, and he swipes a thumb over one causing you to shiver.

Reaching down, you tug the hem of Marcus’ white undershirt up and he leans forward, allowing you to pull it all the way off. You knew his arms were nice, but his chest and shoulders would have made your knees weak if you were standing. His golden skin is dappled with a light sprinkling of freckles down the column of his neck. You lean over to kiss at the base of his throat, feeling it vibrate when he hums, then lick and suck your way across his neck and shoulder.

“Your mouth feels good,” Marcus intones huskily.

Smiling, you nip gently at his earlobe before whispering, “It’ll feel even better on your cock.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “You want to suck my cock?”

In answer, you reach between your bodies and palm his dick through his soft jogging pants, then give it a small stroke. He grunts, then turns his head, capturing your lips in another heated kiss.

When you moan, he deepens the kiss and drags his hot tongue against yours. He tastes so good, you’re reluctant to stop, but the size and heft of him through his pants is too tempting to resist. Sliding a finger into his waistband, you give it a playful tug and feel him smile against your mouth. You slip your hand inside and wrap your fingers around his sizable cock.

“Oh my god,” you murmur, and he huffs a small laugh that gets drawn out into a moan when you grasp him firmly in your fist.

“I'm flattered,” he says lightly, but as you give him a tentative stroke his brow creases and he lets out a soft gasp.

“Trust me, it's not just flattery.” His breath hitches when you stroke him again and he kisses your bare shoulder. You reach down with your other hand and pull his cock free of his pants to give you more freedom of movement.

Glancing down between your bodies, you're disappointed that you can't make out much in the darkness of the living room. Setting a slow, easy pace, Marcus groans and rests his forehead on your shoulder, grabbing a fistful of each ass cheek in his hands.

“Does that feel good?” Your voice comes out low and intimate, almost a whisper.

Nodding, he makes small movements with his hips to thrust up into your hand.

“Do you want more? Do you want my mouth?”

He lets out a guttural moan and nods more empathically, pulling back to kiss you again. Breaking the kiss gently, you slide down between his splayed thighs and kneel before him, the plush rug comfortable under your knees. In this new position, you're more acutely aware of how wet you've been getting.

You can see the top half of his cock trapped between his stomach and waistband, and eagerly reach for him.

“Take this off first,” he instructs softly, toying with the strap of your sports bra with a quirk to his lips.

Smiling, you obey and pull off the tight garment, watching his face to see his reaction. In the dimness of the living room, the light cast from the TV flickers silently across his face, highlighting the cut of his jaw and cheekbones.

“Beautiful,” he whispers to himself, and cups your face in his hand. He drags the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, unconsciously flicking his tongue out to wet his own. You decide you like seeing him from this angle, awaiting his next word or move, basking in his praise.

You grasp at the elastic waistband and Marcus lifts his hips. As his cock is freed, he watches you intensely under heavy lids. Pulling his jogging pants all the way down to his ankles, you let him adjust and get comfortable while you stroke his thighs.

Your mouth waters, impatient to feel the swollen head of his cock slipping past your lips. Grasping the solid weight of him in your fist, you pull up from the base, delighted to see a drop of precum pearl at the tip. Before it can spill over, you lean in and lick the salty substance away.

“Fuck,” Marcus’ hips spasm involuntarily, the head of his cock bumping into your mouth. “Shit, sorry.”

Ignoring his apology, you engulf him in your mouth and swirl your tongue around the ridge, then flick it at the sensitive spot just underneath. Keeping one hand at the base, you gather spit in your mouth and let it drip over the cut head, stroking him a few times to make it nice and slick.

“Jesus,” he whispers, watching you create a seal between your mouth and hand, stroking the length that won’t fit in your mouth. His moans and sighs fill your ears, hands roaming your shoulders and neck, cradling your head, pulling back your hair. He’s holding back, though. Thighs and abs rigid, arms tense, he isn’t giving himself over to the pleasure.

“I want you to use my mouth,” you tell him, then take him back in your mouth. You take one of his hands and place it at the back of your head, giving yourself a push to indicate that he can pull you down if he wants. Marcus groans and gives an experimental push, but stays tense.

