darthspideys

[darthspideys]

mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is soft in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway. 

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country. 

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare. 

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating. 

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

.

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them. 

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day. 

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does. 

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to. 

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

.

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows. 

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent. 

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way. 

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook. 

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View.  It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again. 

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed. 

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there. 

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner. 

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you. 

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it. 

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact. 

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this. 

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time. 

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed. 

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery. 

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him.  You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life. 

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

.

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first. 

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds. 

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness. 

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized. 

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you. 

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives  but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually. 

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished. 

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction. 

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away. 

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters. 

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate. 

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will. 

You will. 

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders. 

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance. 

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore. 

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine. 

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology. 

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid. 

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching. 

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool. 

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple. 

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate. 

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark. 

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm. 

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright. 

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

[darthspideys]

٠ ࣪⭑ suburban legends

‎pairing: clark kent x bombshell!reader (part two) (3.0K words)

summary: as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup..

so how do you react to finding out he's the superhero you're utterly obsessed with?

warnings & content: bombshell!reader, female reader, not technically bimbo reader but others assume so, clark is whipped from the start and somehow becomes more whipped, reader double majored in stats and journalism go smart girls go!

٠ ࣪⭑ this is a part two to mastermind! i hope you love this one as much as the first! // requests for clark are currently open!

If you would’ve asked anyone at the Daily Planet newsroom how long it would’ve taken for you and Clark Kent to get together, they would’ve said you already were. Of course Lois and Jimmy had made bets, too.

Lois was right. As usual.

It wasn’t that the two of you had been flirting exactly. Not in the obvious way. It was just the way Clark always found your favorite pen when it went missing. The way your desk was next to his, even though technically yours had been assigned across the room. The way you’d always pass him a post-it when he forgot his press badge, and he always brought you coffee without asking how you took it—because he already knew. He way he’d make a stupid joke and you’d laugh, or how his day visibly brightened when you gave him attention..

And now? Now that it was official? That you’d actually gone on a date and kissed him and fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie you picked but didn’t finish? Well, nothing had really changed.

Except everything had.

“You two are disgusting,” Lois said, sipping her coffee without looking up. Seeing you two graze hands at the printer and blush several times a day was ingrained in her mind already. Not that she really minded.

“We’re not even touching,” you replied, flipping through your printouts.

“Exactly,” she deadpanned. “You’re radiating soft couple energy from opposite sides of the bullpen. It’s oppressive.”

Jimmy leaned over from his desk, whispering loudly, “Did you kiss him?”

You didn’t look up. “Jimmy.”

“I bet you kissed him.” You didn’t reply. “You totally kissed him.”

From across the room, Clark looked up from his monitor and smiled at you—that smile, the one that made your knees go funny even when you were sitting down. You tried very hard not to melt into your chair.

Lois sighed. “And that’s my cue to go find a real story.”

Jimmy leaned over again. “Was it good?” You picked up a rolled newspaper and bopped him on the head without breaking eye contact. “Worth it,” Jimmy grinned.

“Tell me,” Steve rolled over in his chair. “Is this the kind of story you’d post about in your column? About the date with the office nerd and how you out-nerd him on a day to day basis?”

You turned slowly toward Steve, eyebrow arched like you were deciding whether to laugh or end his entire career. But instead of firing back with something sharp, you just smiled. “No,” you said simply, voice calm. “Because it’s not gossip. It’s mine.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. So was Jimmy, actually. Even Lois paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. Clark looked up from his desk, a soft crease forming between his brows. Like he wasn’t sure if he should step in or let you handle it. (Spoiler: you always handled it.)

You turned back to your laptop, fingers tapping at the keys. “Besides,” you added without looking up, “if I were going to write about someone in this office, it’d be the guy who still hasn’t figured out how to use the shared printer.”

Steve grumbled something under his breath and wheeled away.

“Real talk,” Cat interrupted. “What about that Superman article you were talking about posting?”

You perked up slightly, spinning your pen between your fingers as you leaned back in your chair. “It’s almost done. I just want to fine-tune some of the analysis. I added a new section on his flight patterns—based on the velocity shifts I tracked last week.”

Jimmy, now safely two desks away, visibly winced. “Please tell me you didn’t break into another security feed.”

You smiled innocently. “I prefer the term borrowed temporarily.”

Cat raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously going to publish an article with that much math?”

“It’s not just math,” you said with a light shrug. “It’s data-backed storytelling. I’m not trying to make people fall asleep. I’m trying to show them the truth. That he’s not reckless. That there’s precision in what he does. There’s science to it. Intention.”

Clark’s pen slipped from his hand. You didn’t notice, but Cat did. And so did Lois, who appeared back in the room just in time to catch Clark doing the world’s worst job at pretending he wasn’t completely floored by you.

Cat smirked and turned back to you. “You’re something else.”

You glanced up, blinking. “Good something else or..?”

“Definitely good,” she said. Then, nodding toward Clark, “And clearly not going unnoticed.”

Clark, red-faced and trying to recover, coughed lightly. “I think it’s a great idea for a piece,” he said quickly. “The public could use more informed perspectives.”

“See? Clark gets it,” you folded your arms over your chest.

“Because he’s head over heels—” Jimmy was interrupted by Lois smacking him with a newspaper, making him swat her away like a fly.

You bit back a laugh, then glanced over at Clark. He was already watching you, a little dazed and dreamy, like someone who’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. The second your eyes met, he blinked and gave you a small wave, almost sheepish. And despite everything, despite the teasing and the headlines and the very real article on your desktop detailing Superman’s aerodynamics, you blushed.

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god, you’re both twelve.”

But Lois just smiled quietly, sipping her coffee as she turned back toward her notes. Because for all the chaos and caffeine-fueled headlines, for all the alien invasions and metahuman drama, something in this newsroom had finally settled.

That night, you sat on Clark’s couch, laptop on your lap as your back rested comfortably against his side. His arm closest to you clung around your collarbones; the most gentle of headlocks. A loving one. Sure, you and Clark had only been on one date, but it didn’t feel like you needed more. 

Here you sat, Clark by your side in a sweatshirt and sweatpants. You, without makeup, hair undone, wearing one of his old shirts and your old sleep shorts, nothing else felt better.

Sure, getting dolled up every day was a true joy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, but being so bare like this for Clark was something else.

It was a kind of quiet intimacy you hadn’t expected to come so easily. The kind that didn’t need fanfare or flowers or fancy dinners. Just shared space, shared warmth, and the soft brush of his thumb against your arm every few seconds—like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

Clark rested his chin lightly against your head, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses as the evening news murmured low from the TV. He wasn’t watching it. Neither were you. The screen of your laptop cast a soft glow over the both of you as your fingers idly tapped at the keyboard.

“You working?” he asked, his voice quiet, more vibration in his chest than sound in the air.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Polishing the Superman piece. Just tweaking the structure a little.” You had paused, craning your neck to look back at Clark. “Do you think Perry will take this seriously?”

Being a gossip columnist was great until you wanted to post a story like this.

Clark tilted his head, looking down at you with that soft, thoughtful gaze he always seemed to wear when it came to you. His fingers gently brushed your arm in quiet reassurance.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Perry will read it twice. Once as your editor. And once as someone who knows you don’t write anything unless it matters.” You blinked at him. “And if he doesn’t,” Clark added, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I’ll talk to him.”

You let out a soft laugh, half-exasperated, half-grateful. “You don’t have to go full.. Superman on my editor.”

If you would’ve looked closer, you would’ve seen how Clark nearly flinched at the words. You were only joking. You didn’t know. Phew.

“I wouldn’t.” He shrugged, trying to play off the surprised look he was sure he just flashed. “Just full Clark Kent. Turns out he’s surprisingly persuasive.”

You rested your head against his chest again, the sound of his heartbeat calm and steady beneath your cheek. “I just want people to know what I see. That he’s—” You paused, smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “That he’s more than what they say. That all the things he does—how he calculates impact zones, how he measures air displacement to avoid hurting people—it’s all intentional. It’s all done with care.”

Clark’s hand found yours, fingers threading between yours. “Then write it,” he murmured. “Exactly like that. Exactly how you see it.”

You turned your hand over, palm to palm, your fingers curling softly around his. “You know, you’re the only story I never want to twist.”

He kissed your forehead gently. “And you’re the only reporter I’ve never tried to avoid.”

That was the night Clark decided he wanted to tell you the truth. About who he was, what he could do, where he came from. That he was Superman.

But how do you go about telling the woman you’re falling in love with that you have a double life? That you’re, to put it plainly, from another planet. That you’re the person she’s been fawning over for ages now. That’s not something to just admit over dinner.

