"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water."
He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.
“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”
word count: 3.3k
warnings/tags: friends to lovers, idiots in love, pining, enhanced!reader with energy manipulation powers, canon level injuries, some angst, fluff, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, pov switches
☆☆☆☆☆☆
“You know, if we don't succeed here, we'll be looking at World War III. I could use a little extra good luck. If you know what I'm sayin’.”
You shift your gaze from the Indian Ocean outside of the jet's window to the man sitting beside you. At first, you question whether or not you heard him correctly. Then, you see the sly smirk on his lips and the glimmer of mischief in his brown eyes and you realize that you had, in fact, heard him correctly.
If you had any doubt about what he meant by a little extra good luck, the look on his face makes it abundantly clear.
Your eyes flicker to his lips for a split-second before you look back out to the endless expanse of blue water surrounding you. God knows that if you stare at him for a moment too long, you might just be weak enough to give in.
It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come dangerously close.
“Good luck, huh? I hope you’ve got a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot stashed somewhere in that suit of yours, then.”
He laughs. The sound fills the jet and for a second, you forget where you are and what all is on the line.
“A thousand four-leaf clovers wouldn’t give me a fraction of the good luck that I’d get from a kis—”
“Landing in five!” Sam calls, effectively breaking the tension in the air. You doubt that it was intentional, but you’re thankful for the interruption nonetheless. As if the list of things on your mind isn’t already a mile long – the last thing you need to add to it right now is kissing Joaquín.
You should be used to it – the flirting and teasing. He hasn’t held back since the moment you met. First, you had assumed it’s just how he is – that he says the same things to any halfway decent looking girl in his age bracket.
Sam had insisted that’s not the case.
Still, past relationship trauma had left you unable to believe that he was being genuine –and unable to believe that any good could come from returning his flirtatious sentiments. Best case scenario, you hook up and relieve the tension that’s been brewing between you for months, things fizzle, and you have to continue to work together while attempting to ignore any awkwardness. Worst case scenario, you let yourself completely fall for him and someone inevitably gets hurt.
This line of work, this lifestyle – it doesn’t mesh well with romantic relationships. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, a few times over.
So, despite the fact that you think he’s annoyingly attractive, you brush off the compliments and cheesy one-liners. You look for every excuse when he tries to spend time with you outside of work and missions, never letting yourself give in even when every fiber of your being is dying to do so.
Like right now. He sits beside you, his arm and thigh brushing against yours. Even through his thick, heavy gear, it sends a shiver up your spine. You resist the urge to grab his hand in yours and tell him that you and Sam have this handled if he wants to help from the sidelines.
You can hear his response as clear as day in your mind. “Keep to the sidelines? And let you and Sam have all the fun? Pshhh. You wish.”
You bite your tongue, afraid to let him know just how much you care. You might not let it show, but you’re more worried for his safety than you are your own.
There’s no chance of him staying on the base while you and Sam potentially risk your lives. But maybe you can at least give him an incentive to keep himself alive.
Joaquín starts to stand when you place a hand on his arm. He freezes, an almost hopeful expression on his face as he looks at you expectantly.
“Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?”
☆☆☆☆☆☆
“Are you listening to a word I say?”
Sam’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You blink rapidly, lubricating your eyes that had been locked on a beeping monitor for an embarrassing amount of time.
“No,” you answer honestly. You glance at him for a brief moment before your eyes are back on the sleeping body a few feet away from you. “Not really. Sorry. What did you say?”
He sighs. He’s trying his hardest to not let it show, but you know that he’s getting a little annoyed with you.
You can’t really find the energy to care. You’re a little annoyed with him, too. He won’t stop tapping his fucking foot against the linoleum floor and the whole room still smells like the Chinese take-out he’d eaten hours ago.
Your stomach growls. Maybe you’re just hangry.
“I said you need to go home,” Sam says in an even tone. “Get a few hours of sleep, take a shower. Eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”
Over the last four days, you’ve spent more time in this hospital room than your own apartment. You’ve only left to go home long enough to shower every other day, and to get gas stations snacks and coffee on occasion. The longest you’d been away from Joaquín’s bedside was yesterday morning, when you went to the Target down the road to put together a get well soon basket for when he wakes up.
Most guests would be asked to leave after standard visiting hours, but you suppose working with Captain America does come with some perks. You suppose it also helps that you were the one who pulled Joaquín from the ocean, flew him to safety, and restarted his heart with your powers while you waited on the emergency medical team to get to you on Celestial Island.
