CODE GREEN!! RIFF JUST MENTIONED THE WORDS PWOOSAY ON THE BOT!! HERE YE, THE FILTERS ARE STARTING TO

this came to me in a vision, stay with me now... (dividers from: @bernardsbendystraws)

tashi duncan, a daughter of nike who strives for perfection no matter the costs. her ruthlessness is just as overwhelming as the way she cares so deeply.

patrick zweig who is the embodiment of lust, filth and sex, but also desire, affection, and devotion. a son of eros.

art donaldson, the son of aphrodite who seems to radiate his mother's beauty. when he loves, he loves with his entire soul.

Just watched the Thunderbolts... and in Jesus's name I rebuk it.

Several red flags: ( spoiler below or whatever)

During her hearing, Valentina said that the situation with the Red Hulk was a proof that there was "No reliable heroes anymore "

When Bob asked about his hair being dyed blond she said "it's more traditional, speaks to all Americans "

The two previous points merge in what I can only describe as THE BIGGEST MICROAGGRESSION I've ever seen. Because they just called him unfit for the mental of Captain America, and something about how being white and having blond hair is what America needs.

The way they handled the subject of mental healness was not it. Just very surface level and VERY WHITE CENTRIC.

Lastly, Bucky Barnes and his uneven bob that became a sad blowout is not welcomed on my blog until Doomsday clarifies the situation because as of now your case looks bad. Really bad. Whatever Sam said you deserved it because not seeing how having a all white Avager team (Ava is very passing to me) that is SUPPORTED BY THE GOVERNMENT is armful to him. And literally ties to what Sam said at the end of BNW and to constantly having to prove that they (POC) are fit to do the job.

I've never rumbled so much on any platform before, but here we are.

no jo we love youuuuu

sometimes i feel off-putting Af like omg i’m sorry im just incapable of talking to people 😞😞 I love U all very dearly

heavy | joaquin torres x reader

summary: you’ve worked with joaquin a lot over the years, from the military to his career as the falcon, as his physical therapist. as easy as joaquin was as a patient, it was hard. hard because he was such a shameless flirt, hard because he was so charming—but you’ve always been friends and nothing more. after the events of the red hulk, joaquin finds himself having a harder time recovering than usual despite having you by his side. a slip of the tongue leads to a fight that leaves the both of you tense, but all is forgiven when you find yourselves in an attack and confessions come to a head. 

warnings: porn with a LOT of plot however the story could be a stand alone without the smut so i added a cut before the smut happens (on that note, reader is anatomically fem), barely proofread by me (everybody say thank you @sortagaysortahigh for reading and giving feedback), post!cabnw, inappropriate doctor patient relationship, pre-established friendship, angsty joaquin, mention of previous injury (reader’s and joaquin’s), cursing, grumpy x sunshine if you squint, they’re under attack at some point ahh, slowburn…?, this story is in second and third pov cus its whatever i feel in the moment i fear, “say my name” trope, they fucked before confessing any real feelings mb, oral fem!receiving, p in v, spit as lube, missionary, doggy, ass slapping, light choking fem!receiving, dirty talk, kind of loser!joaquin?, slight overstimulation, creampie

word count: 12.6k

-

You’ve worked with Joaquin countless times over the years. His medical rap sheet cost you more in printer paper than you could truly afford and your computer lags every time you try to pull his chart up electronically…but it was never something you could truly complain about. Afterall, it was Joaquin. Sweet, shameless flirt Joaquin. 

Sometimes it was a quick bounce back, a simple video chat where you outlined instructions for him to follow. “Non-strenuous exercise, Torres,” you’d emphasize hopelessly. You practically watch the words go in one ear and out the other. His eyes clearly averted on another screen, his mouth slightly agape in focus. “Uh-huh. ‘Course, no prob, doc,” before your screen went black. 

Other times, it’d take longer than he wanted, weeks before he was out and onto the next wound-awaiting mission. “Slow down, tough guy,” a gentle hand placed atop his, pushing the resistance band back down. All he does is shoot you a lopsided smile, flashing his dimples at you as he asks, “Yeah? You think I’m tough, doc?” 

Working with Joaquin was easy, so maybe you were a bit naive after the events of the Red Hulk for believing that it would be the same as before. 

“I’m getting kind of tired of seeing your face, Torres,” you step into his hospital room, hands in the pockets of your white coat. “You’re looking a little worse than usual.” 

You watch his jaw shift, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. The faint bulge only did so much to hold back his light chuckle. “Hey doc. It’s good to see you.” 

“Yeah, I wish I could say the same.” Your hand comes up to grip his jaw, turning his head to the side so you could take a closer look at the bruising and stitches on his face. Not your area of expertise in the least, but it doesn’t take a medical degree to know it was a rough battle.  

“Ah, come on. This? I’ve never felt better.” His dimples deep as he bore what only could be described as a shit-eating grin. 

“Mm,” you can only let out a hum of disapproval as you pull the computer station in his room closer to you. The keyboard clacks obnoxiously as you put in your credentials, bypassing any security measure that stands between you and his information. That’s what you get for taking on the Falcon as a patient, you suppose. Friendship be damned—Joaquin was a pain in the ass. You try to ignore his gaze, burning into the side of your face as you work. Without even glancing through your peripherals, you already know what he looks like. Eyes wide, gaze attentive, as he focused all of his attention on you. It made your skin tingle and heart beat faster in a way you didn’t want to think about. 

You unconsciously let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when his scans finally popped up. “Alright, let’s see.” You do your best to keep your expression neutral, but you can’t completely stop the small frown that has the corner of your lips turning downward as you scroll through pages and pages of images. 

Leaning towards you from his bed, Joaquin tries to peek at the screen. “That bad, huh?” 

You pull your lips tight, doing your best to eradicate any sign of displeasure on your face. “Not at all.” 

Joaquin casts you a skeptical look. 

You let out a puff of air, eyes closing for a moment before pushing the computer away. Hands on the railing of his hospital bed, you admit, “I heard about what happened, and considering the fall you took, I expected worse.” Your tone is gentle, maintaining eye contact, “But…it’s not great, either.” 

With his best effort, Joaquin straightens up in the bed. Shifting uncomfortably, he asks, “Alright so what’s that mean for me, then?” 

You hesitate, racking your brain for the right words. His look of impatience prompts you to just be honest. 

“It means you’re not going to be The Falon for a long time.” 

-

He starts off optimistic, business as usual for Joaquin, but you start to read through him soon enough.  

“Torres, stop that,” you hiss, slapping his hand away from the buttons on the treadmill. 

“That was lightwork. Come on, ramp up the speed a bit, doc. I can take it,” he insists, clapping his hands together as he tries to exceed the light jog you set for him. 

You let out a sigh before gradually slowing his speed down to zero. 

“What, that’s it?” he turns to you with his arms outstretched in mock disbelief. He continues to goad you into letting him do a more difficult exercise, insisting that he can handle it. His words hold little bark, though, as he forces them out in between heavy breathes. You place your hands on his waist, over the trainer you have tightened around his torso and help guide him off the machinery. 

He doesn’t put up a fight, and the two of you ignore the droplets of sweat lining his forehead. 

“That was good work,” you murmur, scribbling down some notes. Throwing him a bone, you add, “You went a further distance than I thought your body could handle at this point. That's a positive progression.” 

When you’re greeted with nothing but silence, you cast a look over in his direction. He leans against the railing that lines the wall, his hands resting on the bar. His chest continues to heave, slower now, but not quite steady. You can’t help the ache in your chest when you catch his somber expression, eyes lost in deep thought. 

“I know it’s a lot.” 

He doesn’t answer you at first. You start to think that he didn’t hear you, but then you watch as his jaw clenches. 

“I know it’s different from the last times we’ve gone through this. Taking longer than you want—” 

But just when you think you’ve gotten through to him, he shakes his head and wipes the grim expression of his face, blowing out a puff of air. “What? This?” Joaquin lets out a less than convincing laugh. “No. It’s fine.”

“Torres—” 

“No, really.” With a grunt, he pushes himself off the bar and you hold back a grimace, restraining yourself from stepping forward to help him. It would only make things worse right now. “I’m fine,” he continues. He ignores the look on your face as he steps closer, the drawn in eyebrows and your pouting lips that are almost enough for him to forget the dilemmas he’s in. He hates how worried you look. 

“I’ll see you next session, doc.” He heads for the door before you can get another word in, but not before looking back and throwing a wink in your direction. 

-

It had been a long day. Someone at work finished the last of your creamer and left the empty carton in the fridge, your patients were especially frustrated and took it out on you, and the bottom of your maxi skirt had gotten caught on some equipment, causing a huge tear. 

You’ve just about had it, so you sit in the silence of your car with your eyes closed. It was dark out; you got out of work so late today. You sigh again at yet another reminder of how terrible your day has gone. On any other day, by now, you would’ve been deeply nestled into your bed already, freshly showered and fed. The whine of frustration bubbles past your lips involuntarily. 

Peace is had for all of two minutes before your phone buzzes. Naturally, it’s ignored, your lip twitching in irritation and your eyes stay closed in determination. But then your phone buzzes again. And again. And again. 