It wasn’t the kind of thing you slipped in between bites of spaghetti or during commercial breaks on movie night. Not when you were sitting in his sweatshirt, warm and real and tucked into his side like you’d always been there. Not when you’d just told him—with so much gentleness and trust in your voice—that you didn’t want to twist his story.

Clark stared down at you that night as you drifted off, your fingers still lightly curled around his, laptop dimming to sleep on the coffee table. Your breath evened out. You sighed softly in your sleep. And he just watched. Heart full. Terrified.

Because the truth wasn’t just about who he was. It was about who you were becoming to him.

He’d had plenty of close calls. Plenty of maybe this is the moment conversations lined up, planned in the back of his head, rehearsed like a press briefing. But none of them had ever made it out. Because what if you looked at him differently? What if your voice changed when you said his name? What if you stopped smiling when you saw him flying overhead?

What if knowing he was Superman changed the way you saw Clark?

But that night—watching you there, curled up against him in a way that made his life feel smaller, sweeter, less lonely—he realized he wanted you to know him. All of him. The writer. The hero. The man who somehow, impossibly, was lucky enough to love you.

So no, it wouldn’t happen over dinner.

But it would happen.

Because if there was one person in the world he could trust with the truth, it was the one person who already saw him more clearly than anyone ever had.

Clark hadn’t meant to come straight to you. Not like this. Bloodied lip, bruised ribs, heat radiating off his skin like the fight was still clinging to him. He was supposed to be more careful. More invincible. He wasn’t supposed to scare you. He especially wasn’t supposed to tell you like this.

But the moment he stumbled onto your fire escape—barely hovering before collapsing onto the floor of your apartment—you didn’t panic. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even look surprised.

You looked concerned.

“Superman?” Your voice was soft, a whisper above the hum of the city below. You dropped to your knees beside him instantly, hands fluttering near his chest. “You’re hurt.” Your eyes scanned all over him worriedly, almost as if you had your own x-ray vision. 

He gave a weak smile. “Hi, angel.”

“How did— oh, Clark.” You said his name so softly, the realization hitting you. You were already reaching for the first aid kit you kept under the sink. 

“I’m okay,” he said. “It’s just—night. No yellow sun. Slows the healing down.”

You froze for a second, processing, then frowned. “So you can’t heal right now?”

He shook his head once.

You looked at him—really looked. His eyes were glassy but focused, his chest rising a little too fast, jaw tight. He was clearly in pain. His eyes scanned your face like it was his last ever sight. And still, somehow, your biggest concern was him.

“Okay,” you said, like it was the easiest decision in the world. You rolled up your sleeves, grabbed gauze, and pressed a towel gently against the gash on his cheekbone. “Then it’s my job to fix you up.”

Clark blinked. “You’re not.. surprised?”

“I mean, a little,” you admitted, biting your lip as you dabbed the blood away. “Of course I’m surprised. Never could have guessed that Superman would come to me for help.” Your brows creased and furrowed as you focused on gently wiping away any crimson from his face. “But mostly I’m just mad someone hurt you.”

His heart could’ve burst right then and there.

“I also think I figured it out two weeks ago. You being Superman.”

Clark blinked, then blinked again. “Wait—what?”

You didn’t look up right away. You were too focused on the scrape along his jaw, cleaning it with practiced, careful hands. “The flight patterns. The voice. The way you disappear from the bullpen every time Superman shows up. You’re not as subtle as you think, farm boy.”

“I—” he started, but you gently pressed a bandage to his cheek.

“And then there was every single time you stared at me like I hung the stars when I defended Superman or wrote about him...”

Clark groaned softly, dropping his head back against the wall. “I knew you’d eventually notice. Just.. not this soon.”

You smiled, finally meeting his eyes. “I was waiting for you to tell me. I figured it had to be something big if you hadn’t said anything.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” he said quickly, eyes searching yours. “I was going to. I am going to. I just—didn’t know how. Or when. Or how you’d react, because you could’ve reacted really badly.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m.. bleeding on your rug and you’re still here.” His voice dipped, warm and quiet. “I think that tells me everything I need to know.”

You leaned in, gently brushing his hair off his forehead. “It does,” you murmured. “But I want to hear it from you anyway.”

Clark smiled. Soft, real, a little tired. “I’m Superman.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’re Clark Kent. Superman’s just your second night job.”

“What’s my first?” Clark curiously asked.

You brushed that soft curl away from his forehead. “Being my boyfriend.”

Clark’s breath caught in his throat, just for a second. That quiet, golden second where time didn’t quite move. Then, he smiled. Big this time. The kind of smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up like sunrise. “Best job I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

You leaned in closer, your forehead resting against his. “Even better than saving the world?”

He grinned. “Way better. The world doesn’t kiss me goodnight.”

You laughed, soft and warm, and kissed him again—this time on the lips, slow and steady, like you had all the time in the universe.

And for once, neither of you was rushing off to chase a headline or stop a satellite from falling out of orbit. No breaking news, no alarms, no distractions. Just the hush of nighttime and the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You should really let me fix that cut now.”

Clark smiled, still dazed, still starry-eyed. “Only if I get another kiss after.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and reached for the first aid kit. “You drive a hard bargain, Kent.”

“You got an interview with Superman?” Steve’s face looked genuinely bamboozled. “Of all people? You?!”

You didn’t even flinch. Just kept sipping your iced coffee through a straw, glossy lips curving into the softest smile.

“Yeah,” you said easily. “He trusts me.”

Jimmy wheeled over like he was front row at a soap opera. “Wait, when did this happen?! You’ve been sitting at your desk all morning.”

You shrugged. “Scheduled it for last night. He came right after his fight. He’s a busy guy.”

Lois raised an eyebrow over the top of her coffee mug. “And let me guess—you met him somewhere discreet, middle of the night, barely any witnesses? Or maybe he flew you to some rooftop where no one could see or hear you for the maximum privacy?”

“Something like that,” you said lightly, clicking through your draft on screen.

Steve scoffed. “You? Interviewing Superman? No offense, but you write about celebrity scandals and hair products.”

You turned to face him, voice sweet as honey. “And yet, I still managed to land the most elusive interview since Clark interviewed him. Wild, huh?” Clark, from his desk across the bullpen, choked on his water. Jimmy looked over. Lois didn’t even try to hide her smirk.

Cat Grant passed behind you, gave your shoulder a light pat, and muttered just loud enough for Steve to hear, “Get used to it. She’s been leaving all of us in the dust since day one. But my fashion breakdowns will always be superior.”

You smiled, gaze flicking to Clark. “Guess some people just have the right sources.”

And Clark—bless him—was trying not to grin like an idiot. He failed. Spectacularly.

“This interview is going to be.. super.”

“Oh, no.”

“God, please, no.”

“I hate you.”

[darthspideys]

I would just like to say…

your blog theme is adorable! 😌

How do you think Joaquin would react to a reader who is sick/stressed (maybe both!) who is refusing to rest? I definitely could see him being worried. Thank youuu!

Joaquín Torres x sick!reader [headcanons]

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: mention of being sick and medication, fluff

word count: ~500

A/N: tysm c: the whole goose thing started as a joke but i kinda went with it and it took on a life of itself lmao thank you for requesting! this one sounded perfect for a headcanon list to me so it’s a bit shorter than usual, hope you still like it :D

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

→ sick!reader who refuses to rest (established relationship)

You’ve probably been sniffling for a couple of days already, with an occasional cough here and there, telling Joaquín you’re fine when he asks if you’re feeling well.

He doesn’t want to be overbearing or treat you like you can’t take care of yourself when you tell him you’re fine.

But he does small things like bring you an extra cup of tea with honey and lemon, or cook chicken soup for dinner that his abuela used to make for him.

One day he comes home and finds you half hanging from the couch, your face hot from your fever that you’ve been ignoring. You were folding the laundry but passed out mid-task.

That’s when he takes matter into his own hands.

He picks you up and brings you to bed, tucks you in.

He takes your temperature, brings you ibuprofen and plenty of water.

If you’re really sick, he’ll ask for a day or two off work to drive you to the doctor and take care of you.

When you’re resting at home and he catches you out of bed, he’ll just take your shoulders, turn you around, and guide you back. 

If he gets exasperated at how stubborn you’re being, refusing to let him take care of you, you might hear a string of curses in Spanish; that’s when you know he’s actually starting to get frustrated, so you better stay in bed or he’ll get the chancla 🩴 

I headcanon Joaquín’s main love languages to be words of affirmation and acts of service, closely followed by physical touch.

So let him take care of you!!! It’s one of the ways he shows how much he cares.

And he actually loves taking care of you.