Pulling off him again, you stroke the head to keep him stimulated. “Please, Marcus – fuck my mouth.”

“Oh, fuck…” Marcus slowly begins to relax, allowing his hips to buck up and meet your mouth as he gently pulls your face down. “Your mouth, it feels so good, you’re so good.”

He drops his head to rest on the back of the couch. His large hands palm each side of your face and you take him in, all the way to the back of your throat, letting him feel the vibrations of your moans.

“Ah, hnh, fuck…” Every bob of your head and thrust of his hips elicits a grunt or noise in the back of his throat. You’re sure you must be soaking wet now, and you’re tempted to touch yourself while you suck him off.

“Just like that…fuck – so fucking good, baby. Take my cock – ah, yeah…”

The sounds he's making have you moaning and whimpering around his cock, eyes closed, drool coating your mouth and chin.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep that up– ugh, god.”

Clenching your thighs, your hips move involuntarily, trying to get some stimulation to your throbbing clit. You need some relief, and press the heel of your palm to your mound, grinding into it in time with every thrust of Marcus’ cock into your mouth.

“Fuck, are you touching yourself while you suck me off? Does it turn you on that much, taking me deep, feeling me fuck your mouth?”

You answer an mhmm around his cock and look up at him. From the pale light of the TV screen you can see the sheen of perspiration on his chest and forehead, his mouth open, that plump bottom lip quivering slightly.

He meets your eye as he fucks into your mouth. “Shit, that’s so good, baby, don’t stop – your fucking mouth – ah, god, yeah, keep playing with yourself, good girl.”

Good girl.

Your clit throbs and you let out an involuntary moan, your eyes fluttering shut. Nobody has ever called you a ‘good girl’ before, but Marcus’ ceaseless praise activates a part of your brain you didn't know existed.

You need to make Marcus feel good, and you feel driven to perform well enough to earn that ‘good girl’ from him again. You want to taste and swallow his cum as your reward.

Eyes closed again, you press down and relax your jaw, suppressing your gag reflex around the softer glans as you grip the rock hard base of his cock.

“Fuck, I can feel your throat, baby. You still touching yourself?”

You manage to whimper another mhm and nod slightly before he's hitting the back of your throat again. Your pussy is on fire, already clenching around nothing, desperate to take Marcus’ cock.

“Unh, yeah, don’t stop, I love how turned on you are by this. I can’t wait to taste you too – do you want that? You want my mouth too?”

Moaning your assent, you caress a hand over whatever planes of his body you can reach without breaking rhythm, feeling the muscles in his abs and thighs quiver as he thrusts steadily.

“Oohh fuck, yeah – you're taking me so deep, that’s it, that’s … that’s a good girl.”

There it is again, those two words: good girl. A keening sound comes from your throat in response. Head swimming, you'd swear you're drunk off his cock and his words.

Marcus’ voice is getting more strained, wavering from guttural to breathy. His cock swells in your mouth and your eyes water slightly.

“Fuck, baby, you’re getting me so close. Do you want my cum?”

Whimpering, you use both hands to grasp onto his hips, keeping up the pace with your mouth as his hips stutter.

"I’m so close, where do you want it?” His words are rushed and tense, but you never break your stride, moaning around his cock and making your answer obvious.

“Shit. Here it comes – I’m cu–” Marcus doesn’t get a chance to finish his warning before his cock is pulsing and shooting his cum onto the back of your tongue. Letting out a hoarse cry, he grips reflexively to your face and hair as his orgasm rips through him.

“Ah, ahh, yes, take my cum – so good, so fucking good for me…”

As the last shudders ripple through his muscles, he sighs and strokes your face tenderly while you happily milk the last drops of his cum into your mouth. You can’t help feeling a sense of accomplishment and pride in making Marcus feel so good.

Before either of you can catch your breath, Marcus leans over and captures your mouth in a deep kiss. You both moan as his tongue explores your mouth, tasting himself in every corner.

“That was incredible,” he sighs between kisses. “You’re incredible.”

Marcus kisses up your jaw to your ear and whispers, “I want to make you feel just as good…” He drags the tip of his tongue from earlobe to pulsepoint, then makes you lose nearly all your senses as he sucks and nibbles on the sensitive spot.