You can’t help but curse as you riffle through your bag, praying it’s just some to-do list reminder.  

Notification Center: 5 new messages from Torres

“What the hell?” you whisper to yourself. 

Torres: Hi 

Torres: Need your help 

Torres: Did something bad

Torres: Bring an arm brace. 

Torres: Please…😀

“Oh, Christ,” you curse, rolling your eyes so hard you feel a headache start to form. You take five seconds to pity yourself before your pathetic excuse of a car roars to life and you’re down the road, following your maps to the location Joaquin shared. 

-

“Hello?” you call out, stepping into the entryway of Joaquin’s apartment. The spare key he told you about hangs from your hand and you drop it into what looks like the designated key bowl. “Torres?” 

Your eyes inadvertently take in the space, curiously peering at his decorations. In front of you sits a blue, worn-in couch that seems to be well-loved, adorned with a bunch of throw blankets that aren’t really cohesive in color. 

Spinning around the living room, you find a large TV mounted across from the couch that warranted a small chuckle. Unsurprisingly, it seems to be the fanciest piece of furniture he owns; he’s the biggest sports fan you know. In between the space sits a cute coffee table, an unfinished coffee mug sits on the table alongside a phone charger. 

A warmth blooms in your chest at how human it all was. Before you can move on to any pictures or any other space in the home, a loud voice yells, “In here!”

You snap out of your daze, the weight of the arm brace suddenly reminding you why you were even there in the first place. Rushing past his kitchen, you continue until you bypass a few doors. Unsure which room he’s in, you call out his name again. 

At the end of the hallway, light spills out as Joaquin opens the door to his bedroom. The look on his face is sheepish, and he gives you a boyish, wide smile. “Thanks for coming by.” 

“House calls aren’t really part of my payroll, you know.” 

“Well,” his brow rises and face scrunches into a look of false calculation. “I figured if there was any patient you’d break the rules for, it’d be me. I heard I’m your most charming one, after all.” 

You greet his wink and tongue click with an eye roll, but before you get the chance to reply, Joaquin finds himself trying to lean against his doorframe. A loud hiss fills the air as his left hand comes up to clutch his right shoulder. An embarrassed look is sent your way. “Maybe, uh, not as charming, um, right now…don’t freak out.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath and opens his door further, a silent invitation for you to come in. 

You glare at him as you pass the threshold of his room, maintaining eye contact as you shake your head. “You’re actually the worst of my patients, you know that?” 

“The worst?” he exclaims in genuine shock. “Wow, okay.” His uninjured arm clutches his heart. “Now I’m wounded in more ways than one—” 

You wish you could say you heard the rest of his ramblings, but his words start to trail off as you step into his room. You’re suddenly engulfed by the smell of him and it’s making you…dizzy. The unmade bed, the hoodie draped over the back of his desk chair, the mess on the nightstand, standing there you suddenly realize how intimate it all was. His musky cologne and the scent of fresh laundry invades your senses and you start feeling nervous.

A lump swells in your throat, so you clear it, letting out what you hoped was a subtle cough to shake the feeling. 

By the time you regain focus, you realize how uncharacteristically quiet Joaquin’s being behind you. You force yourself to turn his way. That was when you took in the state of him. Standing by the door, his right arm is cradled in his left as he carries a nervous expression.

“Oh, what did you do!” you chastise, all other thoughts billowing away as you rush towards him. 

“I was doing some light exercise—” he lets out a yelp of pain when you press against his shoulder and you look up at him with another glare. 

“Just a few pushups,” Joaquin’s voice gets higher, already defending his careless actions. “It wasn’t,” he hisses as you adjust him again, “anything I can’t handle.”

You cast him another disparaging look, causing him to shut his mouth. 

“Torres, are you trying to make my job harder?” you let out a groan. “You’re only supposed to do only light movements on non-PT days. Definitely no exercise involving your arm or back muscles.” 

“No pain, no gain, ‘miright?” his laugh turns into a groan of pain when you harshly press an ice pack onto his shoulder. “Hold this,” you harshly instruct. His hand comes up to grab the cold pack tentatively, all while avoiding eye contact. 

“And it’s not funny,” you scowl. “You’re disregarding my advice and look where it’s gotten you.” You guide his arm into the brace. It’s a bit tactless, the way you’re talking to him, but your patience has completely dissipated this late into the day. Maybe tough love is what he needs to hear. “You have to stop pushing yourself like this and just trust me.” Your own frustrations clearly start to bleed through. 

A long stretch of silence fills the space between the two of you, but you’re too focused on patching Joaquin up to truly notice. It seems to eat at him, though, because after a few minutes of velcro tearing and your manhandling, he speaks up. 

“Could do it before.” It’s so quiet, you almost miss it. 

“What?” you ask in exasperation, not truly hearing what he said. 

“Last week.” 

You pause your movements, waiting for him to continue. 

Joaquin’s face scrunches in hesitation, thoughts running amok through his mind as he debates whether or not to keep going. “After physical therapy last week I did fifty. No pain at all,” his brows raise in feign disbelief alongside a humorless chuckle. He purses his lips, turning his face away from you as he whispers, “Couldn’t even get through ten today.” 

Your eyes close, God, how insensitive could you be? Taking a step back from him, you take in how upset he looks. His shoulders ripple with tension as the nails of his right hand clenched and dug into his palm before unclenching, a grounding technique he told you about from his military days. 

Placing a hand on the bicep on his non-injured side in an action quietly asking him to stop, you try to meet his eyes with a tilted head. “Hey, I mean…progress isn’t always linear, Torres. You can’t always—” 

The way he shrugs you off is sudden, he turns his back to you and merely casts a sullen glance at you over his shoulder. With a shake of his head, he begs, “Please, don’t. Don’t start doing that.” 

“Look, PT is always really hard. And we talked about it, this time, you’re not going to come back as fast as you did before. You need to give your body more time—”

“How much more time?” his voice rises. “I mean, at the very,” Joaquin starts to stutter and his eyes scrunch in anger, “At the very least I shouldn’t be going backwards.” 

“I know…it feels like you’re going backwards,” you carefully place your words, “But you are getting better. It’s only seems hard right now—” 

“Yeah, I get that,” he cuts you off, his tone much harsher than you’re used to. “You don’t have to constantly tell me that, I know.” 

“Alright, fine.” You can’t help that your tone, too, takes a bit of an icy turn, too. “Then I shouldn’t have to explain to you how active recovery works and if you just tried to be a little more patient—” 

“I know that too!” he hisses, “I get that it's supposed to be hard but,” he blows out a breath. “It shouldn’t…it shouldn’t be this damn hard.” Joaquin starts pacing, his right hand running through his unkempt curls. “I’m doing your exercises—”

“But you’re not following the rules,” you defend. “If you actually listened instead of pushing yourself for things you aren’t ready for—” 

“Or maybe you just don’t know what the hell you’re doing!” Joaquin shouts as he buries his face into the palm of his right hand before pinching the space above his nose and between his eyes.  

The words strike you harder than you expect, and you can’t help the way your mouth parts in surprise. “‘I don’t...?” Your sentence starts off as a quiet whisper, merely repeating the words Joaquin threw in your face, but soon changes to anger as the meaning behind what he says truly sinks in. “I ‘don’t know what the hell I’m doing?’” you sneer. 

The sound of your outrage fills the air, and Joaquin snaps his head up. It only takes one look at your face for him to shut his eyes and breathe out through his nose. Wetting his lips, he starts speaking before opening his eyes, “Shit. Wait, I didn’t mean—” 

To your mortification, your eyes start to burn. “You know what I do know, Torres,” you cut him off. “I know that you called me here. I know that you called me here and I showed up for you, like I do every single time. I know that it’s hard,” you can’t help the hint of mockery in your voice. “Believe it or not I do get it. The only one here who doesn’t understand is you, because you’re too damn stubborn to admit that you need more time. You’d rather hurt yourself more, just to prove something.” You huff, turning your back to him, “And I’m not just going to stand here, waiting to watch you crash and burn. You can figure it out your damn self, Torres. I’m done.”  

The sound of his bedroom door slams behind you and his front door follows in a similar fashion soon after. Chest heaving, you lean against the entrance to his apartment as the adrenaline flees from you. It leaves you with your head in your hands. “Fuck,” you murmur to yourself. 

-

“I shouldn’t have let her leave,” Joaquin continues his ramble to a less than interested Sam. 

“Uh-huh,” Sam replies, voice monotone. It was his only contribution to the conversation thus far, his attention more-so occupied on polishing some equipment. 

“I didn’t mean what I said. It was something stupid that just slipped out. Heat of the moment, y’know?” Joaquin pauses mid-scrolling, swiveling in his chair to face Sam. “She knows that…right?” he scratches his chin. 

A loud sigh and the clink of metal hitting the table makes Joaquin’s ears perk up. He takes in Sam’s tense back and the way he throws his head back in obvious annoyance.  

“Man, I don’t know what she knows.” Sam finally puts in his two cents. Chin tilting down, Sam looks up at his friend with a deadpan expression. “You talk. A lot.” 