When the meds start to kick in and you’re not in pain anymore but still slightly delirious from your fever, you might mumble really cheesy stuff, telling him how much you love him. 

And he actually loves that. He lets you ramble, spurring you on to continue saying the corniest things, and he eats it all up. He might even bring it up again after you’re healthy again, repeating some of the things you said back to you, and you’ll bury your face in his chest with an embarrassed groan while he laughs, endeared. 

Also, expect lots of forehead kisses while you’re in bed! He says it’s to control your temperature, but really he’s just dying to kiss you for real again.

You don’t let him though, not wanting to pass on whatever virus got you.

Also, you can absolutely take advantage of him being extra attentive, asking for extra snacks, and he’ll bring them right away.

He just wants you to know that you can count on him, and that you are loved 🥺 

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!] @f1-tennisgirlie @magikdarkholme @tsunchani @Chuchu8923 @bitchy-bi-trash @guynamedaurel @crumbledcastle28 @sarahskywalker-amidala @crazy4lyricb

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

[darthspideys]

My dear Honoria, I have met the most extraordinary woman. Conchita Closson is as different from anyone in our family as a circus is from a library. I first met her in the Madison Square ballrooms. Her head was thrown back, laughing as though nothing in the world had ever been so funny. So unselfconscious, so fearless. Honoria, she makes me feel like the sun has risen. Conchita is luminous. When she dances, the world watches. And when she looks at me, it's as though I've run down a mountain. I'm quite certain I will love Conchita my entire life. And if that life were to end tomorrow, well, I'd die delirious and uplifted. To have basked in her glorious and gentle light. To have held her hand. Do send my regards to the dogs. Love, Dick.

[darthspideys]

This is kind of my favorite thing ever

LOVE ME IN THE QUIET - joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | it was supposed to be forbidden, yet everytime you and joaquin passed each other in the avengers base and met eyes, it ended with the sweet taste of his lips on yours

| includes: | joaquin x reader, forbidden love, sneaking around, fluff, steamy, sam being a big old grump, angst, sexual tension + themes, 14+, use of y/n

| word count: | 2.9k

| a/n: | i truly love a good old steamy forbidden romance but this is probably gonna be the spicest thing i’ve written. i've been dying to write a domestic joaquin and i wanna know your thoughts on this.

KEEPING IT PROFESSIONAL was hard to do when doe eyed Joaquin Torres wandered into the kitchen, curls sticking up in different directions, sweatpants hanging off his hips, and a white t-shirt clinging onto his broad shoulders.

You almost choked on your Rainbow Pebbles, which had suddenly become very unappetizing compared to the mouthwatering sight of Joaquin’s biceps.

Your eyes lingered on his frame as he threw the refrigerator door open and pulled out a carton of milk, his arms flexing with each movement— which was highly unfair seeing that your hair was tossed into a messy braid and your oversized shirt swallowed half of your body.

However, Sam had made it crystal clear that your feelings towards Joaquin would be stomped on with a pile of dusty old folders sitting in his office cabinet waiting to be sorted. So, with no other choice you were left to slamming your feelings into a box, wrapping it in duct tape, and pretending that your heart didn’t skip several beats every time Joaquin so much as breathed in your direction.

You crunched on a mouthful of Rainbow Pebbles, trying to focus on literally anything else other than the hot oblivious heathen leaning against the counter nursing his cup of coffee.

Somehow, Joaquin still caught your eye mid-sip, his lips quirking into that devastatingly soft, boyish smile that had no business being aimed directly at you.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and raspy from sleep.

You blinked twice. Once to clear your head, and the other to find your voice. "Good morning."

He ruffled his messy curls with one hand, before setting his coffee cup down and lazily stretching his arms over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of golden skin. "You’re up early," he said, his lips twitching.

You averted your eyes, staring down at your colourful bowl of milk. "Couldn't sleep," you mumbled, absentmindedly stirring your spoon around.

"Oh."

You cleared your throat, swallowing the last dregs of cereal in your bowl before standing up and walking to the dishwasher and dumping your silverware into the sink. "I'll be in the training room," you drawled turning to face him, "And Sam shouldn't be awake until 11."

Joaquin straightened up and sauntered over to where you were standing, the air shifting with a desperate need for his lips to be against yours, and the scent of pine and spice radiating off his body.

You backed up slightly, bumping into the edge of the counter behind you, heart hammering against your ribs. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle—he never was—and that mischievous glint in his eye told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

He leaned in, one hand braced against the counter near your hip, sandwiching you in between his chest and the marble tile with that lazy, easy confidence that made your knees feel like jelly. Your chest pounded painfully as you fought the urge to reach out, to curl your fingers into the soft fabric of his t-shirt and just pull.

"Training room?" he asked his voice rough.

You nodded, lifting your chin defiantly. "Unless you want to join me?"

He trailed a hand down your arm before settling tightly on your waist, "Is that your way of asking for us to hang out?"

Your cheeks burned and you slipped away from his grasp. "Don’t flatter yourself, Torres. I'm gonna change, if you need me come to the training room to find me."

You spun on your heel and marched towards your room not daring to turn back around.

And like you had promised, you had changed into a two piece, now pacing anxiously trying to get your heart rate back to something remotely normal. You busied yourself with a punching bag, repeatedly hitting the battered bag over and over again until you gave up because a specific someone had infiltrated your concentration to the point you were punching air.

It was still early, meaning most of the team was still in bed trying to get as much rest as they could before Sam began handing out orders at the team briefing like party favours.

You were so caught up with the flood of thoughts rushing through your head you didn't even hear the door open until you saw Joaquin, hair mussed, still wearing the same loose sweatpants and tight fitting shirt in the reflection of the mirror.

You dropped your fists, chest rising and falling.

"I'm surprised you came."

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, stepping forward, meeting you halfway. "Why wouldn't I?"

You shrugged, tossing your training gloves to the ground. "One day you and I are gonna get caught and Sam's gonna send us both to the North Pole."

His lips fell into an amused smile as he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

“But it'll be worth it." he whispered, leaning in close enough that you could count the freckles on his face.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful or gentle like it usually was—it was messy and fast, all teeth and tongues and weeks of bottled-up tension spilling over. His hands tightened around your hips, and you gasped into his mouth, fingers threading into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

You stumbled backward until your shoulders hit the padded wall, Joaquin chasing after you like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

A whimper escaped your mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip, fingers digging into his hair as he pinned you against the wall, both of you kissing each other until you were gasping for breath. Giddy and dazed, he buried his nose into the crook of your neck where he trailed sloppy kisses across you collarbone, then across your jawline, to the point the stubborn ache in your stomach intensified ten fold.

You squeezed your eyes shut as your hands trailed to the hem of his shirt, and before you knew it his lips were on yours again, your own lips parting greedily against his. Any scattered thought that had been rushing through your head before bounced right out as you felt his muscles contract under your fingertips, and as you kissed him harder you lost sense of time, place and everything except for the sweet taste of his mouth.

Though the sound of lumbering footsteps snapped you out of your drunken haze as you pulled away from Joaquin, hearing a small grumble outside the door.

“—too damn early to be— what the heck?”

Your eyes widened as you pulled away from Joaquin, face burning when you realized how far up his shirt your hands had gotten, and the intentional way you’d twisted the fabric to the point you were seconds away from yanking it off his head.

Joaquin looks as alarmed as you were before you dragged him into the washroom tucked into the corner of the training room. The two of you ducked inside, shutting the door gently behind you just as the gym door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” a voice— Sam’s voice muttered, “If Clint doesn’t start picking his shit up I’m banning him from the training room forever.”

You pressed yourself tigher against the bathroom wall, Joaquin practically on top of you, both of you holding your breath as Sam’s voice floated through.

You felt Joaquin’s chest shaking lightly against yours—he was laughing silently, the absolute menace—and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any sound.

When Sam finally gave up and left, the door slamming shut behind him, you both sagged in relief.

“Well that was a close call,” he said grinning his face just a few feet away from yours, mischief burning in his eyes.

“Too close,” you hissed back, smacking his chest lightly.

He smirked as he caught your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “So…”

You rolled your eyes but you stood on your tiptoes pressing your lips against his. He groaned as you wrapped your arms around his, pulling tighter.

"You're gonna kill me," he murmured into your mouth as you swallowed him with kisses.

"Well don't drop dead on me Sergeant, or how am I supposed to explain it to Sam?” you said hands finding the edge of his T-shirt again.

He just made a noise, and before you could process he picked you up in one swift motion putting you onto the counter of the sink. With no place for your legs to go you wrapped them around his waist, a small groan escaping his mouth when you wound your arms around his neck pulling him closer.