Maybe the hospital staff pities or – or maybe they’re a little scared of you. Either is fine, as long as you aren’t asked to leave for an extended period of time.
You’re hungry, and you need to shower, and a few hours of sleep in an actual bed certainly wouldn’t hurt. But the thought of not being here when he wakes up…
“I’ll call you,” Sam says, as if reading your mind. “I swear. As soon as he wakes up, I’ll let you know.”
You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you just nod. You’ve somehow managed to refrain from crying up until this point, but you’re running on a few hours of sleep and it’s starting to get to you.
Despite the various wounds and bruising across his body, he looks peaceful in his sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you feel yourself relax at the visual reminder that he’s okay. He’s resting, and healing, and he’ll wake when his body is ready.
“Okay,” you whisper as you stand up from the scratchy, old recliner that you have been glued to for the majority of the last few days. “You call me as soon as he opens his eyes.”
Before leaving, you walk to the side of his bed. On the table next to him sits a vase of wildflowers that have already started to wilt, and the basket that you had brought, full of some of his favorite things – beef jerky, Takis, gummy bears – as well as a few personal care items that may be of use for the duration of his hospital stay after waking up – deodorant, a toothbrush and travel sized toothpaste, and the biggest stainless steel tumbler that you could find.
In the middle of the basket sits a small, plush falcon. You hadn’t even been looking for it when it caught your eye in the store, but you immediately knew you had to get it for him. Seeing it had felt like a sign that everything is going to be okay.
You remove the stuffed bird from the basket and tuck it between his side and his arm before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to the center of his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve touched him since the accident, and you’re reluctant to pull away.
Your eyes sting with all of the emotions that you’ve been holding inside for days. You don’t look back at Sam or say another word as you walk out of the room, hoping with everything in you that the next time you walk into this room, he greets you with one of his obnoxiously perfect smiles and a corny pick-up line.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
The first thing Joaquín hears is the low, repetitive beeping of a monitor. When he opens his eyes, he’s momentarily blinded by violent, early morning sunlight creeping through the blind slats.
“Well, well, well. How nice of you to decide to join the living today, Sleeping Beauty.”
He recognizes Sam’s voice a second before he sees him. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, he looks like he could use some sleep, himself.
All at once, images of the moments leading up to him plummeting into the ocean come flooding back. He remembers Sam yelling at him to back off from the last missile, the missile firing right at him, and then nose-diving into the ocean as you shriek his name.
You.
His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for any sign of you. His heartrate spikes on the monitor. Sam jumps up, rushing over to his side.
“What – where is she – is she okay?”
God, his throat is painfully dry. How long has he been unconscious?
“Easy, easy,” Sam soothes as he takes a seat at the foot of the hospital bed. “She is fine. She was unharmed and has hardly left your side in five days. It was like pulling teeth just to convince her to go home for the night. Made me promise to call her the second you woke up.”
At first, he assumes Sam is just messing with him. You have hardly left his side? You, the same person who has rejected every one of his advances for nearly a year?
“You’re being serious? She’s been here?” He asks in disbelief.
“Oh, yeah,” Sam exhales. “She’s been a mess, man. I don’t know how much you remember, but…” He trails off, avoiding Joaquín’s gaze.
“She’s the one who pulled you from that water. By the time she flew you somewhere safe, you weren’t breathing. She had to restart your heart with her powers until the medical team got to you.”
He can tell by Sam’s demeanor that he isn’t joking around, but he still struggles to wrap his head around it all. He had fucking died? His heart stopped, and you’re the reason that he’s alive? And you stayed with him while he’s been recovering?
Then, he remembers the last words you said to him before arriving on Celestial Island.
Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?
He isn’t sure if you really spoke those words, or if it’s some false memory that his subconscious conjured to keep him holding on while on the brink of death.
If it’s the latter, it worked. If it’s the former, and you really did say that, he supposes that offer is probably off the table since he technically did die.
Damn it.
Joaquín attempts to sit up and becomes aware of two things at once – he feels like he has been repeatedly ran over by a bus, and there's something fuzzy tickling his arm.
“What the hell…”
He picks up the small, stuffed falcon and can’t help but smile at it. “You shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, tossing the bird at Sam.
He catches it, smirking. “Oh, I didn’t.”