Still on your knees, Marcus’ assault on your neck has you arched back until you feel the press of the coffee table behind you. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but you are positioned awkwardly enough that you cling to Marcus for stability, the muscles in his back broad and firm under your hands.

“Bedroom.” It’s the only word you manage to gasp out.

“Upstairs.” His reply would sound casual if not for the heat in his voice.

“Show me.”

Marcus stands, helping you regain your balance on your feet. He kisses your lips again, then pulls back with a sly grin on his face.

“Say, ‘please.’”

Chapter 10 - Coming Soon!

Additional Author’s Note: Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all the lovely comments and reblogs! I can’t tell you how much they mean to me. As always, I would love-love-love to know what you think. I really want to become a better writer, so any and all feedback is welcome! Thank you for reading! 💜

No-Pressure Taglist - I just like making friends!: @kilamonster @half-moon16 @for-a-longlongtime @pedroswife69 @pedroshotwifey @angiewatson @morallyinept @peepawispunk @i-wanna-be-your-muse @marysucks-blog @guelyury @connectioneverywhere @sunshinehaze1 @drewharrisonwriter @venturawriter @survivingandenduring @thetriumphantpanda @umniamusic @itsbrandy @eyeswidecovered @myntyuu @cajuncayenne @kirsteng42 @tupelomiss @jensensational71 @mellymbee @urmomsgnocchi @your-slutty-gf @sinpathyforthedevilish @searchedhighandlo @lizzie-cakes @tkingbacksydney @littlemisspascal @din-jarhead @read-and-wip @thegirlwiththecircus @jessthebaker @rav3n-pascal22 @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @penvisions @lotusbxtch @devineconjuring @ezrasbirdie @perotovar @ilovejavierpena @ozarkthedog @swiftispunk @agentjackdaniels-blog @janaispunk

#Marcus por favor #you gotta tease it if you wanna please it #dame todos los besitos 💋#rumor has it fic #senorabond writes #rumor has it marcus #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pero claro que sí

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kilamonster · 1 month

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Truly an ode to Javi P

Pump - A Javier Peña One Shot

Summary: A man starts coming into the gym where you work, and you find you can't keep your eyes off him when he starts to pump...

Pairing: Javier Peña x GN!Reader (No name, defined sex or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 2.6k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️ “Don't hurt me, cadejo."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: PWP/Javi wearing the tiniest satin shorts ever made/cock outline/possible peek of a ball/very pervy thoughts over a very sweaty Javi 🥵

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: I saw this amazing fanart today of Javi, and the thots just thotted the fuck out of me... 🫠

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

His visits are the fucking highlight of your day.

You find yourself searching for him as you meander through the gym with an added bounce in your step, stack of laundered towels in hand as you drop them around the equipment like newspapers tossed on garden lawns.

Rows of clunky weightlifting machines stand proudly, their chrome frames gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights.

Tattered, vinyl-covered benches line the perimeter of the room, each one bearing the marks of countless hours of use by sweaty bodies and muscled lunkheads striving for physical perfection.

The sound of heavy metal plates clinking together fills the air as the group of agents, from the local DEA office across the steamed pavement street, load up barbells and dumbbells, their focused expressions a melee of pinched, taut brows and refined muscles.

Despite the seriousness of their profession, the moderately sized gym is a tatty haven where they can unwind and bond over their shared passion for catching dangerous narcos and pumping iron in machismo camaraderie.

The walls in Manny’s Gym are adorned with curled edge motivational posters featuring slogans like No Pain, No Gain and Train Hard, Fight Easy, with iconic muscle men of the current era plastered over them like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Franco Columbu, and Lou Ferrigno, serving as constant reminders of the grit and determination required to succeed in both the gym and the field.

The air is always thick with the unmistakable scent of musky sweat, mingling with the earthy aroma of old leather from well-worn punch bags that hang from the ceiling like dangling scrotums swaying in a pendulous rhythm.

Steamy showers and weak powdery deodorant permeates. It’s a heady concoction that hints at the countless hours of exertion and dedication that's saturated the space.

A scent that you’re all too familiar with and breathe in like starved oxygen.

