crumbledcastle28

[crumbledcastle28]

Hot Pursuit

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7k 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: johnny storm x fem!reader 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: He's met every hero in New York. Still, none have vanished on him quite so frustratingly—or so fascinatingly—as the mysterious, lightning-fast vigilante saving the city without any of the credit. Now, if he could just get you to stop running long enough to ask you out, that'd be great.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨��

𝐚/𝐧: i won't lie i don't even know if the fantastic four do patrols but for the sake of this fic they do, might write a part II depending on engagement

New York City is lousy with heroes. Johnny Storm could’ve written the damn directory, complete with snarky footnotes on who hogs the pizza after a brawl and who’s a total diva in a firefight. He’d traded punches with thunder gods, riffed with billionaires in clanking iron suits, and once watched a web-slinger swing off with his last chimichanga. You see a lot of weird before your first cup of coffee in this line of work. You learn to roll with it.

He was on a lazy patrol, the kind that was more about the feeling of flight than any actual crime-fighting. He was painting the sky with his exhaust, a lazy cursive script of smoke and flame, letting the city’s chaotic symphony wash over him—a relentless blend of sirens, cab horns, distant shouts, and the perennial, gravel-voiced prophet on 45th forever yelling about the end times. It was white noise, a lullaby he knew by heart.

Then he saw it. A flicker of wrongness. Not the loud, obvious wrongness of a bank heist, but a subtle, silent tear in the fabric of a grimy alleyway below. It was a predator’s stillness where there should be frantic motion. Instinct cut his thrusters before his brain had fully processed it.

The Human Torch hung in the air, a silent star, and looked down.

And saw a ghost. Or an angel. Or maybe the most beautiful collision of both he could ever imagine.

It was over in a heartbeat, a masterclass in brutal efficiency. One second, some lowlife built like a fridge was winding up to redecorate the pavement with some scrawny kid’s face. The next, the world snapped into fast-forward. The punch was caught in a grip that didn't just stop it, but seemed to absorb its energy. The kid was suddenly ten feet away, shoved to safety with a gentle precision that defied the scene's violence. The would-be thug was spun around with such effortless torque that he pirouetted like a dog chasing its own tail, utterly bewildered before he even felt the pain.

The figure at the centre of it all was a blur of shadow and grace. Dark fabric whipping around a form of lethal elegance, every movement so fluid and economical it made Spider-Man’s acrobatics look like a vaudeville act. A phantom limb here, a shift of weight there—a perfect, violent dance.

No gaudy branding. No quippy one-liners. No noise at all. Just… devastating, impossible perfection.

And then, as if the universe had simply deleted the frame, poof. Vanished. The alley was just an alley again, leaving only a dazed criminal and a saved kid blinking in the sudden stillness.

Johnny’s jaw was practically unhinged. He could feel the cool city air whistling over his teeth. A slow, goofy, utterly dumbstruck smile spread across his face, a complete contrast to the fiery corona that wreathed his head.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, the sound a whisper swallowed by the hum of his own power. He dipped lower, as if he could find a trace of in the empty air. “Hello, mystery girl.”

The city, for the first time in years, had just gotten a whole lot bigger. And a whole lot more interesting.

Then it happened again. And again. And again.

It was never on the news. Never in the patrolled sectors. It was in the blurry, peripheral corners of the city he usually only flew over.

A bank robbery downtown—not the fancy Vault on 5th, but a grimy branch tucked between a bodega and a pawn shop. Silent alarms were tripped, glass was shattered by the butt of a rifle, and then you were just there. A streak of shadow and impossible motion in the security footage he’d later badger the cops for, placing yourself between the gunmen and the huddled hostages with a terrifying, silent certainty.

A collapsing scaffold in Midtown—the groan of overstressed steel a split-second before the screams ripped through the air. Johnny was three blocks away, but he saw the cloud of dust billow up. He shot toward it, a comet of panic, only to arrive and find it… over. Workers were standing dazed on the sidewalk, coughing in the chalky air, pointing at a blur of colour they couldn’t describe. You’d yanked them clear, not a moment to spare, before the first girder had even finished its deadly sigh toward the pavement.

Then the runaway subway car on the 7 line (seriously, who even had that kind of bad luck?). The brakes were screeching a metallic, dying animal wail that echoed up through the grates. He’d dove down the tunnel entrance, lighting the dank darkness with his own fire, and for a single, heart-stopping half-heartbeat, he saw you. Not a blur. You. Planted on the roof of the careening machine, boots skidding against the steel as you fought for purchase, a silhouette of defiant grace against the storm of sparks flying from the wheels. Then you were gone, vanished into a service hatch or a shadow—he couldn’t tell, the tunnel swallowing the evidence whole.

Every time, he’d touch down, his flames guttering out at his feet with a frustrated hiss. His pulse would be hammering, a wild, frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of a fight and everything to do with the chase. The thrill of the almost-catch.

And every time, he was left with nothing but the aftermath. Startled civilians babbling about a "streak" or a "gust of wind." Groaning criminals zip-tied by cops, complaining about a "ghost" that dislocated their shoulders. The evidence was always the same: frustratingly ethereal. A scuff mark on the asphalt too precise, too angled to be random. A gust of wind down in the subway that smelled of rain and concrete, but didn't match the stagnant, oily air. The lingering, electric scent of ozone—or was that just his own superheated imagination begging for a clue?

And every damn time, you slipped through his fingers like smoke.

It was exhilarating. It was intriguing.

It was completely and utterly maddening.

Johnny Storm, the man who’d faced down alien warlords and lived to crack jokes about it on late-night TV, was now this close to dedicating a spreadsheet to petty crime scenes. He was considering a personal, one-man stakeout operation that would make even the most paranoid SHIELD agent blush.

It was becoming a problem. A noticeable one.

Sue had started giving him the look over her morning coffee—a specific blend of older-sister suspicion and psychic-wife concern that could curdle milk. “You’re quiet,” she’d said that morning, the words a carefully laid trap. “Everything okay?” Reed, ever the oblivious genius, had asked him—twice—if his increased patrol frequency was “for a new set of observational data on metropolitan crisis response.” (Which, rude. And also, a little too on the nose.) Even Ben had gruffly pointed out over a game of poker that Johnny was “mopin’ around the tower like a kid who lost his favourite toy,” which was both insultingly accurate and a clear fold on Ben’s part.

But the worst part? The absolute, most humiliating kicker?

He dreamed about it.

Not the noble, heroic saves. Not the grateful faces of civilians. His subconscious, it seemed, was far less altruistic. It was all sensation: the heat of his own flames licking against his skin, the wind screaming a single, endless note in his ears. A chase, frantic and endless, through a cityscape of melting steel and glass. And a laugh—a laugh he’d never even heard, but his dream-mind had conjured one for you anyway—light and sharp and echoing, always just a half-second out of reach.

He’d wake up with his sheets tangled into a sweaty knot, his chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon, and his stupid, traitorous brain already whispering the same addictive promise: Next time. Next time you’ll catch her.

And the absolute, gut-punching truth of it is simple: he isn’t used to being the one left in the dust. 

He’s the Human Torch, for crying out loud—speed, charm, and a flair for the dramatic so bright it could power Times Square are his entire brand. He’s the guy who makes grand entrances through skylights, who leaves crowds gaping and cameras flashing, who turns heads on five continents without even trying. He’s fire incarnate—literally—and the world has never been shy about watching him burn. He’s the spectacle. The main event.

But you? You don’t even stick around for the opening act. You don’t wait for the applause. You don't even seem to realize there's an audience. He could be hovering right there, flames dancing, ready to deliver a perfectly crafted quip, and you’d be gone before the first syllable left his lips. Poof. Leaving him talking to an empty alley, the echo of his own voice feeling stupid and hollow.

And it is absolutely, one hundred percent, killing him.

Because Johnny Storm can’t stop thinking about you.

It’s an obsession that’s taken root deep in his ribs, a constant, buzzing hum under his skin. It isn’t just the way you move—though god, the way you move—like gravity’s a mild suggestion you occasionally deign to follow, like the air itself parts for you just to keep from being rude. It isn’t just the maddening glimpse of your face he’s caught: the way his stupid, perfect memory has seared the image of how your eyes must crinkle at the corners when you smile (he’s seen it, once, a flash of warm, unguarded light in the split-second before you edited yourself out of existence).

No, it’s the profound, infuriating, utterly captivating mystery of you. The way you operate with a quiet competence that doesn't need a spotlight to validate it. The way you save people and vanish, not as a dramatic exit, but as a simple conclusion. Like the act of kindness itself is the entire point, something to be left behind like a found coin, with no expectation of reward. Like you’re completely, breathtakingly unaware of how extraordinary you are.

And for a guy who’s built his entire life on being seen, Johnny has never been so completely blindsided by someone who chooses to remain unseen.

Sure, he knows what you look like—or, at least, his brain has helpfully catalogued the most vital, distracting parts in high definition. The flash of your eyes, sharp and assessing even in the deep shadow of an alley. The way the corner of your mouth quirks up, a silent, private joke right before you bolt, leaving him with just the ghost of a smile. The specific, infuriatingly graceful way your hips tilt when you brace for a fight—a center of gravity that defies physics and, frankly, his ability to form coherent thought. Not that he’s paying specific attention. It’s purely tactical. Obviously.

But what is he gonna do with that? Canvas every single bodega in the five boroughs, leaning over counters smelling of stale coffee and beef patties, asking if they’ve seen a “devastatingly hot, impossibly fast, probably morally ambiguous person” buying protein bars and a side of sarcasm?

(He did, actually. Last Tuesday. Old Man Martinez in his favorite Queens haunt just wiped down the counter with a tired sigh and said, “Storm, mijo, that describes half my customers after midnight—and also, God help me, you.” It was a blow to both his ego and his investigation.)

He tries asking around. What’s the point of having a super-powered Rolodex if you can’t abuse it for personal obsessions?

It goes a little something like this:

First attempt: Peter Parker, found—of course—messing around. He’s swinging lazy, insolent figure-eights around the spire of the Chrysler Building, hanging upside down like the smug little shit he is, his reflection a distorted clown smile in the polished chrome.

"Dude, I told you, no one knows who she is," Peter says, the smirk in his voice infuriatingly audible even over the midtown traffic roar. He gives an extra little bounce on his web. "Face it, man—you’ve been demoted to damsel in distress."

Johnny, hovering with his arms crossed, feels a spark fizzle at his temple. He flips him off, a brilliant, fiery middle finger that sizzles in the afternoon air. It’s a very controlled, very mature display of restraint. "I just want to thank her. It's a professional courtesy."

Peter drops, landing light as a cat on the narrow ledge beside him, folding his arms in a perfect mirror of Johnny’s stance. "Uh-huh. And by ‘thank her,’ you mean…?"

"Shut up."

"Because if you are looking for tips on how to woo a masked vigilante—a subject in which I, sadly, have a PhD—the first lesson is not to spontaneously combust when they're within ten feet of you. It's generally considered a third-date milestone."

A tiny, embarrassed flame pops on Johnny’s shoulder. "I will light every single one of your webs on fire. I swear to god, Parker."

Peter holds up his hands in mock surrender, but the shit-eating grin under his mask is practically a physical force. "Message received, Matchstick. My lips are sealed. But my eyes? Are watching. This is better than reality TV."

Second attempt: Matt Murdock, because apparently lawyers know things, and this one specializes in the weird. Johnny finds him in the corner booth of the dive bar Matt insists is the best place to "talk shop." The air is thick with the smell of stale beer, fried onions, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood from a backroom fight that definitely didn’t happen. A single, flickering fluorescent light overhead does no one any favors.

"You’re telling me," Johnny presses, leaning so far across the sticky table he risks welding himself to it, "that you literally have super senses that can, like, hear a tear drop in Jersey, and you’ve never heard her heartbeat? Her breathing? The swish of her… I don’t know, morally ambiguous fabric? Nothing?"

Matt doesn't look at him. He never does. He just takes a slow, deliberate sip of his whiskey, the glass making a soft clink against the table. "I hear a lot of things, Mr. Storm," he says, his voice a low, calm rumble that seems to absorb the bar's chaos. "The city is a very loud place. It doesn't mean I catalogue them. And it certainly doesn't mean I share them."

Johnny’s eyes widen, a spark of hope—or desperation—igniting in his chest. The Formica tabletop under his elbows begins to heat up, releasing a faint, plastic-y odor. "Oh my god. You do know something. You’ve heard her. What is it? Is it fast? Slow? Does it sound like… I don’t know, a hummingbird? A ghost? Tell me!"

Matt’s head tilts a fraction of an inch. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. "I know you’re about to get us kicked out of here if you don’t stop literally smoldering. You’re warping the vinyl."

Johnny slumps back in the squeaky booth with a frustrated groan, crossing his arms. A small, charred handprint is left behind on the table. 

Third (and most desperate) attempt: A very unimpressed Felicia Hardy, who is, inconveniently, in the middle of liberating a ridiculously gaudy necklace from a high-tech wall safe in a penthouse that smells like old money and regret.

Johnny phases through the glass ceiling, a shower of molten droplets crystallizing at his feet. “Okay, listen, I need a female perspec—”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence. A throwing knife embeds itself in the wall an inch from his ear, vibrating with a lethal thwump. It’s not a warning shot; it’s punctuation.

"No."

"I didn’t even ask yet—" he splutters, the heat around him flaring in surprise.

"You’re bothering me," she says, not even looking up from the delicate lockpicking tool in her hand. The only sign of her annoyance is the subtle, irritated flick of her white ponytail. "And if I did know your little ghost—which I don’t, we don’t have a newsletter—I’d tell her to run faster. And maybe invest in some pepper spray. The fancy kind."

Johnny throws his hands up in exasperation, sending a cascade of sparks across the priceless Persian rug. A small, smoldering hole appears. "Why does everyone act like I’m the weird one here?! I’m just trying to find a… a colleague!"

Felicia finally pauses her work, turning just enough to fix him with a look of such profound, bone-deep disdain it could freeze the sun. She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her gaze flicking from his frantic expression to the new burn on the rug.

"Because you are," she states, her voice flat and final as a judge’s gavel. She turns back to the safe. "Now either make yourself useful and melt this thing, or leave me alone."

The more he almost sees you—the more you haunt the edges of his vision like a beautiful, frustrating phantom—the more it solidifies from a curiosity into a full-blown personal mission. It’s a quest, and he’s the knight errant, if the knight errant occasionally set his own cape on fire from nervous energy.

He starts taking longer, more aimless patrols, charting a flight path that loosely maps to the ghost of your appearances. He lingers in the grimy, graffiti-tagged parts of the city you seem to favor, perched on rusty fire escapes and loitering in damp alleyways that smell of garbage and damp concrete. He is, for all intents and purposes, behaving like a lovesick gargoyle with a pilot’s license. He tells himself, with the conviction of a man clinging to a very flimsy raft, that it’s totally about the professional thrill of the chase. (It is so very, very not.)

Sue, of course, sees right through him. She teases him mercilessly, a gleam in her eye that promises this will be held over his head for decades.

"Earth to Johnny," she says one evening at the kitchen island, snapping her fingers in front of his glazed-over eyes. He’d been staring at a fork for a solid minute, imagining it was a throwing knife. "You’re doing that thing again. For the third time this week."

"What thing?" he mumbles, trying to blink back into the reality where cutlery is just cutlery.

"The thing," she insists, leaning in with a wicked grin, "where you stare into the middle distance like you’re on the cover of a cheap romance novel. All you need is a billowy shirt and a heaving bosom."

Johnny sputters, a protest dying on his lips as a traitorous flush creeps up his neck, setting his ears on fire. Guilty as charged. So, so charged.

He can’t help it. His brain is a broken record, and the only song it plays is you.

Because the thing is—you aren’t just fast. You’re clever. Devastatingly, infuriatingly so.

The few times he’s gotten close—so close he can count the individual threads on your mask, so close he catches the wicked glint of your smirk in the moonlight, the way your breath hitches in a tiny, surprised gasp when he finally, finally almost corners you against a brick wall—you don’t just run. You evaporate. A shadow melting into a deeper shadow, a whisper lost in the city’s roar. You slip away like smoke, like this is all just an exquisite, tantalizing game only you know the rules to.

And damn if that doesn’t make him want to play even harder. To learn the rules, to beat you at your own game, to see that smirk turn into a real, full-blown smile meant just for him.

Who are you?

And more importantly—a question that keeps him up at night, staring at his ceiling—how the hell is he supposed to impress you when you won’t even stick around long enough for him to launch into his opening number?

He even—against every single one of his better judgments and a deep, survivalist instinct for self-preservation—considers asking Reed for help.

Because, okay, fine. Maybe he’s hit a new tier of desperate. But Reed’s a certified super-genius, right? A man who thinks in calculus and sees the world as a series of solvable equations. If anyone on the planet can crack the encrypted, beautiful mystery of you, it’s him.

It is, of course, a Big. Colossal. Mistake.

"Absolutely not," Reed states, his voice the flat, calm tone of someone stating a fundamental law of the universe. He doesn’t even look up from his latest experiment—a complex, glowing, gyroscopically spinning thingamajig that looks like it could either solve world hunger or accidentally turn them all into sentient raspberry jelly. (Johnny’s learned, through several traumatic experiences, not to ask.)

"It’s not stalking," Johnny protests, vaulting over a stack of unstable-looking textbooks to lean precariously over the cluttered workbench. He adopts what he hopes is a convincing expression of scholarly curiosity. It probably looks like he has indigestion. "It’s… a form of field-based, interdisciplinary study. Investigative admiration."

Reed finally glances up, his focus reluctantly shifting from quantum mechanics to the human disaster in his lab. One eyebrow arches so high on his forehead it might as well be in orbit. "That’s not a thing. It’s not a recognized scientific, sociological, or legal discipline."

"It could be!" Johnny insists, gesturing wildly and nearly knocking over a beaker of something that hissed ominously. "We could pioneer it! You love pioneering! Remember the Negative Zone? Good times."

"Johnny." Reed’s voice is a low warning, the kind usually followed by a lengthy lecture on lab safety and personal boundaries.

"Reed," Johnny counters, putting every ounce of his dwindling, pathetic hope into the single syllable. He pouts. It’s a good pout. It’s worked on Sue before.

It does not work on Reed Richards. The eyebrow remains in the stratosphere. The verdict is final.

Then came the fight that changed everything.

To be fair, he wasn’t losing, per se. The Human Torch doesn’t lose. He was just… temporarily recalibrating his offensive strategy in the face of overwhelming, ugly, and frankly unsportsmanlike opposition.

(Okay, fine. Maybe he’d been showboating. Just a little. There might have been a unnecessary backflip over a weaker blast. A few fiery taunts that landed a bit too personally. Sue would’ve rolled her eyes so hard they’d have permanently stuck in the back of her head. Ben would’ve gruffed something about him being a “walkin’, talkin’ OSHA violation.” Reed, already monitoring from the Baxter Building, would’ve started calmly recalculating his survival odds out loud in rapidly declining percentages. Whatever. It’s called flair.)

The point is, his flair had a blind spot. He’d been so focused on the big, loud guy with the plasma cannon—the main event—that he’d completely missed the second assailant slinking from the alley shadows. The one with the compact, humming rifle that looked way more professional, and way more deadly.

He didn't notice until it was almost too late. Until a crackling blast of concentrated energy, thick with the acrid stench of ozone and burning circuitry, was already rocketing toward his unprotected back. It was too close to outrun, too sudden to dodge. It was close enough that the fine hairs on his neck stood up from the violent static charge. Close enough that the searing heat of his own body was eclipsed by the cold, killing heat of the shot. Close enough that he had just enough time for a single, stupid, final thought: Oh, this is gonna—

And then—

You.

One second, empty air. The next—impact.

Not a collision, but a calculated, breathtaking interception. Your body slams into his with a precision force that steals the air from his lungs, spinning you both out of the blast radius in a move that defies every law of physics Johnny's ever pretended to understand. The world becomes a dizzying blur of motion and heat. Behind you, the energy discharge vaporizes a chunk of brickwork where his head had been a nanosecond before, sending superheated shrapnel singing past his ear like angry hornets—but all he can process is the solid, real weight of you. The way your forearm braces against his ribs, a firm, unyielding line of muscle and bone. The way your thigh presses flush against his as you pivot midair with impossible grace, like gravity’s a mild suggestion you’ve both decided to ignore.

Then, concrete meets your boots with a soft, definitive scuff, and suddenly, impossibly, you're right there. Holding him. Steadying him. Your face is inches from his.

"You're welcome," you murmur. Your voice is like good whiskey and midnight smoke, each syllable a low, intimate thrum that curls around him and settles deep in his chest, warmer than his own flames ever could.

Johnny's mouth moves. No sound emerges. His brain has officially blue-screened. The only thing running is a frantic, looping error message that just reads: !!!

Up close, you're impossible. A living, breathing paradox of lethal grace and maddening beauty.

The way your nose scrunches just slightly, a tiny, amused reaction to the spectacular dumbfoundedness written all over his face. The deliberate, almost lazy drag of your fingertips across the frantic rabbit-thump of his pulse point as you withdraw, branding him with the ghost of your touch. The knowing, wicked glint in your eyes that says you're not just aware of his staring—you're enjoying it. That you've been enjoying this whole damn chase. That maybe—just maybe—he wasn't the only one playing this game.

"Cat got your tongue, Matchstick?" You tap his chin with one knuckle, the brief, casual contact buzzing through him like a live wire. "Thought you'd have some smooth line prepared. You know, after all that very obvious, very dramatic pining from the rooftops."

Johnny finally, finally finds his voice. It comes out as a humiliating, reedy squeak, three octaves higher than intended. "Pining? I wasn't—I mean, sure, maybe I—wait, you knew I was—?"

Your laugh is a revelation. It’s bright, unguarded, and it seems to light up the whole damn alley. Johnny’s pretty sure his knees actually buckle, and it’s only the fact that you’re still vaguely holding him upright that stops him from melting into a puddle of goo on the pavement.

This is the part where he’s supposed to say something clever. A smug remark. A smooth, well-rehearsed line that’s been waiting in the wings for this exact moment. Something.

But his brain is pure, unfiltered static, the kind you get between radio stations. His pulse is a frantic, solo drumbeat hammering against his eardrums. Every witty line he’s ever possessed has vaporized, and his mouth, the traitorous organ, decides to operate on a completely separate, disastrous frequency.

“Let me take you to dinner.”

The words hang in the air between you, simple, blunt, and utterly, devastatingly sincere. No flair. No filter. Just a raw, nervous ask.

You quirk your head, that fucking smirk—the one that single-handedly short-circuits his entire nervous system—playing on your lips like it owns the place.

“Johnny,” you say, slow, teasing, drawing out his name like it’s a delicious secret only the two of you share, “you don’t even know my name.”

But all his brain registers, through the roaring white noise of his panic, is that it’s not a no—and the way his name sounds in your voice, all warm and knowing, like it’s something precious, something meant just for him.

“But you know mine,” he counters, a brilliant, lopsided grin breaking across his face like a sunrise, all charm and absolutely zero chill. He’s flying without a net now, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating. “That’s like, half the overall objective of any first meeting. So. Not a bad start, if I do say so myself.”

Your response is a soft, breathy laugh that goes straight to his head, more intoxicating than any high-altitude thin air. Your shoulders shake with it as you look him up and down, a slow, considering appraisal that makes him feel simultaneously X-rayed and worshipped. And Johnny? Johnny barrels on, a runaway train of word vomit, before his last two surviving brain cells can link up to form a single coherent strategy.