Sam gestures towards the table beside Joaquín. He follows his gaze, noticing the dying flowers and basket stuffed full of various snacks and self-care items. Whoever chose the contents of the basket, knows him well. He could live off of beef jerky if he had to, and gummy bears are his favorite.
“Who..?” Joaquín asks, trying not to get his hopes up that it could be from the person he most wants it to be from – the person who apparently saved his life.
“Take a guess,” Sam jabs as he tosses the stuffed animal back to Joaquín.
For a second, he thinks his heart just might stop again. He pictures you picking out the items and he has to shake his head to keep himself from grinning too big.
“Man, if I knew that all I had to do was die to get her attention, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.”
Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just don’t go making a habit of it, okay? I don’t know if she would forgive you if you did it again.”
Sam then pulls out his cell phone, excusing himself from the room to give you a call and to get Joaquin’s nurse. Once he’s alone, Joaquín fights against all of the stiffness in his body to reach for the basket sitting on the bedside table. In addition to all of the other goodies, there’s a card tucked between a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a bag of Takis.
It isn’t in an envelope. He instantly snorts at the image on the front of the card – it’s a cartoon dog wearing a cone collar with a dejected expression. In bold print, it reads: At least you don’t have to wear a cone.
He opens the card, and immediately recognizes your handwriting.
I specifically remember asking you to not die. Guess you were right about that good luck kiss, after all. I'll remember that next time.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
The simultaneous dread and relief that you feel when you see Sam’s name pop up on your phone can’t be described in words. Dread at the mere possibility of bad news. Relief that it could be what you’ve been hoping to hear for days.
As soon as you hear him say that Joaquín is awake, you’re jumping out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. You don’t think about taking the time to eat any breakfast or even make yourself a cup of coffee – you just throw on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and you’re out the door.
The short drive to the hospital is spent talking to yourself about what you're even going to say to him. How are things supposed to just go back to normal between the two of after something like this? After it felt like your heart stopped when his did? Do you even want things to go back to normal?
You knew you’d feel relieved to see him awake, but you don’t expect the overwhelming rush of emotions that comes over you as soon as you hear his voice murmur your name.
He's sitting up in his bed, holding the stuffed falcon that you’d given him and smiling at you like you hung the moon and stars as soon as you walk through the door.
That’s when you know the answer to your question – no, you don’t want things to go back to normal between you. With the way that you feel your heart in your throat, you don't think that’s a possibility, anyway.
“This little guy was a nice surprise to wake up to, you know. Kind of wish it had been you, but he’s cute, too.”
You no longer attempt to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for the last five days. You sit on the edge of his bed, directly beside his thigh and meagerly wipe the teardrops that leak down both of your cheeks.
“Hey, hey,” His demeanor completely shifts when he realizes that you’re crying. He leans in closer and pulls you to him. You sob against his chest, and he runs a large hand up and down your back. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. It's gonna take more than a missile or two to take me out.”
You nod against his chest, but don’t pull away. He continues to massage your back as you attempt to calm down, focusing on the feeling of him against you. When you finally lean back, he wipes a lingering tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you from that water.”
He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.
“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”
You exhale, finally letting yourself return his cheeky grin. The teasing remark makes you feel the happiest you have in days.
“Leave it to you to find a way to flirt when we are having a conversation about your death.”
“I know, I know,” he sighs, his expression suddenly turning more serious. “I do have a question, though.”
You tilt your head in curiosity.
“When you brought me back to life, was it like a mouth to mouth type thing? Or..?”
You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him back against his pillows. He cackles, his cheeks turning pink. He pulls you back to him, this time even closer than before. You can smell mint on his breath from the toothpaste you’d put in his get well soon basket.
“No. Thought I’d save that for when you’re awake.”
He places his hands on your sides, the light touches sending a thrill through you. The normally chilly hospital room suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.
“Are you sure?” He murmurs. “I don’t want you to think that you.. owe me anything, or have to kiss me just because of what happened—”
You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking.
“Joaquín,” you interrupt him softly. “I’ve been stupid. So, so stupid and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that it took something like this for me to open my eyes to what’s been right in front of me this whole time. I knew that if I let myself want more, if I let myself give in, that’d be it for me. And that terrified me. But I don’t care anymore. I’m more terrified of never getting the chance to—”
Suddenly, his hands move from your hips to either side of your face. He pulls you the remainder of the short distance to him, and then his lips are against yours; effectively ending your rambling.