Joaquin’s face scrunches in protest, head jerking back in offense, “I mean—” 

“You’ve been talking for half an hour, dude.” Sam retaliates before Joaquin can argue, left hand pointing up at the clock on the wall. “At some point, you went on about, like, Messi leaving Barca and how that was the same as her walking out on you? I don’t,” Sam sighs loudly, “I don’t know.” 

“Dude, that was a big deal! And it was a metaphor—” 

“Well, she’s not Messi, is she?” Sam places his hands on his hips, face twisted in annoyed disbelief. “And last I checked, you don’t have a billion-dollar contract.” He turns back to the work at hand whilst murmuring, “God knows the government barely pays us to keep this place running,” his hand waves nonchalantly through the air. 

“I don’t need a billion dollar contract,” Joaquin huffs, the wheels of his chair squeaking as he turns back around to face his array of monitors. The sound of keys clacking ensues as Joaquin returns to work, but his mind continues to stray elsewhere as he murmurs absentmindedly to himself, “I just need to figure out how to get her to talk to me again.” 

“Hope you can figure it out soon ‘cause you got about thirty seconds.” Sam’s response surprises Joaquin, not realizing his mentor had even heard him. 

Once the initial shock wears off, Joaquin finds his voice. “Wait, what?” 

“Hello?” The sound of someone so sweetly familiar greets him.

Joaquin’s chair swivels again, but the source of his attention is directed not to Sam this time, but to you. “Hey,” Joaquin laughs breathlessly, “Hi. Uh, what are you doing here?” 

“We fought, Torres. I didn’t die,” you respond sarcastically. 

“Right,” Joaquin laughs obnoxiously. You and Sam share a look. “No, I just, uh, didn’t expect you to see you here…so soon…” 

“Well, despite what you might think of my skills, you’re still my patient.” 

Joaquin winces. 

“You might have been able to skip PT and ghost me for a week, but I can’t let you off the hook for your reassessment.” Your knuckles rap against the iPad you’re holding. “Government orders.” 

“That’s today?” Joaquin squirms in his seat, face going pale. 

“One every month.” You avert your gaze from his, shuffling on your feet as the interaction grows awkward. “I’ll be in the med bay,” your tone softens. “See you in a bit.” 

Joaquin takes a bit too long to respond, shouting after you a beat after you’ve already set to leave. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there!” 

You slowly cast a glance over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in confusion before exiting without another word. 

“Smooth.” Sam inserts. 

“Shut up.” 

“Real smooth.” 

-

Joaquin sits quietly on the exam table with his hands clasped between his knees. The crinkly paper tore the second he tried to take a seat and is only now pinned down under the weight of his thighs. Other than the chuckle and head shake from you, the two of you have yet to exchange any real words since he’s walked into the cold, sterile room. 

He’s nervous for more reasons than one, and Joaquin can’t tell what’s killing him more: the reassessment or the unknown between the two of you. 

Hands rubbing against his thigh, Joaquin lets out a big breath before blurting, “I’m sorry about the last week.” 

You look up from the tablet you’ve been scrolling through, but before you can respond, he continues in a rambling tone. “I didn’t mean what I said. It was stupid,” he murmurs. 

The sound of your shoes squeak against the linoleum as you approach him, stopping just before his bed. Looking up at you, his eyes are wide, irises swimming with remorse as he admits, “I was just frustrated, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re angry,” you sigh, your tone carrying a tone that indicates you’re admitting this more for Joaquin’s sake than yours—he needs to hear it more than you do. “I get it.” 

“That doesn’t make it okay.” 

“No.” You admit, but at the sight of his absolute guilt, his top teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he stares up at you, you can’t help but give him a playful eye roll and smile. “No it doesn’t.” 

At the sight of your cold facade cracking, Joaquin’s face slowly emerges into a smile of his own. It’s hopeful on his end, but you don’t shut it down, and that’s all he needs right now. 

“Now let’s just see if your shoulder is as apologetic as you are.” 

The reminder of what they’re doing there sends a swarm of butterflies through Joaquin’s stomach, but he bears his smile all the same. “Haven’t done anything I’m not ‘spose to.” It’s a lame attempt at appeasing you, but Joaquin considers it a win either way when he catches the tiniest grin slip through on your face. 

You remove his brace, humming in approval as you guide Joaquin through simple shoulder exercises to test his healing process. 

Joaquin catches your gaze through your lashes. “What?” he asks quietly. 

“I’m almost impressed, Torres.” 

Before he can respond, a bright red light begins flashing throughout the room. A shrill alarm blaring makes the both of you jump, and Joaquin instinctively stands at the sound, grabbing your arms as the two of you begin looking around. 

“What the hell is that?” you question, shouting over the alarm. 

The sound of footsteps pound down the hallway, shouts and yells causing a commotion that leaves your head spinning. 

“Come on, we gotta go,” is all Joaquin can offer as he drags you out of the med bay. You have no choice but to follow as his grip remains firm. You don’t question his authority as he pushes you in the opposite direction of the stream of people running for the exits. 

“Cap!” Joaquin draws Sam’s attention from down the hallway. “What’s going on?” 

“Compounds under attack,” Sam barely gets the words out, his speed remaining consistent as he sprints toward the exit. “Stay put, get to the lower levels,” the last of his words fade, barely audible over the sirens. 

“Let’s go.” Joaquin urges, though he doesn’t give you much of a choice. Pushing you ahead of him, he cradles your head as he strongarms the crowd. The two of you force your way through, though you’re not quite sure where you’re going. “Turn here,” you hear him shout over the alarm.

You have only a second to adjust to the new setting before Joaquin shouts, “Keep moving!” 

The corridor hits a deadend and Joaquin reaches past you to shove the stairwell. The two of you rush downward, the dim, flickering lights making your heart beat faster in your chest. You can’t help the scream that escapes when a loud explosion occurs overhead, the ground shaking below you. For a moment, you lose your balance and you close your eyes to brace for impact. Stumbling, you expect to take a turn for the worse when a steady arm wraps around your waist. 

“You okay?” Joaquin’s voice is hushed against your ear, and it grounds you for a moment. 

“Yeah.” You quickly nod, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “You?” 

Joaquin doesn’t answer, instead, he pushes you forward again. “We’re almost there,” he reassures as you two round the last set of stairs. 

-

The alarm sounds distant now, almost acting like background noise in the cold, concrete basement. The sound of some mysterious liquid dripping in the background is much more prominent. It seems only the two of you are down here, and you made a joke about how everyone’s probably bunkered down in some fancy, state of the art basement and not the humid atrocity the two of you are in, and Joaquin just laughed. “There’s only one basement, mi corazón.”

Now, the two of you share a random wooden crate, leaning on each other in silence. 

“It’s been so long.” You break through the silence. “Do you think everything’s okay?” 

You can hear the sound of Joaquin’s rhythmic tapping against the wood, and you sit in contemplation as you await his answer. 

“I don’t know.” He’s honest. A brief pause later and he continues, “But if Sam’s out there, then it’ll be alright. He always figures it out.” 

You let his words settle over you for a bit before the gears in your mind start to turn, leading you down a different pathway. If your lack of response perturbs Joaquin, he doesn’t show it, the tapping continuing in an obscure pattern.

“You…didn’t run out there,” you state, voice laced with hesitation as the words fall through pursed lips. Joaquin’s tapping stops. Again, silence stretches between the two of you and you can hear your blood rushing in your ears. You can’t help but sneak a glance at him through your peripherals, and at the sight of a sharp, clenched jaw and a tense side profile, your lips turn downward into a frown. 

He finally exhales through his nose. “No, I didn’t.” 

Biting your lip, you tread lightly as you continue. “You always run toward the fight.” Throughout physical therapy, during missions, as the Falcon—all the years you and Joaquin have known each other run through your mind. He’s never been one to walk away. 

Joaquin breathes through his nose again, a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Not this time.” 

The two of you fall quiet again, only the sound of breathing fills the space. So much time had passed, you were sure that was all Joaquin had to say. It startles you when he starts again. 

“Before…” he trails off. Now it was his turn to bite his lower lip in hesitation. Joaquin looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, “You said something about, um, ‘getting it’?”

It takes your brain a second to register what he means, but once you realize he’s referring to your words during the fight, you lag. The question he’s trying to ask leaves you feeling uncomfortable. Deflecting, you joke, “Oh, are you referring to when I was putting you in place?” 

Joaquin hangs his head, laughing. “Yeah,” he nods. “When you were putting me in my place.” He turns to look at you, wetting his lips before giving you a close-mouthed, dimple-full smile. God, he’s so pretty, it was intoxicating. 

His eyes flicker to your lips for a brief moment and you involuntarily part them. Joaquin’s smile slowly drops, along with his voice as he continues. “It just sounded like you meant something more than just being on the job.” 

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, thumping so loud you can hear it in your ears and you’re scared he can, too. He’s unraveling you, bit by bit, and you don’t have the strength to stop him.  