Twenty minutes later, the two of you stumbled out of the training room, lips swollen and eyes heavy. You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked like an absolute mess. Which was why a you immediately made a beeline for your room, hoping to change before anyone spotted you.

Joaquin however, didn’t seem to much in a rush, instead he blew you a kiss and squeezed your hand before he walked away with ease.

You rolled your eyes at his cockiness. He was for sure gonna get the two of you caught soon.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cursing softly underneath your breath you dug through your closet trying to find a suitable hoodie that covered the faint pink marks blooming along your neck—souvenirs from Joaquin’s thoroughly distracting mouth.

Begrudgingly you tugged on a grey hoodie, double— then triple checking, to ensure that the fabric covered everything. And when you walked into the briefing room where Joaquin and Peter were already waiting, Joaquin smirking as he eyed you up and down.

You shot him a warning look taking a seat beside him— no games this time. You didn’t need Sam’s god forsaken rule to be brought up and taped to your forehead again. Still, it didn’t stop Joaquin from reaching out and brushing the tips of his fingers against your pinky under the table.

You stiffened, glaring at him, but he just smiled innocently, not even a little sorry.

When you turned slightly to nudge him with your elbow, Joaquin caught your hand properly, giving it a teasing squeeze. You had to bite back a giggle, yanking your hand away, but not before he traced a slow, featherlight line across your wrist with his thumb.

As the door creaked open and the other members of the team began slowly filing in, all cradling a cup of coffee in their hands, you and Joaquin both snapped into a somewhat professional manner— back straight and eyes away from each other.

When Sam passed by you couldn’t help but tense, as he paused beside the two of you eyes narrowing slightly. You forced your lips into a polite smile, trying not to fidget with your fingers as he opened his mouth.

But before he could say anything, Yelena stormed into the room, the blonde throwing the door open so hard it bounced against the wall.

“Phew,” she announced loudly, fanning herself dramatically. “Who leaked all the testosterone in here?”

You and Joaquin stiffened as every pair of eyes turned toward Yelena.

A warmth began to bloom up your neck as you tried not to look at Joaquin, panic building in your stomach as you chewed nervously on your lower lip.

Sam furrowed his brow. “What testosterone?”

Yelena looked between you and Joaquin—lingering a little too long on your flushed cheeks and Joaquin’s guilty smile—then shook her head.

“Never mind,” she said sweetly, sliding into a chair, “Sorry I’m late.”

Sam scowled before pointing to the screen behind him. “Okay then, I guess we’ll start. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

The briefing started, Sam talking through mission objectives, logistics, intel. You tried your hardest to focus, scribbling notes furiously, avoiding even looking at Joaquin.

Everything was going to be fine. You tried to assure yourself, but it wasn’t until Sam looked up from his tablet and began reading out partners for the next mission that things started to go bad.

“Alright. I’m assigning partners for the missions next week. Joaquin, you’re with Yelena. Y/N, you’re with Peter.”

Joaquin scowled, visibly dissapointed at the partnering.

“You’ve got a problem with that Torres?” Sam asked casually, though the suspicious look on his face said otherwise.

You elbowed Joaquin, as he opened his mouth. “No he doesn’t have a problem with that, right Joaquin,” you cut in loudly, sending him a dirty look.

He looked between you and then Sam and nodded meekly. “Nope, no problem with that, I can work with Yelena.”

Sam didn’t look convinced and slammed both his palms down onto the table as he looked between the two of you. “Does someone wanna tell me what the hell is going on between these two?”

You flinched slightly, the room going so silent you could hear Peter awkwardly fidgeting two seats down.

You opened your mouth to say something— anything— but the words caught in your throat. Your head went blank and the air in your lungs seemed to have rushed out of the room as you sunk into your seat.

Joaquin shifted nervously beside you, his knee bumping yours.

And that tiny movement— the little nervous tic was all it took.

From the other side of the room, Yelena huffed loudly and muttered under her breath,“Please, it’s obvious. They’re sleeping together.”

You choked on your own spit eyes wide as saucers, as Joaquin visibly flinched beside you.

You were gonna kill Yelena.

Sam on the other hand, his face went utterly, frighteningly blank.

“Excuse me?” Sam said slowly, voice low and dangerous, like a storm about to hit.

Yelena shrugged unapologetically. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Please, look at them. He’s basically vibrating out of his seat.”

Scott coughed to hide a laugh. Peter turned bright red. Clint and Kate didn’t even bother hiding his huge, shit-eating grin.

Sam turned back to you and Joaquin, crossing his arms, tapping his foot.

“Well?” he demanded.

Joaquin swallowed hard, and before you could stop him, blurted, “We’re… together.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table with a loud thunk.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose like he was physically in pain. “I knew it. I knew you two were sneaking around like a couple of damn teenagers! I just didn’t have enough fucking evidence AND I haven’t had maintenance fix the cameras yet.”

“We’re not teenagers,” you mumbled into the table, mortified beyond belief.

Sam slammed a hand down again. “OUT! Everybody OUT except Dumb and Dumber over here!”

They didn’t need telling twice, because as soon as the words left Sam’s mouth, chairs scraped back, papers flew everywhere, and the entire team bolted out the door.

Once it was just the three of you, Sam rounded on you and Joaquin, his face red and his veins bulging. “I specifically said none of this,” he thundered. “I made one rule and now what? You’re sneaking around making googly eyes and banging each other in the training room?”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

Sam turned even redder as he reeled on you, “So you have been fucking in the training room! It was the two of you this morning!”

“It’s not— it’s not affecting the team,” you sputtered, “We’re being professional about it. It’s not my fault that I was a horny virgin locked in a H.Y.D.R.A base for half my life.”

“We’re being careful,” Joaquin said rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam threw his hands in the air. “Oh yeah? Real careful,” he snapped, gesturing wildly. “She’s sitting there wearing a freaking hoodie in July trying to hide a whole damn crime scene!”

You sank lower in your seat, mortified.

“It’s not a crime scene,” you muttered weakly.

Sam pointed at you pacing back and fourth. “You! Stop enabling him!” He then pointed at Joaquin. “You! Keep it in your pants!”

Just as you were about to protest the door to the briefing room crashed open, and the rest of the team spilled in. Yelena, Kate, Scott, Peter, and Clint, all piled on top of each other in a heap, having clearly been eavesdropping.

Peter groaned from the bottom of the pile. “Ow—Scott, your elbow—”

Clint shoved Kate off him. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

Scott grinned up at Sam sheepishly. “We were just… uh… making sure no one needed backup.”

Sam looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

“You’re ALL on trash duty,” he barked, jabbing a finger toward the door. “I don’t care if you’re Avengers, I don’t care if you’ve saved the world—this is janitorial punishment now! You’re cleaning every quinjet, every training room, every bathroom, until further notice.”

The collective groan from the heap of eavesdroppers was almost enough to make you feel bad. Almost.

Sam spun back to you and Joaquin. “And if see you two as much as kissing, I will send each of you to a different continent. So keep it together.”

Sam let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of his life and stomped out of the room, muttering something about retirement and running a circus instead of a team of Avengers.

You groaned as the door swung shut and Clint and Kate both burst into loud cackles as Peter patted you on the shoulder.

You collapsed next to Joaquin burying your face into his chest as he let out a relieved sigh. “If I were you,” Scott said sympathetically, “I would’ve had Ant-Thony eat me.”

“Gee. thanks Scott,” you grumbled, “That really makes me feel a lot better.”

You then turned to look at Joaquin. “I told you we’d get caught and yet you’re still sitting here looking optimistic as fuck.”

Joaquin shrugged, giving you that same devastatingly crooked grin that got you into this mess in the first place. “Well maybe ‘cause it was always worth it.”