One of your hands cups the nape of his neck, your fingers intertwined in his soft curls. His tongue ghosts along your bottom lip and you eagerly part them for him. The sounds from various machines and the voices out in the hallway all fade to white noise as he moves his lips with yours.
He's gentle. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still relatively bedridden, but he touches you like he’s touching fine, breakable China. There’s an underlying urgency, like he’s scared he’s dreaming and wants to savor this as much as possible before he opens his eyes.
You pull away with a gentle tug of his bottom lip between your teeth. He doesn’t drop his hands from caressing your face, and your rest your forehead against his, basking in the afterglow of a kiss long overdue.
“Damn,” he breathes. “Please tell me we can do that again, minus all of the months of rejection and the close call with death.”
You laugh. “I can promise you no more rejection, but you have to promise me no more close calls with death.”
A gentle stroke of his thumb across your cheekbone sends goosebumps down your spine. “I promise, mi vida. I’ve been waiting too long for this. There’s no getting rid of me now.”
☆☆☆☆☆☆
mi vida: spanish for "my life"
thank you so much for reading!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡
my first joaquin fic! he is my sweet cheese. if you want to see more of him from me, please let me know in the comments or drop me an ask 🥰
WARNINGS/TAGS:
explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), no use of y/n, coworkers to lovers, phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, mentions of choking and face sitting, pet names.
Your phone lights up with a text, dragging your attention away from your laptop perched on your thighs. You reach for it on your nightstand and see Joaquin’s name, your stomach fluttering for a brief moment before you bury the reaction in your mind.
It wasn’t unusual for him to text you outside of work. Sometimes it’s work related — he’ll message you when he’s thought of something he wants you to research for his next mission with Sam or when he has a suggestion for your programming that he doesn’t want to forget. Other times, he’ll send you a funny video or a recipe he thinks you’ll like. He’s your coworker but he’s also become what you would consider a friend over the six months you’ve been working with him and Sam Wilson as part of Captain America’s growing team.
A friend that makes your heart race a little bit when you see him. It’s fine, you have it under control. You are the picture of professionalism.
You swipe open the text and nearly drop your phone in surprise because there, on your screen, is a shirtless photo of Joaquin.
He’s standing in front of a mirror in a locker room, probably at the gym, his phone held up in one hand to take the picture while the other lifts his shirt, exposing his toned stomach and chest that glistens with sweat. He’s smiling, all perfect white teeth and boyish charm that makes your pulse flutter, even through a screen. Another couple messages come through while you’re too busy drooling over the photo.
I’m so sorry, the first text reads.
I didn’t mean to send that to you.
Pretend you never saw that.
You frown, an unbidden wave of jealousy coursing through you at the thought of him sending the picture to someone else. Despite the logical part of your brain screaming at you to stop, you quickly type out the first thing that comes to mind.
That’s too bad.
You hit send and your flash of jealousy shifts into overwhelming anxiety. You tap the phone against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut, regretting your decision immediately.
In the midst of your moment of self-loathing, your phone rings. You panic when you see Joaquin’s name scroll across the screen and consider flinging the phone across the room in the hopes that it shatters in a million pieces and you can forget this ever happened.
But you’re an adult and despite feeling like you’re going to combust from embarrassment, you slide your thumb across the screen to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“What did you mean by that?” Joaquin immediately asks.
“Mean by what?” You reply. He chuckles, the sound low and gritty in your ear. You swallow nervously.
“‘That’s too bad’,” he quotes, poorly mimicking your voice.
You frown. “I don’t sound like that.”
“You’re deflecting,” he says. “Answer the question.”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
“No way. Not happening.”
You groan. “Why? I’ll forget about the unsolicited shirtless picture if you forget about my poor attempt at flirting.”
“So you were flirting,” he says. You can practically hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice. “Interesting.”
There’s a brief silence and you consider using it to hang up and fake your death so that you never have to look Joaquin in the eye again but before you can do that, he says something that you don’t quite catch.
“What?”
“I said,” he repeats, “What are you wearing?”
Your mouth opens and shuts as you struggle to find the words to respond. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m being very serious right now,” he says. “I’m shirtless, by the way. I’ve got on some grey sweatpants, though. You know the type.”
“Joaquin—“
“Look, we don’t have to,” he assures you, “but I’m open to it, if you are.”
“What if it makes work awkward?” You ask, despite the growing ache between your thighs.
“I promise it won’t, baby.” The way the endearment is said so easily makes your head spin. “But like I said, if you don’t—“
“Just a t-shirt and underwear,” you say quickly, squeezing your eyes shut. “That’s uh…that’s what I’m wearing.”