“Yeah,” you whisper. You shift away from Joaquin, and for a second he panics, thinking that he’s crossed a line. But then the sound of shuffling fabric fills the room, and Joaquin leans back, giving you space as you pull up the sleeve of your pants. 

A soft finger points at your knee. Leaning close again, his eyes close in on a scar—faded, but long and jagged. His eyes lock with yours, and he takes in the way you’ve been watching him. 

“Played soccer when I was a kid,” your confession is quiet. “I loved it. And I was good, too.” Your emphasis on the word ‘good’ cracks a hole in Joaquin’s chest. Even though you’re looking at him, he recognizes that somewhere in your eyes, you’re far away, reminiscing on this past version of yourself. “Got a full ride to my dream school to play on their team. Then boom.”  You pop your lips. “ Tore my ACL two weeks before graduation.”

Joaquin just watches you, hanging on to every word. 

“I tried going to rehab.” You start rolling your pants down again.  “But…I was impatient. Stubborn. Wouldn’t listen to anyone.” Joaquin can’t help but wince at how awfully similar your story was starting to sound. You snap out of your dissociative gaze, locking eyes with Joaquin before earnestly confessing, “I never played again.” 

He can’t even begin to think of what to say, but even if he did, Joaquin never would have been able to get them past the lump in his throat. 

You nod alongside your next statement. “So, yeah. I get it.” There is no malice in your voice, only sincerity. 

Joaquin lets your words sit there for a moment. Eventually, all he can do is let out a groan. “I’m such an ass.” 

It earns a hearty laugh from you, and the sound was sweet enough that it even manages to grace a smile on his face too. It only lasts a second, though, before Joaquin grows somber again. 

“You know, I’ve wanted this for so long.” Joaquin’s hands come up, dragging down his face. “And then I got it. I was The Falcon…for all of five minutes before I screwed it up.” He shakes his head, disappointment in his own actions and failures radiating between the small space between the two of you. “I just thought that if I just pushed harder, worked through it I could…” Joaquin pauses, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know…get back out there and prove that Sam didn’t make a mistake choosing me. That I am The Falcon.” He lets out a breath and when Joaquin looks at you again, his eyes are misty. “But I guess I still have a long way to go, huh?” 

Your brows lower in sympathy, hand resting on Joaquin’s bicep. You offer a comforting smile. “Not that long,” you reassure. “You got me here. Last week’s Torres would’ve gone running after Sam in that hallway.” 

There’s a pause, and you feel the way it's charged with something heavy and unsaid, like something had just shifted.

“Yeah, well,” Joaquin’s eyes fall to your lips again. “I guess I wasn’t really thinking about Sam at that moment.” Slowly, the two of you inch towards each other. You’re not sure what came over you; it was like a gravitational pull that had the two of you falling into each other. His forehead pressed against yours, Joaquin blinks slowly as he confesses, “In that moment I just… wanted to make sure you were safe.” The words are breathless against your lips. 

“Joaquin, I—” 

A loud slam echoes through the basement, making the two of you gasp and jolt apart in panic. Shooting up from where you were sitting, Joaquin stands protectively in front of you. 

“Torres!” a familiar voice shouts out before calling your name as well. “You guys in here?” 

“Oh, my God, Sam,” you let out a sigh of relief, hand clutching your heart. 

Joaquin’s back muscles are tense. It takes him clearing his throat and smoothing his hand over his shirt to gain composure, but once it’s found, Joaquin’s face grows serious, taking Sam in. He helps you off the crate before stepping away, as though putting some distance between the two of you would make him think more rationally. 

The sound of boots hit the concrete floor as Sam makes his way over. “You guys alright?” he calls out. 

“Yeah,” you answer for the both of you, watching as Joaquin steps forward. 

“What happened?” his voice is urgent, shrouded with concern. 

“Everything’s clear for now,” Sam answers, eyes flickering back to you. “We should get back up there, though. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Silently, you step forward, following Sam’s lead, but not before looking back at Joaquin who can’t quite make eye contact with you right now. 

-

You tie your robe hastily, feet struggling to put on your fluffy slippers as you rush towards the door. The incessant knocking was throwing off your nighttime routine, and you tried not to get grumpy about the fact that you were just about ready to slip into bed to begin your British Bake Off binge but were sorely interrupted. 

Peering out of your peephole, you find your annoyance shriveling in your chest. The sight of a disheveled, heavy-breathing Joaquin throws you way more off than the knocking. 

Swinging the door open, you hastily question him, “Torres, are you okay?” You reach out, examining for any cuts or blood. He lets you spin him around to check his backside. “Is it your arm again? Your back?” 

When you spin him back and look up, you’re greeted with nothing but a barely-contained smirk, his enjoyment clear as day. Rolling your eyes, you let him go with a slight shove. 

“No, please,” he raises his hands in surrender. “By all means, please continue.” 

You put one arm up against the doorframe, the other landing on your hip. “What do you want?” 

Joaquin’s eyes flicker down momentarily, and he tries his hardest not to let the sight of your slightly open robe get to him. His Adam’s apple bobs as he tries his best to regain concentration. Clearing his throat, he states, “I didn’t get to see you after the attack on the compound.” 

Once your trio was able to get back up to ground level, you and Sam agreed it would be best if you went to the med bay to help where you can. You assumed Joaquin would be busy debriefing with Sam afterwards, and not knowing the threat level they were facing, you haven't reached out for fear he was working. 

“Came by to check on me?” Something like insulation slips between the lines. 

“Something like that,” he hums. Joaquin raises his brows, quietly asking to be let in. Reluctantly, you open the door wider, but you don’t exactly move from your doorway. 

Stepping towards you, Joaquin leaves you face to face with his chest, his classic scent of cologne and fresh laundry invading your senses. You try not to think about how broad he is as you step aside. His shoulder brushes yours as he passes, and you swear you see a slight mischievous upturn of his lips when you make contact with each other. 

He pauses a few steps in. You close the door. Standing behind him, you just watch him. The way he’s surveying your place makes you nervous; his gaze is so intentional, almost as if he’s taking in every detail. Maybe this is how he felt when you were at his place. 

There was a dim glow in your apartment, a few lamps here and there that you intentionally turned on to create a quiet ambiance after the afternoon’s rattling events. The candle you lit just mere moments before Joaquin came knocking created dancing shadows along the wall, and though you had no idea he was coming, you couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed at how intimate the setting you had created was. 

Joaquin was taking too long to say something, but you refuse to be the first to break the silence, so you continue your observation, watching the rippled chords of his back muscles rise and fall as he takes in slow breaths. The quiet and vanilla scent wafting through the air made your mind start wandering, and you couldn’t help but recall the past times you’ve laid hands on those same muscles—strong and taut under your fingertips. The memory of his skin, sometimes slick with sweat from working out, sends electricity through your body in a way that was inappropriate. 

You’ve admired him previously, sure, but you’ve never been so outright perverted in the way you oggle hm. You’re a professional, you remind yourself, only for the thought to be cut short by the reminder of what almost happened hours before. 

Skin tingling, you pull your robe tighter around your body, but the friction of the silk makes your breath catch in your throat. The sound was loud in your ears, and you pray he didn’t hear you.

Finally, Joaquin moves. His steps are slow as he moves further into your apartment. You’re not sure why he’s being so quiet, you’ve never known him to be such a way. Stopping at your kitchen counter, he turns to look at you as he runs his curls through his hair. Whether it was nerves or habit, you weren’t sure. Either way, it was distracting. 

“I noticed something…earlier,” the last word tacts on to his sentence as though it was an afterthought. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning into your kitchen counter before he crosses his ankles too. The look on his face makes your chest tighten, his jaw clenched as he eyes stay locked with yours. You feel like a fish out of water because this isn’t the Joaquin you’re so used to—shameless, flirty, sweet—all things you could handle, but this? Smoldering, cocky, and all of it so intensively directed at you; you could hardly stand on your own two feet. 

You feel stuck in your place for a second, and it takes every fiber of will in your body to push you forward. The sound of your fluffy slippers slide across the wooden floors, and you try not to focus too much on them for fear of the embarrassment drowning you. Joaquin watches you every step of the way, eyes trained on your body in a way that makes you burn. 

At first, you make your way to stand before him, but then decide to change course at the last second and place yourself on the back of your couch. Making yourself comfortable on the plush furniture, one leg crosses over the other, and you use your left hand to support your body weight. It might be your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear you can feel Joaquin’s eyes trail up your leg, up to your exposed thigh. Instinctively, your thighs squeeze together.

“What did you notice?” you finally ask, voice sounding awfully loud in the dark room. 

His stance is unchanged, only his shift as he averts from your body back to your eyes. Voice considerably lower than before, Joaquin says, “You said my name.” 

Confusion washes over you. “What?” 

Joaquin pushes himself away from the marble countertop. He takes one calculated step towards you, hands still crossed tight across his pecs. Looking at the floor, Joaquin claims, “I’ve known you for five years.” 

Swallowing, you meekly contribute, “That’s a long time.” 