“We can go somewhere private, so nobody will know—” He winces the second the words leave his mouth, a full-body cringe. “Not that I don’t want anybody to know! God, no. I’d shout it from the Brooklyn Bridge. I just figured, since you’re obviously in disguise and all—secret identity protocols, very important, very respectful—I’m all about that, by the way, total feminist ally, support women’s rights and women’s wrongs, whatever you’ve got going on—”

He’s digging. He’s digging so fast and so deep he’s hit magma, and the heat he’s feeling has nothing to do with his powers. But you’re still smiling, a real, full-blown smile that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle in the most devastating way, and it’s simultaneously the most terrifying and wonderful thing he’s ever seen.

You cut him off before he can excavate his way straight to the Earth’s molten core, your arms crossing over your chest in a gesture that’s both amused and formidable. Your eyes are dancing with a dark, glittering promise that this entire, humiliating moment is going to be expertly weaponised against him for the rest of his natural life, and he finds himself weirdly, utterly okay with that prospect.

“You also don’t even know anything about me,” you point out, your voice a low, challenging purr. It’s a test. A gauntlet thrown down between them.

Johnny lights up like the entire Fourth of July, all traces of his previous panic incinerated in a flash of pure, unadulterated glee. This is it. This is his pitch. The one he’s been rehearsing in his head for weeks.

“I know you’re left-handed,” he volleys back, quick and eager, ticking the points off on his fingers. “You lead with it when you strike, every single time. It’s your tell.” He takes a half-step closer, his voice dropping, intense and intimate. “I know you flinch—just a little, a tiny tremor right here—” He taps his own temple, his gaze locked on yours. “—every time you hear a kid cry out. Like you’re already calculating how to get to them.” Another step. The space between them crackles. “I know you prefer rooftops to alleys. You like the high ground, the sightlines. And I know you live somewhere in the Midtown grid, probably below 50th, because you always, always vanish toward the north-east quadrant after 2 a.m. like clockwork.”

Your mask of amused indifference fractures. Just for a microsecond—a sharp, startled inhalation that’s louder than any explosion, a slight, almost imperceptible widening of the eyes. It’s not annoyance. It’s not anger.

It’s… a dawning, profound recognition. He hasn’t just been watching; he’s been studying. He’s compiled a dossier written in the language of her tells and habits, and she’s just realised, with stunning clarity, how closely.

Johnny’s stomach does a free-fall that would make Reed’s gravimetric sensors scream. He’s either about to get a knife slipped neatly between his ribs for his trespass, or—

A slow, devastating smile spreads across your face, erasing the shock and replacing it with something far more dangerous. Something like approval. Something like intrigue.

“What would we get?” you ask, your voice a soft, deliberate challenge.

Johnny’s heart doesn’t just stop; it performs a full, dramatic Broadway musical number, complete with jazz hands and a tragic death scene, before slamming back against his ribs with enough force to bruise. “Uh—” (Smooth. Real smooth, Storm.) “Whatever you want. I know this great rooftop spot—my spot, actually. Best view of the city. No paparazzi, no interruptions. No one ever finds me up there.” He prays to every god he’s ever met that you don’t hear the way his voice cracks on the last, vulnerable word. Just… us.

A beat of silence so profound he can hear the distant, mournful wail of a siren three blocks away, the drip of water from a fire escape, the frantic hammering of his own heart.

Then—

“...Okay.”

The word hangs in the air, simple and earth-shattering. His brain, already running on fumes, short-circuits completely. “Okay?” he parrots, the word sounding stupid and small to his own ears. He needs confirmation. He needs it engraved on a plaque.

“Okay.” You’re already turning, a blur of motion preparing to dissolve back into the city’s relentless rhythm. But you pause, just for him, a final concession. You toss the words over your shoulder like a challenge wrapped in a promise. “Tomorrow. 8 pm. I’ll meet you on the Baxter Building patio. Don’t be late, Hotshot.”

Hotshot. The nickname, delivered in your voice, feels like a brand. A title. A blessing.

And just like that, you’re gone. Not with a poof of smoke, but by simply ceasing to be where you were, the space you occupied now feeling emptier than the vacuum of space.

Johnny stands there alone in the wreckage of the fight, the adrenaline leaching away. The only evidence you were ever there is the phantom pressure against his ribs where you’d held him, and the faint, elusive scent of your perfume—ozone, night-blooming jasmine, and something uniquely you—still clinging to the air. He doesn’t move. He barely breathes. He just stands there, a statue of stunned victory, until the cool night breeze raises goosebumps on his arms and the city’ sounds slowly filter back in.

Then it hits him. Not like a wave, but like a supernova, exploding out from his core.

Holy. Shit.

A grin splits his face, so wide and uncontainable it actually hurts his cheeks. A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of him, then another, until it erupts into a full-throated, ecstatic whoop that echoes off the glass and steel of the surrounding skyscrapers. On pure instinct, he throws a fist into the air, and a burst of brilliant, gold-and-orange flame erupts from it like a triumphant firework, lighting up the alley in a shower of sparks.

He has a date. He has a date.

[crumbledcastle28]

At Last

read part 2 here!

Pairing: Johnny Storm x F!Soulmate!Reader

Word Count: 3.8k (oopsies)

Warnings: ooey gooey sweet fluffy fluff. cursing, kissing. no fantastic four spoilers, don't worry!

Summary: On Earth-828, once you turn 16, soulmates are allowed to send each other a single gift every year on New Years Day. You're in your late 20s now and still have yet to find your match, and there's no way it's Johnny Storm.

A/N: hello yes hi it is me, coming back after a dry spell of 3 years lmao. pls be kind I am rusty!!!! feedback gives me life :)

“For the millionth time, Johnny Storm is not my soulmate.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing another handful of popcorn into your mouth as you watched the Fantastic Four member himself on your television screen. Tonight was New Years Eve, and the superhero group was invited to help host the annual New York City Ball Drop. There were 6 minutes left until midnight, and you were getting antsy.

Because New Years Eve didn’t just mean a brand new year. It meant another gift. From your soulmate. 

Every year since you turned 16 years old, you received a gift handpicked from your soulmate at midnight on New Years Day, like everyone else. Unfortunately, no gift was allowed to include something helpful like your name or address (you’d tried multiple times, but the gifts always ended up vanishing into thin air as soon as you attempted to drop it off at the post office), so gifts were supposed to be strategically picked. Something to give insight into who you are, and how you valued your future relationship.

When the two of you were still teenagers, the gifts were lacking a bit in sentimentality. You simply weren’t sure what to send a stranger that you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with, and it seemed he hadn't been sure either. They’d consisted of vacation souvenirs, a photograph of your pet, random knick-knacks.

But as you both got older, the gifts became a bit more special. Two years ago he sent you a vinyl of Frank Sinatra’s “The Best Is Yet To Come,” and you played it on repeat for months. The following year, you sent him a vinyl of Etta James’ “At Last,” a sort of thank-you for the vinyl he’d sent you. It was the song you always imagined would be playing the day of your wedding day. This year, you sent him a leather bracelet you made, and you couldn’t wait to see what he got you this year.

Because last year’s gift from your soulmate was a bit…odd.

It was a collectible action figure of Johnny Storm.

And your best friend Violet had not shut up about it for the entirety of the last year.

“Totally, that’s why your soulmate gave you an expensive collectible of his action figure,” she retorted.

You sighed, picking at the pieces of popcorn in your hand. How many times have you had this conversation? “Maybe he just works for the Fantastic Four. Or he’s a fan.”

“Whatever you say,” she singsonged. “It really wouldn’t be that weird, though. Your firm works closely with them anyways.”

She had a point, but it was still outlandish. You were a communications assistant at a PR firm that worked directly with the superhero group, but you were pretty low on the food chain, and you’d never had contact with any of them. 

“Yes, I work at a PR firm with hundreds of employees, most of which would be chosen over me to speak with the world’s most famous superheroes.”

“You never know, all employees could call out sick one day and you’ll be the only one left. Then you’ll have to talk with them!”

You shook your head, a chuckle escaping you at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation. “It’s easy for you to joke about because you don’t have to deal with any of this. You already have your person.” 

Violet was one of the lucky ones who found her soulmate when she was really young, 18 to be exact. Once she met him, she got to exchange her gifts in person. Given that you were halfway through your 20s and not any closer to finding yours, you were just a tad jealous. You couldn’t be too upset, though, because her soulmate Mike always let her spend New Years Eve with you. It had become your yearly tradition, and he never came between that.

“I’m just trying to be optimistic!” Violet threw her hands in the air, shrugging her shoulders.

“By trying to convince me that my soulmate is an unattainable, insanely attractive superhero that dates a different girl every week?” 

Violet opened her mouth to respond, but the newscaster’s voice on the television interrupted your conversation. 

“So, Johnny, any hopes for the new year? Maybe to finally find that special soulmate?” 

Violet gave you a look, but you ignored it, your eyes now glued to the screen. Johnny and his fellow superhumans were all bundled up a mere half hour away in snowy downtown New York City, the big Apple that was set to drop in 3 minutes gleaming high above them in the background. 

Johnny gave the man an easy grin. “That would certainly be nice, Chris. I’ve been dreaming of her since I was a teenager!”

Violet nudged your shoulder with a knowing grin, which you returned with another eye roll.

“But, then again, you’d have thousands of hearts to break!” The news camera panned over to the crowd of screaming women standing behind a gate nearby, several of whom were holding up “I <3 Johnny” posters. 

You shook your head. There’s no way he could be yours. As if you could compete with that.

The camera cut back to Johnny, who gave the girls a wink and chuckled as they went wild. “Well, Chris, that’s just the way it’ll have to be. Once I meet my soulmate, she’ll be it for me.” 

“And she will certainly have her hands full,” Sue cut in, leaning towards the microphone. Johnny playfully shoved her away, a smirk still on his face as Reed watched and shook his head. You smiled watching the interaction; they seemed like such a fun group.

“Do you have any hints as to who this lucky lady might be?” The newscaster, Chris, asked. “Tell us what you got her for her gift this year.”

Johnny looked surprisingly unsure at the question, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “Ah, I’d rather keep the gifts between her and me. Y’know, privacy and all that. Plus, I think that might be considered cheating at finding my soulmate, right?” 

Before Chris could say anything, Ben interrupted from beside Sue. “Well look at that, Johnny following the rules for once!”

Bickering broke out between the Fantastic Four, and the newscaster went back to the camera. “Well, there you have it, folks! Johnny Storm is a softy for his sweetheart, whoever she may be. Let’s hope the new year brings them both together. And now, it is time for the one minute countdown! Let’s bring on the new year!”

Your heart started pounding the way it always did at the one-minute mark. Violet grabbed your hand as you both watched the Apple slowly make its way down.

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…

“Happy new year!”

You and Violet exchanged a hug before tossing popcorn towards the ceiling, laughter filling the air as she danced wildly around your living room. 

“Now go look! I can’t stand the suspense any longer!”

You grinned, suddenly ignoring the superheroes celebrating on your television screen, and ran to your front door. 

And there it was, sitting perfectly on your doorstep.

A perfectly wrapped, light blue box with a white bow on the top.

You wasted no time in swiping it up and running back inside to your living room, haphazardly slamming the door behind you.

“What is it what is it what is it,” Violet chanted, her eyes glued to the gift. 

You quickly untied the bow and opened up the box, an audible gasp leaving your lips at what was inside. 

A little black box.

“Oh my god, is it a ring?” 

You swallowed, your heart pounding. “Don’t be silly, how would he even know my ring size?”

She shrugged. “I dunno, he probably guessed. You can always get it resized once you meet if it doesn’t fit. Now open it before I do!”

You opened the box and immediately let out the breath you were holding. 

It was a small, silver band with the most stunning stone you’d ever seen. In fact, you’d never seen anything like it.

Sitting in the middle of the shiny silver band was a round, black, shining stone with flecks of red inside it that seemed to glow when you held it up in the light. It almost looked a little like tiny specks of lava.

“Holy crap,” you muttered, unable to keep your eyes off of it.

“Holy crap is right,” Violet agreed. “That thing is gorgeous. What kind of stone even is that?” 

“I have no idea.” You wasted no time in trying it on, and positively beamed when you found it fit on both ring fingers before you settled on putting it on your right. You weren’t sure if it was supposed to be an engagement ring or more of a promise ring, and it felt odd to act as if you were engaged to someone you didn’t actually know, even if it’s your soulmate. One day I’ll be able to put it on my left hand, you thought. 

Violet gathered up her things, preparing to head out for the night. “It’s beautiful,” she remarked, smiling at you. “And it’ll be even more beautiful when Johnny Storm puts it on your left hand.”

You threw a pillow at her as she headed out the door. 

“Happy New Year!”

***4 months later***

“I look ridiculous. Do I look ridiculous?” You paced around your living room, wringing your hands nervously. 

Tonight, you were going to a gala. But not just any gala. A gala at the Baxter Building.

The Fantastic Four was hosting a massive charity event/gala, and invited everyone who worked closely with them or for them. Which included your PR firm. 

Technically, not everyone in your firm was allowed to go, as your company had too many employees. But you practically begged your boss to go, and she finally relented and bought you a ticket (only because it was coming out of your paycheck).

You knew it was stupid. Outlandish. Laughable. Impossible. But you had to admit that the possibility of your soulmate being involved with the Fantastic Four was something you hadn’t stopped thinking about since New Years Eve. You knew there was no way it could be Johnny Storm, but it wouldn’t be too insane of an idea to think your soulmate could work closely with the group in some other way. And you didn’t want to waste this opportunity. 

“You look incredible, don’t be silly.” Violet grabbed your black heels that matched your sleek, black, form-fitting dress and handed them to you. “But there’s one little thing missing.” You furrowed your brow, looking down at yourself as you put your heels on. Violet gave you a knowing look before walking over with the little black box you’d been given 4 months ago. “Your soulmate won’t be able to pick you out without this, yeah?”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you slipped the ring onto your right ring finger. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.”

“Yeah, if I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought you were nervous or something.” 

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Alright, I better get going before ‘fashionably late’ turns into ‘embarrassingly late.’”

Violet squealed, heading out the door with you. “It’s going to be amazing. No matter what happens! Even if you don’t meet him tonight, at least you’ll get to see the Four up close.”

You nodded, giving your best friend a salute before getting in your car. 

You can do this, you told yourself.

***

“Oh, I so cannot do this,” you whispered to yourself.

The lobby of the Baxter Building was completely full of people, none of whom had a familiar face. Everyone was dressed to the nines and looked incredible, and everyone seemed to know each other…except for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t even know where to go. 

Suddenly, a beeping sound rang out from beside you. You looked down, and a little robot was staring up at you. You looked around to see if anyone else was seeing this, but no one paid you or the robot any mind. 

“Um, hello?”

The little robot made another beeping sound before rushing away, and you had a feeling he wanted you to follow him.

You followed him over to the elevator, where he pressed the button for you before rushing away once more. “Fascinating,” you whispered, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Before you knew it, the elevator doors opened and revealed the main event. You walked forward a few steps to the balcony overlooking the gala being held right below. It was an incredibly large, lavish home, with even more people roaming about than in the lobby. Jazzy piano music combined with the sound of hundreds of people conversing played all around you. Everyone looked at ease with a drink in their hand. It was dizzying. You began gnawing at your bottom lip as you made your way to the stairs, a habit you only picked up when you were really, truly anxious. Bracing yourself, you picked up your gown in your hands to avoid tripping in your heels, and slowly made your way down the stairs in an effort to find a single person you were familiar with. 

***

“You’re lying, Ben.”

“I’m not lying, you’re just mad you can’t hold your liquor like I can.”

Johnny Storm was in the corner of the gala with a drink in his hand, bickering with Ben over how many alcoholic drinks he could down before actually getting wasted.  

“No human being on planet Earth can down that many shots and not feel anything.” He stared at Ben incredulously. 

Ben deadpanned. “We’re not exactly regular human beings, Johnny.”

“Yeah, well no, but even I can’t down ten shots and not feel like I’m about to—“

Johnny looked up as he was talking, and suddenly forgot how to speak. 

Because walking down the stairs, wearing his ring, was you.

“Face it, Johnny. You’re a lightweight.” Ben chuckled and took a sip of his drink, not even noticing that Johnny had stopped speaking. 

“Ben.” Johnny stared at you, mesmerized as you seemed to almost float down the stairs. 

“Do you really want to play this game? Because I can get the bartender right now and she’ll settle this.”

“Ben.” He still couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were stunning, more beautiful than he could've imagined.

“Alright, fine, I’ll get the bartender—“

“BEN!” 

Ben startled, finally looking at his friend and furrowing his brows. “Jesus, what?”

“My soulmate is over there.” Johnny looked more serious and panicked than Ben had ever seen him, but Ben couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head.

“Yeah, sure, Johnny. Go talk to your ‘soulmate’ so you get out of losing a drinking contest.”

Johnny rubbed a hand down his face in frustration before leaning in closer, lowering his voice. “Ben, I’m serious. She’s wearing the ring.”

Ben blinked. Oh. “Really?”

Johnny nodded furiously, eyes looking all over the room, looking panicked. “Yeah. Yeah. Oh my god, it’s her. Holy shit. Holy—“

“Johnny.”

Ben placed his giant hands on Johnny’s shoulders, steadying him. “Look at me. You’ve wooed how many women over the years? And this woman in particular was literally made for you. You’ve waited your whole life for her. Go to her.”

Johnny swallowed harshly, nodding and sniffling briefly. “Yeah. Yeah, I got this. I’m Johnny Storm. I can go talk to my soulmate. Totally. Absolutely.”

Ben bit back a laugh, taking Johnny’s drink from him. “Yep. You are Johnny Storm. Now go get her.”

***

You gave up on finding anyone you knew from your PR firm. It was too loud, the lights too dim, the place too crowded to even think straight. So, you did the only thing left to do: head for the bar.

Bottom lip still trapped between your teeth, you made your way over to the bar when a voice called out from directly behind you. 

“Uh, hi.” 

You turned around at the oddly familiar voice, and there was Johnny Storm, staring at you with wide, nervous eyes and a small, apprehensive smile. 

Holy shit. Holy shit. Say something, you idiot! “Hi,” you breathed out, your brain suddenly turning back on long enough for you to return his small smile. Why was he talking to you? What was happening, why was he—

“Uh, I think…I have something of yours,” he said. Before you could ask him what he meant, he rolled up the sleeve of his black button down shirt and revealed the leather bracelet you had made, wrapped around his wrist.

Suddenly the room seemed all too quiet. You swore you stopped breathing. “Oh my god.” 

Johnny laughed breathlessly, his smile growing wider. “I know.” 

You couldn’t even think straight. This was real, this was happening, and Violet is never going to let you live this down. “That’s…the bracelet I made for my…”

“Soulmate,” he finished for you, his smile turning into something a little smaller, more boyish and shy. “Yeah. And that,” he pointed to the gem on your finger, “is the ring I had made for my soulmate.” 

You looked down at the shining gemstone before looking back at him. Your heart was pounding in your throat. “You had it made? Where did you find this stone? I’ve never seen anything like it, it’s so beautiful.” 

Johnny beamed. “I found it on a different planet, uh, some planet called Sakaar. I’d never seen anything like it either, so I had it melted down into a gemstone…for you.”

You were now smiling so wide your cheeks were starting to hurt. Your head shook in disbelief, because of course it wasn’t even from this world. “It’s incredible. And…god, I can’t believe it’s really you.”

Johnny’s grin grew until he couldn’t take it anymore, and suddenly you were in his arms. His cologne and strong arms filled your senses, and you felt like you were about to explode as your arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Jesus, I’ve waited so long for you,” he murmured in your ear, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapped around your waist. He pulled back, eyes flitting between yours. “Will you come with me?”

You would follow him anywhere, you decided then. “Yeah.”

Johnny smiled and grabbed your hand. “C’mon.”

You were dizzy with adrenaline as you and Johnny weaved through the crowd until you reached a door, and suddenly you were being pulled into his bedroom. He shut the door behind the two of you, and you gasped as you took it all in.

Because, decorating his shelves, was all of the presents you had sent him over the years. 

“Oh my god, the Turks and Caicos turtle!” You laughed loudly as you wandered up to the turtle bobble head you had sent him from vacation when you were 17. “I cannot believe you kept this.” 

Johnny was simply beaming as he took all of you in, watching you stare in wonder at all of the mementos. He could not believe you were really here, in front of him, in his bedroom. “Of course I kept it. I kept everything.”

You turned and looked at him. “So did I.” 

He quirked a brow, smirking. “Even the Johnny Storm action figure?”

You busted out laughing. “Well it is a collectible, of course.” 

“Sue made fun of me relentlessly for that one. Ben did, too,” he shook his head, chuckling. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it or not. Didn’t know if it was too on the nose or self-centered, y’know? But I wanted to give you as much of a hint as I was allowed.”

“My best friend was absolutely ecstatic. She knew it was you from the second she saw it, but I kept trying to convince myself that you were just a fan or something.” 

Johnny swallowed nervously then, looking a little unsure. “Is it—is it okay that I’m…y’know, me?”

You furrowed your brow. What woman would not be okay with this? “Of course. It’s more than okay, why wouldn’t it be?”

Johnny walked over and sat down on his sofa, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, the whole superhero thing could be a deal breaker for some. And I know I have a…reputation.”

You followed him, sitting down next to him. “Hmm, well I distinctly remember Johnny Storm saying that once he met his soulmate, she’d be it for him.”

Johnny turned to you then, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You watched my New Years Eve broadcast?”

You nodded, giving him an assuring smile. 

He dramatically flopped backwards onto his sofa, making you laugh. “God, you really are my soulmate.”

Before you knew it, two hours had gone by. Two hours of sharing life stories, childhood memories. The two of you were laying on the floor, side by side, laughing about some of the gifts you’d exchanged over the years.

“What’s your favorite gift though? In all seriousness,” you asked, turning your head to the side to look at him. He was beautiful, and you could barely believe he was really yours.

“Hm.” Johnny looked up at the ceiling, eyes squinting in thought. “I love the bracelet you made me this year; I never take it off. Buuuut I think my favorite is the vinyl you gave me a couple years ago.” 

You smiled, sitting up on your elbow to prop your head up. “Yeah?” 

Johnny sat up to mirror your position. “Yeah. I played it nonstop the first few months after I got it. Ben threatened to break my record player.” You both laughed before Johnny suddenly looked serious and stood up. You sat up, furrowing your brow.

“What is it?”

Johnny bowed dramatically, holding his hand out for you to take. “My lady, may I have this dance?”

You giggled, taking his hand and allowing him to help you up. “Why yes, I think you may.”

Johnny grinned, muttering a “one sec,” before putting the Etta James record on. The very one you had given him several years ago. The sweet, slow melody filled your ears, and Johnny placed his hand in yours, his other wrapping around your waist. He pulled you close, and the two of you began to slowly sway. 

At last

My love has come along

My lonely days are over

And life is like a song

Your chest swelled with emotion as he pulled you even closer. His lips brushed your temple as you swayed in time, neither of you speaking, just taking in what you both had waited your entire lives for. 