“Send me a picture,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You know me, I’m a visual learner.”
“Okay, give me a second.”
You set your laptop to the side and throw your covers off, slipping out of bed and crossing the room to turn the lights on. You look around your room, considering where to take the photo, and settle for the full length mirror propped in the corner.
Sinking to your knees, you sit back on your heels and spread your legs a little in a pose that makes your t-shirt gather at top of your thighs, exposing your underwear. You open your camera, playing with the angle a bit before finally taking the picture and sending it to him.
You lift your phone to your ear at the same moment Joaquin groans your name. The sound makes your mouth go dry.
“Now what?” You ask, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
“You ever done this before?”
“Not really,” you admit with a nervous laugh. “Have you?”
“A few times. You learn to get creative during deployments.” There’s a pause and you can hear the rustle of fabric on the other end of the line before he adds, “You want me to take the lead?”
“Y-Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”
“I thought you would,” he murmurs, low and dangerous. “Get comfortable for me.”
“Okay.” You climb back in bed, lying on your back, holding the phone to your ear. “I’m in bed.”
“I want you to put the phone on speaker and set it next to you,” he says. “You’re going to need both hands for what I want you to do.” You do as he says, placing your phone on your other pillow. “Take your shirt off.”
“Jesus,” you mumble, your face growing hot. You lift your shirt up, the fabric bunching under your arms. Cold air hits your skin and makes your nipples tighten. “Okay, it’s off.”
“Good girl.” Your breath hitches and a wave of arousal washes over you at the praise. “Touch yourself. Start just above those cute panties and work your way up to your neck, nice and slow.”
You close your eyes and rest your hands on your stomach, taking a deep breath before you start to gently drag your hands upward. You keep the touch light, the barest whisper of your fingertips over your skin.
“How’s it feel?” Joaquin asks, voice low beside your head. With your eyes closed, you can almost imagine him there, that it’s his hands on your body.
“Good,” you whisper. “Feels good.”
“You want more?”
“Y-Yeah.”
“Tease your nipples for me, baby. Give ‘em a little pinch.” You pinch both nipples, the sensation making you hiss. “A little pain feels good, huh?” You hum your agreement. “Do it again. Harder.” Your back arches off the bed and you whimper, clenching your thighs together. Joaquin groans.
“Are you always this sensitive or am I just lucky?” You grasp one of your breasts, massaging it roughly, eyelids fluttering at the teasing tone of his voice. “Answer me.”
“‘I’m just sensitive,” you manage to reply through gritted teeth.
“Yeah? Could I make you come just by playing with your nipples?” You gasp.
“N-No,” you stutter. “Need more.”
“I can give you more, baby,” he says. “Reach a hand down to your pussy and tell me if she’s nice and wet.”
You slip your fingers beneath the elastic of your underwear, dragging them through the slick mess that’s gathered between your thighs. The friction against your clit makes you moan.
“‘M so wet,” you tell him.
“Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s steadying himself. “Put your fingers in your mouth.”
You lift your sticky fingers to your lips, sucking them into your mouth, groaning at the taste of yourself. Joaquin’s breathing grows ragged on the other end of the line and you can hear the faint sound of skin against skin over his breaths.
“Are you touching yourself?” You ask.
“‘Course I am,” he says, voice strained. “You think I’d just sit here, doing nothing when you sound like that?” He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, immediately adding, “Get your panties off and spread your legs.”
You move quickly, shoving your underwear down your legs and kicking them off, losing them somewhere in your sheets. Your thighs are sticky and your skin is hot, making you squirm. The earlier hesitancy you felt has pretty much disappeared, replaced with the slow burn of arousal in your veins.
“Touch yourself for me,” he demands. “Tell me how you like it.”
“I like to start slow,” you tell him. “Like I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Mm,” he hums. “I can do slow. I’m real patient.”
Your answering laugh is a little breathless. “No, you’re not.”
“I could drag this out for hours, sweetheart. Just say the word.”
You whine, back arching from the bed as you circle your fingers over your clit.
“I don’t think you want that, though,” he continues. “Sounds like you’re already almost there. Just from being told what to do, huh?”
“Joaquin—“
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. You close your eyes, picturing him in bed, sweatpants shoved down his thighs and one of his strong hands wrapped around his leaking cock. “Say it again.”
