#bf!joaquin

[saintbusan]

Not Supposed To

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

🪞Summary:

It started with a kiss in your best friend’s hallway—hot, fast, and cut short.

Now, it’s midnight, and Joaquin is climbing through your window like he hasn’t been able to breathe since.

He says he just wants to talk.

But his hands are already on your waist.

💌 Notes:

This was supposed to be nothing. A kiss. A moment.

But he came back.

And you didn’t tell him to leave.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

[first time doing this be gentle with me]

He was back—through your window again, like kissing you earlier hadn’t been nearly enough.

It started that afternoon at your best friend’s house. Just a moment. A heat-of-the-moment kiss in the hallway that should’ve never happened. But it did—Joaquin’s hands pressing you into the wall, your fingers tangled in his curls, his mouth trailing lower, tasting your skin like he’d been dying to.

You were seconds from giving in—right there, in her house, just down the hall—when you both heard her footsteps.

He pulled away with a whispered curse, breathing hard, pupils blown wide. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. He just slipped out like it never happened, like he wasn’t falling apart inside.

But now? Now he was here.

Climbing into your room at nearly midnight, eyes full of all the things he hadn’t said, wearing the same hoodie he left in—his hands already finding your waist the second his feet hit your floor.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he muttered against your throat, his lips brushing skin, warm and desperate. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and leave me hanging.”

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him either. His mouth. His hands. The way his voice cracked when he whispered your name.

You pulled him down with you onto the bed, and he followed like gravity. Like he had to. His body pressed into yours like he belonged there, like the space between you was a mistake he needed to fix.

His kisses were hungry now—messy and fast and so much. You could barely breathe, but you didn’t want to stop. His mouth moved from yours to your jaw to your neck, sucking, licking, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. It lit him up. He groaned, deep in his chest, like he was trying to memorize that sound.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “That’s what I was thinking about. That sound you made when I kissed you right here…”

He dragged his lips lower, toward your collarbone, fingers already toying with your waistband like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to touch or tease.

You squirmed under him, and he just grinned—messy and cocky and entirely gone for you.

Then he paused.

Just for a second.

His breathing was heavy, hair falling over his forehead as he looked at you from beneath thick lashes. His hand still rested low on your stomach, warm and tense.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice low and wrecked. “’Cause if I don’t, I’m not gonna be able to walk away again.”

You stared back at him, heart hammering.

Then, without a word, you reached for him—fisted your hand in the front of his hoodie—and pulled him down like gravity had nothing on you.

And Joaquin?

He didn’t stop.

[saintbusan]

Need you like that

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

part two of not supposed to

🪞 Summary:

after the late-night window climb, things don’t cool down — they steady into something hotter

a/n: not gonna leave you hanging with joaquin between your thighs like that. this picks up right where we left off — he’s still on top of you, still hungry, and this time? no interruptions. no thoughts just thighs around his shoulders 💌

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

Before Joaquin fingers you, he teases you with your panties still on, pressing against you just enough to make you wetter. Your legs are draped over his shoulders, his head between your thighs, kissing the soft skin and leaving marks you’ll feel tomorrow.

His fingers are busy playing with your folds, slow and patient, while his mouth moves from your inner thighs to your center — leaving hot, desperate kisses on top of the fabric. You’re grinding your cunt on his mouth, chasing friction, clenching around nothing and nearly reaching your high — still completely clothed.

Joaquin feels his boxers tightening, twitching, hard. But he pushes his own need away. His fingers hook under your waistband and slide your underwear down, slow and deliberate — like he’s savoring the reveal. He sheds his boxers too, both of you now bare, flushed and desperate.

And when he finally pushes in, there’s no hesitation. No teasing. He thrusts in fully, all at once — and the moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrollable, like it shocks you more than it shocks him.

He starts kissing your neck, slow and steady, and you tell him not to rush. No fast moves. You want him to take his time — and he listens. Both of your hips roll together in steady motion, finding that rhythm that makes your body hum.

You’re holding onto his biceps, scratching down with your fingernails, marking him up. He’s at your collarbone, pampering it with slow, wet kisses.

To go deeper, he takes your left leg and pushes it up — higher. The new angle lets him hit that spot that pulls another loud moan straight from your chest. Hearing you like that does something to him.

“Fuck, just like that,” he says, voice low in your ear. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He doesn’t overdo it. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

His head rests against your chest, his thrusts getting deeper. You’re barely hanging on, scratching down his back, holding him tighter.

Both of you feel it building — legs twitching, bodies shaking, thrusts becoming quicker. Joaquin picks up the pace, but you tell him to slow down again. You want to feel it all. Every stretch. Every stroke. Every single thrust.

He listens.

And then, one last deep roll — and both of you come, together.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays inside, pulsing, panting. The air is thick with heat and sweat and something unspoken. Your eyes are shut. His lips are leaving soft, feather-light kisses on your chest while your hands crease over his shoulders.

Joaquin moves beside you, one arm sliding under your head as he lays on the pillow. You shift immediately, finding your place against his broad chest — he’s still inside you.

Silence wraps around both of you. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… there.

You don’t say anything, but you both know.

This meant more than it should have.