I found a thrill to press my cheek to

A thrill that I have never known

Johnny pulled away then, his eyes never leaving yours as he took your right hand in his. Slowly, he pulled the ring off your right ring finger and gently placed it on your left. Your heart was pounding wildly in your chest, your eyes unable to look away from him. He swallowed nervously, a question swimming in his blue eyes, a “Can I?”

You leaned in, nudged his nose with yours in a silent, “Please.”

His lips gently met yours, and the entire outside world melted away. Your heart sang as his thumb brushed your cheek and he kissed you harder, a quiet, needy whimper escaping his throat. Your hands slid down to wrap around his lower back, bringing him even closer. It was everything you’d ever dreamed of, and it really was with Johnny Storm.

And here we are, in heaven

For you are mine…at last

[crumbledcastle28]

It’s getting hot in here | sex pollen

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word count: 7.9k

Description: While analyzing space plants in Sue’s lab, you get infected with sex pollen. Johnny, hotshot, flirty as hell, and definitely not yours (yet) starts looking a little too good in those tight pants. You try to fight it, until you find yourself begging him to save you.

Tags/warnings: no movie spoilers. fem!reader, sex pollen, smut, johnny loves to flirt and tease, long buildup, yearning, tension, hands kink, begging, praising, fingering, oral fem rec, piv, multiple rounds.

Note: It’s getting hot in here or is it just me? 🙂‍↕️ I couldn’t help myself, needed to make another one of these with my man Johnny🔥 also I know this is very long but this is porn with juicy plot lmao, enjoy 🫶🏼

archive / masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━

Working at the Baxter Tower had always been the dream. Years of research in botanical science had finally paid off when Sue Storm called, inviting you to study alien plant specimens from their latest space mission. It was everything you’d ever wanted.

And of course, becoming friends with her after months of working together came with many open doors, and benefits. And one of them was her brother.

Johnny Storm.

Blonde, charming to the core, unfairly handsome, way smarter than he let on. Quite the hotshot. Literally. And infuriatingly interested in you the moment you stepped into the building.

Sue said he hadn’t set foot near her lab in months. Now he dropped by almost daily with flimsy excuses, snacks, oxygen checks, dumb questions about leaf colors, all paired with a flirty comment and that unfairly pretty smile.

You rolled your eyes. Every time.

You also got flustered. Every time.

And he noticed. Every time.

And as much as you tried to convince yourself not to fall for his charm, it was practically impossible when he showed up in the middle of the day with some chips and those pretty blue eyes, saying something about how your lab coat fit you particularly nicely that day. You swore you weren’t falling for it. Not for him. Because he flirted with everyone. That’s who he was.

Still, that didn’t stop your heart from skipping whenever he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

Thankfully, he wasn’t around this time, so you could totally focus on your work with Sue.

"Okay! batch 5FA's tests are catalogued and processed, programming a check in tomorrow. Let's go with batch 5FB," Sue announced, storing the studied samples inside an isolated chamber.

"Batch 5FB is here. Thank you HERBIE," you smiled as the adorable robot placed a glass box with a metal base on the counter in front of you.

You were running a second round of tests on previously labeled specimens, checking for possible medicinal uses. You pressed the button on the base and the glass dome lifted in a soft hiss, releasing a small cloud of white fog from the chamber's interior.

Sue turned her attention to her tablet, scrolling through the database for any notes on these samples. But before she could find any, all the lights went out. All systems stopped working, including the heating.

"Not again," she groaned, setting the tablet down and standing up to head out, no doubt to scold her husband for running experiments during your lab hours.

She stormed off the room, using a soft glow of energy to guide her, leaving you alone in the dark.

Now where was Johnny Storm when you needed him?

If he weren't outside, probably absorbing flames from a burning building, you were sure he'd already be here. Flaming on with that smug smirk before Sue could even reach Reed's lab.

Maybe it was your imagination, but moments like this always felt colder when the golden sun who made it his mission to orbit you... wasn't there.

You lifted your arm to check the watch device on your wrist, one that Johnny had insisted you got 'in case of an emergency', but he just wanted you to have it to continue flirting with you when he wasn't around in the lab. This time being no exception, there was a message from him.

🔥: Will bring some snacks later, I’m sure you look delightful as always. Don’t miss me too much ;)

You rolled your eyes and shook your head amused, locking the watch before you got too caught up staring at the contact photo, set by him, obviously, when he prepared the device for you.

The lights suddenly flickered back on, and the heat kicked back in. Sue re entered the lab, looking proud of herself.

"The next time that happens, he's never hearing the end of it," she muttered, rolling her eyes with a smirk as she made her way back and you chuckled. "Now, shall we?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at the samples.

"I have a feeling this is a promising batch," you joked, eyeing the boring looking plants.

First mistake of the day.

You both got to work, moving in sync through the usual process. It was routine, nothing outside the ordinary, but for some reason ... you began feeling uneasy.

It started with your fingers, a soft, harmless tingle spreading up. You frowned, brushing the sudden sheen of sweat from your forehead with your sleeve.

Was the heating overcompensating? You could swear the room was warmer.

Before you could say anything to Sue, who was still calmly swabbing samples, a familiar scent hit you, making you freeze in place.

First, something intoxicatingly warm and smoky. Then, a devastatingly familiar cologne you knew too well who it belonged to.

Johnny?

Your head snapped around, expecting him to be standing right behind you. That would certainly explain the sudden heat increase, the scent. His scent.

But there was no one there.

"What the hell," you whispered, scanning the lab for any sign of him. Maybe it was another one of his dumb pranks?

Your heart skipped a beat, then started pounding. You turned around fully this time, eyes searching frantically across the room for a possible fire you could be missing.

The smell of smoke was too strong, so much that the air felt heavier. Johnny's crazy theory about the plants affecting the room's oxygen suddenly didn't feel so dumb anymore.

Oh, Johnny.

Those blue eyes. That stupid grin. Those hands. Those tight pants outlining his– wait.

What the actual hell was that thought?

And worse, why did it help?

You didn't get the chance to question your thoughts any further, because the door hissed open, and he walked in. Casual as ever, carrying two drinks and a bag of chips.

"Snack delivery," Johnny called out with a smile, tossing you a wink before turning his attention to HERBIE at the entrance. "Hey, little guy. Miss me?"

He placed the things on a counter next to the door, and crouched down beside the robot, scratching the top of the metal head affectionately. You heard Sue sighing annoyed beside you, but your complete focus was on him.

Because now you were watching him laugh, his eyes crinkling, his forearms flexing as he leaned casually on his knees, and you weren't just staring, you were obsessing. The way his fingers traced little circles into HERBIE's side. A deep red jacket hugging his frame. The outline of his toned chest under that fitted t-shirt. The way his jeans fit when he crouched like that.

Jesus Christ.

You blinked hard, turning away so fast you nearly knocked over a tray of samples.

What the hell was going on?

You weren't even looking at him anymore and still, you could feel him. Smell it. The smoke, and something warm and sweet and masculine. Something him. Stronger now, like it was clinging to the inside of your lungs. You inhaled slowly, carefully, biting your lips to keep a whine from coming out.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stand stretching lazily, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a little too far. You stared at the plant in your hand like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen, praying Sue wouldn't turn around and notice your soul leaving your body.

"I was right, you look absolutely delightful today," Johnny said casually, leaning over the counter by the door.

You dropped the sample.

Sue did turn around this time, raising an eyebrow as you fumbled to grab it. You knew he flirted like breathing, you got used to it. But not now. Not when this indescribable heat was pooling between your thighs.

"Thanks," you muttered, not trusting yourself to look at him. Because if you did, if you dared, you were about one compliment away from grabbing him by the collar and climbing him like a tree.

And apparently, your body agreed. You squeezed your thighs together, pulse hammering in your ears, because why did that compliment feel like he'd whispered it right against your skin?

"Here you go," his voice startled you when he appeared next to you, placing a can of soda and a bag of chips on the table.

And then he had the audacity to lean on the counter, tapping his long fingers rhythmically on some equipment as he peeked over your work.

It shouldn't be that hot. It's just fingers. It's just tapping.

But god, those hands...

"Did you–did you wear more cologne today?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

Dammit.

Johnny straightened up in his spot, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Actually no, I forgot it today," he said, then tilted his head with a smirk. "Why? Do I smell nice?"

"No–I mean, you don't smell bad. Or good. It's just... nothing," you shut yourself up before you could continue rambling.

"Uh-huh. You okay, doc?" he asked, a smirk on his face as he innocently chewed on a chip. "You look kind of sweaty."

You turned around halfway to the opposite side, facing Sue instead. Safety zone. Sue was safe. Science. Plants.

But even she was watching you with narrowed eyes now. Like she knew. Like she sensed the shift in the air, the pheromones steaming from your body.

"You're flushed," Sue said, leaning closer with a concerned frown. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," you blurted. "Totally fine. Just warm. The heating came back on really strong, right?"

"You can always take off that pretty lab coat, let us see that cute skirt of yours."

Fuck.

You were going to kill him. Or jump his bones. Or both. You turned your attention back to the plants, and you could feel both siblings' eyes drilling on the sides of your head.

"Don't look at me right now," you whispered, more to Johnny than Sue. "It's distracting, seriously. Don't–"

"Wait–am I making you nervous?" he teased, squinting playfully. "You usually want to kick me out, what's up with you?"

"Nothing. Leave."

"Oh, now you want me out? You're being weird today."

"You're weird every day," you snapped.

He didn't seem to be bothered by your attitude, if anything it made him want to try harder to see how much he could get on your nerves. Satisfied with your flustered reaction, he decided to walk across the lab to grab something from the spot he'd initially been in, but thankfully, got distracted by the robot again.

Sue narrowed her eyes at you the whole time, before turning back to her tablet. "I'm pulling the preliminary scans. Something feels off."

Something was definitely off. You were practically vibrating. If Johnny got any closer again you were not going to be responsible for your actions.

You forced yourself to focus on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Ignore Johnny's stupid laugh and his stupid biceps as he played with herbie in the background.

"Oh no," Sue gasped, staring at her tablet, and your stomach dropped.

"What?" you whispered, trying to keep Johnny oblivious to it, stepping toward her. "What oh no?"

She turned the tablet just enough for you to read the highlighted results from batch 5B.

Pheromone compound found. Induces increased arousal in subjects, mental fixation on known desires, and irrational impulses toward selected partners. Triggered by sudden light and temperature changes. Potentially dangerous if not treated.

You blinked once. Then again.

"Did I just get hit with sex pollen?!" You whisper shouted. Sue just nodded, feeling sorry for you, at least her modified DNA kept her safe from it.

Suddenly it all made sense.

The heat. The way your skin was buzzing. The uncomfortable pressure building low in your stomach. And God help you, the way your brain couldn't stop fixating on Johnny Storm.

"What's with the whispering? Are you talking about me?" behind you, Johnny shouted from his spot, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

"Don't come over here!" You turned and pointed at him in panic. "We're ... working."

He raised both hands, amused and quite confused. "I was just gonna ask if you wanted the sour cream chips too–"

"Do not say cream right now!" you snapped, turning back to Sue like she was your lifeline. "Sue, get him out of here. Now."

"Why?"

"Because he's annoying, and I can't deal with that right now," you lied, straight in her face, because the reason you needed him gone was if he said one more thing about your skirt ...

"Right, okay." She nodded. After all, this wasn't the first time she needed to kick out Johnny for both of your sake's.

She stormed toward the other end of the lab, clapping her hands. "Johnny. Out. Now."

"What? Why?" he blinked, feigning hurt. "I was just ... HERBIE and I were having a bonding moment–"

"Out. We need to work in peace." She pointed to the door, glaring at him.

He raised his hands in surrender, but that smug grin never left his face.

"Alright, alright, I'm going, damn. Don't miss me too much." He winked as he walked backwards out the door. "But if you do, you know where to find–"

The door hissed shut on his face. You groaned, leaning against the counter.

"Sex pollen lasts around twelve hours. At least, as far as I know. But if it doesn't get solved, what happens?"

"Well..." she hesitated.

"Sue?"

"Your nervous system could crash. You're not just... horny, you're chemically overwhelmed. Your dopamine's probably through the roof. If it gets worse, you could faint. Or ...worse."

"Worse? Oh my god," you gulped. "So I just ... die?”

"It will only feel like that."

"Only? Oh my God. Oh my God."

"Don't panic!"

"Don't tell me not to panic!"

"Okay, okay, sorry," she apologized, scrolling through the information again. "Listen, the data says it gives you fixation on selected partners, so that's probably who you're being drawn to right now. You could get them to, you know ...help you."

You froze. No. It can't be happening. Not like this.

"You do have someone in mind, right?" She glanced up from her tablet, questioning.

You didn't answer. Her eyes narrowed.

"Wait ... who is it?"

No answer, again. But Sue Storm didn't need you to say it. All she had to do was study your state. Dilated pupils, the slight tremble of your hands, not being able to stay still. And the way all of that seemed to have gotten worse when her brother walked in the room.

Her jaw dropped with realization. "No," she said horrified, gaze drifting to the door.

"Yes," you whispered, mortified, hands covering your face from embarrassment. "It's not my fault! Everything he does makes me wanna–"

"Ew! Stop–stop talking!" She made a gagging motion. "Gross, that's my baby brother!"

"I know! Do you think I wanted this?" You groaned into your hands, and she sighed dramatically.

"I'm going to find Reed, he might be able to create a suppressant or something. But listen to me, this stuff can escalate fast, especially if you don't get any release. So maybe just... maybe just call him, okay?"

"What?" You stared at her in horror.

"Only if it gets worse! I'm not saying do anything, don't tell me if you do ... actually I don't want to know anything about it ever," she scowled, walking backwards to the door, making HERBIE follow her.

"Sue–"

"Bye! Good luck! Don't die!" And with a last apologetic smile, she was gone.

You were so fucked.

Not literally, unfortunately.

There was no one here to stop you from spiraling now. No one to distract you. Just the echo of Johnny's stupid laugh in your head and the phantom trace of his hand all over the lab's equipment.

You've been around him all week. He was always touching things, sometimes just to piss Sue off. Flicking paperclips while saying you looked pretty. Tapping those fingers of his on every damn surface before someone kicked him out.

Why were you so fixated on his hands?

"Known desires." Pft. As if. You groaned softly, pressing your thighs together like that was going to help.

It didn't.

"You've gotta be kidding me," you whispered to the empty lab, remembering what Sue told you about calling ... him.

Don't you dare. It's just fake heat. He's not yours. You can't call him because you're desperate.

You sat on the edge of your stool and gripped the edge of the counter, trying to stay grounded. Trying to breathe. Constantly shifting your hips against the leather in hopes of relief. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

Your body was screaming for him. Only for him.

Maybe you could relieve yourself.

First, you decided to get rid of your lab coat. Then, taking a deep breath, you slipped your free hand under the waistband of the skirt, gasping when your shaky fingers fumbled against your dripping folds. You gripped the table harder, nails hurting against the hard countertop, as the fingers inside you moved erratically.

Maybe if you just pretended it was him ...

He was all you could think about after all. The way his voice went lower when he said your name, the restraint he showed around you keeping his hands to himself, or the times he watched you from the corner of the lab, sat on a stool, legs spread wide in those unfairly tight pants waiting for you to sit on them.

Oh, Johnny.

What would you do to have him ask 'Where does it hurt?' and then kiss it better. To have him all over you. Touching you. Whispering something hot and stupid while his mouth kissed down your stomach. The way his hands would feel, how his warm grip would hold your thighs open and–

No.

Fantasies weren't enough. Your fingers weren't enough. It was getting worse, actually, the tension building up in your body made it more painful.

"Come on, this is not happening," you yanked your hand back, staring at the ceiling in utter defeat. "I'm not gonna sit here and finger myself over Johnny Storm like a lunatic."

You covered your face with both hands, groaning. You were dripping. Actually dripping. And no matter what you tried, it just made you want him more.

Twelve hours. You had twelve hours of this.

Unless ...

No.

The moment you saw him again you'd explode from shame and arousal at the same time.

You inevitably glanced over the watch on your wrist. The one Johnny himself synced to his, so you could instantly patch through no matter where he was in the world.

But right now, your salvation was probably no further than three floors down.

You knew he would come the second you called. God, he'd come running. He'd probably make a joke out of it. ‘What, you miss me that bad?’ and then he'd see it in your face.

The need. The desperation. The lack of self control.

And maybe, just maybe ... he'd understand.

"Please... I don't know what else to do, " your hesitant finger slowly reached the small screen, and hovered over Johnny Storm's name.

His contact picture made you press it instantly.

The device beeped only once, and then his voice came through.

"Miss me already?" His voice was light, amused. "Or did Sue set the lab on fire? ... see this is why I should always be there."

Your whole body twitched, relief and panic crashed over you in one brutal wave. He was joking. Of course he was. You could picture the smile in his voice, that stupid glint in his eyes.

It calmed you, only for a second. Like his voice was water in the middle of a dessert.

"Johnny... I need you here. Right now," you blurted, trying your best not to sound like you were dying.

He paused for a moment, and then his heavy footsteps echoed through the call.

"I'm coming," he said immediately, no hesitation, no further questions asked. The comm went silent.

Okay now what? There's no turning back, he's gonna be here. He's actually gonna be here.

You began pacing again. You couldn't think straight, and the heat was getting worse. Because now your brain painted images of him.

Johnny storming into the lab, hair tousled from how fast he walked there, with that smug smile and probably a damn stupid comment.

And you'll have to look him in the eye and tell him why you called. Tell him you were burning. That nothing helped. That you needed him or you would die.

How the fuck do you say that out loud?

'Hi Johnny, so I inhaled a plant's weird space pollen and now I'm gonna lose my mind if you don't rail me on this table?'

You shook your head. Forced yourself to straighten up. Smoothed your skirt, your blouse. Fingers shaking through your hair. If you could just act normal, or look normal, maybe you could buy time. Maybe Sue would come back before anything happened.

Maybe you wouldn't fall apart the second he looked at you.

But before you could control your breathing, the door slid open. And in walked Johnny, with that maddening, stupidly beautiful smirk already on his face.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, stepping inside. "Locked up alone in the lab, calling me back here in a hushed voice... you naughty thing. Couldn't even last an hour without me?"

You didn't move, taking in how much stronger his scent was now. He tilted his head at you, mischief lighting up his eyes as he strutted forward.

"So what, you finally decided I was irresistible? Wanted a private show?" He wiggled his fingers, letting small flames come to life. "Because I do take requests, you know. Fireman, sexy lab assistant–"

"Johnny," you snapped, voice cracking.

Something shifted in your posture then, like all the heat finally caught up with you. You backed away, pressing your hands flat against the cold edge of the counter like it could anchor you. Your breathing got more erratic, and your knees actually buckled before you forced yourself upright again.

Johnny's playful expression changed.

"Hey, hey–" he instantly crossed the space between you, reaching out to hold you but stopped when you flinched away from him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

You shook your head, trying to speak, but nothing came out. Just a helpless sound, a frustrated whimper. Johnny took a cautious step closer, still without touching you.

"Are you hurt, sweetheart?" His voice softened, laced with worry.

Sweetheart?

Your ovaries screamed.

"Johnny, something is wrong ... really wrong with me," you whispered, finally turning to look at him with glassy eyes.

He frowned, worried. His gaze scanned you, the way you could barely hold yourself upright but refused to let him hold you. So his eyes drifted to the table to find a possible reason, landing on the lit tablet, the screen still displaying the information.

"Johnny wait–"

Before you could stop him, he picked it up and scrolled through the content, eyes going wide. He paused, stared and read the entry again. And again. His mouth opened, trying to get a joke out of it, but the shock wouldn't let him.

"...it's pollen," he finally said, voice cracking like a boy hitting puberty again. "Sex pollen? You got hit with horny powder."

"Don't call it that," you groaned, covering your face with your hands from embarrassment.

Johnny looked down at your flushed skin, the sweat glistening on your collarbone, the way you couldn't even stand still anymore, and all of it clicked.

Holy shit. It was fucking sex pollen. He'd read about it before, but never thought he would have it in front of him.

That you would have it in front of him.

"Wait," he blurted, staring back at the tablet. "Wait wait wait–"

You peeked through your fingers, just in time to see him re reading the entry. His eyes went wide, in a mixture of surprise and something else.

"Known desires... selected partners," he mumbled the words, and then, he looked up at you with impossibly hopeful eyes and a grin on his face, “Me?"

You didn't answer him right away, you couldn't. You were sure this was the moment you fainted.

"I didn't know what to do," you whispered. "Sue left and I ... God, Johnny, I tried to fight it, I swear. But I couldn't think, and you were the only one I–"

"Hey," Johnny cut you softly, slowly closing the distance, your bodies barely grazing together. "Look at me."

You didn't.

"Come on," he coaxed, just a little softer. "You're okay. I got you."

Your eyes lifted to his, and the heat behind them made your stomach twist. He wasn't smirking anymore. No teasing, just him, present and very aware of what he was causing on you.

You hated that it only made things worse.

"I didn't know what to do," you whispered. "I can't think. I can't breathe."

He stared at you for a moment, hesitant.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked, genuinely. His hands were still on his sides, like his restraint was a question you could still say no to.

"God, I don't even know what I need," You let out a shaky laugh, half delirious, half desperate.

"Sure you do," he said quietly, like it was the easiest answer in the world. "You called me."

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. So you nodded, because you did.

And then, just like that, his hand finally reached to your waist. Just his warm hand, barely even getting there, but your body snapped like he just sent electricity through your whole body.

You gasped, stumbling back, nearly knocking over the stool. Johnny quickly steadied you with both hands now, eyes wide.

"Okay, okay–that sensitive?" he chuckled breathlessly, like he still couldn't wrap his head around what was happening. "Not that I'm complaining, but usually when I flirt with you, you roll your eyes and then you kick me out."

But you weren't rolling your eyes now. Not yet, at least.

"Yeah I'm just ..." you mumbled, breathless. Skin burning with the feeling of his hands on your waist, warm even through your clothes, staring up at him like he hung the stars. "I feel like I'm burning alive and you're the only one who can put it out."

For the first time in his life, Johnny didn't know what to say back.

It's not like his fantasy of having you spread over the lab counter was starting to become a reality. Only if you said it. If you wanted him to.

God, if you really asked him he would please you in any way possible.

"Johnny..." you whined to get his attention. Your pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering, eyes glassy with unshed tears you couldn't stop at this point. "It hurts, do–do something ... anything."

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I said I got you–"

His hands cupped your face, impossibly warm against your already overheated skin. You leaned into them like you needed it, like you've been starved of touch for hours.

His touch.

And you stared at him, he was beautiful and hot and close, and your whole body leaned forward like a magnet. Like it knew it needed him. Because all you could see was him.

The concern in his eyes. The way his thumbs traced your cheekbones so gently. The way he was so close and still not close enough.

You reached out with shaking fingers and grabbed the collar of his jacket, yanking him toward you until your chests collided, until all you could feel was his toned body on yours.

You exhaled like you just found oxygen.

He stumbled forward, instinctively wrapping his arms around your back, pressing you tighter to him.

"...You're serious," he whispered, lost in the way you seemed to be devouring him with your eyes. "You're really not okay."

You nodded, fists clenching in his jacket.

And without even thinking about it, you rubbed against him. Your body moved slowly, needy. Instinctively.

It was just a subtle graze, your hips grinding against his body for friction, for anything. And for the first time in the day you felt some kind of relief.

"Shit, baby," he cursed under his breath, almost groaning.