[darthspideys]

grinding on joaquín's thigh bc ur horny but too tired for anything else so it's just a lazy attempt to get off. and he's just laughing at you and moving your hips to help you out. can you tell i'm in heat.

bring back grinding! bring back dry humping! i don't believe there's anything hotter than someone getting off on you, all whiny and needy and desperate (18+)

and with joaquín ... listen his mouth is soft and slow against yours, a little open, a little lazy. you’re tucked sideways in his lap, the console digging faintly into your hip, one knee hooked over his thigh. it’s late—streetlights bleeding amber through the fogged windows of his parked car, music humming low from the speakers, your exhales fogging up the windshield with every sigh you press into his lips.

his hand is on your back, fingertips tracing lazy little shapes just beneath your shirt, and your fingers are curled around the collar of his hoodie like you’re holding on for dear life.

it’s not frantic—hasn’t been for the past twenty minutes. just soft kisses, slow breathing, limbs tangled without thought. everything about it feels warm and heavy, like you’ve melted into him and there’s no real urge to pull away.

except now your hips are starting to ache. there’s this stubborn ache building low and slow in your gut, not sharp or wild, just enough to keep your breath catching each time you shift.

and you do shift—slowly. just enough to drag your centre along the muscle of his thigh, and the friction is faint, muted by the soft cotton of your shorts, but it makes your eyes flutter anyway. you do it again.

this time, his hand stills on your back. his thigh twitches just slightly beneath you.

you don’t look at him.

you just keep moving—small, rolling movements, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breathing starting to stagger. your lips are kiss-swollen, chin a little sticky from spit, and all you can think about is how good his thigh feels between your legs. how easy it is to just stay like this.

you’re tired. exhausted, even. too much to undress or climb into his lap or drag yourself into anything more. but this? this you can do. this is lazy and slow and good.

and god, he’s so warm under you. muscle taut and solid, a little flex here and there that makes your breath hitch. the friction is low and sweet and soft, just enough to make you dizzy without pushing you over the edge too soon.

he smells like laundry and clean skin and faint cologne—the kind that lingers on your own hoodie when he gives it to you to wear, the kind that makes your brain go quiet when he’s this close.

his hand starts moving again. not to stop you. just to help. big palm sliding down, fingers curving over your waist and guiding your hips without pressure. just helping. his mouth brushes your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. gentle. sweet. like he’s trying to be respectful about how completely wrecked you’re becoming just from this.

the faintest whimper escapes you when the seam of your underwear drags just right, and he breathes a soft curse under his breath.

either way, you don’t stop. and neither does he.

you lose track of how long it lasts, how many soft sounds you let slip into the quiet between songs on the stereo. it’s all heat and pulse and pleasure curling beneath your skin like a slow burn. like you could stay right here forever, grinding helplessly against the warmth of him, the safety of him, letting yourself come apart in the laziest, sweetest way.

and when it hits—when your thighs shake just faintly and your body stiffens and melts all at once—he doesn’t say a word. just kisses the corner of your mouth, the line of your jaw, arms tight around you like he knows you don’t want to be anywhere else.

[darthspideys]

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex-super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff if you squint, kissing, get together fic

wc: 3k+

an: this series is based off of this request here! it’s been so much fun writing this so far. i imagine it’ll be done within a week or two given the pace i’m writing now so no disturbances to VAM & LMG(NP) releases!

last updated: 3/31/25

The Script

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The Outtakes

Sam’s Worry

A Captain, a Falcon & 2 Soldiers

Broken

In The Kitchen

Enough

So This is Love?

The Growth: Budding | Blooming*

let me know if you’d like to be added to the joaquin torres taglist!

[darthspideys]

Still obsessed with Joaquín’s dog-tags! imagine wearing them while on top of him, Joaquín mesmerized by the sight of them bouncing off your chest,,,

moment of silence … so we can hear the jingling of those tags against your pretty perky chest (18+)

it’s like you knew exactly what you were doing when you put on his dog tags. like you timed the moment for when he’d already be underneath you, chest rising and falling with every hitched breath, your thighs tight around his waist, his cock sheathed deep inside you, and all that he can do is hold on.

his hands are a little desperate, gripping your hips, your ass, anywhere he can touch to remind himself that this is real. that you’re real. that this isn’t a fucking dream conjured up by too many nights of wanting you.

and it has to be on purpose. the way you lean forward a little, the chain swinging with your movements. his tags—his—clinking softly as they dangle against your chest, silver glinting in the low light of the room, catching on sweat-slick skin. the tags slipping between the curves of your breasts and joaquín swears under his breath, his head dropping back against the pillow.

“jesus,” he whispers, voice frayed and breathless.

you only smile, slow and sinfully pleased with yourself, rolling your hips again with a deliberate grind that has his thighs twitching beneath you. his fingers dig in harder like he’s trying to anchor himself through touch alone.

your hands find his chest, fingers splayed over the fabric of his shirt; half-on, half-pulled up his stomach from when things got hurried. you’re still moving, smooth and steady, your rhythm teasing, stubborn, intoxicating. his eyes are half-lidded, caught somewhere between worship and wreckage, but you know he’s watching you.

especially when you lean back a little.

that’s when the tags bounce.

and joaquín groans, really moans this time, deep from his chest, as he watches them sway and jingle and fuck, he sees his name etched into silver catch the curve of your breast. it brushes your nipple, just barely, and you gape at the cool metal against flushed heat. his moan blends with yours like it was meant to.

he's trembling now. there's a sheen of sweat down his temples, his curls damp and sticking to his forehead. his lips are bitten raw, his eyes glassy, and there are actual tears clinging to his lashes.

you lean in again, slowing your pace as you kiss a path from the corner of his mouth down to his jaw, then his throat. your tongue runs over the dip where his pulse hammers wildly like your name is the only thing keeping it going.

and those fuckass tags don’t stop moving. they make their quiet little music every time your hips find his again, a rhythm he’s sure will haunt him for the rest of his life, and he loves the little moans you let out, the way your lips part and the gasps you suck in and how hot your breath is against his skin.

“gonna kill me,” he mumbles.

you smile against his throat. “not trying to.”

“coulda fooled me.”

but his hips roll up into you like he’s trying to meet you halfway. like he’s frantic to keep going.

your nails dig into his shoulders, your pace picking up again, and joaquín can’t take his eyes off you. off the flush in your cheeks, the shine of your skin, the movement of his tags on your chest—his tags. the sound, the sight, the hot feeling of you wrapped around him.

he’s ruined for anything else.

because now he knows what it looks like, how it feels, to watch you fuck him wearing his rank and name.

[darthspideys]

A Breach in Reality

request: If you're taking requests ive been GNAWING for a joaquin x fem reader where they go on an undercover mission to a riiiiiiich ahh gala as a fake couple and they end up kissing to not get caught🤌

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: undercover trope, colleagues to lovers, internal angst/insecurity, kissing

wc: 1,572

an: these two are so adorable! thank you for sending in this request anon. I truly hope you enjoy <3

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The mission brief was simple: infiltrate the gala, extract the intel, get out without blowing your cover. The two of you had prepared well, going over your aliases, asking each other questions that someone might want to know, making sure all the gaps were filled.

What you didn’t prepare for is how tight and warm Joaquin’s hand would feel on your waist in the silky gown you’re wearing. Or how good he’d look in his polished suit, black and sleek. How good his cologne smells when you walk hand and hand. How his eyes seemed to roam a little more than usual; you brush that thought away easier than all the others. Of course he was looking at everyone, at you more closely.

He leans close to whisper against your ear as you walk up the marble steps of the venue. He has to say it because it’s true. “You clean up nice, princesa.”

You barely hold back a smile, rolling your eyes at him playfully. “You’re just saying that because I’m your fake date.”

Joaquin’s gaze is sincere. “I’d say it if you were my real one, too.”

You have to look away from his brown eyes because you don’t detect any dishonesty. But you know that you shouldn’t get involved with someone you’re working with, especially with how infrequent you see him. You don’t want to get attached to the idea of having him this way, even if your mind has forced you to dream about it once or twice before.

You value reality and protection of yourself, of your heart over everything. It’s why you haven’t let yourself go on a date in over 5 years. The last time you opened up in that way, you couldn’t remember who you were when it all finished.

The gala is all champagne flutes, soft jazz, and people with money to waste. You keep your arm looped through his, playing the role of the doting partner while you both scan the room for your target. He’s pressing you closer than necessary, his body heat seeping into your skin, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to.

What’s one night letting yourself feel the affection of someone else, especially when it’s already known to be a farce. No harm, no foul.

“Target’s heading toward the east wing,” you murmur, eyes trained on the man with the silver cufflinks. The pin on his suit indicates he’s exactly who you’re looking for.

“Copy,” Joaquin says smoothly. “Let’s move—”

“Un segundo,” you cut in quickly, pressing into him more firmly to stop him. “Su seguridad está mirando.”

Two guards in suits that linger just far enough to not draw attention to the untrained eye have turned to look directly at you both, eyes narrowed like they’ve seen something they shouldn’t. Like they see right through you.

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate. He shifts in front of you, hand sliding to your jaw like it belongs there. “¿Confías en me?”

You raise a brow at him, like he’s asked you a silly question. And he has, you wouldn’t have agreed to go on a mission with him if you didn’t trust him. “…I’m literally undercover with you.”

He grins mischievously, eyes glittering in the low lighting. “Close enough.”

He kisses you then.

It’s delicate and unexpected, and you’re too caught up in the perfect way his lips feel against yours to remember the mission for a split second. The reality you had just promised yourself you would stay in slips away. His hands stay gentle but sure, holding your face like you’re something fragile, like he’s been waiting for an excuse.