Dimples pressing into his cheek as he smirks, looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Oh, for sure,” his voice is raspy and you hate the effect it has on you. Even more mortifying, his tone is mocking. “Back in Kirtland, post-op in Kandahar, even on that trial mission in White Sand,” for every location he takes a step closer to you. “It’s always been just Torres to you.” His voice cracks, and it almost feels like he’s coming undone by the realization. “You’ve never said my real name once.” He sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, as if he was debating the predicament. 

Standing in front of you, his hands drop from their previously defensive position and instead land on either side of you, trapping you on the couch. Without thought, the hand you were previously using to support your weight finds itself on his right bicep, gripping for both support and a reckless anticipation. Leaning down, he forces you to look him in the eye as he whispers, “Until today.”  

It’s inevitable, the way you shrink under his gaze; you can’t help it, he’s just being so damn intense. But he doesn’t let you. His left index and thumb cups your chin, forcing your gaze back to him. “Why?” he questions. 

Words are fleeting and your brain short circuits. You don’t know that you have an answer to his question. Why did you always call him by his last name? Lips agape in thought, you recall the first time you met Joaquin. 

The suffocatingly hot base in Kirtland could never leave you even if you tried, the dry air and burning concrete haunted your dreams. It wasn’t a pretty place to be. 

You had just finished doing your fourth intake in a row. Rolling through physicals for every soldier on base was going to be the biggest pain in your ass. Sweat was dripping down your temple and you had wiped it away with an angry sigh, internally cursing for subjecting yourself to this role. That was when he walked in. Laughing. 

You remembered being so annoyed when you first heard it ring through the air. ‘Who the hell can laugh in these conditions?’ you bitterly thought to yourself. 

Then you turned around. 

His laughter filled the space and you watched as he threw his head back, shoulders loose with an aura of confidence and carefreeness that you’ve yet to see on the bleak base. Your head roared with the sound of his voice and it felt like the room belonged to just him. 

That’s when he turned to face you, his dimples deep and eyes shining, radiating a sort of charm and charisma that had you swallowing for reasons other than your dry mouth from the weather. 

“Hey, doc. Heard I’m up next.” There was a remnant of laughter still remaining in his voice. He pulled his helmet off, sweaty curls sticking to his sun kissed skin, and you knew you were fucked. 

“Yup. Torres.” Your hand had caught the pen that had started to slip. “Right up here.” 

You drew the line then, between you and him, because you knew he would have drowned you otherwise. 

But he didn’t need to know that. 

- smut warning - 

“I never thought about it.” To others, your sutter would’ve given you away, but Joaquin was watching you so closely you’re sure he didn’t even hear you complete your sentence before interjecting. 

“You’re lying.” All hints of teasing from his voice are gone as he leans in closer to you. 

Your fingers tighten around his bicep, feeling the way it flexes as you dig your nails into his skin. “This is wrong,” you whisper. It’s the last line of defense that you have, and even you can hear how weak your resolve sounds. 

“Say my name,” Joaquin demands, but you hear the hidden plea lying within. 

“Torres—” 

“My actual name.” 

You can feel yourself trembling, thighs clenched in suspense. Your nails dig deeper. His hold on your face tightens, but you don’t feel trapped. Heart beating wildly in your chest, you know that once you cross this line with him, there is no going back. 

“Joaquin—” 

You hear his breath hitch in his throat before his lips slide over yours. Your hand drops from his bicep, instead curling up to the nape of his neck to tug onto his curls. Joaquin’s own hands wrap around you, one circled tightly around your waist, the other curling up your back to hold the nape of your neck. 

The kiss is heated, raw passion from both sides as the two of you push back and forth between one another, trying to assert dominance. 

Joaquin wins in the end, his canines coming down to bite your lower lip, inadvertently making you gasp. He easily slips his tongue into your mouth and you can feel his cocky smirk. It makes you pull his hair, and he lets out a groan followed by a breathless laugh that goes straight to your core. 

His hips press against you and your legs part instinctively. Joaquin wastes no time taking advantage of the access, pulling you closer to him. He’s everywhere. His hands are trailing along your sides, getting knotted in your hair, brushing against your back. Joaquin’s signature scent clings on to you and it makes you unbearably hot, your thin robe suddenly not providing enough ventilation. 

Breaking away, you gasp, the burning in your lungs a strong reminder of the necessities of oxygen. Joaquin doesn’t seem to have the same needs though, as his lips begin trailing downward without hesitation. A pause against your neck and a not-so-gentle bite against the puncture of your shoulder causes you to let out a moan, arching into him. 

“Fuck,” he mutters against your neck, the word drawn. A silent apology is offered in the way he kisses the wound, tongue poking out to soothe the skin, before continuing on his downward path. One large palm grips at your thigh, massaging the tissue. Each press of his mouth, his touch leaves you aching. 

When his kisses move from your shoulder to the center of your chest, you feel Joaquin begin to get down on one knee. 

“Wait,” you grasp at his shoulders. Joaquin stops, all movement halting, and he looks up with you with eyes blown wide. His pupils nearly swallow his honey brown irises. “If we do this, everything changes,” your words are airy, carrying a truth that you’ve been too scared to admit. 

“Baby, we’re long past that.” You see him pause. “But if you’ve changed your mind, we don’t have to do this.” And you know he’s telling the truth. If you say the word now, this all stops.

A beat passes. 

The pressure of your palm hands on Joaquin’s shoulder, pushing him towards the ground. He does a shit job at hiding the enthusiastic smile that breaks out on his face, and he wastes no time in pulling you back into him. His broad, large form forces your legs further apart as he leaves a sequence of kisses from your sternum down to your navel. They’re sloppy, and rushed, as if he couldn’t get enough. You can’t help but throw your head backwards, eyes closing in pleasure. 

Your robe falls open with no resistance, and Joaquin kneels before you. His hands rub both of your thighs, a slight grip to them as he sucks in a breath of admiration. Palms round from the side of your thighs to the plump of your ass, where Joaquin greedily squeezes before pulling you forward in one swift motion. You nearly fall off the back of the couch, but he makes sure it doesn’t happen, strong arms bracketing you in. 

Meeting you halfway, his face is already buried in the junction where your thigh and cunt meet. He’s so bitey you realize, hissing when he sucks yet another mark on your left inner thigh. No apology to be found from him this time though, as he switches his focus to your right thigh, placing sweet kisses along your skin. You’re so aware of his hands, now placed tightly on your waist, clenching and unclenching as he explores you. 

You can’t help but squirm impatiently. He was so close to where you wanted him, you could feel his breath and God if that didn’t make you wet. Oblivious to your predicament, Joaquin just continues to leave marks all over your legs. Your clit begins to throb at the neglect, and you grow frustrated, nails digging into your couch.

“Joaquin…” His name comes out in a sort of a whine. 

“Shh,” he blows into your left thigh, “Ten paciéncia, princesa.” (Be patient, princess). 

You’re about to complain again when you feel him. His tongue, flat and warm, licking a wide strip from your entrance all the way to your clit. The touch is overwhelming, and you let out a gasp, hand coming forward to grip the curls on the crown of Joaquin’s head. It seems that only motivates him though, as after that initial touch, something snaps. 

Joaquin doesn’t hold back, his mouth gently latching onto your clit, tongue flicking the sensitive bud rhythmically. He alternates his attention between there and your hole, his hands moving from your waist to circle around your thighs, palms clenching the inner flesh unyielding, actively preventing you from squirming. 

Your legs dangle helplessly over his shoulders, robe sliding down both your arms. The piece of fabric was merely decorative at this point, sprawled out on either side of you, barely held on by your elbows. But, still, the feel of the silk was such a stark contrast to your burning skin that it sent volts of arousal through you. The hand not gripping Joaquin’s hair moves up to grab your right breast, and the fabric dragging along your skin only makes your nipples tighten more. 

Hungry in a way that was driving you insane, Joaquin’s lapping at any drop of arousal coming out of you, his head buried so deep in your lap you’re confident that his lungs have to be burning. The bridge of his nose nudges against your bundle of nerves with every lick, providing the slightest bit of pressure but not quite enough. It’s driving you insane. 

“Fucking hell, you taste so good, baby.” It’s the only time he’s separated from your cunt since getting on his knees. When he looks up at you, you can’t help the way your hole clenches around nothing. Absolutely debauched, the lower half of his face is covered in your slick, eyes hooded as though he were drunk. They start at your face before dragging down to your chest, where they pin themselves to your hand on your chest. Joaquin can only groan again. 

It’s all he offers before delving back in, his tongue exploring you almost expertly, as if he was trying to memorize your anatomy. Suddenly, you feel the rough pads of his thumb circle your clit, and the added sensation has you panting, your own fingers giving your nipples a pinch. 

He spreads your leg impossibly wider, arranging himself so that his hand can comfortably fit between your thigh and his head. You feel a thick finger press against your hole before sliding in with ease. It was both of you moaning—you in satisfaction and him in appreciation. 

One finger turns to two, Joaquin pushing them in and out, fingers curling inside you. He moves with precision, intention, watching the way you react. Suddenly, your breathing changes, hitching when he hits that spot. Joaquin recognizes it immediately, focusing his fingers on swirling that soft center inside you. Your moans get higher in pitch and your pulsing around his hand. 