You made a soft, broken sound in your throat at the friction, at the way his thigh brushed yours, at the warmth of his skin through his clothes, at the scent of him everywhere.

Johnny choked on his own breath. He tightened his grip for a moment, just enough to keep you from moving further. You whined, at this point completely lost in the haze, but he kept you firmly in place.

"Sweetheart..." he started softly. "If we do this–if you really want this, I'm not walking away from you afterward. I'm not pretending this didn't happen."

"Me neither," you answered, a little too rushed.

But you meant it. You were tired of pretending him strutting into the lab wasn't your favorite part of the day. Tired of pretending you didn't want him.

"Please Johnny," you begged, hands moving to play with his hair, "I want you. All of you, today and everyday."

He looked stunned for a second, that 'please' shattering every bit of restraint he had left . He'd been wanting you since day one.

"That's my girl," his hands cradled your face with such devastating tenderness, making you forget the chaos in your blood, the desperation clawing under your skin.

And then, in a sudden move, he spun you around, one arm wrapped around your waist as the other held the back of your head. He bent over your frame, tilting your body backwards, like being swept into a cliche movie kiss, and crashed his lips into yours. You gasped into his mouth as one of your feet left the ground, with your weight safe in his arms, and clenched your fists on his hair. He kissed you hungry, reverent, like this was the moment he'd been waiting his whole damn life for.

You clung to his body like oxygen, letting yourself get lost in the smoke, in the devastating warmth of his body, in the way his tongue dominated over yours. He groaned over your lips, like he could taste your urgency. Until none of you could breathe anymore.

"That's how you do a first kiss," he mumbled against your lips, breathless and still maddening cocky.

You pressed your forehead to his, panting, dizzy, holding on to him like he was the only thing keeping you alive.

"Now show me how you do me."

Yeah, you were going to be the death of Johnny Storm.

That was enough for him. He pulled you upright, spinning you to lift you over the counter. He kissed you again, rougher this time, and with one arm knocked over what was on the counter so you would have more space.

Metal tools clashed loudly against the floor, plant samples tilted over, dirt spilling on the ground, and something definitely shattered.

"Shit," he laughed into your lips. "Sue's gonna kill me."

"Don't care," you panted, tugging on his jacket so he could get rid of it.

"Eager, are we?" he smirked, but complied in taking it off, taking a step back to throw it across the room.

Your eyes raked through his body, biting your lip at the way that white shirt clung to this toned chest.

He placed himself between your legs again, palms laying on your skin, and started drumming his fingers absentmindedly. Like he didn't know exactly what he was doing to you. Like the casual tap of each warm fingertip against your thigh wasn't setting your whole body on fire.

Your breath shuddered watching his hands.

And he noticed. Of course he did, and his mouth curled into the softest, filthiest smile.

"Wait..." he said, mischief behind his eyes. "Hold on. Is it my hands? Is that what's doing it for you?

You swallowed hard, heart pumping in your chest. Your eyes darted to his fingers again, the ones teasing your skin a bit harder now. The ones you've thought about way too many times, in way too many ways.

His smirk grew when you didn't answer. He already knew.

Johnny's hand lifted behind your neck, coaxing your head back just enough so you were forced to meet his eyes, almost glowing golden fire with lust. The other trailed upward, knuckles brushing your chin before tracing the curve of your lips.

"Let me see that pretty mouth," he mumbled, and when your lips parted, he pushed two fingers inside, slow and steady.

You whimpered, eyes rolling back from tasting him. He just stared at you like he'd never seen anything hotter in his life.

"That's it... get them wet for you," Johnny breathed, thumb brushing your cheek as he watched you suck on them like a lifeline. "God, you're so hot."

He pulled his fingers free, glistening, and grinned like the absolute menace he was.

"Open your thighs for me."

You did, immediately, like your body belonged to ever command he made.

He slid his hand inside your skirt, the same one you just had in your mouth, reaching for your panties. You gasped when he finally touched you over the fabric, his fingers pressing between your legs, dragging slow and warm and perfect against your soaked underwear.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed. "Didn't even need it, you were already this wet for me, huh?"

You nodded, biting your lip. "I need you ... please,” the plea fell from your lips in a whisper. “Johnny … save me.”

Now he was staring at you like you hung the stars. Like having you wet, pleading, begging him to be your hero was a kink he never knew he had.

"Shit. Honey... I got you" he leaned in, like he couldn't get any closer. "I got you. I haven't even–fuck, I haven't even really started."

He slid your underwear aside and finally dipped his fingers into you, slow and gentle and so good you whimpered into his shoulder.

"There she is," he cooed. "God, you're so wet. So soft."

You clung to him, nails curling against the back of his neck. He groaned, obsessed with how desperate you were for him. You could barely breathe anymore, his slow pace was maddening, like he wanted to savor every reaction, every sound you made.

"So tight," he praised, kissing down your neck. "You feel so fucking good. You like that, baby?"

You moaned, a complete mess on top of that counter, and he grinned against your skin.

"Yeah you do. Look at you. Already a mess for me."

His other hand cradled your head again, keeping you close, anchoring you to him as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out, curling just right, his thumb starting to circle your clit, It was too much. But not enough.

"You were thinking about this, weren't you?" he teased, hot breath against your neck. "You wanted my fingers in you. Couldn't stop thinking about it."

He was right. He knows he was right.

"Don't worry," he groaned, licking a slow stripe along your throat. "They're all yours."

Every filthy sound of his wet fingers inside you, every whimper you made went straight to his bloodstream.

You were praying his name, over and over, until you fell apart on his hand, moaning, gasping, shaking, he kissed you through it, humming against your lips.

"That's it. Just like that, pretty girl. I got you."

You were breathless, clinging to him, and he didn't stop curling his fingers to feel how your walls clenched around him. He held you there, watching you come undone with pure adoration in his eyes, his free hand cupping your cheek, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Because even after wrecking you he was devastatingly tender.

"God, I could watch you fall apart all night," he cursed, watching your chest raise violently at your first release of the night.

He watched stunned, it was like he was bringing you back to life.

And it felt like that.

Your body yearned for more, but before you could speak again, he pulled his fingers out, and brought two to his mouth, slow and deliberate, sucking your wetness off them like he'd been starving for it. He groaned, like you were the best thing he'd ever tasted.

Your mouth parted, speechless, his eyes locked on yours as he licked them clean, and then slid those same fingers back inside you.

You gasped, back arching as he pumped a few more times, watching your body clench around him. Like he wanted more. Like you were his favorite experiment now.

"Here, you can have some too," he smirked, pulling them out and slipping them into your open mouth.

You moaned around his fingers, lashes fluttering, and Johnny swore nothing had ever wrecked him more than the sight of you, on top the counter, flushed and trembling, eyes wide and glassy, staring at him while you tasted yourself off his fingers.

"So good, isn't it?" He pulled his fingers from your mouth, but let his thumb drag over your bottom lip, pressing it down to see the way your pretty mouth stayed open for him, spreading some of your own cum in your chin.

Not a single sane thought left in your head at this point. You needed him now more than ever.

"Johnny."

"Yes, babe?"

"Fuck me. Fuck me right now."

Something shifted behind his eyes. The smirk stayed, but there was a new weight to it now, dark, focused, possessive.

"You want me to save you, huh?" he asked softly. His hand trailed down from your lip, past your throat, down your covered chest, your breasts, until it pressed flat against your stomach.

He slid you closer to the edge of the counter with a grunt, and you gasped when you felt his bulge, hot and heavy, pressing against your core through his pants.

"You don't know how long I've wanted you like this," he breathed against your lips, dragging his mouth down to your neck, sucking a mark just beneath your ear. "All spread out for me."

"You can have me, you can have all of me.”

"Yeah?" His lips curled into a smile against your throat. "You want it slow, baby, or do you want it how you begged for it?"

"Please, Johnny ..."

"Oh, sweetheart." He leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and gleaming.. "You don't have to beg anymore."

He slid his shirt off with ease, showing off his chiseled golden body. His pants were next, hitting the floor in a quiet thud, and your shaky hands yanked his boxers down. His throbbing cock sprung up free, swollen, showing you how much your desperation had him painfully rock hard.

You had to fight every part of your being to not push him down and jump on his dick until you passed out from exhaustion. But before you could, he was already bunching up your skirt. You lifted your hips to slide it down, but he chuckled, pushing you down.

"No, no. The skirt stays on," he licked his lips. "Been dreaming about this for a while."

You gasped when he placed his tip on your entrance with one hand, giving it a few slaps like he was savoring every single second. And so were you.

He slid in slowly, inch by inch, mouth open against your shoulder, and he moaned. Johnny fucking Storm moaned. Because it was you. Because it was better than any dream he'd ever had. Better than he even imagined.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You feel so good–you're perfect, baby. You're perfect."

You cried out as he bottomed out, clinging to him, nails digging on his bare back, and he smiled, like he was trying to memorize every sound you made.

"That's it, let me hear you," he panted, slamming in so he could hear you yelp. "You sound so fucking good, baby. Look how you take me."

You buried your face in his neck, trembling as your legs lifted to wrap around his waist. To try and get him to go deeper.

"You've been driving me crazy for months," he grunted, slamming in again. "All those times you rolled your eyes at me? You have no idea what I was thinking."

It didn't take him longer to fuck into you, hard, immediately hitting that spot. You were already a moaning mess, fingers digging into his shoulders. With both hands he grabbed your blouse, and pulled to rip the fabric, snapping the buttons open. Next was your bra, like he finally decided he needed to see your boobs bouncing with every thrust.

"I've wanted you ... needed you" he breathed, diving in to get lost in your chest. "For so long..."

And he showed you how much. With the way he sucked your nipples. With the way his hips snapped forward to make you gasp. With the way his hands roamed all over your body. Or the way he groaned into your neck as he pushed himself balls deep into your soaked pussy.

"Fuck– Johnny," you panted, head dropping back, "you're so big ... feels so good."

"Yeah?" he smirked against your skin, "too much already?"

"Never," you shook your head. "Harder, Johnny. Fuck me harder."

Yeah, this was definitely better than any fantasy he's ever had.

He smiled, god he smiled. Looking devilishly sweet while wrecking your entire body. Completely undoing you.

He picked up the pace, driving into you just right, hands gripping your hips like he owned them. Every thrust knocked another moan from your lips, and every moan made him laugh softly, like he couldn't believe how lucky he was to be inside you like this.

Your breath started getting shorter, nails digging deeper into his skin, and he felt the way your body was crashing under him.

"C'mon, sweetheart, I got you. Let go for me. Let me feel you." He groaned, and that was it.

You fell apart in his arms for the second time with a cry, pulsing around him, and Johnny just lost it. He kissed you hard, hips stuttering as he came inside you with a low, broken groan. His cum filled you deep. So warm, warmer than anybody's ever was.

And it drove you insane.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet his, and Johnny leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your flushed face, your swollen lips, the blissed out haze in your eyes.

"You're beautiful like this," he said, running his thumb softly over your skin. "You know that? Fucking stunning. Never letting you go."

Now it's you smiling, dazed, lost in his eyes as you tried to catch your breath.

"You're everything Johnny," you whispered, your hands cradling his face. "You're so good to me."

He smiled, then leaned forward, catching your lips in a soft kiss. Your mouths moved like they knew each other. Like they belonged. And god he was a good kisser, but the pollen in your body made you crave for more.

You didn't mean to lunge, really, but the next thing you knew was you surged forward. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards, holding your waist, your body landing on top of him as his back touched the floor.

Johnny was still panting from his high, from the kiss, and now he was sprawled out on the floor, chest rising and falling in aftershocks when you climbed closed to his face.

He looked up at you, stunned for a second, then grinned.

"You're not done with me yet, huh?" he placed both hands behind his head, biceps flexing. "Okay, don't let me stop you."

You grinned, kissing down his jaw, over his throat, his collarbone, your hands dragging down his toned chest like you needed to feel every inch of him again. His skin hot, like always, matching the fire rolling under your skin now. Your hips rolled instinctively against his thigh and he groaned, head tipping back.

"Shit–" he hissed, eyes squeezing shut. "Baby, gimme a second to –"

"I can't," you pouted, breath hot against his skin. "It's still burning ... I need more of you, Johnny."

"Oh... well," he said, lips curling into a crooked smile, "when you put it like that–"

You kissed him before he could finish, grinding down against him with reckless need, and he groaned, his hands flying to your hips.

"Okay, okay, fuck–" he breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your body moved against his. "You're not just using me for my stamina, are you?"

"Maybe a little," you chucked against his mouth, and he laughed.

"Fair enough."

"It just ... it still hurts."

"I know," he muttered. "I know, sweetheart. Let me help, yeah?"

He propped himself up with his elbows, one hand on your back as he flipped you over and placed you gently on the floor.

"Let me take care of you, just relax for me," he whispered, pressing his hands to open your thighs again. "I wanna taste you first ... Gotta get my strength back somehow, right?"

He slid down your body slowly, kissing his way across your ribs, your hips, trailing open mouthed heat everywhere until his face was between your thighs. His hands cradled them, thumbs sweeping over your skin like you were something precious. Like he couldn't believe the way you whimpered when he was marking every inch of your skin.

"I know, sweetheart," he cooed, voice so soft, mouth ghosting over your skin. "I know you're sensitive. Just let me make it better."

He draped your legs over his shoulders like they belonged there, kissing up your inner thighs, tongue teasing so slowly you could cry. And when he finally pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss right where you needed it...

You shattered again.

"Johnny–"

You arched into him and he groaned like he was the one coming apart.

"You taste so good, baby," he praised as he began licking loudly. "So sweet ... fuck– I've wanted this for so long..."

His tongue moved swiftly, unrelenting and deliberate, while his hands pinned your hips down. You were a writhing mess, overstimulated and dripping for him, but still moaned his name over and over.

It wasn't just pleasure, every brush of his tongue was relief. Like he was cooling the fever from the inside out.

"That's what you needed, huh? All worked up and no one to help you ... what kind of man would I be if I left my girl like that?"

‘My girl.’

His girl.

"Johnny ... Please don't stop."

"I won't," he promised, smiling against your wetness. "Not until you feel safe again."

And he meant it. His lips worked you open, his tongue tracing lazy circles and long, aching strokes until you were gasping and crying out, trembling so hard your vision blurred.

He moaned against you like he was addicted. His nose brushed your clit with every pass, and it was torture, sweet, unbearable, perfect torture.

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging him closer, desperate, and he loved it, humming low as he flicked his tongue faster, coaxing another release from you, watching you fall apart all over again.

He blinked up at you, dazed and stunned and so fucking gone for you. "You're gonna kill me," he said, completely in awe. "What did I do to deserve this?"

You, spread in front of him, barely able to breathe anymore.

Body still begging for more.

He was ready for another round in no time.

You weren't sure how many rounds you ended up doing. Or how many places you begged him to fuck you on. All you remembered was begging 'one more time', "please Johnny, another one", "Johnny just one more".

It was never 'just one more'. You completely drained him after many hours, until the itch was finally gone.

Not that Johnny ever complained. If anything, he had fulfilled all of his ‘known desires on his preferred partner’ too.

Thank god for sex pollen.

You weren't sure how long you were out, your body gave in before your brain could catch up. The ache between your legs was evident but warm, the weight of Johnny's love still lingering on your skin. You woke up slowly, your cheek resting against a very toned chest, the faint scent of sweat and smoke clinging to him like a memory.

The lab was dark, save for the soft flickering light pulsing from a single, familiar source.

Johnny.

He was still beneath you, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other lazily raised. At the tip of his finger, a small flame danced, gentle, hot, nothing like the infernos he usually conjured. Just enough to light his face in amber glow.

You blinked up at him.

He wasn't looking at you, not at first. Just drawing slow circles on your back with his thumb, eyes were distant. Thoughtful.

Then he felt you stir.

"Hey," he rasped, smiling down at you.

You swallowed hard, everything flooded back. The lab. The counter. The floor. The workbench. Your hands in his hair, your name on his tongue, the way he held you like you were made for him.

And now... this.

Quiet. Intimate. Real.

"Sorry," you whispered, still sprawled half on top of him. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

He chuckled softly, his chest shaking under you.

"After everything that happened that's the last thing you should be apologizing for, sweetheart," he teased, lowering the flame a little. "Besides, it's not the worst way I've ever spent a night in the lab. I love having a very satisfied hot girl passed out on my chest."

You laughed softly, feeling that familiar heat creeping up your cheeks. But something made you doubt for a second.

'After everything that happened, that's the last thing you should be apologizing for.'

Guilt washed over you. The goddamn pollen.

"Johnny... earlier... I didn't mean–"

"Wait don't," he stopped you softly, sitting up a bit so he could see your face better. "Don't say you didn't mean it."

His expression shifted, firelight dancing in his eyes, but something in him doubted too. Like maybe it was the pollen after all.

That couldn't be farther from the truth.

"No, no that's not what I meant," you immediately corrected, and sighed. "I didn't mean to make you feel used, or... like I didn't care."

His gaze softened a little.

"You didn't," he mumbled, still holding his breath in case you sent him to hell after this.

You inhaled slowly, and everything you'd been holding back just tumbled out.

"What I said earlier... that you're everything? It wasn't just the pollen talking," you confessed. "You are, Johnny. I mean it."

His whole expression cracked open, surprised, glowing, like someone just handed him his heart back.

"Damn," he said softly, lips curling into a grin. "You're really gonna say that to me while I'm naked and emotionally compromised?"

You laughed, burying your face in his neck.

"Shut up," you mumbled, but you were smiling too.

He pulled you closer, his free hand trailing over your spine.

"Nah, too late," he grinned. "You're into me. Can't take it back now."

"Ugh, why did I say anything."

"Because you love me. Or at the very least, my hands."

You groaned. He laughed again, delighted, confident, soft. He lifted the flame again and watched the orange glow reflect on your skin.

"So what now?" you whispered.

"Now?" He shrugged. "You keep laying here. I keep lighting up the room. We do this again when you're not on a heat spiral."

"Johnny–"

"What?" he smirked. "You like my fingers, admit it."

You shook your head, "I wasn't that into them."

"No, no, don't even try to downplay it now," he accused, all smug. "You weren't just into my hands. You were like ... obsessed with them."

You groaned and buried your face in his chest like that would protect you from the embarrassment clawing up your throat.

"Johnny–"

"No, seriously," he continued with mock innocence. "I've never seen someone stare at my fingers like that. You were practically drooling. I thought I was gonna have to get a towel."

"Stooop," you whined, voice muffled, your whole body heating up again, and not from the pollen this time.

He laughed, wicked and loving all at once.

"But hey," he said, turning serious in the most unserious way, "you can have them now, you know. Anytime you need them."

"Yeah?" you asked, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "What about now?"

Little extra scene

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feedback is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading 🫶🏼

[crumbledcastle28]

JOSEPH QUINN as JOHNNY STORM

The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025) dir. Matt Shakman

[crumbledcastle28]

Wingman of the Century

Summary: You work the front desk at the VA, sweet and a little shy, catching Sam Wilson’s attention with your quiet kindness. When Sam jokingly asks Steve to drop by and hype him up, you’re caught completely off guard when Captain America himself shows up: charming, complimentary, and clearly playing wingman. (Sam Wilson x reader)

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Based off that line at the end of when Sam and Steve meet to make Sam look good in front of the girl at the VA receptionist desk. Also didn’t tag anyone since idk if y’all want/like Sam. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t the kind of person most people noticed right away.

Soft-spoken, always smiling, and tucked behind the front desk at the VA, you were the first to say good morning and the last to ask for attention. You kept little seasonal decorations up at your station and always had an extra pen ready when someone forgot theirs. You had the kind of presence that made people feel safe even if they couldn’t quite put their finger on why.

That’s probably why Sam noticed you in the first place.

He’d been working the clinic part-time again, leading support groups and checking in with vets who didn’t always open up to just anyone. He was good at it. He knew when to push and when to sit in silence. But somehow, it was you who made the first impression that stuck.

It wasn’t because you were loud or overly bubbly. It was the opposite. The way you leaned forward slightly when someone spoke to you. The way you softened your voice for the older vets. The way you laughed quietly, surprised when he complimented your earrings or teased you for organizing the pamphlets by color.

Sam wasn’t exactly subtle about his visits to the desk.

“You gonna let me act like I’m here for the printer again?” He’d grin, elbow on the counter, watching you try not to smile.

“It was jammed last time,” You’d point out, trying to stay focused on your computer.

“And now I keep showing up just in case it jams again. That’s dedication.”

You’d glance up at him, cheeks warm. “Or very suspicious.”

Sam liked the way you got flustered. Not in a mean way, never that. He just liked that you didn’t seem used to attention, and still, you met it with kindness instead of shutting down. You were sweet, funny when you let your guard down; and yeah, kind of adorable when you got all shy and fidgety behind the desk.

So of course he’d told Steve about you.

It started like most of their mornings did, feet pounding their usual trail, breath misting in the early light, and Sam throwing half-serious jabs at Steve between strides.

“You’re slowing down, old man.”

Steve raised a brow, not even winded. “You sure about that?”

They rounded a corner, and Sam picked up just enough speed to make Steve do a double take. “Just reminding you I’ve still got it,” He tossed over his shoulder, smirking… then Steve sped up and left him completely in the dust.

By the time they finished, both men were stretching on a bench near the trailhead, sweat clinging to their backs (Sam more than Steve), and the kind of silence that only comes from good-natured exhaustion settling between them.

Steve took a swig from his water bottle and glanced over. “You’re grinning like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“I always got something on my mind,” Sam replied, toweling off.

Steve chuckled. “Go on.”

Sam leaned back against the bench. “There’s this girl who works the front desk at the VA. Real sweet. Real shy. Got that kind of smile that makes old guys hand over their paperwork twice just so she’ll talk to them again.”

Steve raised a brow. “This the same one from before?”

His friend nodded with that lovesick smile, “Yeah.”

“Let me guess, you like her.”

“Like her?” Sam repeated, scoffing. “I’m emotionally invested, man. She hands me a clipboard and suddenly I’m thinking about homeownership and joint tax returns.”

Steve laughed, surprised.

Sam grinned. “I flirt a little and she blushes, it’s adorable; but I’m not trying to freak her out. So I’ve been playing it cool.”

“As cool as you ever play it,” Steve teased.

Sam held up a finger. “Exactly. Measured cool. But I was thinking– if, and only if, you were ever in the neighborhood, and felt like stopping by…”

Steve blinked, amused. “You want me to come in and back you up?”

“Just casually,” Sam said, like he hadn’t rehearsed it in his head five times, then playfully continued, clearly joking. “You know. You could say something like, ‘That Sam Wilson, real hero, incredibly smart, absolute asset to the community, shockingly humble for someone so handsome.’ Something low-key.”

Steve shook his head with a smile. “So you want me to be your hype man.”

“I prefer the term character witness,” Sam said, grinning. “It would help me not sound like I’m full of it.”

“You are full of it.”

“But charmingly so,” Sam argued.

Steve took another sip of water. “If I happen to be around…”

Sam lifted both hands, smug. “That’s all I’m saying. If.”

The front lobby was calm that morning, the gentle hum of fluorescent lights overhead mixing with the soft shuffle of patients and quiet conversation. You had just taken a sip of your now-lukewarm coffee when the glass doors swung open and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Because Captain America—no, Steve Rogers, in a navy blue henley and worn jeans that somehow made him look even more normal and unreal at the same time, was walking toward your desk with that kind of polite, casual confidence that still felt like a ripple in the air.