You melt into it—just for a second, just until the guards look away. At least that’s what you tell yourself, because the thought of breaking the kiss never crosses your mind.

It’s him who pulls back, leaving you both a little breathless.

“Convincing enough, yeah?” he asks, trying to sound casual but his voice is rough. He’s clearly affected, but you chalk it up to a natural response from the body.

You clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him. “Yeah. They’re uninterested.”

Neither of you moves. He’s still cupping your face, his thumb absentmindedly running over your cheek. And your hands that had moved to ground you during the kiss are still fisted in the fabric of his suit. The mission calls you forward, but something heavier hangs between you—hot, unspoken, electric.

You clear your throat again, loosening your hold on him, still not daring to meet his gaze. “Listas?”

He lets out a breath. “Listo.”

The mission wraps up without a hitch. The target successfully caught, the intel procured. You’re back in the van peeling off your heels with a weighted sigh and trying not to think about the way Joaquin kissed you like he meant it.

Except, how are you meant to not think about it?

You’ve replayed it at least thirty times on the way back to the safe house, each one more embarrassing than the last. Because the thing is, it didn’t feel fake; not for a second. And now you’re stuck wondering if that was just him being good at the job, or if maybe it meant something. Something more.

That’s not a question you’ll let yourself ask though. Reality. Protection. You repeat the words to yourself multiple times.

You’re still in your dress, sitting stiffly on the couch while he moves around the tiny kitchen grabbing water bottles and energy bars like it’s any other mission night. Like he didn’t short-circuit your brain with one very public, very effective, very affectionate kiss.

He tosses a bottle your way without looking.

You recognize it for what it is; an interrogation tactic that the both of you have been taught. Meet a need no matter how small and the person is more inclined to give you the information you need.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Sure.”

You open it and take multiple sips, in an attempt to stall. But there’s nowhere for you to go. If you avoided the conversation tonight he would simply ask you in the morning with more eyes watching. At least here the two of you could talk about it alone. You won’t go down easily though.

He finally turns to face you, leans against the counter like he’s waiting for something. His expression is patient and no less warm than always.

“So,” you say, like it doesn’t feel weird. “Impeccable job out there, as always.”

He nods slowly. “You too.”

Silence.

The air’s thick with everything you’re not saying, and you start picking at the label on your bottle because suddenly you don’t know where to look.

Joaquin finally pushes off the counter and walks toward you. Not in a hurry, he’s calm and collected. Deliberate. His voice is soft when he asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. You pause, voice softer when you speak again, “I’m fine. Just… y’know. Debrief brain, long night, longer morning coming. I miss my bed, my cat, eating real food.”

He tilts his head. “It’s not the mission you’re thinking about, right?”

You go quiet, opening your mouth to deny his line of questioning but nothing comes out. You’re rusty when it comes to dating or feelings of any kind— almost feeling like an antiquated machine.

He steps closer, enough to kneel in front of where you’re sitting. His hand rests gently on your knee—not pushing, just grounding.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” he says apologetically. “The kiss. I didn’t plan it— I wasn’t thinking that it would make you uncomfortable. Pero, querida… fue real.”

You finally look at him, wide-eyed unsure of what to say. It was real. He meant it. He meant to kiss you.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while,” he admits, his thumb mirroring his movements from before, stroking the curve of your knee. “The op just gave me an excuse.”

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to. “Oh.”

He gives a breath of a laugh. “That’s all you’ve got?” he teases.

You blink. “No, I mean—yeah, I mean—I— well.”

He squeezes your knee in an attempt to comfort you, “Breathe, princesa. It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

At his urging you pause to take a breath, finally able to say, “It didn’t feel fake to me either.”

That earns you a soft, slow smile. Joaquin settles more firmly on his knees in front of you, ducking his head so that you have to meet his gaze. “So how about we try it again sometime,” he says, “no mission, no cover story—just us?”

You grin, a little shy. A little anxious. Isn’t this what you’ve been trying to avoid? Reality and protection. But this reality as far as you can tell. You look at him, your eyes searching, skimming through the depth of his brown eyes. You’re met with nothing but warmth, with reverence and hope.

“Are you asking me out, Torres? Really?”

“Damn right I am. If you let me,” he adds after a moment, voice gentler.

You let yourself look at him—really look—and for once, you stop fighting the warmth that blooms in your chest every time you’re with him.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay. I think I’d like that.”

He pushes up, hand cupping your cheek like before so that he can kiss you.

And this second kiss?

It’s slower, softer— more thorough with no eyes watching and all the time in the world.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

[darthspideys]

The Weapon/Collateral Damage | Joaquin Torres x Reader Imagine

Summary: maybe being the new Falcon’s girlfriend wasn’t the best idea after all.

Warnings: kidnapping, experimentation, torture, angst

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I had an idea just before bed and ran with it. Not sure I’m happy with the ending but it is what it is. As I said I wrote it just before bed so probably some mistakes that have slipped through the cracks.

You had tried to wait up for him. You always tried to wait up for him, but when the clock hit midnight your eyes grew heavy. Begrudgingly you got ready for bed, climbing underneath the covers with every intention of reading a few chapters of your book. Surely he’d be back soon.

You startled awake at the sound of something out in the living room. You were sure you could hear shuffling feet and a male voice muttering. You checked the time on your phone 2:30am. It was late for him, but not that late, especially when you’d thought about how far away him and Sam had been working.

“Joaquin?” You called out as you stumbled into the hallway and made your way through the apartment to the open living diner, but there was no response. It made your hackles rise.

“Joaquin?” You said again. You were sure you had heard something. “Joaquin?” You called out one last time as you entered the room, but there was no one there. You could have sworn you heard-

There was a sudden pinch in your neck and you reached your hand up to try and feel what it was, but you suddenly felt very heavy. You were aware of arms catching you as you began to fall, but then, there was nothing.

When you woke again your tongue felt heavy. Your head throbbed slightly and it took all your effort to force your eyes to open. You were definitely conscious, but your body was taking its time to catch up. You tried to lift your arms and rub away the heavy tiredness from your eyes, but they wouldn’t move. You tried again, but something was holding them in place.

You tried to move your legs, having equally as little luck as something dug into your ankles. You groaned in frustration. Your eyes finally opened and began to focus. It was bright. Too bright. Far too bright for you to be at home. You tried to think back to what you last remembered. You had been at home waiting for Joaquin when… Someone had taken you. Someone had broken into the apartment and taken you. But why? And what did they want?

You tried to move again. Tried to sit up, but you were firmly strapped down. Your heartbeat began to rapidly rise as fear suddenly took over.

“Hey!!! Hello!!! Is anybody there?!” You called out.

You tried to turn your head and look around the room better. To look for anyone. Look for answers. But there weren’t any. There was just the horrible white ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights.

You had been taken. Kidnapped. Most likely because of who you were dating. Because you were close to superheroes. You thrashed wildly as you tried once again to wiggle free of your restraints, but they were too tight. It was no use.

“HELP!” You cried out. “SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

“Now, now, there’ll be none of that,” a male voice came from one side of the room as a door opened.

You quickly stilled, listening closely to the man’s footsteps grow closer.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” You asked trying to sound brave, but your voice shook and tears threatened your eyes.

“It doesn’t matter who I am, my dear. I’m more interested in who you are. Yes, you’re very important indeed,” he said. There was a sound of rattling metal moving across the floor and you desperately tried to look to your right to see him move a rolling metal tray into view. A plethora of medical equipment on top.

“What are you going to do to me?” You asked, fear laced into every word you spoke.

“I’m gonna make you better,” he said in a soft and cheerful voice, but his words did very little to comfort you. “Now, you may feel a slight pinch.” You watched as he plunged a needle into your arm.

“What’s that?” You asked, but you didn’t have time to get an answer as the blue liquid in the syringe was squeezed into your veins. Your body began to tense and thrash, it felt like fire passing through your blood and you began to thrash and scream.

“Now, now, we’ll have none of that,” he said again before he moved to place a mask over your nose and mouth. Gas was slowly pumped into it and before you knew it you began to feel woozy again.

“That’s it, atta girl,” the man said and your body began to relax until your eyes grew heavy and everything went black.

When you woke up next you were lying alone in a cell. There was a small toilet and sink in the corner, but apart from that, there was nothing else other than the mattress on the floor you were currently lying on. It was so dark. There was a faint red light in the corner of the room, but nothing else. No windows. No nothing.

“Hello?” You called out as you forced yourself to sit up. “HELLO!” You called louder when you got no response.

Your skin felt itchy. No not your skin, it was something deeper. More of a mild burning sensation you couldn’t get rid of.