The wooden floor creaks beneath your sneakers as you make your way further into the gym, the sound echoing off the walls.

As you approach the rows of clunky weightlifting machines, the tangy scent of metal fills your nostrils, accompanied by the faint whiff of oil used to lubricate the gears.

Despite his gruff exterior, Manny himself hosts a warm and welcoming demeanour to the regular gym goers, always ready with a word of encouragement, or a pat on the back for those who train under his roof.

He takes great pride in the sense of community that’s flourished within the gym, fostering a supportive environment where the local Bogotá law and DEA alike choose to pump here.

It’s not exclusive, your regular Joe Sixpack will frequent on occasion, but the familiar faces make it far more easy on the eye as you bask in the array of sweaty limbs on the daily.

They give you wolf-whistles and jeers as you shimmy on by handing out towels and sweat bands with a beaming, enticing smile.

But you don’t pay them no mind when they flirt back and grin with glistening rows of hungry teeth like you’re ripe for the plucking. A juicy peach bobbing in a swamp full of toothless alligators. They're physically respectful despite their obvious leers.

Most of them aren't really your type anyway. Stiff, upper pale bodies with honeyed hair falling in waves; the Americans are all the same Mattel crafted hard plastic.

Whereas you prefer something more dark and velvety rich like Colombian coffee that goes down easy and smooth and leaves a heady aftertaste on your lips.

There's one man in particular you'd like to drink down, whom you’ve noticed coming in a few times in recent weeks.

It’s hard to forget him with those tiny, satin shorts he wears in a stark canary yellow, and riding dangerously high up his lean, caramel thighs.

A neatly trimmed moustache adorns his upper lip, thick and fluffy, adding a touch of rugged charm to his otherwise clean-cut appearance. His standard issue DEA gym t-shirt seems a little on the small side, hugging around his golden biceps and riding skintight across the broadest set of shoulders you’ve ever seen on a man his size; a complete opposing parallel to the trimness of his waist. He’s like an inverted triangle.

A break in the tight denim jeans that wrap around his legs when you’ve spied him leaving the gym, freshly clean and dressed after a hard workout, and heading back into the office.

Package stuffed tight up in there, poor thing; the brilliant tightness restricting and choking around that hefty bulge all day.

It rides up a little over his tiny belly; a galaxy of dark hairs trailing down into his shorts that makes you lick your lips every time your eyes fall onto that hairy column.

His dark brown hair, slicked back slightly and curling on the nape, glistens with sweat, adding to his aura of intensity and focus. He exudes an effortless confidence as he moves from one exercise to the next.

The Latino-looking man focuses on a combination of strength training and cardio, showcasing his versatility and athleticism needed for the job he does.

And you find yourself enthralled in his routine, interrupting yours as you covertly watch him from behind the small desk trying not to flood it with your drool.

He usually starts with a set of heavy deadlifts; the sound of his puffs hissing through his teeth and reverberating through the gym as he lifts with perfect form.

Next, he moves on to explosive plyometric jumps. Clad in those tiny, satin shorts that hug his muscular thighs, his powerful legs propel him effortlessly into the air before landing with precision. You can’t help but watch as the muscles and cords in his thighs ripple with each slam of his soles on the floor.

Throughout his workout, he maintains a steely determination and laser-like focus with punishing chocolate eyes, pushing himself to the limit with each repetition; sweat glistening around his brow and temples and falling in tracks.

Despite the intensity of his workouts, there’s a relaxed confidence in his demeanour, reflected in the easy, fluid movements of his svelte body as he moves through the reps.

You watch his back move and shift, broad shoulder blades folding in and out as they flex under the snug fit of his fading t-shirt. His posture is upright and nonplussed, conveying a sense of self-assurance.

Standing at an average height, his frame is lean, yet powerful, and you can’t help but let your thoughts drift into murky territories as your eyes wander all over him and drink him up like a quenching soda on a sweltering day.

You know very little about him, only hearing his name muttered by the other agents as he addresses them pre-work, out or when they stop mid-way through to discuss, what you can only assume, is the cases they’re working on.

The dusty jukebox in the corner playing the current Billy Idol hit drowns them out somewhat at this distance.