You straightened instinctively, smoothed down your sweater, and not to let your voice squeak.

“Hi, good morning,” You said quickly, but his smile still managed to catch you off guard.

“Good morning,” He returned easily. “I’m here to see Sam Wilson?”

“Oh! Yes, of course– uh, one second.” You tapped at the tablet in front of you, hoping your fingers didn’t shake too visibly. “He’s just finishing up with someone. Should be out in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” He said, his voice a little quieter now, lower, more personal. He didn’t sit. He didn’t pull out his phone. He looked around once, then leaned casually against the counter, arms folded. Not towering, but definitely present.

There was a pause.

“He mentioned you.”

He who? Sam? You swallowed, pulse jumping.

Steve leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “I’ll be honest, I think he pretends the printer’s broken just to come talk to you.”

Your mouth fell open just a little.

“Not that I blame him,” Steve added quickly, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You’ve got a really calming presence. This place feels nicer the moment you say hello.”

You were definitely blushing now, and Steve, unfairly observant, didn’t miss it.

“Oh, no– I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” He said softly. “I just figured you should know, he really thinks highly of you. Talks about you more than he realizes, I think.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t even know what to say. Compliments were one thing. Compliments from Captain America about Sam Wilson talking about you? You might need to sit down.

“He’s a good guy,” Steve continued, like you hadn’t just turned into a speechless statue. “One of the best I know. Loyal, dependable… smarter than he lets on.”

You found your voice, finally. “I–I know. He’s… always been very kind.”

“Kind,” Steve echoed with a small grin. “That’s a good word for him. You should tell him that. I think it’d make his day.”

You nodded, still practically speechless. Hearing Steve Rogers speak about him like that? It was something else entirely.

“He’s got good taste too,” Steve added as he glanced your way.

You blinked again, a little dumbfounded. “What?”

Before he could answer, a voice called from down the hallway.

“Oh, you did not.”

You looked over and saw Sam striding into view, his expression caught somewhere between amused and betrayed. “I was kidding, man! I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Steve raised both hands in innocent surrender. “I was in the area.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

He stepped up beside the desk, glanced briefly at you, and then raised an eyebrow at Steve. “What did you say?”

“Only the truth,” Steve replied, grinning.

Sam turned to you with a half-exasperated smile, trying to look casual but failing to hide the warmth in his eyes. “He’s trying to make me look good. It’s embarrassing.”

You smiled softly, not quite meeting his eyes. “He’s doing a good job.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Sam’s smile turned a little lopsided. “Well. In that case… guess I’ll have to make sure everything he said holds up.”

He hesitated for a moment before asking, slower this time. “Maybe coffee sometime?”

You looked up at him, his eyes were kind and a little nervous now, like he wasn’t sure if he was pushing it. But your stomach flipped anyway.

You nodded. Just once. “I’d like that.”

Steve gave a smug little nod, stepping back with the grace of someone who knew exactly what he’d just set into motion.

“Call me if you need a wingman,” He said over his shoulder to Sam, walking away like he hadn’t just casually changed the course of your week.

[crumbledcastle28]

🅂🄰🄼 🅆🄸🄻🅂🄾🄽

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Word count: 360

A/N: Since I did a Joaquin Torres one I decided I had to do a Sam Wilson one (GODDAMN THESE MEN ARE HOT)

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Sam Wilson the kind of guy who holds your hand during sex, no matter what he’s doing his hand will always find its away to intertwine with yours. He’ll hold and squeeze it, his big hands almost covering the entirety of yours.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who leans in close to you when fucking, forehead against yours, but his eyes flutter close a lot. Usually, he’d be able to keep his eyes open, but he allows himself to get lost in the feeling of you.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who has low groans, he barely even moans, but you can make him if you push his buttons in all the right ways. If he moans audibly then you know he’s enjoying way too damn much.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who makes you cum more than once before filling you up, he doesn’t mind how, fingers or mouth, he’ll find a way to make you just about content and then make you lose all sensation in your legs with his cock.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who can switch his pace anytime, whatever suits your mood. You wanna go slow, gentle, drag it out? Done. You wanna go faster, deeper, harder? Your wish is his command (and he’s more than happy to grant it)

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who can joke around during sex, he’ll get you laughing in the middle of it of course, he can’t help it.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who whispers sweet nothings in your ear, praising you, complimenting you before and after sex. You are his and he is yours, he likes to remind you of that.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who doesn’t leave many marks on you like hickeys, but he does have his own way of showing off that you’re his. That little hobble in your step when you went to training the day after you spent the night with him? Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a coincidence.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who can hold out, he refuses to let himself cum before you, he has to know that you’re fully satisfied before he lets himself go.

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Masterlist

[crumbledcastle28]

🅂🄰🄼 🅆🄸🄻🅂🄾🄽

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Word count: 209

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Sam Wilson is down bad for you when you’re on top of him, his hands planted firmly on your waist with your thighs slotted on each side of him. I mean it, down fucking bad.

There’s something about him having you on top that just turns him right on, he can’t help it, you just look so damn good while riding him, he’d let you do it every time you had sex if he didn’t like being able to hold you close to him in other positions.

His hands move across your skin in slow motion, he savours the feeling of you and memorises it all, every bump and curve, every freckle or scar that you may have, its locked inside of his head.

In addition, he remembers the places that make you moan or shiver the most, he remembers how you would lean into him more if he touches a specific place, or how your breath would hitch when he touches another.

If you’re a woman, or afab, Sam loves to watch and touch your tits when you’re riding him. It’s almost like he’s mesmerised by the look of them, but he’s big on eye contact too. Gods, he just loves to watch every change in your expression.

[crumbledcastle28]

i mean i have an idea for sam but its soooo cliche LMFAO

- maybe being the assistant for sam n joaquin and what not and you just have a crush on sam...... sam kinda has his suspicions but joaquin would defs snitch on you by accident bc that man is a YAPPER he never shuts up. you dont know why you spilled about your crush on sam to joaquin but alas!!! it works in your favour

TALK TOO MUCH

INCLUDES -> sam wilson x reader WARNINGS -> fluff with a bit of angst (bc i can't help myself), misunderstandings, accidental machmaker joaquín, light blood and injury, alcohol WORD COUNT -> 3.7k

NOTES -> first sam fic, pls be gentle with me. also, the army man thing was 100% inspired by ted lasso, but sue me! it's such a sam thing to do. and as always: comments and rbs are much appreciated, and my asks are open!

it isn't unusual for you, sam, and joaquín to have a late night catching up on "official superhero business," as joaquín likes to call it. there's always more recon to be done, more adjustments to be made to the wings, more training. and with joaquín officially taking sam's side as falcon, that leaves you as the primary analyst.

which often means poring over hours of security footage or pages of legal jargon—especially now that there's a legal case being made against the so-called "new avengers."

but finding real, usable footage and evidence on security feeds is never like the movies. it's always terribly slow-going, even if you're watching it sped up. you've moved from your desk, to sitting on the couch, to draping yourself across it with a coffee in hand. you made a mental note long ago to thank sam for putting it in the base, but now you really have to deliver on that. without it, your back would no doubt be aching from the desk chair, and after well over an hour of footage and no sign of the weapon dealers you're supposed to keep an eye out for, it would have been hell.

that slow crawl of footage, combined with the quiet hours of the night, have your eyes heavy with sleep.

"working hard or hardly working?" comes sam's voice from the door.

he and joaquín had been training for the past hour or so—maybe longer now. time gets a little shaky this late in the night, especially with the dreadfully dull security tapes that play in front of you.

but the effect of the workout is obvious. there's sweat on his brow and a towel slung over his shoulder. and if you look a little too long at the broad spread of his shoulders or the flex of his arm, then you're more than willing to blame it on the hour.

"a little bit of both," you say with a tired smile, and your ears go warm when sam laughs.

"any sign of 'em?" he sits at his own desk and tips his head back, leaning back in his chair far enough that it gives you a great view of the angle of his jaw and-

yeah, you need to stop staring. so you turn back to your laptop only to see a heaping helping of nothing. when you take a quick glance at the time, it's well past 11.

"if there was, i'd be in bed already."

"mm, tell me about it," he sighs.

"why're you guys working out so late anyways?"

"joaquín insisted, the brat."

"hey, i heard that!" and right on cue, joaquín comes walking through the door with a pep in his step that is entirely unwarranted for how late it is. "i wanted to learn that move you did the other day against the serpent dudes."

"don't i know it." sam rubs out an ache in his shoulder, and you can't help but laugh. "this funny to you? the kid's beating up his elders!"

"aw, come on, old man," joaquín walks past sam to get to his desk and takes the opportunity to jab him in the shoulder. predictably, sam hisses and rubs at the sore spot. "just last week you were saying how you were proud of me."

"yeah, old man, you're the one training him," you manage through giggles.

"oh, i see how it is," sam raises a playful eyebrow at you, "ganging up on me?"

"always, sam, always." and maybe the look you give him back lingers just a moment too long, because when joaquín breaks the quiet with a clap, it startles you.

"tonight's my turn to put away the gear, right?" but before sam can even get out a reply, joaquín is already moving to their wings and suits—ready to pack everything away neatly without any further questions.

"guess that's my sign to head out, huh?" he stands with a grunt and stretches his arms over his head, lifting his shirt just enough for you to see his toned stomach.

if sam sticks around any longer, you will definitely have to blame your staring on how tired you are.

he hefts his duffel bag over one shoulder and trudges over to the door, but before he leaves, he turns to you.

"don't stay up too late watching those. we only need enough to prove that's their hideout," his voice is soft when he says it, a tone you swear he only uses with you. or maybe you're just projecting.

and then he's out the door, leaving you and joaquín to close up shop.

"so, sam, huh?" joaquín teases as he rubs away some dirt from his helmet.

"what about him?" despite your deflection, your ears still go hot, and your eyes are glued to the screen in front of you.

"i was in here for two seconds and you were making heart eyes at him," joaquín says with a shrug.

"i so was not!"

"were too!"

"okay, even if i like sam, it's not like i can do anything about it," you say with a huff.

"so you do like him!"

"ugh, drop it, joaquín." but it's true. you can't do anything about the hopeless crush you have on sam. he may not technically be your boss, but he can surely fire you if he thinks there's a conflict of interest. and that's the last thing you want.

you focus your attention back on the grainy warehouse on your laptop. and then something moves, just a dart of what could be a body in too much tactical gear on the roof and running down a fire escape. your heart nearly stops. "holy shit, i got them!"

-

the mission gets wrapped up a week later, leaving sam with bruised ribs and a sprained wrist and joaquín with a mild concussion and too many scrapes for his own good. despite the injuries, spirits are high as the three of you have a celebratory drink in a worn down bar in louisiana.

it was sam's idea, going home to delacroix. after a month of desperately trying to hunt down the smugglers and the dealers they took their weapons to, he had been itching for a break—just as much as you and joaquín were. so it only felt right to bring the two of you with him to meet sarah and the kids.

"should you be drinking with a concussion?" you gesture to the beer joaquín has been nursing for the past 10 minutes.

"one drink can't hurt, right?" he frowns at the bottle for a moment, "and the doctor said i'd be fine after a few days."

"it's been two, big man. let's cool it on the beers." sam chuckles when joaquín levels a glare at him.

"says the guy who insists on only wearing his wrist brace when he's working on the boat," joaquín grumbles.

"don't even start," sam returns with a lighthearted roll of his eyes.

"how's it feel to be back home, sam?" you ask, interrupting their banter before it turns into bickering. it's been ages since he's been back, and you can only imagine how homesick he's been.

"sarah's got me working like a dog on that boat," he says with an air of exasperation that only he can pull off in a loving tone.

"well, if you need extra hands," you gesture to yourself and joaquín.

"noted," he replies with a wink, and you hope that the fluttering in your chest isn't obvious. then he stands and turns to you, pointedly ignoring joaquín when he asks, "want another drink?"

"that would be great. thanks, sam." he smiles at you and walks to the bar with a few 'hello's' to the people who have missed him. and you, well, you make a great effort not to stare as he walks away. not that it works.

damn him for wearing tight t-shirts while working on the boat.

"'if you need extra hands,'" joaquín parrots when sam is out of ear shot and you groan.

"i was being serious!"

"yeah, but you made it sound like you were making a pass at him." your face goes hot and joaquín laughs at your wide-eyed look. "relax, i'm sure he didn't take it that way."

"ugh, i hope not," you swirl the watered down remnants of your own drink in your glass.

"you could just tell him, you know," he says with a comforting smile.

"and jeopardize the one tech job i've actually enjoyed? no, thank you."

joaquín seemingly doesn't have a response for that, or maybe he just notices sam returning to the table before you do.

sam is back with a smile on his face and two drinks in his hand, one of which he passes to you. you do your very best not to react when your hand brushes his to take the glass.

"so, who's helping me on the boat tomorrow?"

-

sarah's put sam and joaquín in charge of entertaining the boys while you help her with dinner. it's fairly mindless work, in a totally different way than your usual analytics gig. it's cleaning up fresh basil with a knife, it's peeling garlic and dicing it, it's mixing things when sarah hands you a wooden spoon. it gives you plenty of time to catch up with her while you do it, repetitive motions falling into habit.

"sam still a pain in the ass?" she asks while tenderizing meat to hell and back.

"only when he and joaquín are up to something," you reply, a smile that's very nearly too soft tugging at the corners of your lips.

she laughs at that, and the work continues like that: questions about sam, about you and what you do, and even a question about bucky—and that gets awkward very quickly. you're the one who's been looking into copyright law, after all.

that doesn't stop you from raising an eyebrow when she asks about him, though.

"bucky? really?" your voice is light, teasing, and you jostle her shoulder with yours.

"just asking! i mean, he's broody, sure, but..." she trails off with a shrug.

you glance out the window to see sam throwing a football around with his nephews. he lets cass tackle him with a laugh you can almost hear in your head, and he rolls his eyes when joaquín celebrates the win with his nephew. it's the most relaxed you've seen sam in months.

except, maybe, for those late nights on base, where it's nothing but easy conversation and laughter. the memories send something shooting sharp through your chest.

"he's sweet and one hell of a looker," sarah finishes.

"yeah, i'm sure he is," you say too quietly and look back down to the cutting board in front of you before sarah catches you staring at her own brother.

"what about you? any broody super-soldiers catch your eye?"

"uh, no-" you stumble, looking for an out, "not super-soldiers. they aren't really my speed."

"oh, so just regular soldiers then?" you gape at her, and she just laughs.

before you can get another word in, the kids, joaquín, and sam all come storming into the kitchen. aj is sitting on joaquín's shoulders, marveling at how tall he is—and making a point of rubbing it into cass's face that he's stolen his teammate.

"no running around the kitchen while we're using knives!" sarah yells over the commotion, but it comes a moment too late. cass bumps your arm and sends the sharp edge of the knife in your hand across your fingers. it's quick, sharp, and it stings.

blood is running down your hand in half a moment, and you move to the sink as fast as you can. shit, shit, shit. there's a lot more blood than there should be for a superficial cut—you've seen your fair share of the scrapes joaquín and sam come back to the base with.

joaquín is quick to herd the boys out into the living room, promising cass that you'll be fine, that you're stronger than him and sam by miles. but the vague lightheadedness you feel at seeing your own blood pouring down the drain seems to prove him otherwise.

sam, on the other hand, is by your side in an instant. he's got a handful of paper towels that he presses against the cut that spans across two of your fingers.

"there's a first aid kit in the bathroom upstairs, c'mon." he places a hand on your lower back and guides you forward. even with the throbbing ache in your hand, you can't ignore the warmth of him against you. his hand is gentle, just the ghost of a press against you to keep you moving.

he acts quickly once you're in the bathroom, running your hand under water to keep blood from dripping all over the tile—seriously, are cuts on your hand supposed to bleed this much? and he takes out the first aid kit. it's methodical, the way he takes it apart—the kind of thing that reminds you just how much military training he's really had.

gauze, antiseptic, bandaids—avengers themed ones that are certainly meant for aj and cass.

he doesn't speak as he patches you up, just holds your hand gently as he cleans up the cuts with the antiseptic and wraps them up in bandaids.

you watch the focus on his face, the furrow of his brow and the flitting of his eyes across your hand. you watch the way his fingers are intentionally light when they touch you, like it takes a conscious effort to keep from grabbing your hand in his.

and that thought is when you decide to pull away and clear your throat, which has grown unbearably tight.

"thanks," you say, avoiding his gaze by looking at his handiwork. there's a thor bandaid on one finger and an iron man one on the next.

"anytime," he replies, already packing up the first aid kit. then, he opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, and the look in his eye has your heart shuddering. it's the kind of look you only see when he says those impossibly gentle things, the kind that leaves you with more questions than answers, the kind that makes you think maybe you have a chance. just maybe.

but sarah's already yelling for him downstairs. he curses, stashing the kit quickly and turning to head back to the kitchen. "work never ends, huh?"

"yeah. right."

-

after dinner cass hands you a little plastic army man.

"sorry for hurting you on accident," he says, voice soft and heavy with guilt.

"it's okay. accidents happen!" you take the little figurine from him. "who's this?"

"uncle sam gives them to us when we get hurt."

"well, thank you." you look at it carefully. it's bright green and wields some kind of ancient gun that the military hasn't given soldiers in decades. he still stands in front of you, rocking from one foot to the other. "i'm all better, see? i have thor and iron man keeping me safe now." you put out the hand with the bandaids for him. it makes him smile, and then he's off to bug sam and sarah—who have banned you from the kitchen while they clean up.

a moment later, joaquín plops down on the couch next to you with a similarly guilty look to cass.

"i messed up."

"the cut didn't hurt that bad, joaquín. don't worry about it."

"no, i mean-" he cuts himself off with some quiet curse in spanish that you can't quite hear. "okay, so, earlier sam was kind of, maybe, joking around about bucky flirting with sarah when they visited, talking about how he had to keep, like, telling him off for it, or whatever."

your stomach dips. oh, shit.

"and i might've said something about how sarah was probably doing the same with you." joaquín is quick to react to the panic on your face. "i didn't mean to say anything! i was just joking around, and i wasn't thinking. i swear-"

"joaquín, please tell me you're kidding."

"he didn't say anything! he just laughed and moved on, so, like, i'm sure it's fine-"

he just laughed. joaquín opened his mouth, and sam laughed.

he keeps prattling on some long winded apology, filled with assurances and promises, but you aren't hearing any of it. sam knows, and that sends your heart racing in all the wrong ways.

he knows, and it'll be a conflict of interest. he knows, and you'll be fired for it. he knows, and you'll lose the guy who keeps you grounded on long stakeouts, the guy who makes you laugh harder than you ever have before, the guy you've been hopelessly falling for for months now.

he knows, and you're fucked.

"i'm gonna, um, head upstairs," you mumble, interrupting joaquín. "just, i dunno, tell them i'm tired, or something."

he calls your name softly as you get up, but you don't turn around. you just make a beeline for the room you've been given—well, the room you and joaquín have been sharing, since sam insisted he'd take the couch for the week. and maybe that's for the best since right now. the thought of sharing a room with sam makes your chest go tight.

you kick past the air mattress on the ground and fall onto the bed with a sharp breath, tugging your knees up to rest your head on them. your eyes are burning and your chest aches from the panic.

do you start packing up now? write a resignation letter while you're at it? surely, sam won't want you in his sister's home knowing you have some stupid school-girl crush on him, much less want to work with you.

or maybe sam will understand. maybe he can move past it like it's nothing. but can you? it's so easy to pretend when he doesn't know, when it's something you have to keep hidden.

now that it's out in the open, is that even a possibility?

there's no moving on from him, as far as your heart is concerned, and that sends a sharp pain lancing through you. a strangled sound fights its way out of your throat.

"it'll all be fine," you keep repeating to yourself, getting up to pace around the room like someone possessed. "it isn't the end of the world. it's just a crush."

it's just a crush on one stupidly good looking, achingly thoughtful, impossibly charming man. he's only the man who gave you a second chance when no one else would, who trusts you to watch his back in the worst situations. you can't think of a reason not to love him, and—oh, shit, is that what this is?

love?

you stop dead in your tracks when you hear a knock on the door. "you alright in there?" comes sam's voice from behind it.

"yeah, fine, just tired!" you reply, voice cracking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

"yeah, okay," he sounds unconvinced. "can we talk?"

"can, um, can it wait? i just really want to go to bed," and maybe your voice is too honest when you say that, because you hear sam sigh from the other side of the door.

"i don't think it should." a moment goes by, then two, before he speaks up again. "i can stay right out here, if that helps."

and it shouldn't, but it does.

"okay."

"look, joaquín said something earlier, and-" you can hear him shuffling behind the door, and then a quiet thunk on the ground. "i don't want you freaking out about it, so-"

you interrupt him before he can say anything else. "don't worry about it. i'm fine. i'll be fine. i'll just move on, and nothing has to change."

"no, that's not-"

"i promise! just please don't get rid of me, let me stay. i like being at the base, and i like you and joaquín. it'll be like it never even happened." your face is wet with tears, now, and your chest stutters with every breath you take.

"i'm not firing you, dammit!" he huffs. "i was waiting for the right time to say something, until after the mission."

you go quiet, and something nauseatingly hopeful sits heavy in your stomach.

"but i should've said something sooner, because here you are crying because you think i hate you." he makes a sound that sounds almost like a laugh. "you drive me crazy, you know that? you're beautiful, smart, and you're good with my nephews and sarah. and i spent weeks trying to find a way to ask you out but it was one mission after another-"

you fling the door open as he talks, and he must've been sitting against it, because he falls back against the floor with a grunt. he stares up at you wide-eyed and heartbroken, and you stare back, desperately trying to dry your eyes.

"you wanted to ask me out?"

"still do," he says simply. your heart does something funny at that.

he lays still on the floor for a moment, waiting with baited breath for your response.

"okay, i- yeah, okay."

"just 'okay'?"

"jesus, sam, get in here," you say with a laugh, and he gives you a cheeky grin as he stands.

he sits down on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him, taking your hand in his as soon as you do. his thigh is warm against yours, an insistent, grounding weight.

"sorry for making you cry," he says, voice too quiet and too honest.

"blame joaquín. he's the one who spilled it to you." his thumb rubs over the back of your hand in small circles.

"a-ha! but without joaquín we wouldn't be going out on a date next thursday."

"next thursday?" you shoot him a questioning look.

"i know your schedule. you're free then." but then he pauses. "if you don't have other plans."

"thursday is perfect, sam." he grins and presses a kiss to the top of your hand.

when sarah sees you both the next morning sitting next to each other at breakfast, she looks like the cat who got the cream. she raises an eyebrow at how close you are together, but doesn't say a word until she finds you alone.

"i was right about the not-so-super soldiers then, wasn't i?" and once again, you're left floundering.

[crumbledcastle28]

Salute the flag get up 🫡

I got this.

[crumbledcastle28]

thinking about how sam would absolutely love picking you up and setting you on top of the table/countertop/desk at any chance he gets. the way he'd step between your parted thighs just to feel you wrap your legs around his waist while he pulls you into the most breathtaking kisses. not to mention your reaction – it's so obvious that you love being manhandled and he's more than happy to give you what you want. hell, it makes him feel sexy that he can pick you up like that and that you'll eat it up every time.

it kind of becomes a ritual for y'all – any time he finds you near any flat surface he could conceivably lift you on top of, he'll do it. he finds you in the kitchen getting water? up you go. you come into his office to check on him? say hello to the desk while you're at it! sam just loves standing between your knees and kissing the sense out of you. loves the way your limbs envelope him and your fists twist into the back of his shirt.