“HELLLOOOO!” You called again as you slowly began to stand.

Your legs were wobbly as you tried to slowly feel for a door. You thought you could hear a siren going off in the distance. Suddenly there was a click of a latch, letting you know, not just where the door was, but that it was now open. This was all so weird. Where were you? What was going on?

You slowly stepped out into the light of a corridor. The lights were all dimmed and there was a swirling red warning light high up on the wall at one end of the corridor. When you looked to the right there was a heavy set of double doors. Both firmly shut tight. You looked to the left to find another set of doors at the other end of the corridor, but these ones were propped open.

You moved towards the open doors. The whole place looked like a deserted hospital ward. There was no one in sight. It unnerved you. Your heart rate began to rise, your palms growing sweaty as you slowly stumbled towards an empty lab and the memory of being tied down and the creepy man came back to you. The feeling of the blue liquid being injected into your veins. What the?

There was the sound of heavy boots running down the hall. “Y/N!” You heard his voice call. Joaquin.

You turned just in time to see him come to a stop in the open doorway to the lab.

“Joaquin?” You said shakily.

“I’m here baby, I’m here,” he said, trying to cross the room to you, but you stepped back.

“No, no, no! Stay back!” You shouted at him, throwing your hands up, trying to get him to stop.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, immediately freezing, his own look of panic falling over his face.

“They did something to me,” you said frightened. “They injected me with something and-“ as your fear continued to rise, so did that burning feeling under your skin. As you continued to panic, your hands began to glow. There was definitely something not right.

“Baby, I need you to breathe and calm down for me,” Joaquin tried to coach you, but it was no use. You were so far gone. The fear and terror over your situation was fully taking over. “Y/N,” he warned as that brightness and burning sensation in your hands grew.

You began to shake them, unsure of what else to do.

“Baby, just stay still, don’t move. I need you to just breathe for me okay. Focus on me. Just me. Okay? Slowly now, slowly.”

“What’s happening to me?” You asked frantically, your voice shaking as tears spilled from your eyes.

“We’re gonna work this out together okay? I just need you to calm down, okay?… Y/N?”

Joaquin ducked for cover as that blinding light took over and burst from your hands, burning a hole in the wall just behind where Joaquin had been standing. It scared the life out of you. You almost hit him. That would have killed him… Hang on a second, that’s exactly what they wanted. To make you a weapon. So you would take down your own boyfriend.

“Baby?” Joaquin said placatingly again as he stood in front of you. You just looked at your hands in disbelief.

This wasn’t happening. No…

“Y/N, look at me. I’m right here. I’m right here with you,” Joaquin said urgently and when you looked at him you could see his own fear and worry in his eyes. The guilt knowing he was the reason this had happened to you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice breaking.

“Don’t you dare be sorry. This isn’t your fault okay? We’ll get through this,” he said, but you were so worried you wouldn’t. What if you would never be okay again?

The fear began to make that light take over again.

“Baby, I need you to talk to me. Come on, talk to me. Let me help you, bottling everything up is only gonna make it worse,” he said before he jumped to the side again as another burst of energy blasted from your hands.

“Ahhhh make it stop!” You screamed desperately trying to keep your hands directed away from him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you cried through sobs. “Joaquin, I'm so scared.”

“I know, I know,” he said, steadily trying to step forward towards you. “I’ve got you, okay. We’ll get through this together like we always do. Okay?”

You nodded, not unable to get any words past the lump in your throat. “I didn’t want any of this,” you finally said.

“I know, I know,” he said again softly, his hand reaching out for you but not quite touching you, as if he was waiting for you to be ready to come to him. “We’ll get through this, okay? I just need you to trust me. Let me take you home.”

You shook your head. You couldn’t trust yourself, not like this. What if you hurt someone?

“Baby?” he said warily as you began to back away from him.

“I’m a weapon. They made me a weapon. To hurt you! I won’t! Please don’t make me-“

He moved quickly, grabbing both of your arms and holding them at your sides, forcing you to look at him. You swallowed deeply, trying to push away all the panic and fear.

“I’ve got you,” he said calmly. “I trust you.”

“But what if I hurt-“

“You’re not gonna hurt me. Okay, just ignore it for a second. Just breathe. Just be here with me. Breathe with me. In,” he said, taking a deep breath in and your tried to copy him. “And out,” he said slowly exhaling. “In….. and out. You’re doing so good.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But just breathe. In… and out.”

Slowly you began to calm and the light under your skin began to fade. “In… and out.” Joaquin continued to coach. “I’ve got you,” he reminded you, his thumb rubbing softly over your arm. “I’ve got you.”

When you were calm enough, you allowed him to pull you fully into his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he said into the top of your head as he held you close to him. “This is all my fault, I’m so sorry.” You gently began to cry against him but it was with relief and a feeling of safety, not fear.

“We’ll fix this,” he said as he pulled himself back to look into your eyes, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks tenderly. “I’ll fix this, I promise.” He said and you hoped he could. Hoped that everything would be okay. But unfortunately as you felt that burning feeling still tickling your veins, you feared it never would be again.

[darthspideys]

The Falcon & the Machine

summary: joaquin confronts you about your attempt to “protect” him.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!assassin!reader

contents: mentions of canon typical violence, angst, pining/longing, kissing, happyish ending

wc: 1,652

an: i just love the idea of joaquin and his lover being on the opposite side of things or having different morals. idk it makes their love that much better to me 🫶🏾🤭

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The car stops somewhere deep in the Virginia woods—far enough from the base to mean it’s not casual, close enough to mean someone wanted this private but not remote. It has your alarm bells ringing.

You narrow your eyes at Sam through the rearview mirror. “I thought you said this was a tactical meeting.”

“It is,” he says, his voice too casual and smooth. “Tactical for your emotional wellbeing.”

He’s out the car and your door opens before you can snap something back. You step out, instincts sharp even when you’re exhausted. The world around you is quiet, deceptively peaceful. The trees, the sound of wind stirring through the leaves, the birds distant but constant and everything feels still.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t know how to feel still anymore. Not after everything.

You see Joaquin as you keep walking, and all of your practiced cold, all your walls fall away like a sheet of glass hit from the inside.

He’s standing in a clearing, arms crossed, Falcon wings holstered tight to his back. You can’t see his eyes yet, but you know he’s looking at you. You can feel that same raw tension in his gaze, the same pull between you that neither of you can ignore.

You haven’t answered his calls in three weeks, or let him near you since the mission in Turkey went sideways. Since the extraction turned into a bloodbath, bodies hitting the floor from your hands. That’s when the questions started to follow you—yes as always— but him too.

Questions that could ruin everything Joaquin’s shed blood, sweat and tears for.

The second hardest part of all this isn’t having to kill the people that come after you, the people they send to ask questions or torture you. Its the way you saw the fear in Joaquin’s eyes when he realized how far into the dark you were willing to go to protect him, and everyone else. He saw the worst of you. And still…he never wanted to walk away, he never turned away.

The hardest part? Letting him.

Because your file isn’t redacted, you can’t hide in the shadows while living this full life. People know who you are and what you do. You’re a fixer—not in the clean, shiny way that heroes are. You don’t wear the white hat, you don’t dawn the stars and stripes.

You’re someone who does the dirty work when governments, organizations, or even the Avengers themselves need it done. You erase people and trade lives like currency and manipulate systems from the inside out. You’re good at it, but it’s not who you are. At least, not the person you want to be—not when you’ve been given someone like Joaquin by the grace of the universe to stand beside you.

But the world isn’t kind to ghosts, to those who lurk in the shadows. And Joaquin… he’s everything you’re not.

He’s visible. He’s everything that is right and pure and true in the world. People believe in him and they believe in his future. Not in yours, not in the mess that’s followed you around all your life.

“Seriously?” you mutter, glaring at Sam, but he’s already slipping away from you, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Talk to him or don’t. But, if I hear either of you whining and brooding one more time, I’m putting you both in a room with Bucky. You know he’s tryna therapize everybody now that he has a shrink.”

You roll your eyes, but his words sit with you long after Sam disappears back into the trees. Talk to him or don’t…did you truly have a choice? He’s right, neither of you have stopped talking about the other. You turn toward Joaquin, who hasn’t moved an inch.

His face is collected, but it’s not just the expression—it’s the way he stands. There’s an edge to him now, something rough, jagged in his posture that makes your heart tighten.

You don’t give him the chance to speak. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you explain, your voice shaking under the weight of the tension.

Sam must’ve told him about the way you’d broken down earlier in the week, how much of a toll trying to do right by him took on you.

He lets out a dry laugh, one that starts to give away that he’s hurting too. You hear in the way his voice cracks. “You mean seeing you be real? Not that— that machine you become. Not worrying about who you are and who I am, just feeling it?”