He speaks with a soft, deep cadence; a gravelled grizzle wrapped around his pert lips, which is almost muted and out of full earshot.

But they call him Peña, or Javi as they sometimes greet him through lazy Spanish chit-chat.

He called you cariño once as he passed, mouthing a good morning to you with little effort.

But the one thing that's unmistakably loud and clear, is the grunting that pelts out of him.

Particularly when he does bench presses, or those barbell squats with the large weight resting on his shoulders. A deep, guttural grunt ruts out of him that sets your skin alight and makes your genitals want to break out the pompoms and start cheering his name doing high kicks.

They flow unabashed out of him as he pants and hisses. And you like it when he does those squats the most, watching as he parts his feet steady, and slowly lowers his pert ass down towards the floor, rendering those tiny shorts to almost disappear entirely into the rounded crack of his cheeks.

Fuck...

Javi focuses on his reflection in the mirror, lips curled back under that buoyant dark fluff lining his top lip, and teeth clenched in a snarl as he breathes out and grunts loudly with every push upwards from those strong thighs that tense and quiver.

As you observe him from across the gym, you can't ignore the undeniable attraction you feel towards him as it licks up your spine; it makes you clench and sweat just watching him and the fantastic sex-like faces he makes in the mirror.

His sculpted physique and rugged good looks are certainly appealing, but your eyes betray you and head further south at the constant movement inside his flimsy shorts.

Gaudy in their brightness, you see past them at the way they flout their thinness like they’re almost fucking see-through. You like the tease of how low they sit on his svelte hips. A simple tug and they’ll be round his ankles with ease.

You can make out the perfect outline of his heavy, flaccid cock hanging between his legs. Curves and ridges imprinted against the material like muscle memory. Flopping about so uncouthly as he moves like it’s battering you in the face.

Jesus fucking Christ.

With your task temporarily forgotten and brain slowly sluicing out of your ears, the sight of his cock outlining around the thin satin draws you in further. A third arm beckoning you in. Punching against the material with every movement from his hips as though you're mesmerised and drunk on the wildly pornographic view.

You’re pretty certain he’s not wearing any underwear, which is only confirmed by a fuzzy, pink sack peeping out at you some time later when he works on the bench, and draws his leg up.

You just want to push him back on the bench, naked from the waist down except for his faded white sneakers on, ribbed thick socks pulled up to his shins, and spread his legs wide.

You swallow dryly as you stare at it, and wonder instantly what it would taste like as you imagine running your mouth around its swell.

Tasting damp, matted pubic hairs sticking to your tongue, with a salted sweat and mixture of his own masculine musk on your tastebuds, and the more you ponder it, the more it makes your mouth water.

You want to slide your inquisitive tongue all over those sweaty, heavy balls of his and watch his cock throb and pulse before taking it deep into your throat.

A tight clench and a hiss. A pucker of a fluttering hole as you tease it with your tongue. Lips and hips bruised in unison.

Googly frog eyes stare out at him in wonder. A noise at the back of your throat registers, something inhuman between a gulp and a hiccup as he rises up again off the bench.

Humming and sighing audibly as he presents that ass out at you, shorts flapping around his cock lewdly in the mirror’s reflection as he squats again.

As you observe him from across the gym, you feel the pull of heavy want flooding your body in a stifling and suffocating heat. It makes your toes tingle and your heart thrum a bit harder. White noise steams inside your ears.

The dull, aching throb between your own legs makes you shift uncomfortably in the chair as you gulp and swallow at the spectacle.

With each lift of the weights and every drop of sweat that glistens on his brow and moustache, you find your mind sinking further into a perverted swamp of lust and unbridled thoughts running amok over your amygdala.

In your mind, Javi’s pushing you up against the mirror, face crushed against it, trailing bites down on the back of your slick neck like a dog in heat. Your breath fogging against the reflective sheet as he pins your wrists to it with his hands, leaving misty fingerprint smears on the polished glass.

You can taste the sweat on his top lip, fuzzy and damp, and it's damn delicious as he pushes his crotch into your ass. Hard and thick under those flimsy, lacquer-like shorts, leaking a patch of pre-cum soaking into them that blooms and darkens the silk.