[crumbledcastle28]

🙏 Thank you. Thank you. 🙏

JESUS YOUR JOAQUIN SMIT SENT ME ☠️

Can you do another one where hes subbing or theyre both switches please? Thx

YES BUDDY

part 1 here

The Boy Next Door Part 2

joaquin torres x reader; neighbor au; 18+; mdni

It started in your kitchen.

Which was honestly impressive, considering you’d been aiming for cereal.

You never even made it to the fridge for the milk because he was already there—Joaquin, shirtless, towel around his neck, sweat still clinging to his throat from his morning run. You were in one of his old t-shirts and nothing else, hair messy, mouth half-open, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

He leaned against your counter like sin incarnate, smirking like he knew.

Which, unfortunately, he did.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice low, teasing, “and I’m gonna forget I came over here for a banana.”

“I am the banana,” you said without thinking, before you could stop yourself.

He blinked.

And then he cackled, crossing the room in three steps and backing you against the counter with one palm braced beside your head.

“Mi amor,” he grinned, eyes glinting, “you can’t just say that to a man at seven-thirty in the morning and expect him not to ruin you.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” you said sweetly, dragging your nails down his bare chest. “I’m hoping.”

He kissed you before the second syllable left your mouth.

Hot. Desperate. Possessive.

It tasted like sweat and honey and too many late nights not sleeping. It tasted like how he touched you now—rougher than usual, more impatient, hands sliding up under the shirt you were wearing, pulling until the hem rucked around your ribs.

“Off,” he growled, tugging it higher. “Off, or I’m tearing it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first one you’ve ruined,” you muttered, laughing into his mouth.

“Stop talking.” He bit your bottom lip. “I’m busy.”

He lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, pressed himself between your thighs, grinding the hard line of his cock against the soft heat of you. You moaned, arms winding around his neck as your teeth scraped along his jaw.

“You gonna be good for me this morning?” he asked, slipping a hand between your legs. “Let me take care of you?”

You nodded, panting. “Yeah. I’ll be good.”

His mouth curved against your throat. “Liar.”

And then his fingers were inside you.

Fast. Crooked. Intentional.

He pumped them hard and slow, fucking you on the kitchen counter with that maddening rhythm he always used when he was in charge—when he was the one setting the pace, watching you squirm, whispering praise while he wrecked you with his mouth and hands.

“You’re already dripping,” he murmured. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

You bit his shoulder. Hard.

He groaned. Laughed. “There she is.”

Then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, tongue out, face buried between your legs like he’d earned it. Like it was a reward and not an addiction.

Like you were the only thing he’d been starving for.

“Joaquin—fuck—” You writhed above him, your hands tangled in his curls, the cool edge of the kitchen counter grounding you while the rest of you spun out.

He started slow at first—pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, one after another, trailing upward like a tease. His breath ghosted across your folds, warm and maddening, but he didn’t dive in right away.

No—he savored.

He spread you open with two hands like he was parting the clouds to worship what was underneath.

And then he groaned.

“Mierda,” he muttered, almost reverently. “You’re already so wet for me, linda.”

You tried to answer—tried to say something clever—but your brain shorted out the second his tongue pressed flat to your cunt and licked a slow, indulgent stripe from bottom to top.

Your hips bucked. Your fingers clenched in his hair.

“F-fuck—baby—”

He hummed like he agreed.

Then he really got to work.

That wide, hot tongue flattened against your clit, lapping in steady, obscene strokes—firm but unhurried, like he was tasting, not just pleasing. He took his time. Adjusted the angle. Mouthed at you with a kind of single-minded worship that bordered on religious.

You could barely breathe.

“Holy shit—oh my God—”

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just hard enough to anchor you. He groaned again—loud, deep in his chest—as if the taste of you drove him wild. His tongue flicked now, zeroing in on your clit with tight, focused pressure, and you could already feel it—that pull. That fast, aching unraveling in your belly.

But you didn’t let go.

Not completely.

Because somewhere in the slick, delirious haze of his tongue curling just right and his nose brushing against your slit, you pushed back.

At first, it was subtle. Your fingers fisting tighter in his hair. Your hips canting forward, chasing his mouth.

Then more.

You rocked against his tongue. Set the pace. Turned the grind of your hips into a rhythm he had to match.

And he let you.

God, he let you.

He moaned into your cunt like it was a gift. Like you riding his face was the highest honor he’d ever received.

When he added two fingers—curling up and in, finding that perfect spot—you cried out. Loud. Helpless.

“Right there—don’t you fucking dare stop—”

He didn’t.

He groaned, deep and primal, and sucked your clit into his mouth while pumping his fingers inside you. Fast. Precise. Hungry.

That was all it took.

Your body snapped.

The orgasm hit like a punch—tight, hot, blinding.

You shattered with a choked scream, thighs squeezing around his head, back arching off the counter. The kind of orgasm that tore through you, that left you wrung out and shaking, sobbing his name like a confession.

“Joaquin—fuck—oh my God—Joaquin—”

He stayed there.

Held you together with his hands, his mouth still gentle now, kissing your inner thigh while you trembled, his fingers easing out of you with care.

You were soaked.

Ruined.

Barely upright.

And he was smiling against your skin like a man who’d just won a war.

“Still think you’re in charge?” he asked, voice wrecked and smug and fucking feral.

You let out a breathless laugh, still trembling, and dragged him up by the hair for a kiss.

“Taste yourself,” he whispered.

And you did. Moaned into his mouth. Then—firm and breathless—you grabbed his chin and said, “My turn.”

His eyes flicked up.

Glinted.

And then he smiled.

“Think you can take it from me, nena?”

You shoved him back on his heels.

“Watch me.”

You didn’t give him time to recover. Didn’t give him the chance to regain control. Because the second you could breathe again, you grabbed him by the wrist and yanked.

“Cama. Now.”

His brows shot up—impressed, aroused, a little scared.

“Shit,” he muttered, breathless. “You’re serious.”

You didn’t answer.

Just hauled him through the hall by the waistband of his shorts—still hanging low on his hips, his cock still hard, flushed and leaking against his stomach—and shoved him through your bedroom door.

His hair was messy. His mouth was still wet with you. He barely got a word out before you pushed him flat on the mattress and climbed on top of him.

Not his lap.

Not his chest.

His face.

He looked up at you, wide-eyed and wrecked. “Oh my God,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe. “Look at you—fucking dripping. Baby—”

“Open,” you said.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

His mouth dropped open on instinct.

And then you sat.

Full weight.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

You smothered him with your cunt—wet and swollen and pulsing—settling onto his mouth like a throne made just for you. His hands flew to your thighs instantly, gripping hard as his tongue shoved into you, licking up and in with frantic, needy desperation.

He moaned like he’d just found heaven.

Like he was tasting salvation.

And you? You rolled your hips into it.

You rocked against his mouth with slow, grinding pressure, dragging your clit across his lips, his tongue, his nose, using his face for your pleasure like it was what he was made for.

He let you.

No—he wanted it.

He groaned beneath you, hands squeezing your ass, head tilted to keep his tongue locked to your cunt even as you shifted—grinding deeper, wetter, hotter. His nose bumped your clit with each motion, his tongue lapping at your slit, and every sound he made sent a pulse straight through you.

“That’s it,” you panted, breath hitching. “Eat it. Fuck—Joaquin, just like that—”

You could barely hold yourself up now. Your thighs were trembling. Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging harder each time he moaned like he was drowning in you.

You looked down.

His eyes were closed, face slack with pleasure, mouth wide open and filthy—chin and cheeks slick with your arousal. He was panting through his nose, tongue flicking over your clit in fast, desperate strokes like he could feel how close you were.

You could’ve come.

Right there.

Right on his tongue. Again.

But you didn’t.

Because this wasn’t just about the orgasm.

This was about power.

It was about the way he let you take it.

You lifted off his face slowly, trembling, your thighs soaked, your clit twitching in the open air. Joaquin gasped beneath you, lips red and shiny, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a mile.

His eyes flew open—glazed, frantic, aching.

“Nena,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “What the fuck—why’d you stop?”

You didn’t answer.

Just slid off his chest, still straddling his hips, your fingers raking down his stomach.

He looked up at you like he was in pain. “I was so close to making you—fuck, baby, come back—”

“Lie back,” you said, voice low, crawling down his body.

He obeyed instantly.

Because of course he did.

Because Joaquin loved this. Loved you like this.

You took his cock in your hand—thick, flushed, and leaking—and let your thumb smear the pre-cum over the tip, watching him twitch under your touch. He bucked once. Bit his lip. Groaned.

“Been thinking about this,” you whispered, stroking him slow. “Since the moment I saw you.”

“Fuck,” he gasped, hips thrusting weakly. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You climbed into his lap—slow and steady, keeping your grip on his cock—and pressed the head against your folds, rubbing it through the slick, letting it catch on your clit.

His breath hitched.

“Oh my God, baby—please. Let me feel you.”

You hovered.

Teased.

And then you sank down, inch by inch, his cock stretching you wide until you were fully seated on him.

Both of you moaned.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, hands flying to your hips. “So fucking tight—so warm—fuck—”

You ground your hips, slow and deep, taking your time. Watching his face. Watching him fall apart.

“Don’t come yet,” you whispered, rocking slowly. “You’re mine. And I want to take my time.”

He whimpered.

You smiled and started slow.

Deliberate.

Just a roll of your hips. Just enough to make him feel it.

And fuck, did he feel it.

“Jesus Christ—” Joaquin gasped, hips twitching beneath you, his hands fisting the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him from flipping you over and slamming up into you. “You’re so fucking—tight, baby—oh my God—”

You smiled. Cruel. Sweet. In control.

“You like that?” you asked, circling your hips again, slow and grinding, your nails dragging down his chest.

He groaned.

Threw his head back.

“You know I do,” he panted, voice thick. “Fuck—you’re—shit, I can feel all of you—gripping me, baby, milking me—”

You clenched down on him, just to watch him lose it.

He choked on a moan, hips jerking. His eyes flew open, wide and frantic, mouth slack.

“Fuck, don’t do that—you’ll ruin me,” he gasped.

“You want me to?” you asked sweetly, leaning over him now, your hair brushing his cheeks as you rode him deeper. “You want me to wreck you?”

He nodded—desperate. Frantic.

“Y-yeah,” he whimpered. “Please—fuck—use me, baby, just take it—ride me—take what you want.”

So you did.

You lifted your hips—slow, smooth—until just the head of his cock remained inside you… and then you slammed back down.

He shouted.

“Oh fuck, fuck—do that again—please—”

You bounced on him now, setting a pace just shy of punishing, your thighs burning, your hands planted on his chest while he moaned under you like it was killing him in the best way.

“Look at you,” you panted, riding him harder. “Mouthy little mess.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Only for—fuck, baby, you’re so wet—feels like heaven—”

You leaned down. Bit his earlobe.

“I want you to come from this,” you whispered. “From me. On top. In control.”

He nodded again, frantic.

“Gonna come,” he gasped. “If you keep—fuck, baby, don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

Your pace stuttered—just slightly.

And he whined.

“Don’t tease me—please, nena—please, ride me—need it—need you to make me—fuck—make me come inside you—I wanna feel it.”

You grinned, wicked.

And you rode him like he was yours.

Because he was.

Your name fell from his lips in a choked cry, his hands gripping your waist, his body tensing—hips bucking up into you in frantic, desperate thrusts.

“Fuckfuckfuck—hermosa I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

And then he came.

Hard.

Moaning loud, cock twitching deep inside you, body jerking under yours as he spilled into you, gasping and babbling your name like a prayer.

You kept moving—slow, dragging it out—milking him through every pulse.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes glassy. “You’re gonna kill me, baby. That pussy’s lethal.”

You smiled down at him.

“Still want a turn?”

He laughed, breathless. “Give me sixty seconds and a Gatorade. I’m gonna make you scream.”

-

Your bedroom is a disaster.

His shirt is still on the floor. The sheets are tangled. One of your pillows was a casualty somewhere around orgasm number three. You’re both sweaty, bruised, blissed out, and so tangled together he’s not sure where his leg ends and yours begins.

And he has never been happier.

You’re asleep on his chest, one arm flung over his stomach like it belongs there. His hand rests on your hip. The room smells like sex, like you, like home.

Joaquin should be sleeping.

He should be recovering from what can only be described as a coordinated physical assault by someone far too smug on top.

But instead he just lies there, staring up at the ceiling with a stupid, loopy grin on his face, thinking the same five words on a loop.

“I’m gonna marry her.”

He doesn’t mean tomorrow.

He doesn’t mean next week.

But he means it. Down to his bones.

He’s going to marry you.

He’s going to wake up next to you every morning—make you coffee, argue over playlists, pretend not to get turned on when you walk around in his boxers. He’s going to fix shit around the apartment before you even notice it’s broken. He’s going to eat you out in the laundry room again.

And someday, maybe, you’ll both stop paying rent on two places and just… merge.

One bed. One key. One life.

He’ll propose on the roof. Or in the hallway. Or mid-orgasm—because you’d love that, wouldn’t you? God, you would.

You stir against him with a little sigh and rub your cheek against his chest, murmuring something soft and sleep-drunk that sounds like his name.

Joaquin melts.

Totally and completely.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Closes his eyes.

And smiles.

[crumbledcastle28]

howdy! i’m not sure if you’re taking requests or not so feel free to ignore this if not:)

but if you areeeee i was wondering if you’d write something for joaquin torres x roommate!reader where after his injury in cabnw, he’s super horny but it hurts his arm to jerk off:( so ofc reader notices how moody he is from being so pent up and he begs them to help him when confronted??

no big deal if not! love your writing:3

notes: zoo wee mama of courseee. i love this... so hot. + thank u angel <33 mwah

warnings: 18+ smut, handjob, pent up and horny, mentions of humping etc, sub!joaquín / dom!reader, no anatomy mentioned so gender neutral!reader

wc: 2.8k

—

Joaquín Torres is in agony. Not in that casual, exaggerated way people toss the word around. This is actual, bone-deep, soul-crushing fucking torture.

The ceiling fan spins lazily above him, stirring the humid air in his room just enough to make him sweat more. His sheets stick to his back, damp and wrinkled from his constant tossing. Every breath feels heavier than the last, heat coiling low in his gut, and his good hand—his only functional hand—lies clenched in a tight fist on his bare stomach. He’s hard again. Of course he is. Like clockwork. Same time every night, same pulsing, unbearable ache, same half-assed attempt to get himself off that ends in a sharp curse and a sore fucking arm.

He swallows hard, dragging his palm slowly across his chest, wincing when the heel of it grazes the edge of the bandage on his shoulder. The pain that flares is sharp, electric, cutting straight through his ribs. Not enough to stop him—he's too horny to give up like that. Just enough to make him grit his teeth and hiss out a breath that trembles with frustration.

His jaw clenches, a frustrated groan spilling past his lips. "Come on."

He’s tried everything. Warmed lube, different positions, a pillow between his thighs like some horny high schooler. He’s rubbed against the mattress until his hips ached. Even tried old porn from his saved folder. Videos that used to get him off in under five minutes back when he was running missions and too wound up from adrenaline to sleep. Hell, this morning he leaned over the edge of the tub in the shower, one arm braced against the tiles, showerhead angled just right, steam curling off his skin. He was panting, desperate, leaking, nearly sobbing with how badly he wanted it.

But it never fucking works. He’s too tense. Too slow. Can’t get the rhythm right. His shoulder screams every time he twists too far or jerks too fast. He ends up sweaty, sore, and even more frustrated than when he started. And now it's you. Always you.

He sees you every time he closes his eyes. You, in those little sleep shorts that barely cover your ass, padding around the apartment like you don’t know what you're doing to him. The way your hand wraps around a glass of water at night. And in his head, you're touching him instead. Fingertips wrapped around his cock, teasing the head while he groans into your shoulder. Watching him. Enjoying watching him come undone.

It’s sick. Twisted. You're his roommate, for fuck’s sake. You probably think he’s just tired. Just cranky from being laid up, his body healing slower than he wants. You probably don’t realise he's one sleepless night away from crawling down the hall and begging you to touch him. On his knees. Forehead pressed to your doorframe. God, he’s hard just thinking about it.

He lets out a strangled, guttural sound, rolling onto his side, hips grinding against the mattress out of pure instinct. It doesn’t help. Just teases him. His cock is leaking, slick pooling on his stomach, his abs tensing with every twitch. He strokes once— a slow drag of his fist, tight grip—but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He has to bite back a moan. Get it the fuck together, Torres.

All he can think about is how your voice would sound, low and amused, just a cruel little taunt:

"Is this what you’ve been hiding, Torres? Can’t even jerk off like a big boy?"

He would fucking die if you said that to him. He’d cum untouched.

He squeezes his cock harder with his good arm, thumb brushing the tip. A moan slips out before he can think to stop it. It's loud. Too loud. Joaquin freezes, breath stuck in his throat.

Fuckfuckfuck. Did you hear that?

Did you already hear the others this week?

Maybe... maybe you'd come in. See him like this, all writhing and desperate. Take pity on him and climb into bed to help him out. Or maybe you'd laugh. Tell him to shut up and go to sleep like a normal person. He'll survive a few weeks of not being able to jerk off, right?

No. No, he can’t. His balls ache. His head is foggy. He’s so turned on he’s sweating. He’d do anything for your hand wrapped around him. Anything to cum. Anything to stop feeling this fucking full all the time. He strokes again, slower this time, trying to imagine it's your hand, your mouth, your voice whispering filth in his ear. And then—

Pain. Blinding, white-hot, lancing through his shoulder. He chokes on a gasp and rolls onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Yeah. No orgasm tonight.

Just sweat, agony and a whole lot of built up tension.

—

It takes until around week two for you to notice.

It's subtle enough at first, the kind of shift that would be easy to ignore if you didn’t know Joaquin as well as you do. He’s usually warm, bright, quick with a joke even when he’s in pain. But now, that energy’s dimmed. Not groggy like when the meds first kicked in, but dull. When you ask if he wants help changing his sling, his response is clipped, borderline irritated. A tight little "I’ve got it." No eye contact. Just stiff shoulders and a clenched jaw. You let it go. Everyone gets moody when they’re healing, right?

But then it keeps happening.

At dinner, he barely picks at his food, eyes glued to his phone and disinterested in conversation. You try to tease him about his sad little portion of rice. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Just shrugs and mutters something under his breath that you can't even pick up. When he finally gets up, he mumbles a flat "goodnight," and closes his bedroom door a little too hard behind him.

Something’s off. More than just pain meds or boredom.

You let it slide for a while. But by the end of that second week, when you're curled up in bed with a book and a fan to combat the sticky heat, you hear it.

It's soft. Barely there. A noise. Like a grunt. Pained, but not quite injured pain. Frustrated.

You freeze, waiting. A few seconds pass.

Then another sound. This one is sharp, short. Half a growl. Half a groan. Your eyes go wide and—

Oh. It clicks. He's trying. And it's not working.

Everything seems to fall into place at once: the moodiness, the tightness in his posture, the way he's always shifting in his seat like he's constantly uncomfortable. Of course. He can't jerk off. Not properly. Not without messing up his injuries any further or risking a tear in his stitches. And with how wound-up he probably is after being grounded for weeks, too sore to move, too proud to ask for help...

Yeah. No wonder he's spiralling. Poor guy’s been stuck in his room every night with nothing but a needy body and a hand he can’t use.

You think about it more than you should after that. The image is too easy to summon. Joaquín in his bed, sweaty and flushed, grinding into the mattress like it’ll give him relief, biting down groans so you don’t hear them. And failing, clearly.

The next evening, he’s on the sofa, laptop open in front of him, pretending to be absorbed in something on-screen. But his eyes flick toward the door too often. His jaw clenches tight. His good hand is resting on his thigh, curled into a fist like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower. You sit beside him, watching plaintively with your your legs curled under yourself, angled just slightly toward him. His shoulder stiffens, but he doesn’t look away from the screen.

"Hey," you prompt gently after a while. "You good?"

He exhales through his nose. "Yeah." What a fucking liar.

You narrow your eyes. "You’ve been acting like Sam told you he wants his suit back."

That gets a soft, reluctant laugh, the tiniest upward pull of his lips... but it fades fast. His fingers tap against the keyboard for a second, then he shuts the laptop and stares at the flat top of it. He chews the inside of his cheek. Doesn’t meet your gaze.

"...It’s stupid," he mutters, in that Joaquín way of his that means he really wants to tell you but he's too embarrassed to do so without a little push.

"Then say it anyway," you offer, feigning patience instead of rolling your eyes. "Maybe it’s not."

He hesitates, shoulders tense, the silence thick between you. Then, barely louder than a breath: "I’m so fucking horny I want to die."

You blink, pulse skipping. That was more upfront than you were expecting. He immediately buries his face in one hand like he regrets saying anything at all. Or even leaving his room until this crisis is over at all. "I can’t do anything. My arms are both fucked, and I’m going insane. I’m climbing the walls. I—fuck—I didn’t think it would get this bad."

You stay quiet, processing slowly, because your brain is doing something extremely unhelpful—flashing images you really shouldn’t be entertaining about your roommate. The flush on his neck, the way his hips lift off the couch slightly like he can’t even sit still anymore. That low, wrecked sound you heard through the wall last night when he couldn't find relief.

Your thighs press together instinctively. Shit. You're both fucked up.

"Why didn’t you just tell me?" You probe, keeping your voice as even as you can manage. You're far from calm inside.

He lifts his head, eyes tired and glassy. He looks so pathetic you almost pity him. "Because what the fuck was I supposed to say? 'Hey, roomie, can you give me a hand because I’m one more bad night away from humping a couch cushion like a hormonal teenager?'" He doesn't mention that he's already tried that and failed.

You snort. Can’t help it. He watches you with a look that’s full of tension and shame and raw, unfiltered want. "I’m not trying to be gross. I’m just—I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I didn’t mean to, I swear. But then I imagined you walking in, catching me, and... I couldn’t stop."

You feel your breath catch. And then, softly, you prompt, "... So ask."

His brows furrow. "What?"

You lean in without breaking eye contact. Your voice drops. "Ask me. If you want help that bad."

His lips part, stunned silent. For the first time in days, he looks at you—really looks. The sarcasm is gone. No jokes. No charm. Just wide eyes and something close to disbelief.

"…Please," he whispers after a moment, like the word’s been waiting to fall out of him. Maybe it has. His voice is raw, desperate, cracking around the pleas that spill out of his cracked lips. "Please. I need you so bad. I can’t—I just need something. Just need to feel you."

There's no need to waste time after that. You straddle his thighs slowly, deliberately, palms braced on his chest as you settle into his lap. He’s warm and trembling under you, his breath already stuttering. He's far from the confident man that usually roams the apartment in low-hanging sweatpants and grins at you with sparkling eyes over breakfast.

Your hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats. He lifts his hips for you without needing to be told—obedient, eager, almost desperate. You tug them down just enough, fabric catching for a second on his thighs before freeing him. No boxers, apparently. The friction had been too much for him.

His cock springs up against his stomach—flushed dark red, leaking, already twitching with need. You didn't exactly expect him to be small (you've seen his imprint) but it's a different thing entirely to see it in front of you. You hum low in your throat, eyes dragging over him as the veins bulge under your heated gaze.