You flinch, but he doesn’t look at you with judgment. It’s just the truth in his words—raw and impossible to deny. You’ve always tried to protect him from that. From you.

“I meant what I said, Joaquin,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “You have a future.

“We had a future.”

“Did we? You’re the Falcon– you’re Captain America’s right hand. People need you.”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash as they finally meet yours, the intensity there almost too much to bear. “And you don’t?”

“I’m one person. People believe in you. They trust in you.”

He already has a complicated relationship with the pressure of being a superhero. Could he keep something? Not his privacy or his image but you? Or would living his dream take everything from him?

“And they wouldn’t if they knew that I love you? That you love me too?” he asks, voice quieter but no less fierce.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself trembling under the depth of his words. Your own pour out of you almost frantically. “If they knew what I’ve done? If they knew what I still do? I torture and kill for a living, Joaquin. I’ve crossed lines you can’t even imagine. There’s so much that I can never tell you. If the wrong person finds out about me, about us, everything you’ve worked for could be gone in an instant. Your reputation, your team, your wings, maybe even Sam’s shield. I won’t do that to you.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. Your words hang in the air, unspoken truths that neither of you wants to face.

He doesn’t look angry and he doesn’t look scared either. But he looks tired—in the way people look when they’ve spent too long running from something that was always going to catch up with them.

“I don’t care,” he says finally. The words come out rough, a quiet certainty threading through his voice.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“I said I don’t care what they say,” Joaquín continues, stepping closer. His voice drops lower, each word carrying weight, but with something else behind it—something real. Something charged that makes butterflies swirl in your stomach. “I don’t care about politics, or optics, or keeping it clean for the cameras. I care about you, I love you. What matters more to me is you. Not the job or the title. Not the wings—you.”

Your chest feels tight, the weight of his words pushing you down, making your breath catch.You want to pull away, to let the distance between you both grow to protect him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing there—when he’s been so damn sure about you from the first time he laid eyes on you.

“I’m not good for you,” you whisper brokenly, the vulnerability you’ve been trying to shield yourself from finally breaking through.

“Maybe,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, his voice softer, like he’s holding onto every syllable. “But I want you.”

Before you can respond, he’s there. On you, surrounding you. His lips are on yours, pulling you into a kiss that’s fierce and desperate, raw with need. Your hands find his chest, and then his arms, gripping onto him as if you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. The world around you becomes nothing but noise and movement. The distant rustle of the leaves, the pounding of your heart. The overwhelming rush of warmth, heat, and everything that makes this moment feel like it’s been years in the making.

He presses you against the rough bark of the tree, his body flush against yours, his hands moving over your skin with a care and hunger that makes you ache. His lips leave yours only for a moment, just long enough for him to speak, his breath warm against your ear.

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs.

You don’t know how to respond but you don’t have to because he’s kissing you; no consuming you. The fear in your chest starts to melt into something else—that deep, raw desire that you’ve been trying to bury under the fear of ruining the one pure thing in your life. But the way he’s holding you, the way his fingers press into your chin and throat as he holds you, grounds you—he’s not letting go.

Not of you. Not of any of this. He’ll be damned.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, your voice breathless from the kiss, from how warm his mouth feels as it skates against the skin of your throat.

“I’ll show you how,” Joaquin says, his voice steady, confident between kisses. “One step at a time. Just trust me. You trust me right?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust that I know what I’m doing. Trust that I know I meant to choose you. Can you do that for me?”

You nod and close your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat settle against your own. You don’t think you’re ready for this, for everything that comes with it. But maybe, you can trust him to help you figure it out. Because with him, you’re not a ghost, not just a handler or a murderer or whatever the contract names you to be.

You’re just you. Just his.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @seraphibunni, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

[darthspideys]

Okay but imagine tugging on Curly Haired! Joaquin's hair when he is going down on you and the pussy drunk gaze he gives you as he moans into your pussy

he loves that shit too.

he's been letting his hair grow out. it wasn't on purpose, you saw the way he looked in the mirror, turning his head this way and that as he claimed he should get a haircut. he says it for a while without ever taking any real action. you didn't ask him why he hadn't visited his barber yet. but you might know.

maybe it has something to do with the way you pull and tug on his hair when his head is between your thighs.

he's never told you explicitly, not in that context at least, but you know joaquín loves having your hands in his hair. he likes when you scratch his scalp while he lays in your lap, he loves feeling you twirl dark ringlets around your fingers while he's speaking to you—he's told you both of this before. but you know he loves the way your fingers curl around the hairs at his scalp while he licks and suck at your cunt.

you can tell from the look he wears—lips shining and parted when he comes up for air, cheeks flushed just enough to show, and his deep brown eyes heavy as if he's inebriated. in a way, he is.

he's so reactive when you're holding and guiding him by the reigns. he groans into your cunt when you pull his head up higher, he speaks into you even though you both know his words will be muffled, he nods and hums and moans like he's having an ephemeral experience that he wishes would last forever.

there's some truth there, too. joaquín won't prolong the experience, he hasn't gotten that idea in his head yet, but he'll repeat it as often as possible. even when you've come down and are just getting used to the feeling of your legs taking you from point A to point B, he'll meet you at point B, grin in your face, and hold eye contact as he gets to his knees and pulls one of your legs over his shoulder.

he gives you what you want, and of course you'll give him what he wants, too, already linking your hand in his hair before his knees even hit the floor.

[darthspideys]

Controversial Opinion: When I think of the public Bruce Wayne persona, I don't think flamboyant and spoiled billionaire.

I think of a charming, polite, and well-spoken gentleman who can convince you of the greatness of Gotham's future with a few words. He loves talking about his family, his children more specifically. Seems to be knowledgeable about all sorts of things due to his travels around the globe. Speaks any language you could imagine and his velvety, old-money-accented voice is sure to capture your full interest. Never one to flaunt his wealth shamelessly but also never caught dressed in anything that isn't a tastefully fashionable and carefully curated outfit to bring out his features with matching scents for the occasion. With a few glasses of alcohol, he can get very flirty, but never inappropriately so. If you ask him about his opinion of the Bat, you will find that he does respect the man for all that he's done for Gotham but deeply detests his methods. In general, he seems to be against violence and crime of any kind, including vigilantism. Always one to ramble on and on about all of the future programs he wants to start for the city. His employees never stop praising him for his politeness and generosity, his public appearances at local schools, events, and festivals are always an absolute delight. He exudes elegance and authority you would expect of a Wayne and Gotham loves their prince for it.

To better visualize my vision, here is a short and sweet moodboard:

[darthspideys]

Joaquin’s Dog-tags live rent free in my mind! Like sure I’ve seen Bucky’s before and Sam probably wears his too but seeing Joaquin’s tags bouncing around his chest instantly knocks the wind outta me!

good god imagine them when he's on a run or something. maybe the two of you are at the gym and he's on the treadmill. and the gym is quiet except for the occasional clatter of weights and the low hum of a playlist running through the speakers. you had been minding your own business, seriously! just grabbing your water bottle and cooling down—until you heard it.

that soft, rhythmic clink of metal.

your eyes flicker toward the treadmill, almost on instinct.

joaquín is mid-run, wearing one of his miami hurricanes shirts with the sleeves cut off, the kind that’s cut just right, showing off the sharp lines of his shoulders and the sculpted muscle of his arms. his tan, sun-kissed skin glistens under the fluorescent lights, sweat trailing down his collarbone before disappearing beneath the fabric of his shirt.

but it’s the dog tags that have you hooked.

the way they bounce against his chest, catching the light at just the right angles, clicking against each other in a steady rhythm—shit. you don’t even realize you’re staring until you’re tracing the path from his arms to his shoulders, then down, down, down, and suddenly you’re thinking about other ways you’d like to hear those tags click.

like maybe above you. maybe dangling just over your face while he—

"you good?"

joaquín’s voice pulls you back to earth so fast it almost gives you whiplash. you blink, barely registering that he’s slowed the treadmill down to a steady walk, now turned just enough to glance at you with furrowed brows and that soft, easy concern he always carries.

you nod. too fast. too stiff. because there is absolutely no way you can trust yourself to form actual words right now.

instead, you take the safest possible escape route—tilting your head back, chugging your water, and turning away before he can see the thoughts running through your head.

flustered doesn’t even begin to cover it.

[darthspideys]

DANNY RAMIREZ as JAOQUIN TORRES

The Falcon and The Winter Soldier: A New World Order

[darthspideys]

and if I said sambucky outdoes stucky ??

[darthspideys]

oh Joaquin Torres idea that’s been sitting half finished in my gdocs since 2021 we might be getting back together