You’re getting close, your grip on his hair releasing and instead moving back to grip the couch. He can feel it, the way you’re fluttering around him and he watches as you throw your head back. 

Just when you’re about to cum, all touch is lost. 

“What—” you start, the word tumbling out before you truly even process the loss of sensation. 

You whine his name but are instantly silenced by the feeling of his lip on yours as he whispers, “I know, baby, I know.” Too overstimulated to recognize what’s going on, you focus all of your attention on returning his kiss instead of the emptiness inside you. 

Joaquin’s hands find themselves on your ass again, but this time, instead of groping the flesh, he tucks them underneath to lift you effortlessly off the couch. His lips never leave yours. Instinctively, your hand comes up and wraps themselves around his neck, a finger twirling the hair at the back of his neck. 

Clumsily, he navigates your clashing bodies through your apartment. Your back slams into your photo wall in the hallway leading to your bedroom, but neither of you pay mind to the sound of clattering frames hitting the floor. 

“Joaquin,” you break away from the kiss. He hums in response, landing kisses on the corner of your lips and cheeks. “Your shoulder,” you continue, though your eyes close at the feeling of him finding your neck again. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he rushes out, desperation lacing his tone. “Doesn’t hurt,” he insists. 

It’s all the reassurance you need. You know you should care more, but you simply don’t. You find each other again, his plush lips slotting over yours. The kisses were more teeth than lips now as the two of you pant urgently, barely breathing. 

“Which one’s your room,” Joaquin’s words come out in a slur and you quickly answer, “Left, go left.” He pushes you against the wall beside your bedroom, hastily ripping off your robe before lifting you again. 

Your back is pressed against the door for a split second before it slams against your bedroom wall. For a split second, you worry about the damage, but then Joaquin’s whimpering and all thoughts leave your head. 

The plush comforter is a welcome contrast from the scratchy couch and solid walls as Joaquin lays you down with haste. Climbing over you, you can finally fully appreciate how burly he is, his entire body pressing against yours. But it’s not enough. 

It’s unfair, your hazy mind protests. He has too much on. “Take it off,” you fuss, hands pawing at his fitted Air Force tee. Joaquin can’t help but snicker at how bratty you’re being, but compiles wordlessly. Leaning back on his haunches, Joaquin pulls off the material in one swift movement. You chase after him, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch. 

Chiseled with moonlight gleaming across his chest from your open curtain, your mouth salivates. You’ve seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, but that was different. All those times before, he wasn’t so available for your perusing and he especially wasn’t looking at you like that.

It wasn’t enough, though. 

Your eyes cast themselves downward, growing irate at the sight of the secured belt around his waist, but the sight of the sizable tent in his jeans provided some consolation. Hands latching themselves onto his buckle, you use his steadiness to pull yourself up to him. With your chin tilted upwards, he meets your wordless request halfway, and it distracts him well enough that he can’t feel you unfastening the leather with eager hands. 

Pulling back, the belt comes with you with a smooth whoosh, but the two of you hardly care as you toss it onto the ground with a loud thump. 

Joaquin isn’t off the hook that easily, though, as your hand refinds purchase on the denim of his jeans, palming him through the material. The slight damp patch at the front makes your head spin. He’s big you realize, even though the thick fabric, and it has you clenching again. Your stomach burns at the thought of him inside you. 

Gracelessly, Joaquin settles you back down on the bed and goes to shimmy off the rest of his clothes. He almost faceplants into your tits, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles. He’s still him despite it all and it spreads a sense of reassurance through you. 

Any sense of amusement dissipates once he pulls his briefs off, though. His cock stands tall and is practically weeping, the tip leaking beads of precum in a way that makes you bite your lip. Even in the dark, he’s impressive to look at. 

Still on his haunches, Joaquin’s right hand gives his length a few pumps and the sight has you entranced. 

“Spit on my hand,” he demands. He moves to hunch his body over yours, his skin practically buzzing with energy. Eyes locked with his, you lift up your head. Turning your head to the side, you nuzzle your cheek against the comforting heat of his awaiting palm before parting your mouth, letting it fall, slow and deliberate. 

“Fuck, you’re g’nna ruin me,” he pants, voice ragged. Your saliva pools in his palm and Joaquin watches, transfixed at the thin strand of spit between the corner of your mouth and his hand. Unable to help himself, his thumb finds itself wiping it away, but not without dipping itself into the warmth of your mouth along the way. When you bite down on the appendage before giving it a gentle suck, Joaquin hisses, his jaw clenching. 

It’s your turn to watch him as he takes the liquid and spreads it all along the stretch of his achingly hard cock. Eyes closed, Joaquin moans in your ear and you spread your legs in response. Still stroking himself, Joaquin leans down to capture your lips in another kiss. His forearm rests besides your head, and your own hand comes up to grab it, holding it as an anchor. 

You feel him slip his dick between your legs. The lubrication allows him to easily slide between the folds of pussy, grinding himself against you in a way that has his tip nudging your clit. The friction was enough to make you go delirious and all you can do is moan, lifting your hips up to meet his movements in greed. His other hand goes to constrain you, pushing you back down into the mattress. 

The exasperation you feel is short-lived, your complaint turning into a moan as Joaquin pushes his thick head past your hole. It’s a tight fit, the initial breach, despite the amplitude of preparation. Inch by inch, you feel Joaquin press into you slowly. His fist is clenched beside your head and you feel the muscle of his forearm flex as he restrains himself. 

Buried to the hilt, Joaquin drops his forehead against yours, breath fanning over your face. Your legs burn, the way they’re stretched so wide to accommodate his figure. 

“Give me a sec, baby,” he heaves before rasping, “‘Try’na not to make a fool of myself right now.” 

The confession has you pulsing around him, unable to provide any real response when all you could feel was his thick, hard cock embedded deep inside you. But you needed him to move, it was too much, just feeling him pulse inside of you. Despite his hand on your hip, you roll your waist and pleadingly mewl. 

“Mierda,” Joaquin hisses, you feel his hand beside your head grip the pillow you lay your head on as he snaps. Any restraint he was holding onto slips away as he hikes your leg over his shoulder and begins pounding into you relentlessly. 

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I can’t,” Joaquin is just rambling, his words all rushing out garbled as his hips snaps against yours again and again and again. You’re not much better, a puddle of whimpers below him, just holding on as his cock hits your pleasure center over and over and over. You feel tears brimming your eyes and you turn your face into his forearm, a babbling mess. 

Joaquin rounds his back as he leans down, but it’s not your face he searches for this time. Instead, his wet lips attach to an achingly hard nipple. If you were a mess before, there were no words to describe you now as your hand fists his curls. You arch into him, forcing more if your tits into his face, to which Joaquin has no complaints. 

Salacious sounds fill your room and the air starts to grow humid, not that you or Joaquin notice. 

His tongue swirls around your sensitive bud, teeth grazing over it before soothing over it with a flat lick. Joaquin can barely contain himself, saliva slipping past his lips, spreading over your chest. Once he’s satisfied with one side, Joaquin effortlessly slips over to your other nipple. His treatment is the same, but you’re growing more sensitive with each touch. With his cock splitting you open and the intense attention on your chest, you were getting close again. 

It was overwhelming, and you can’t help the whine, but Joaquin only shushes you.

“’S okay,” he says in between licks. “Know you can take it,” pinning you down to the mattress. 

Detaching, Joaquin begins to bite marks onto your chest, nips here and there, before he unsheathes himself from you completely. A rough slap against your thigh from one of his calloused hands is all the signal you need. Without a word exchanged, you flip onto your front. Your forearms are flat against the pillow, head face down, as you arch your back for him, his hands guiding you the whole way.

You hear Joaquin mutter something behind you, but it’s too quiet for you to hear. Suddenly, a resounding smack fills the air and the force pushes you forward, moaning his name. You feel a hand on each one of your ass cheeks, Joaquin massaging the skin, before they slide up your back. He asserts pressure on your lower back, all the way up to the side of your breasts, and it feels good. 

Joaquin’s body follows his hands and you feel his broad, firm body press against his back once he’s done. Both his forearms find themselves bracing either side of your head this time, but before settling Joaquin takes the time to move your hair away from your face. Delicately, he places it over your right shoulder, and you turn your head to look at him. A kiss is placed upon your shoulder, then your jaw, before he places a soft one against your lips. 

At the same time, his tip is penetrating you again, and you moan into each others’ mouths. Hips slapping against your ass, your hands grip the pillow below you to brace yourself. His strokes are a stark contrast to his tender acts earlier, persistent in his pursuit of your pleasure, rocking firmly into you. 

In this position, your moans are unrestricted, spilling out of you with no control. 

Joaquin bites your shoulder, gritting and breathless when he admits, “Needed this.” He slaps your ass. Groaning, “Needed you.” 

The words ignite something in you, his words traveling up your spine in a burn. Moaning Joaquin’s name, you interlace your fingers with his beside your head. You needed him just as badly. With his hand in yours, you’re grounded, and it’s all you need to start matching Joaquin halfway. Back arched, you begin to push yourself back onto Joaquin’s cock. You feel his hand clench around your digits. 