"You’re this worked up over nothing?"

"That's the problem."

Your fingers curl around him, and his reaction is instant. He jerks beneath you with a choked moan, hips twitching like he’s trying not to thrust. Your grip is firm but unhurried, dragging your hand up slow, from the thick base all the way to the slick head, then back down again.

"Fuck—" Joaquín gasps, head falling back against the cushions.

You click your tongue, feigning sympathy. "Pathetic," you murmur. "You couldn’t even ask like a big boy. You had to sulk in your room and hump your sheets like a virgin for two weeks."

That hits something sharp. His hips jump again, and you slap a hand to his thigh—not particularly hard, but enough to make him freeze.

"Stay still," you order.

"Okay," he gasps, eyelashes fluttering under your unexpected firmness. "Yes—fuck, I’m sorry."

His voice is wrecked already, all raw and hoarse like it’s been clawed out of him. You stroke him again, a little faster now, adding a twist of your wrist at the top, thumb pressing into the tender spot just under the head. Precum spills over your hand, and he twitches again, biting his lip so hard it’s gone bloodless.

You lean over him, letting your breath ghost across his heated cheek. "How long’s it been, Torres?"

“Like, two weeks," he groans. "Maybe more. I—I don’t even fucking know anymore. Counting makes it worse."

Your smile is slow and sweet and god it goes straight to his dick. "Poor thing. All backed up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

His abs twitch when you taunt him, hands gripping the sofa like he’s holding on for dear life. You press your lips to the shell of his ear as you stroke him, voice low and sultry. "You gonna cum for me, or am I gonna have to edge you all night? Bet you'd like that. Bet you've been getting off on how pent up you are."

He gives a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. His thighs are shaking under you, whole body taut and thrumming as your firm hand pushes him closer and closer towards his climax.

"Please," he pants. "Don’t stop. Don’t stop, hnnghhh, I’m—shit—I’m so close, ah—"

You speed up, stroking his length fast and slick, your fist gliding wetly from base to tip, then down again in a relentless rhythm that has him seeing stars. Your other hand braces on his hip to keep him grounded, even as he bucks into your fist, chasing his release. His body arches, spine bowing, neck exposed and glistening with sweat. When his mouth falls open, no real sound comes out. Just gasps, high and sharp, like his lungs can’t keep up with the onslaught of pleasure.

"Come for me," you whisper, right against his lips. Just roommates his fucking ass. "Be a good boy and make a mess, Joaquín."

That’s all it takes. He absolutely fucking breaks.

"Ohmygod, I'm— ohhnghh—"

His whole body locks up as he spills hot over your fist, groaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers. His abs contract hard, cock pulsing again and again as thick stripes of white paint his stomach, your fingers, the waistband of his grey sweats. You stroke him through it, gentler now, milking every last spurt while he trembles and shakes under your hands.

When it becomes too much for his spent cock to handle, he whines out a broken, breathless sound, and bats at your wrist weakly. "Too much," he gasps, voice shattered. "Fuck. Fuck, that was—”

“Yeah,” you murmur, wiping your hand on the edge of his waistband to clean the sticky mess. As tempted as you are to bring your fingers up to your mouth, that feels like too much of a boundary to cross. "I know."

You lean back to take him in in all his exhausted glory. He’s wrecked—flushed, sweaty, breathing like he just ran ten miles. His curls are damp against his forehead, lips red from biting down, eyes glassy and barely able to focus on you like he's still on morphine and not just because he's had the greatest orgasm of his life from just a measly handjob.

You run your fingers through his sweat-mussed curls, slow and soothing, letting him come down from it. "You okay?"

He nods (barely). "'M perfect," he mumbles. "Might be dead. Don’t care."

A huff of amusement escapes you. There's the Joaquín you know. And then he sighs, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes as some form of coherency comes back over him. A few pants later and he's sighing out a:

"You’re in so much trouble when I can use my hands again."

One can only dream.

—

taglist: @lvve-talks @won-every-lottery @pittsick @voidsuites @artaussi @ashdaidiot @florkt @matchpointfaist @hangels @zweiism @lacelottie @gracelynnx @bluestrd @freakyflora @pr3ttylilcup1d @chaosundcoffee @cestdommage — (join here)

[crumbledcastle28]

joaquin torres is such an EATER. look at the jawline, the cheeky smile, the big beautiful eyes. UGHHH NEED HIM BETWEEN MY THIGHS

yeahhhhh joaquín eater jaw… yum

he’s SUCH a giver. that shit is like therapy to him. especially after a long mission (and having to deal with sam shooting down every one of his jokes) he just wants to nestle himself between your thighs and devote himself to worshipping your pretty pussy. and god is his tongue skilled.

sometimes it’s messy and lazy. just laving up everything that spills out of you, or lifting his head and smirking cheekily up at you as you watch him spit, saliva dripping from his tongue down to your cunt. other times he’s real methodical about it. alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue against your entrance and suckling on your clit like it’ll bring him salvation. he’s got that shit down to a science—he knows how to bring you right to the edge and then ease up on the suction just before you get there. it’s all about prolonging your (and his) pleasure.

“don’t want this to be over too fast, mami.” he flashes a pearly-toothed smile, chin shining with your slick arousal before he dives right in again to soothe your complaints by tongue-fucking you until you see stars. big nose nudging your swollen clit, hands holding your legs spread open when you try to squirm away from the onslaught of sensations.

loves to hear you cry out his name again and again; he’s not doing right if your voice isn’t breaking on the second syllable. such a sucker for eye contact when he’s bringing you pleasure. he thrives off the way your jaw slackens and your eyes grow all heavy, fisting his hair and trying to draw him into you. talks you through it the entire time, even if his words are slurred praises into your pussy like “god baby, you taste so fucking good, i could do this forever” or “you close for me? my pretty girl gonna cum for me?”

definitely the kind of guy to eat you through two orgasms before he even considers fucking you and getting himself off. he’d spend the rest of his life between your thighs if it was up to him.

joaquín torres oral fixation truthers rise up ✊

[crumbledcastle28]

Dear. God. I need him. It’s not even funny anymore.

Might I request Joaquin x reader, neighbor au, with mutual pining and idiots in love 😈

Feels like I’m ordering a dinner at a fancy restaurant rn typing this out

The Boy Next Door

joaquin torres x reader; neighbor au; 18+; mdni; joaquin is a service top fr; 7k words

Part 2 (coming soon)

It’s not even noon and you’ve already lost the plot of your day.

One minute, you’re curled on your couch in a stained t-shirt with a mug of lukewarm coffee and the wild hope that your vibrator finally arrived. The next, you’re face to face with your new neighbor—who looks like he walked off a rom-com set specifically designed to destroy you—holding a very… suggestively shaped brown box with your name on it.

You blink.

He grins.

You forget English.

“Think this one belongs to you,” he says, casual as hell, holding the package up in one hand like it weighs nothing. The shipping label flashes your name and unit number. He’s wearing a white tank top that might’ve been snug once, but is now clinging to his chest like it’s clinging to life. Loose basketball shorts hang off his hips. There’s a single bead of sweat gliding down the side of his throat, catching on a little mole just above his collarbone.

You’re going to die here.

“Oh,” you manage, brilliant and breathy. “Yeah. That’s mine.”

His smile gets wider. “Didn’t peek. Promise.”

Your soul evaporates.

He knows.

He one-hundred-percent knows what’s in the box. Or at the very least, he’s imagining. And now you’re standing here like a gremlin in mismatched socks and a sleep shirt with “I Love Bread” on the front while Joaquin Torres—your neighbor of exactly three days—holds your box of sins with a crooked smile and a twinkle in his stupidly pretty eyes.

You clear your throat and pretend you’re not melting into a fine dust of shame. “Thanks for bringing it over. I was, um… waiting for it.”

“I bet,” he says.

You make a noise in your throat—something between a wheeze and a dying bird—and reach for the box with what you hope is a totally normal, adult human level of grace.

Instead, your hand brushes his as you take it.

Skin to skin.

Warm, calloused fingers. Dry, solid palm. He doesn’t jerk away. Doesn’t even flinch.

You, meanwhile, see your whole life flash before your eyes—wedding photos, Sunday morning coffee, matching toothbrushes, the whole damn montage—before you lock it down and laugh. Too loud. Too fake. “Heh. Haha. You know how online shopping is. Always… full of surprises.”

He leans a shoulder against your doorframe like he has all the time in the world. “You’re not wrong. My last order was a burrito blanket and a gallon of muscle rub.”

You blink. “A… burrito blanket?”

“Yeah, you know, one of those round fleece things that makes you look like a wrap when you roll yourself up in it.”

“That’s either adorable or psychotic.”

“I prefer ‘warm and cozy with a twist of self-awareness.’” He shoots you a wink. “I’m Joaquin, by the way.”

You already know that.

You know because the leasing office mentioned he’d just moved in. You know because you’ve absolutely looked at the mailbox directory and burned his name into your brain like a lunatic. You know because you heard him whistling in the hallway yesterday and nearly dropped your groceries because of course his voice is deep and musical and cheerful in a way that no man should be when it’s only 8 a.m. and he’s walking around in grey sweatpants.

Still, you smile. Pretend you don’t already know. “Nice to meet you, Joaquin. I’m—”

“I know,” he says, gently, and your lungs leave the chat.

You blink. “You… do?”

He nods toward the package still in your hands. “Your name’s right there.”

Oh.

Right.

The label.

You consider launching yourself into the sun. “Right. That makes sense.”

A pause. He looks at you for a beat too long. Like he’s trying to place you. Or memorize you. Or maybe just enjoying how hard you’re malfunctioning under his gaze.

“Anyway,” he finally says, pushing off the doorframe, “figured I’d bring it over before you came knocking. Not that I would’ve minded.”

You don’t even have a response for that. Just a very real and present need to lie down in a cool, dark place and scream into a pillow for several hours.

Instead, you nod. “Appreciate it. Really.”

“Anytime, neighbor.” He turns to go, pausing halfway down the hall to glance back at you over his shoulder. “Oh, and if it ever shows up at my door again, I might not be able to resist opening it.”

He winks.

WINKS.

Then disappears into his apartment like he didn’t just destroy your entire nervous system.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stand frozen, still clutching the box of betrayal like it might explode, while your brain plays nothing but static and distant screaming.

You’re in trouble.

So, so much trouble.

And you haven’t even opened the box yet.

-

The thing about being neighborly—actually neighborly—is that it’s supposed to be selfless. Thoughtful. You help when help is needed, no ulterior motives. Just one good person looking out for another.

That’s what Joaquin tells himself when he knocks on your door to help with the broken kitchen drawer.

Totally selfless.

Totally normal.

Totally not because you’d poked your head out into the hallway in those little shorts and that oversized hoodie yesterday morning, eyes bleary and annoyed, muttering something about how your drawer keeps getting stuck and it’s “like, attacking you on principle.”

He offered to come take a look.

You smiled—really smiled—like he’d just handed you a golden ticket.

He was fucked from that moment on.

Now he’s here, kneeling on your kitchen floor with his head practically inside the cabinet, trying to will his brain to focus on the crooked metal track and not on the way your laugh sounds from the other room.

“Let me guess,” you call, voice teasing. “The problem is I’m too strong and the drawer couldn’t handle me.”

He chuckles under his breath, using it as cover for the fact that he’s grinning like an idiot. “Exactly. Drawer’s scared of you. Honestly, I’m a little scared of you.”

“You should be. I have a tiny bat I keep under my bed. It’s pink and glittery but still counts as a weapon.”

Joaquin leans back, twisting his torso to peer up at you over the edge of the counter. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

You’re leaning on the doorway, arms crossed, a glass of lemonade in hand. You hand him one without a word.

He takes it.

Drinks.

Forgets how to breathe when you lick sugar off your thumb and smirk like it’s no big deal. Like you’re not actively melting his bones through the sheer power of casual intimacy.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not even trying, he thinks. And I’m already a fucking puddle.

“I Googled how to fix it,” you say as he wipes his hands on the towel you gave him. “But then I remembered I’m a disaster with tools and also I like when someone else does things for me.”

You say it like a joke, light and playful.

He hears the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears anyway.

“Dangerous thing to admit,” he mutters, crouched low again as he adjusts the drawer’s alignment. “Some guys might take that as an invitation.”

“Only if I trust them with a screwdriver.”

He glances up again. You’re sipping from your glass, watching him with a little tilt to your head like you’re studying him.

Like you see him.

Joaquin swallows hard and forces himself back to the task.

Focus.

Fix the drawer.

Don’t get weird.

Don’t think about how good her apartment smells. Don’t think about her legs. Don’t think about her laugh echoing through your kitchen this morning when you made that stupid burrito blanket joke. Don’t think about the fucking box you returned to her a few days ago, or how flustered she got, or how she definitely hasn’t opened it yet because she still blushes when she looks you in the eye.

The drawer slides back into place with a satisfying click.

“There we go,” he says, a little too proud of himself. “You are now the proud owner of a functional kitchen drawer.”

You clap. Clap.

Joaquin feels his whole chest warm.

“Look at you,” you tease. “Hero of hardware. You want a medal?”

He shrugs, smug. “I’ll settle for a sandwich.”

You gasp. “You show up, fix my drawer, flirt outrageously, and then demand a sandwich? You’re unhinged.”

He leans back on his heels and smiles up at you, letting it linger this time. “You think I was flirting?”

You hesitate.

Just a beat.

Then shrug, all fake-nonchalance. “Weren’t you?”

He licks his bottom lip and stands slowly, feeling the hum of tension in the air like static, like something waiting to break.

“I might’ve been,” he says. “Little bit.”

You roll your eyes but your smile betrays you.

He lets his gaze drift—just a second too long—before yanking it back up to your face. He should leave. This is the part where he should say, “Glad to help,” and walk his dumb ass back to his apartment like a man with self-control.

But instead—

“You know,” he says softly, “your hair smells really good.”

You freeze.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

He meant to think that, not say it.

You blink at him, glass paused halfway to your lips. “Did you just say—?”

“Nope,” he blurts, stepping back like the kitchen is on fire. “Didn’t. You imagined it. Drawer’s fixed. Gotta go. See you later.”

You’re laughing before he even makes it to the door, and it follows him into the hallway like a string tied to his ribs, tugging, tugging, tugging.

Back in his own apartment, he leans against the closed door and sighs hard into the silence.

He’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

And the worst part?

You smiled at him.

Like that.

Like it meant something.

And now he has to pretend to be a normal person every time he sees you in the hall.

God help him.

-

The universe has jokes.

Like, really specific jokes designed to make you spiral. You just didn’t think it’d use laundry as its punchline.

You’re halfway through your Sunday when you realize—shit—you left your clothes in the dryer. Three hours ago.

You race down to the building’s laundry room in house slippers and a hoodie, praying no one’s messed with it.

You turn the corner. Freeze.

There it is: your laundry basket. On the folding table.

Folded.

Neat little stacks of shirts. Paired socks. Rolled pajama pants. And, dead center, like the cherry on top of your public humiliation sundae: your favorite pair of lacy, very not modest underwear. Folded like they belong in a Victoria’s Secret window.

There’s a post-it note on top.

Your name in all-caps. Underlined. Followed by:

“Figured I’d help out. —J.”

You die.

You die.

You scoop everything into the basket with shaking hands, cheeks hot enough to cook an egg on. The fact that he even touched your underwear would be enough—but he folded it. With care. Like he was trying not to disrespect it.

Your brain? Gone. Short-circuited by the image of Joaquin Torres, shirtless (as he always seems to be), standing here and carefully folding your panties with reverence.

You can’t not picture his hands.

Big, warm hands. Calloused, careful. The same hands that brushed yours on the box-that-shall-not-be-named. The same hands that fixed your drawer.

And now?

They’ve handled your underwear.

You groan. Out loud.

You’ve got to get a grip. Or a lockbox. Or a secret burner dryer that exists in a parallel universe where Joaquin doesn’t exist.

You flee the laundry room with your dignity in shreds.

Only to almost run directly into him at the top of the stairs.

Shirtless.

Of course.

He blinks at the sight of you, laundry clutched to your chest like contraband. Then smiles.

“Hey, neighbor.”

You hate how warm that makes you feel. Like you’re the sun he’s orbiting around.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying not to meet his eyes. “For… you know. The folding.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was underwear.”

“Nice ones,” he says, grinning. “I took my time.”

You make a sound not found in the human vocal register, spin on your heel, and escape into your apartment like your life depends on it.

-

The hallway lights flickered as the thunder rolled in.

Joaquin paused on the way to his door, eyes skimming the darkening sky outside the window at the end of the hall. Thick gray clouds, heavy with threat. Wind curling around the building in low howls.

He liked storms. Always had.

Something about the sound. The weight of it. The way it made everything else fall quiet.

He reached his door, keys halfway in the lock, when your door opened.

You stepped out like you hadn’t meant to. Like you almost turned back.

You wore a hoodie again—too big, sleeves swallowed your hands—and your eyes flicked down the hall before they landed on him.

“Hey,” you said, voice easy. Too easy. Like you hadn’t just hesitated in the doorway for five full seconds before moving.

“Hey, neighbor.” He gave you a grin, warm and instinctive. “Braving the elements?”

You gave a soft laugh, pulling your sleeves down over your fingers. “Just checking the sky. Got a little… loud in there.”

“You okay?”

You nodded, then hesitated. Your weight shifted from one foot to the other.

He watched the small things—the way you chewed your bottom lip, the way you didn’t meet his eyes right away.

Then, finally, you confess. “I’m not great with storms.”

There it was.

Simple. Honest.

No fanfare.

His chest tugged in a way he wasn’t expecting. Something about the way you said it—not dramatic, not coy. Just true. Quiet.

Joaquin turned to face you fully. “That a childhood thing or a ‘just hate the thunder’ kind of thing?”

You gave a half-smile. “Childhood. Used to lose power all the time when I was a kid. Dark house, howling wind, nobody home yet…” You shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Not my favorite vibe.”

He didn’t say anything for a second.

Then—softly, but without hesitation, he says, “You don’t have to be alone, you know.”

Your brows lifted just slightly.

“If it gets bad,” he added, tone easy, like he wasn’t already mentally fluffing the couch cushions and rearranging his whole night, “you can come over.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Got candles. Popcorn. Blanket that makes me look like a burrito. Full survival setup.”

You laughed—really laughed, this time—and God, that sound never got old.

“You sure?” you asked.

Joaquin nodded. “Absolutely. I mean, unless you hate warm places and good company.”

You rolled your eyes. “Tough sell.”

“Come by if it gets loud,” he said, unlocking his door. “Or even if it doesn’t.”

Another flicker of light overhead. The wind hit the building with a soft groan.

You lingered in the hall a second longer than you needed to.

And then you smiled—soft, grateful—and slipped back inside your apartment with a quiet, “Thanks, Joaquin.”

He stood outside his door a little longer than he needed to.

Maybe hoping you’d knock.

Maybe hoping the storm rolled in a little harder.

Maybe hoping you trusted him enough to come back.

-

The rain started slow.

Just soft percussion against the windowpanes, nothing serious. Joaquin barely glanced up from the popcorn he was burning. Then came the thunder — not a rumble this time, but a crack that shook the frame of the building. The hallway lights flickered. The oven beeped in protest.

He looked at the door.

Waited.

Tried not to hope.

Didn’t stop hoping.

-

He was halfway through an old episode of Great British Bake Off when you knocked.

One soft knock.

Then two.

He paused the show, ran a hand through his curls, and tried very, very hard to look like he hadn’t been listening for you for the past twenty minutes.

When he opened the door, you were standing there in an oversized hoodie, hair pulled back, sleeves tugged over your fists. You looked small. Cozy. A little uncertain.

“Hi,” you said, barely audible over the rain.

That was it. One word. And he was a goner.

“Come in,” he said quickly, stepping aside. “It’s getting bad out there.”

You slipped past him, hugging the hoodie tighter around your body, glancing around like you hadn’t already been in here once or twice. Like this meant something different.

It did.

He handed you a blanket. “I made popcorn. Burned half of it. Perfect ratio, really.”

You gave him a look. “How is burned popcorn the perfect ratio?”

“The good kernels taste better when you suffer first.”

You laughed. And that—God—that made him want to write it down somewhere. Archive it. He wanted to hear it again. Every day. On repeat. Forever.

-

You ended up on the couch beside him, blanket stretched over both of your laps. Not touching, but close. So close. Too close. Not close enough.

He hit play. You nestled in. Another thunderclap shook the glass.

Halfway through the episode, he looked over.

You were asleep.

Head tipped just slightly toward his shoulder. Breathing slow.

His heart? Gone. On the floor. Swept out with the rain.

He turned the volume down. Let the show play quietly while he watched the rise and fall of your chest.

You smelled like citrus and sleep. The storm outside roared, but inside everything was soft.

And suddenly, everything about this mattered.

The way you curled into the blanket like a cat. The way your fingers flexed just slightly in your sleep. The fact that you were here—with him—when you could’ve stayed safe on your own couch.

You came to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

If she asks me to stay, he thought, if she just shifts a little closer—

He wouldn’t be able to take it.

He watched the last five minutes of the episode with your head drifting slowly, slowly toward his shoulder.

And when your cheek finally touched it—barely, like a whisper—he didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat there like stone. Like heat. Like if he shifted even slightly, the moment might shatter.

And still, all he could think was:

I’m going to marry her. I’m going to marry the girl next door who sleeps through storms and makes fun of my popcorn.

And he was so screwed.

-

You woke up to him.

Not just near him. Not just next to him.

On him.

Your cheek was pressed against his shoulder, nose tucked into the soft fabric of his T-shirt. One of your knees was drawn up, leg barely brushing against his. His arm was slung along the back of the couch behind you—not quite touching, but there.

Warmth radiated from him. Familiar. Solid. Comforting in a way that made your chest ache a little.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His scent—clean skin, something herbal, something him—filled your lungs before you even opened your eyes.

And when you did…

His head was tilted back slightly against the couch, lips parted in sleep. A gentle crease between his brows, like he was dreaming something he didn’t want to forget.

You could’ve stayed like that forever.

Instead, your heart betrayed you. Started racing so hard you were positive he’d hear it.

Because you remembered—

You remembered his smile when he opened the door.

The way he held the blanket out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The way he turned the volume down when the thunder got louder.

The way he didn’t move when you started drifting toward him, even though you felt it, even in half-sleep.

You’d fallen asleep on him.

And he’d let you.

No—he’d stayed still.

You swallowed, slow and careful. Tried to back up just slightly—tried not to disturb the moment—but the shift made his shoulder move, and his arm dropped lower—closer.

His eyes opened.

Sleepy. Bleary. Warm.

They landed on you. Then softened.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice all gravel and heat. “You okay?”

You nodded, throat dry. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He shook his head, just once. “Don’t be.”

Your stomach flipped.

For a second, you both just stared at each other. Breathing. Not breathing.

And then he smiled. A lazy, post-storm, you’re-here smile that made your knees weak even though you were sitting down.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

He got up slowly, stretching his arms behind his back. The hem of his shirt lifted just enough to tease a line of bare skin. You looked away—too fast. He caught it anyway.

He chuckled under his breath, heading for the kitchen. “Milk and sugar, right?”

You blinked. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything,” he said, casual. Like it didn’t wreck you a little.