His hands let go of your wrists and work their way down your arms, tickling gently and sending prickles to bubble and blister against your burning skin. He skims over your belly and hovers above your waistband; his hot breath inside your ears in gaspy, mouthed moans as he breathes out.

He whispers how much he wants you, how much he wants everyone to watch him fuck you up agasint this mirror, before he slips his nimble, thick fingers down inside the front of your shorts, grinding and rubbing himself against you.

He’s pulling down his satin shorts to let his hard, thick cock bounce out at you, pumping its uncut, rosy head inside his giant hand. Weeping and sticky, it shines at you as his fingers and thumb smear in the secretions, and you watch as he licks his fingers free of his own greased drippings.

You lick your lips ready for a taste as he guides the bulbous head towards your mouth as you sink, thudding to your knees. Feel him weighty and warm in your palm, squeezing just under the head and sliding the skin back to reveal that succulent bulb as you lick the tip and taste glassy bubbles flowing from him before swallowing him down deep.

Suck it, cariño, yeah like that… Tómalo todo. Trágatelo profundo. Si… aah, si. Fuck... (Take it all. Swallow it deep. Yes, aah yes.)

Lost in your thoughts, you barely notice when Javi actually glances in your direction; his dark eyes meeting yours briefly with a knitted brow and pink pout, before returning to his workout.

The brief exchange sends a thrill of wanton excitement coursing through your veins, igniting a spark of curiosity and anticipation that you can't ignore as it pulls tight between your legs and makes you pulse.

As the DEA agent finishes his workout and begins to gather his belongings - he carries a modest blue duffle bag, although never takes anything out of it's fullness - you can't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the thought of him leaving you so riled up for another day.

He grabs his worn water bottle and squeezes a stream of water into his mouth, swallowing deep and plentiful mouthfuls of the jet, and wipes at his lips with the back of his hand when some of it trickles down his smoothly shaved chin.

You watch him pick up the towel you’d laid out, wipe his face off and that onyx-like stare is in your direction again. Two pools of dark tar sucking you in.

A wet, slithery thought creeping in between your ears makes a mental note to take that towel when he's done and defile the fuck out of it.

He finds something in your eyes, perhaps something that excites him, or repulses him. You’re not sure. You’re yet to embark on any formal conversation beyond a simple greeting out of politeness.

As Javi makes his way towards you, passing the desk towards the showers, you're convinced you see a small smirk prick at the corners of his lips.

Another wanton thought bolts its way into the filthy pit of your mind. You see yourself rising up on the balls of your feet in the shower block and presenting your behind out to him and he bends you over further to touch your toes.

You feel his grip around your waist as he slides in and packs you out, stretching you around him. Knees buckling and being drowned by the spray from above as he fucks you hard against the cool, mildewed tiles in the shower block.

You feel like your spine will crack with the pressure, but you don’t care as he pulls you back, hammering up into you. Fingers grazing around your throat, teeth biting into the ball of your wet shoulder.

So fucking tight, just like I love it, baby...

You're gasping his name as your orgasm rips through you and he spills himself inside of your hole with Spanish expletives howling in your ear.

His thick, plentiful come seeps out of you; leaking, pouring. So much pumped into you as he grunts into your ear - shuddering with a high-octane thrill as his moustache tickles against your skin.

You’ll think about this again - about him - when you're at home later; that towel shoved between your legs and soaked with your own leakings.

You catch the hazy scent of Javi as he passes by the desk, subtly inhaling the stench of his sweat; an intoxicating, potent blend of musk and masculinity that leaves you feeling breathless.

A primal aroma that grabs you by the lapels to shake the cock-addled stupid out of you as you catch a glimpse of that package swaying and bobbing around in his tiny flaxen shorts to torment you further.

And once more you swallow around a constricted gulp as he meets your wandering gaze.

“Hasta la próxima vez, cariño.” (See you next time, honey.) He simply husks, as he tosses his duffle bag over his shoulder and struts towards the showers.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this sweaty story. Please consider re-blogging so others can enjoy it too. Thankies! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST

#im sweating #im squirming #pedro pascal characters #narcos #jett's writing #brain rot #pedro pascal fandom #pero claro que sí

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