The two of you work together, finding a fast and messy pace. Every push of his hips forces a gasp from your lips. Your bodies start to grow slick with sweat, but it only motivates you further. 

Suddenly, Joaquin releases his grip from your hand, sliding his palm over to the base of your neck. 

He doesn’t quite grasp your throat, but the pressure is there, and you swear you couldn’t have gotten any wetter than you already were but somehow you do.he thrusts into you. 

Effortlessly, Joaquin lifts the two of you up. With your back to his chest, arched in the air, you have nothing to ground you, so your hand grips Joaquin’s forearm where his hand is choking you. Your other hand reaches back towards him and grip the tense muscle of his thigh. Joaquin continues thrusting into you, pace unwavering despite the change of position. 

Your head falls back onto his shoulder and he can feel your moans reverberating against the palm of his hand. The other grips your waist as he continues to slam into you. The new arrangement has the head of his cock pressing into you just right and you feel a familiar fiery sensation start to build. 

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Right there, Joaquin, please.” You’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for, but you hardly have any thoughts right now other than how pleasure absolutely consumes you. 

“You g’nna cum for me?” You don’t answer instantly, only focused on the way his dick absolutely stuffs you. 

Moments later, you’re teetering on the edge. “Yes, yes, yes,” you chant over and over again, mind blankly. Pressure continues to build as Joaquin keeps himself consistent, a lewd noises only spurring you on further. 

When Joaquin’s hand squeezes your throat just right, the coil snaps. Bouncing faster on Joaquin, you chase after your high. 

“Yeah, just like that baby, cream all over my cock,” Joaquin encourages and it only makes you moan louder. Thighs trembling, your fingers dig into his skin and hold on for dear life. Hot, blooming pleasure travels from your core to the rest of your body and you bite down on your lip to hold back a cry. Waves of pleasure roll through you, muscles tightening in the aftermath. 

The way you were clenching so tightly around Joaquin has him whimpering. He was trying, he really, really was, but you were squeezing so damn warm. So damn tight. His brows furrow, mouth parting as he helps you through your orgasm.  

“I’m close. Baby, I’m so close,” he groans. 

“I’m on birth control,” you rush out hastily. You’re not sure what came over you, cock-drunk, surely, but you just needed him so bad. Every part of him. If he pulled out now, you’d die, you were sure of it. 

Joaquin says something in Spanish that you can’t quite hear or understand and before you know it, he has you flipped back around. In the midst of the movement, he’d pull his cock out, but once you were on your back, he thrust himself hip deep into you with no second to spare. 

He’s driving his dick into you, your pussy fluttering over him after your orgasm. Joaquin gives you no time to recover as he finds an impalpably quick speed. As if he can’t get enough, Joaquin desperately ruts himself into you, barely able to hold back his cries of pleasure. With your growing overstimulation, you know your voice is matching his all the same. 

When you clench around him again, he comes undone. Letting out a string of curses, Joaquin throws his head back as he slams into you, hips snapping into yours so strongly you’re sure you’ll ache tomorrow. 

The feeling of his hot, thick cum spurting into you has you clenching again. He fills you so completely and it’s so electrifying, you feel a familiar pressure build in your lower stomach again. 

Steadily, Joaquin begins to slow his thrusts, and you feel the way he pushes his cum further into you with each push. When Joaquin finally pulls out, both of you groan at the loss of sensation. Without looking, you can feel your slick mixed with his starting to spill out of you. 

“Shit,” he curses, hand coming up to push sweaty curls away from his eyes. Letting out a chuckle, Joaquin leans down and gives you a long kiss. 

-

A wet rag, a cup of cold water, and one Air Force t-shirt hanging over your shoulder later, you and Joaquin are tucked cozily under a blanket that you had him pull out from your closet. Your usual comforter is now on a heap on the floor of your bedroom, and you try not to think about the way it might be permanently stained with unspeakable fluids. 

Joaquin’s fingers gently scratch your back, up and down, in a rhythmic fashion as you rest your head on his pecs—your own fingers tracing a pattern on his chest. It’s quiet and dark, save for the glow of the moon and your small TV from across the room. 

“I’ve had a crush on you since the first day we met.” Joaquin’s voice cracks at first as he whispers, breaking the silence. 

The confession makes your fingers halt. Palm flat against his chest, you use the leverage to push yourself up to look at him. 

Blinking lazily, Joaquin’s face is earnest, brows raised as though he’s waiting for you. 

“You did?” 

“Pft,” Joaquin’s head rolls to the side, “Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

Stuttering, you look at him with wide eyes, “I didn’t. I had no idea.” 

Joaquin places his own hand over the one you have over his chest before sitting up straighter. “Mami, I flirted with you every chance I got.” 

“You’re Joaquin,” you insist. “You flirt with everyone.” 

He looks at you with his lower lip jutted outward, shaking his head. “No…not everyone. Just you.” 

You pause. “Huh…” is all you offer before you place your head back down, the two of you settling once more. All Joaquin can do is chuckle as he moves to rub your back. Sleep almost has you in its clutch when Joaquin’s voice breaks you out of your trance. 

“Were you watching British Bake Off?”

-

The smell of coffee is the first thing that greets you before anything else does the next morning. The ache in your body is the second. 

Groaning, you make your way towards your kitchen to what you believe to be the prettiest sight you’ve ever witnessed. 

Shirtless and tan, hair tousled from sleep and…other activities, Joaquin stands so proudly in your kitchen, it was as though he belonged. 

“Good morning, princesa,” a familiar dimpled face turns to you, holding your favorite mug. You take in the marks on his neck when he passes you the cup, and you're grateful for the steam as it provides enough of a cover for your heating face. 

You sip your coffee quietly, watching Joaquin from the rim of your mug. He appreciates the attention, which is a surprise to none. 

After picking up his own cup, he takes a sip before turning to you with raised brow. “Like what you see?” he asks before flexing his muscles. 

“Oh, gag.” You wipe your smile on his face, but it doesn’t deter Joaquin, who can sense your amusement lying beneath. 

“Come on, I put in some serious work last night so I know these bad boys have never looked better.” 

You just walk past him with a head shake and a slap to the shoulder. “It’s nice to know that even after losing a nightful of sleep in favor of sex, you still have enough energy to outrun a golden retriever.” You slide into your breakfast nook, placing the half empty coffee cup on the table with both hands wrapped around it. 

Joaquin slides in next to you, effortlessly. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” 

Your humor fades as you turn to Joaquin. “Okay, what is it?” You try to not let your mind race. 

“Remember our fight?” he asks. You only hum in acknowledgement. “You said something that’s kind of been on my mind.” A pit forms in your stomach at his confrontation. 

“When you said you couldn’t watch me ‘crash and burn’...” Joaquin pauses, and your heart squeezes in your chest. He holds up his pointer and thumb, the space between them miniscule as he asks, “You were being a little on the nose don’t you think?” 

It takes a second for you to process. Once you realize he was only messing with you, you couldn’t stop yourself from slapping his hand away. “Oh my God, you asshole! You scared me!” 

Joaquin’s loud laugh fills your kitchen, and his bubbly demeanor makes your armor crack, unable to stop the smile that forms on your face, too. 

Continuing to joke, Joaquin states, “I mean, come on. That part was a little cruel, even for you.”

You let out a laugh of disbelief. “You were being a dick to me, I had to say something.” You defend yourself. 

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nods, face serious. “But you’re still going to have to make it up to me.” His hand comes up to cup the back of your head.

“Well, jeez,” you concede. “I don’t know what I could possibly do to make up for such a big offense.” Your palm rests on his chest, face leaning towards his. 

“Oh, I could think of a few things.” 

end. 

-

a/n: this is my first ever smut so meep, thank u for reading. lmk what u think! comments and rb's appreciated, mwah mwah mwah

having thoughts about t4t cowboy artrick | 18+ MDNI

two boys who met on a ranch out in a desert town, the distance from civilization and the quiet of the work keeping them safe from suspicion, from having to reveal secrets that they’d rather keep close to their chests. but they find comfort in each other—in the stupid, small smile Art affords Patrick across the field, in the flicks to the hat that Patrick fondly gives Art as he passes him on his spotted mare. they rarely speak for the first few months, but the farther down the line they get, the more comfortable they become with one another. soon they’re eating lunch side by side, taking jobs together, and Patrick even shares his cigarettes with Art when they have breaks to keep them from sweltering in the sun.