You tucked your legs up on the couch and tried to breathe. Tried not to think about the fact that your skin still buzzed from where you touched him. Tried not to wonder what might’ve happened if you’d leaned in just a little more last night.

He came back a minute later with two mugs. Handed you yours like it belonged there.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” you murmured.

He gave you a look—gentle, lopsided.

“You can crash here anytime, sweetheart.”

Your heart flatlined.

You took a sip of coffee to hide your face. He watched you anyway.

The storm had passed.

But you weren’t sure you’d survive what came next.

-

A few months later, it started with the air conditioner.

Or rather, the death of it.

It sputtered sometime around 7:00 p.m. with an unsettling thunk, followed by an eerie mechanical wheeze and one final, dramatic clunk. You stood in the middle of your apartment with sweat slicking the back of your neck and stared at the lifeless unit like it had betrayed you personally.

“Cool,” you muttered. “Perfect. Love that.”

Outside, it was pushing ninety. Inside, it felt like you were being slow-roasted.

You tried opening a window. Nothing but hot, sticky air drifted in.

You tried sitting on the floor, but even the hardwood radiated heat.

So, you did what any rational, heat-stricken, barely-holding-it-together person would do.

You texted him.

hey neighbor do you know anything about AC units that suddenly decide to die and also possibly catch fire and kill their owner in the night

The typing dots appeared almost immediately.

mine’s fine lol you want to come over and cool off? i promise to keep the shirt on this time. maybe.

You stared at the screen, sweat dripping down your spine.

You:

tempted to say yes just to see if you’re bluffing

Him:

i’m not. shirt’s already off. AC’s at 72. i have popsicles. come over, hermosa.

That last word did something to you.

Something dangerous.

-

You knocked once before slipping into his apartment with a weak little “Hey” and a fan already blowing your hair back.

He was shirtless. Of course.

Loose shorts. Bare feet. Popsicle in hand, purple stain on his thumb.

“Jesus,” you said. “You really weren’t lying.”

He looked you up and down—his gaze catching on the way your tank top clung to your skin, the way your shorts hugged your hips—and grinned. “Neither were you.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “I’m here to survive, not flirt.”

“Why not both?”

You threw your hoodie at him. He caught it with a laugh.

It was easy after that. Too easy.

You curled up on opposite ends of the couch, arguing over what to watch until you landed on some ridiculous reality dating show that neither of you were actually watching. Your legs ended up tangled by accident. You shared a popsicle. You made fun of each other. He teased you about your “storm nap.” You kicked his shin. He poked your ankle with his toe.

Somewhere around midnight, you yawned hard enough to crack your jaw.

He glanced over. “You can crash here.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got one bed, but it’s king-sized. We’re adults. I promise not to do anything unless you ask nicely.”

You gave him a look. “What if I ask rudely?”

He nearly choked on his water.

“You’re trying to kill me mi cielito,” he muttered.

You smiled. But underneath it, your heart pounded.

Because the idea of sharing a bed with him—him—was not neutral. It wasn’t casual. It was gasoline to the match of whatever had been building between you for weeks.

Still, you stood.

“Lead the way, Torres.”

-

The bedroom was cooler, dimly lit, and smelled like cedar and clean laundry.

You padded in on bare feet, already flushed from the heat and from him—Joaquin, half-shadowed in the doorway, leaning on the frame like he belonged there. He handed you a T-shirt without a word. It was soft and worn, sun-bleached at the collar, and when you pressed it to your chest, it smelled like him. Not cologne. Not detergent.

Him.

Warm skin and fresh air and something clean, something steady.

“I’ll turn around,” he murmured, voice a little husky now that it was just the two of you, tucked away from the world.

And he did.

Because of course he did.

He was like that—too good. And you hated how much you liked that about him.

You peeled off your tank top, slipping into the shirt with shaking fingers, the hem brushing your bare thighs. It was so big it felt like a blanket, like safety.

You swallowed and slid into his bed.

The sheets were cool. The pillow smelled like his hair.

He joined you a moment later. No fanfare. No expectation. Just quiet breath and shifting fabric as he settled beside you—close enough to feel, far enough to leave space.

Five minutes.

You lay there in the dark for five eternally long minutes. Not touching. Pretending your skin wasn’t vibrating with tension. Pretending you weren’t mentally tracing the line of his back beneath the blanket. Pretending you weren’t counting each inhale.

Until you rolled.

Just slightly.

Just enough for your thigh to brush his.

He stilled.

“You awake?” you whispered, heart rabbiting in your chest.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet. “Are you?”

You turned your head. The moonlight caught the curve of his jaw, the soft curl of hair at his temple. His eyes found yours in the dark.

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” you asked, barely a breath. Not coy. Not playful.

Just honest.

He looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying to decide if he was dreaming.

Then, slowly: “Because if I start… I don’t know if I’ll stop.”

Your breath caught.

And then—

“Try me.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Anticipation pressed between your ribs like gravity. And then—

His hand moved.

Slow, steady. A palm sliding across the sheets, finding the curve of your hip through the borrowed fabric. His thumb traced a lazy circle there, anchoring you in place.

His lips were on you a heartbeat later. Warm. Firm. Focused. There was no fumbling. No hesitation. Just a kiss that said he’d wanted this for a long, long time and he was going to make it count.

You kissed him back like you were starving. Like he was yours. Like you’d die if he stopped.

He shifted, one arm braced beside your head, and rolled you beneath him without breaking the kiss.

Your back hit the mattress and you gasped against his mouth, knees parting instinctively. His body hovered over yours, not quite touching, like he was giving you a choice.

You curled your fingers in the hem of his shirt.

He chuckled softly into your mouth. “Want this off, nena?” he teased.

You nodded, tugging. “Please.”

He sat back on his knees and peeled it off, tossing it aside. Moonlight poured in across his chest—broad, golden, stupidly beautiful.

You reached up, ran your hand across the warm skin of his ribs, and smiled. “Show-off.”

“Only for you,” he said, wicked grin flashing as he dipped to kiss you again. “And maybe a little for the moon.”

You laughed against his mouth—and then gasped when his hand slid under the oversized shirt you wore, skimming bare skin with reverent fingertips.

“God,” he murmured, mouth against your jaw. “Been thinking about this since the moment I saw you.”

“Same,” you admitted, arching into his palm as it found your waist. “You have no idea.”

He kissed you deeper. Slower.

Like he meant it. Like this wasn’t just heat or tension or proximity—it was real.

And when he slid his hand higher, cupping your breast through the soft fabric, he groaned into your mouth. “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”

You shook your head. “It’s hot.”

“Mierda,” he whispered, then nuzzled against your cheek like it physically hurt him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ll die happy.”

He laughed—and then his mouth was on your neck, kissing lower, teeth grazing your collarbone before he lifted the shirt just high enough to kiss between your breasts.

“I want to take my time,” he said, lips brushing the top of your breast. “Make you feel good. Really good.”

You whimpered. “Joaquin…”

He grinned against your skin. “Say it again.”

“Joaquin.”

He kissed your stomach. “God, I like the way you say my name. Like you need me.”

“I do.”

His breath caught. Hands stilled on your thighs.

And then he moved lower, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of your shorts.

You looked down at him, trembling.

“Let me make you feel good, mi vida,” he said, voice low and sweet and serious. “Let me show you how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your answer came in the form of a whispered yes and the way your hips lifted for him without thinking.

Your shorts were halfway down your thighs before you even realized he’d moved.

His hands worked them off with quiet focus, fingertips grazing your skin like he was committing it to memory. You lifted your hips for him, breath shaking, heart in your throat. The T-shirt you wore—his T-shirt—fell like a tent around you, soft and oversized, barely covering anything now.

Joaquin knelt between your legs, shirtless, golden skin aglow in the low light, hands curled gently around your thighs like he was centering himself.

“Just wanna look at you for a second,” he murmured.

You flushed, shifting slightly.

He caught your knee with one hand. Squeezed.

“Don’t hide,” he said softly. “Por favor, nena. I’ve been dying to see you like this.”

Like this—laid out in front of him, bare thighs parted, flushed cheeks and a trembling breath, your core aching and slick and fully his.

You bit your lip, hips twitching when his thumbs grazed the crease of your thighs.

“So sensitive already,” he murmured, smiling. “Did I do that?”

You nodded.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your knee.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Another kiss. Closer now.

Then another.

And another.

Slow, reverent, torturous.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your breath catching with every inch he traveled down your leg.

When he finally reached the place you wanted him most, he paused—hovered. Nose barely brushing where you were soaked and open for him.

You whimpered.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispered.

“I want it,” you gasped. “Please, Joaquin—”

That was all it took.

He dove in like a man starved.

His tongue was soft and warm, wide and slow, licking a steady stripe up your center. He groaned into you, the sound deep and needy, like you tasted like relief.

You cried out, hips bucking.

He gripped your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed, and pressed his mouth harder against you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing your clit before dragging his tongue in slow, deliberate circles. “So sweet.”

You clutched at the sheets, at his hair, at anything you could reach. Every flick of his tongue sent sparks up your spine. Every kiss to your inner thigh made you sob a little more.

“Mi preciosa,” he murmured between licks. “You’re shaking for me already.”

“I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “It’s—God—it’s too much—”

“No,” he said gently, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it until your thighs trembled. “It’s not too much, baby. It’s exactly what you need.”

His voice—soothing, patient, sure—hit you almost harder than his mouth.

You whimpered again, tears prickling behind your eyes, thighs trying to close around his head.

He didn’t let you.

Instead, he groaned and buried his face deeper, lapping at your soaked folds, his grip bruising now, holding you open for him.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, mi vida.”

And then he sucked your clit between his lips—softly, then harder—just once.

You broke.

It hit you like a wave—sharp, blinding, hot.

Your whole body arched as your orgasm ripped through you. You cried out his name—his name—hips stuttering, thighs clenching around his head.

He didn’t stop.

Not right away.

He eased you through it, mouth moving slow now, gentler, pressing kisses to your center, to your thighs, to your trembling hips.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You did so good, hermosa.”

You whimpered again, too sensitive, too gone.

He kissed your inner thigh. Smiled up at you, lips shiny, hair tousled. “Still with me?”

You nodded. Barely.

He crawled up your body, gentle and unhurried, and kissed your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose.

And when he finally kissed your mouth—soft and slow and tasting like you—you moaned into it, hands fisting his curls, holding him there like you never wanted him to leave.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the second you smiled at me,” he whispered against your lips.

“I’m really glad you did.”

His grin was wicked. “You’ve got more in you, nena. I can feel it.”

Your breath hitched.

Your body was still twitching when he kissed you again—mouth warm, tongue gentle, nothing like the way he’d just wrecked you.

He kissed you like you were a secret.

A prayer.

And you let him. Clung to him. Wanted more even though your legs were trembling and your brain had melted somewhere around the second time he moaned into your cunt like it was the only thing that had ever tasted good.

His fingers brushed your waist, tracing soft lines beneath the hem of his shirt.

You were still wearing it.

Still bare beneath it.

He seemed to like that. A lot.

“You okay, bonita?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded, chest still rising in shallow little gasps.

He chuckled softly—fond, like he didn’t know what to do with how undone you were. “Didn’t mean to ruin you so fast.”

“You didn’t,” you breathed. “I’m just…”

“Wrecked?” he offered. “Boneless? Debating if you ever need to do laundry again or if I should just keep folding your panties for you?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re terrible.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You did.

God, you did.

You tilted your hips a little without meaning to—already aching again, already pulsing. Needy and open under him.

Joaquin noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. Then lower. Chin. Throat.

One of his hands slid up your thigh. Slow. Teasing. Gentle like he was saying hello.

Then his fingers skimmed over your still-sensitive folds.

You jolted.

“Shh, I know,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against your cheek. “Still tender. But she’s greedy, huh?”

You whimpered.

“She wants more?” he cooed, brushing his fingers lightly through your slick. “Already full of it, and still begging for my hands?”

You moaned, hips arching despite yourself.

“I knew you’d be like this,” he breathed. “Knew you’d open up so easy. Knew you’d fall apart for me.”

His fingers circled your clit—so softly you could hardly stand it. Teasing, barely-there touches that made you clench around nothing.

Your thighs twitched.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for.

He kissed your ear, voice suddenly rougher. Thicker.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to make you mine.”

You turned your head, breath catching. “Yeah?”

He nodded against your neck.

“Since the first time I saw you in the hall,” he said. “With that little sleep shirt and your bedhead and the box you didn’t want me to see.”

You let out a choked laugh. “You so peeked.”

“Didn’t need to.” He nipped your earlobe. “I just needed to see your face.”

He slipped a finger into you, slow and smooth, and you gasped, arching into it. He curled it just right.

You moaned—high and desperate.

“I thought about this,” he said. “Every fucking night.”

Another finger joined the first. Stretching you. Filling you.

“Thought about how warm you’d be. How tight.”

You whimpered, helpless under his hands.

He fucked you with his fingers like he meant it—slow but firm, his palm grinding gently against your clit while his mouth pressed hot, open kisses to your jaw.

“You like that?” he asked, voice low. “Like being opened up by me?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, yes—”

He curled his fingers again—harder this time—and you broke.

Again.

You came around his fingers with a shudder, your thighs locking around his wrist, your mouth open in a silent cry as you gripped his arm like you might fall off the bed otherwise.

Joaquin groaned as you clenched around him, watching your face like it was sacred.

“You’re mine now, linda,” he whispered, kissing your lips as your body trembled beneath him. “All fucking mine.”

You were still shaking when he kissed you again.

Soft, steady kisses—on your mouth, your cheeks, your throat—while his fingers slowly eased out of you, your slick still warm between them. He brought them to his mouth, licked them clean like it was a delicacy, and murmured something low and sinful in Spanish that made your entire body clench again.

“So sweet,” he whispered against your jaw.

You were boneless beneath him, half-blissed out, your thighs sticky and trembling, his shirt rucked up around your waist. The ceiling was spinning in that warm, perfect way, like you were floating. But even in the haze, you knew—

You weren’t done.

Not even close.

Your body was buzzing.

Still aching.

Still open.

Still wanting.

“Joaquin…” you breathed, your hand sliding over his shoulder, down his chest. He was so warm under your touch—muscle and heartbeat and breath.

He looked down at you, eyes dark.

“I need you,” you whispered. “Now.”

His jaw twitched.

“I’ve got you, linda,” he said, voice hoarse. “Just say it.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

He closed his eyes—just for a second. Like he had to physically brace himself against the weight of your words.

When he opened them again, his pupils were blown wide.

“Yeah?” he rasped, crawling up your body with slow, deliberate control. “You want it like that? After all that teasing, all that pretty begging, you still want more?”

“I want all of it,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He kissed you—hard, tongue slipping into your mouth, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it up around his hip. You felt the thick weight of him pressing against your folds now, hot and heavy and right there.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He lined himself up and paused, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You tell me if you need to stop,” he said. “I mean it.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to.”

He kissed you again, slow and deep this time. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other gripped your hip as he pushed inside—slowly, inch by inch, giving you time.

You gasped.

Your mouth fell open.

He was big. Thick. And so deep already you felt stretched beyond what you thought you could take.

“Mierda,” he groaned, voice shaking. “You feel—fuck—so tight around me. So perfect.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “Don’t stop,” you begged. “Please—Joaquin, don’t stop—”

He bottomed out with a soft, desperate grunt, his hips flush against yours.

You moaned. Loud and needy.

He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, inside you, breathing hard, staring down at you like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

His voice cracked.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered. “Every night. I wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe.”

You pulled him down into another kiss—messy and open-mouthed and so, so much.

Then he started to move.

Slow, grinding thrusts. Not chasing a rhythm—just feeling it. Pressing deeper every time. He dragged the tip of his cock over that spot inside you that made you see white.

“Mi vida,” he breathed, watching your face. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

You were gasping with every stroke, your body melting beneath him, slick and stretched and full.

“I can feel everything,” you sobbed. “You’re so deep—Joaquin—”

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Don’t close your eyes.”

You tried—God, you tried—but it was too much.

Too intimate.

Too good.

He slowed.

Pressed his forehead to yours again.

“Look at me, hermosa,” he murmured, voice shaking. “I want to see you when I make you mine.”

Your breath caught. Your heart shattered.

You opened your eyes.

And he thrust—

Deep, slow, filthy—

And you broke again.

You came with a sob, your legs trembling around him, your nails clawing at his back. Your walls pulsed around him in tight, wet spasms and he groaned, deep, his hips stuttering.

“Fuck—” he choked. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Inside,” you whispered.

His whole body jerked.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, dragged his mouth to yours.

“Come inside me.”

He kissed you hard—feral now, ragged—and then shoved in one last time, burying himself to the hilt.

You felt it. All of it.

Heat spilling inside you. Deep, thick, endless.

His body trembled above you as he groaned your name into your mouth like a prayer.

“Dios,” he gasped. “Fuck, linda—I’m yours—”

You held him while he came, while he pressed his weight into you, breathing your name like it was the only word he remembered.

You stayed like that for a long time.

Tangled.

Sweaty.

Breathless.

His forehead resting against your collarbone. His cock still inside you, softening slowly.

And when he finally shifted—just enough to kiss your jaw, your lips, your neck—you reached for him again.

Because somehow, you still weren’t done.

And neither was he.

“Round three?” he murmured, eyes already glinting.

You smiled. “You really don’t know how to stop, do you?”

He grinned, pressing his palm gently over your stomach where he’d just filled you.

“Not when you’re mine.”

[crumbledcastle28]

Just imagine lazy/tired sex w Joaquin or Ash

Still Alive

PAIRING:Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 820 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

The door barely clicked shut behind him before he dropped his gear. You were already padding across the room, oversized tee hanging off one shoulder, arms ready.

Joaquin’s body sagged into yours without a word.

“Long day?” you murmured into his curls.

He didn’t answer , just sighed into your neck, the sound dragging through you like a wave. You smelled the sweat and dust, the tension still clinging to his skin. He was wired, but crashing. Still humming with adrenaline and not nearly ready for sleep.

“Shower first,” you whispered, tugging his shirt over his head. “Then bed. I’ll take care of you.”

---

Twenty minutes later, you were tangled in sheets. The water had helped , his shoulders weren’t as stiff, the lines around his mouth had softened , but he was still quiet. Not distant, just... spent.

You curled against him, fingers tracing the curves of his ribs, your thigh draped over his.

“You’re okay,” you said softly. “I’ve got you now.”

His arm tightened around your waist. “You always do.”

You kissed his collarbone. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he murmured. “I just want... this. You. Close.”

You slid your hand down his chest, moving slowly, without intent to rush. “Then let me give you what you need.”

He didn’t stop you. Just let out the faintest groan as your hand drifted lower, curling around him , already half-hard just from your touch, even though he was dead on his feet.

You looked up. “You sure you’re up for it?”

Joaquin opened his eyes, slow and sleepy, and cupped your cheek.

“I’m always up for you.”

---

It started unhurried , your body curling over his, the warm slide of your thigh brushing his hip as you kissed him, slow and deep. He sighed into your mouth, all melted tension and sleepy need. You climbed on top of him, straddling him gently, guiding him inside you with one lazy grind of your hips.

“Shit,” he whispered, hands on your thighs. “You feel so good, baby.”

You didn’t move fast. You just stayed there , full, pressed to his chest, your foreheads resting together, sharing breath. His hands stayed low on your back, grounding you.

Every roll of your hips was slow and deep, the kind that didn’t try to impress , just feel.

Your lips brushed his cheek. “Let me take care of you.”

His hands slid up your sides, warm and grateful. “You already are.”

You rocked into him slowly, your rhythm matching the soft rise and fall of his breathing. He wasn’t saying much, but the way he held you tighter, the way he whispered your name like a prayer , it was everything.

He kissed your shoulder. “I needed this. More than I thought.”

“I know,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his forehead. “That’s why I’m here.”

His hands moved to your hips again, guiding you now , matching your slow pace, his voice growing lower.

“You always know what I need before I do.”

You moaned quietly, the lazy grind of your bodies sending small shivers down your spine.

“Touch yourself,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded.

You obeyed, hand slipping between your bodies, fingers working slow circles. His eyes darkened as he watched.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice shaking. “That’s so hot.”

You gasped softly when he flexed his hips, just once , deep and perfect , and that was enough to make your thighs tremble.

“Keep going, baby,” he whispered. “I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You didn’t chase the climax , you let it build slowly, lazy waves cresting one by one until the tight knot inside finally burst, your breath catching on a quiet, desperate moan. You clenched around him, and he groaned, pulling you tight against his chest.

“I’m gonna,” he gasped. “Fuck, I’m,”

He pulsed inside you, body curling up into yours, face buried in your neck as he came, soft cries muffled against your skin. You held him through it, rocking him gently until he stilled.

---

The room was silent except for the soft buzz of the bedside fan and your breathing.

Neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped around your waist, body boneless beneath you. You kissed his temple. “Still alive?”

He chuckled softly. “Barely.”

You smiled and curled into him, your fingers trailing over his chest in slow, lazy lines. “I love you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Soft. Quiet. Letting me hold you.”

He tilted his head toward you, sleepy and sweet. “I love you always. But yeah... this? I needed it. Thank you.”

You pressed a kiss to his lips, lingering and slow.

“Sleep now,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He sighed, pulling you closer. “You always do.”

And you stayed like that, tangled together in the soft hush of the night , bodies warm, hearts slow, and no rush to be anything but his.

[crumbledcastle28]

thinking about lazy makeouts with joaquín torres…

it’s late afternoon on a saturday and joaquín’s finally got a weekend with nothing on his schedule. no missions with sam out of town, no important meetings that he can’t get out of. just an entire weekend with nothing to do but love on you.

you’ve put a film on but neither of you are paying attention anymore. it started with joaquín’s hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your sweatpants. when his hand climbed higher and the tips of his fingers pushed inwards, you quit pretending you were paying any attention to the movie and instead twisted to look at him. he was already looking back at you, eyes flickering to your lips and back up again. you leaned closer, a wordless invitation, and then he was kissing you.

soft and slow, no expectations, his grip on your thigh is warm and strong. his kisses are open mouthed from the beginning — all languid and sticky, the glide of the tip of his tongue against your bottom lip. the pressure of his kissing parts your lips and you’re sighing into his mouth like you can’t help yourself. it’s not long before he tugs on your thigh, bringing his other hand to curve around your opposite hip.

“c’mere,” he murmurs softly, big palm spreading over your hip to pull you into his lap with ease, not even a grunt spared as he easily pulls your body on top of his. you let yourself be guided, let him adjust you how he wants in your lap.

your hands drag up his forearms to rest on his biceps and he sets both his hands on your hips. your shirt rides up around his wrists, his fingers pressing into your skin with a lovely sort of pressure. he doesn’t kiss you again, just looks at you, the warm afternoon sun painting his skin a pretty shade of gold.

“what?” you ask, feeling fondness like an ache all over. and joaquín just shrugs, “nothing. just like looking at you, baby,” he says.

after that you let him take the lead, every fibre in your body too heavy with fondness to do much of the leading yourself. he kisses you so slow it borders on agonising, tilting his head to the side for better access, his mouth warm and sticky on yours, his tongue sliding against yours languidly. you let yourself be kissed, content to feel the strong, thick muscle of his arms under your hands, to hear his soft moan when you push your fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair. he kisses you until you’re breathless and the film plays the end credits, and then some.

[crumbledcastle28]

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: mdni. 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