Patrick will ask Art what it’s like to be a blue-eyed cowboy, what with the sun sensitivity and all. it makes Art laugh, and it makes his stomach twist to know that Patrick looks at his eyes. Art asks Patrick about his mare: how long he’s had her, what her favorite snacks are, how she likes to be brushed. it only takes a few weeks for Patrick to notice that Art took his answers to heart, treating his girl the way she likes. it’s the little things that drive them closer together, that drive them to lingering looks and brushes of fingers as the pass saddles and ropes between them. it makes Art’s head spin when he catches Patrick’s eyes on him—it makes Patrick’s stomach clench when Art flashes him that smile. it’s all boiling under the surface until they both can’t handle it anymore.

all those big feelings come to pass when Patrick takes Art back to his room in the company building under the guise of “smoking and drinking” but they’re barely through the door before Art is pressed against the wall next to the, Patrick’s hands all over his toned body. Art moans softly, going pliant under his touch, his own hands cradling the back of Patrick’s head, tangling in his hair. “wanted this for so long…can barely stand the way you smile at me, fucking tease—“ Patrick moans out between kisses, his stomach twisting at the sound of Art’s returning whines and soft sounds. “my smile turn you on? that’s a new one.” the blonde shot back, laughing softly when Patrick lightly smacked his hip, lips moving down to his jaw. “don’t sass me..not right now..”

it was a shock that Art promptly shut his mouth, letting the brunette guide him to the bed and toss him down. he watched with rapt attention as he undressed himself, pulling off his shirt and his sweaty tank top before his hands reached for his belt. “wait.” Art said, sitting up and slowly crawling to the edge of the bed. he looped his fingers into Patrick’s belt loops, tugging him closer, eyes looking up into his. “may i..cowboy?” he asked in a soft tone, full of desire. Patrick swallowed tightly and gave a short nod, his lips parted. “yeah. go ahead.”

he watched with rapt attention as Art slowly undid his buckle, slipping the leather from the metal and letting it hang in front of his pockets. he gave Patrick one last look before he gently undid his jeans, sliding the zipper down. but he didn’t take his pants off, he left that for Patrick to do when he felt like he wanted to. the brunette’s cheeks were flush as he watched the blonde, and when he stopped he leaned down and kissed him, guiding him back to lay against the bed as he came to straddle his hips, hands cupping his cheeks. Art sighs, hands on Patrick’s hips, guiding him to rock down against him. “fuck…” he breathed out at the friction it provided.

Patrick gently tugs Art’s own shirt off, kissing his face as he does. but his heart slows when he looks down and sees the matching scars across his lover’s chest… his eyes dart back to those baby blue’s, looking through them, searching for answers. “you—you, too..?” he says, ever so soft and vulnerable. Art swallows and nods gently, his hand finding their place on Patrick’s shoulders. “yeah. me too.” it’s a tender, quiet moment when they both realize they aren’t alone. they connect with each other, they have something that tethers them to one another. it drives Patrick forward, as he undresses them both down to their bare bones and fondly strokes Art’s tdick. it drives Art as he guides Patrick to take a seat on his face, letting him lap and suckle at his most intimate parts. it drives both of them mad with lust and fondness, their moans and whines filling the air, leaving them sticky and panting in each others arms.

from then on..the farm doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.

Head empty just Liv Hewson

This specific clip of them stays in my mind💥

it's been a while since i've seen this picture on my tl so here, may it bless y'all's tls, too

GIMME

What if Jess and Lupe go to the bar to get lit and Lupe gets into an argument that spirals into an altercation? Well Jess has to jump into to finish it of course! and to make things worse, when they get back to the house, they realize they're locked out for the night :o)

Dang I wish I had fanfic brain! I have more for this!

both cropped and not because i like the crop but their pants look so goodt :o)

SUGAR RUSH.

peter parker x afab!reader

fluff. heavy kissing. implied intimacy. teens being ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ teens. light suggestive vibes but nothing explicit. ♡

You're on your stomach on Peter's bed, your legs stretched out while wearing the hoodie you stole from his closet a week ago. The sleeves are too long, covering half your hands, but you like it that way. It smells like him, like detergent and that cologne he pretends he doesn't use. You've been living in it like a raccoon in a stolen nest. You're not doing anything right now, just waiting for your boyfriend to finish studying, with your mouth full of Pop Rocks that won't shut up.

Crack. Pop. Crack. It's funny, honestly. It sounds like a neck getting cracked in half—well, it can sound like fireworks too. It's annoyingly loud because your mouth looks like it's trying to pick a fight with physics.

Peter groans from his desk and doesn't even look at you. "You're so annoying." The words come out flat like he's already said them three times today. You know he doesn't mean it. Not really. He's just complaining. As always. It's his nature.

You chuckle, candy still fizzing. "You said I could have them." You roll onto your side just to get a better look at him, your lips pouting as if you're using them against him. His pen is tapping against his notebook while listening to the popping of the Pop Rocks.

"Didn't say I wanted to hear them every five seconds, baby." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes you wonder how he can even manage you. Maybe he's praying for patience and not getting any divine assistance.

You shift a little, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his bed. "You can't even hear me over there," you say before scoffing and chewing deliberately, just to make a point.

"I can. It's like... background music. In my head." He spins slightly in his chair, just enough to throw a look at you over his shoulder.

You snort. "Dramatic." You drag the word out, milk it, trying to piss him off. Then you toss another handful of candy into your mouth like a kid.

He finally turns around the chair creaking. His hair's a mess, and there's a pencil tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He crosses his arms and damn... those muscles are flexing. "I'm trying to study, and you're over here sounding like... I don't even know what to call it." His expression is all annoyed, but his eyes are warm. Tired, but warm. Not angry. Honestly? You love it when he gets like this, grumpy and soft around the edges.

You open your mouth real wide and go "Aaahhh," just to make the fizz louder. It's obnoxious. Truly. The kind of noise that would make people glare at you, and you're so proud of it.

Peter squints at you like he's in pain. "Why is my girlfriend like this?" He says it like a curse, like a prayer, like a man at the end of his rope who still wouldn't let go.

"Aw, come on, you love me." You say it too easily. It's not a question—something settled and obvious and unchangeable.

He exhales through his nose and walks over to you anyway, flops down next to you on the bed, elbow bumping yours. You hold out the package of candy. It rustles between you like a peace offering. Or a trap. He hasn't decided which yet.

He eyes it before looking back at you and your lips. "You're gonna shut up if I take some?" There's no heat in it, like the everyday tone he uses when you're being like this. Just a tired sort of fondness, like he's resigned himself to your antics and this weird little life you two have built. Annoyingly lovable, what he always says when you're asking for assurance if he still loves you even though you're playful.

You shrug. "Probably not." And you mean it. You're indecisive, and impulsive, with tendencies to be pushy. He knew that when he let you steal his hoodie the first time, and when you did things just to get his attention.

He sighs but takes a few and tilts his head back to chew. The sound bursts in the quiet like tiny firecrackers, and he physically winces, like he didn't think they'd be that loud. Hates the sounds. Obviously.

He looks at you like you just committed a crime. "Why does it... feel weird?" His face scrunches, and he's trying not to like it but also can't deny that it's kind of hilarious.

"It's fun-weird, not bad-weird." You roll onto your back beside him, shoulder brushing his, voice smug. "It tastes good though!"

Peter turns his head toward you and looks at your mouth. "You're ridiculous," he says softly, barely louder than the crackle. But he's still watching you, still close before he takes the Pop Rocks from your hand, gets enough from inside, and puts it in his mouth.

Then he kisses you.

Like... no warning. One second he's staring at your mouth like it's got all the answers to his questions, and the next, he's leaning in, slow but sure, like he already decided and you just didn't catch up yet. It's not aggressive, not rushed- it's soft, warm, and easy.

Your mouths meet soft at first. Just lips brushing lips, a little sticky from the candy's effect. But then the Pop Rocks crackle between you, loud and sudden, like someone just started a time bomb under your tongues, and everything jumps.

You giggle against him, nose bumping his, but he doesn't pull back. He just tilts his head and pushes in a little deeper. And, well, yeah, maybe that's when it changes.

Because now it's not soft. It's something else.

His mouth opens just enough for your tongue to catch him, and he tastes like cherry- you're sure it's from the candy. The candy's still popping, still snapping under your tongues, and it's a funny feeling. Literally. Your lips part wider, let it get messy, let it get loud. You lick into his mouth a little and feel him suck in a breath right through his nose.

And God, that's all it takes before he's kissing you back harder now, licking the taste of candy right out of your mouth like he's trying to shut it off. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gently and soft the way he knows you like. It's steady; he's holding you in place. His teeth graze your bottom lip, yearningly, just barely, just enough to feel it, and you groan, soft and surprised and too into it.

It's clumsy, yeah. Of course, it is. You're both grinning too much, breathing too hard, lips swollen already, and the candy still going off like a fucking broken record. But you don't stop. Neither of you. Because it's fun and silly. Because it's stupid. Because it's so much better than it should be.

Peter pulls back eventually, breathing hard, his lips pink and wet, a little sugar stuck at the corner of his mouth again. He licks it away automatically, and your stomach flips.

"Okay," he says, voice low and just barely wrecked. "That was..."

He doesn't even finish the sentence.

You're already grabbing more Pop Rocks.

"Again," you say, out of breath but grinning. "C'monnn."

He laughs, but it's a little shaky now. "I'm gonna die."

"Mhm," you hum and press your mouth to his before he can say another word.

This time, it's not that gentle. It's full of tongues and teeth and stupid little moans pressed into each other's mouths, sugar and spit and heat all tangled up in a kiss that has no business feeling this good.

You taste like candy, and he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