“Joaquin,” you moan, moving your fingers faster. You dip your index finger inside of you, clenching around it. “God, I wish—“
“Wish what?” He asks quickly, a little breathless. “Tell me.”
“Wish you were here.” You add a second finger, keening at the slight stretch.
“You’d let me between those pretty thighs, right?” You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Bet you taste so fuckin’ good.”
You slow your fingers, just enough to drag you back from the edge you’d been balancing on. “I want that.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles. “Want my tongue so deep in your pussy you can’t think straight?”
“Jesus,” you groan, speeding up again. “Yeah, yes, please.”
“I’d have you sit on my face,” he says, voice strained, “hands on the headboard, riding my tongue until you come all over me.”
You have to stop, squeezing your legs shut and trapping your hand between your thighs.
“Then, I’d get you on your back,” he continues, “‘Cause I wanna see your pretty face when you come on my cock.”
You circle your clit again, a shiver running down your spine. “How would you fuck me, Joaquin?”
“You said you like it slow, baby.”
“What if I don’t want to go slow anymore?”
“Yeah?” The sounds from his end of the line are obscene, slick skin and quick breaths and the sound of your name murmured like a prayer. “How do you want it then? Tell me.”
“Hard,” you tell him. “Fast.” You sink two fingers into your cunt, setting the pace you’re describing. “Deep.”
“Fuck—“
“And I want your hand on my throat,” you add. His breath hitches.
“You want me to choke you?” He asks. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
You hum, chasing your fingers with your hips, eyes shutting as the wave of release starts to build again. “Not hard. I just want to feel—“
“Like you’re mine,” he finishes. “All mine, right?”
“Yes,” you moan. “All yours.”
“Fuck,” he groans. “I need you to come.”
“I’m so close—“
“Come for me, baby.”
The wave crashes, rolling through you from the top of your head to your toes, your muscles tightening and your pussy pulsing around your fingers as you come. Sweat begins to cool on your skin while you try to catch your breath.
“You okay?” Joaquin asks. You pick up the phone, switching the speaker off and holding it to your ear.
“Yeah,” you murmur. Some of that earlier anxiety returns, making your stomach sour. “Uh, are you…okay?”
“I’ve never been better,” he says. You press your lips together.
“Good. That’s…uh…good.”
“You’re overthinking. Quit it.”
“I’m not!”
He huffs a laugh and says, “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”
“Like a date?” You ask.
“Exactly like a date. I’ll even wear that one cologne you like.”
You blink. “How did you—“
“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he teases. “So, six o’ clock?”
“That works for me.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Sweet dreams, baby.”
The call ends. You sit up slowly and make your way to the bathroom for a shower. When you’re done, there’s a new message waiting for you.
Hello everyone! Our September Scribbles was such a success that we wanted to do another event and what better time than the New Year to dust off those cobwebs and hopefully get those juices flowing?
The concept is the same as before:
- Every day will have an allocated prompt (a song lyric, quote or spicy line)
- The goal is to write a 300 word max snippet (including the prompt)
- You have until the end of the day in your own time zone to complete and submit
- If you don’t like the prompt for a certain day there are options to swap out
Rules / Guidelines:
- The final day for submissions is February First (end of the day in your time zone). Please be aware that any entries after this will not be added to our event masterlist.
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- Please use the tag #JanuaryJumbleScribbles (NO SPACES) - so we can find your creations. Please do not use the tag after the event has ended.
- Please use the appropriate warnings for explicit / non con / triggers etc (NO INCEST, UNDERAGED, BESTIALITY OR NECROPHILIA)
- Any 18+ entries must be posted by an 18+ listed blog to be included
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- The possibilities are ENDLESS. So please feel free to submit whatever fandom, pairing or tone (smut, fluff or angst) you imagine!
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Jan 1 “Oh what are you doing here? The sun is up!”
Jan 2 Where worlds collide and days are dark
Jan 3 “You make it very hard to think.”
Jan 4 “Here’s another curse. May all your bacon burn.”
Jan 5 "I’ve had bigger thrills leaning up against my dryer"
Jan 6 “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Jan 7 Do you love me now that I can dance?
Jan 8 “Where the fuck is the fucking tuna?”
Jan 9 You don’t see stars here, they’re just city lights
Jan 10 “I never disrobe before a gunfight.”
Jan 11 “You let me do this every time.”
Jan 12 Let them say we’re crazy, what do they know
Jan 13 Arm yourself because no one else here will save you.
Jan 14 Am I noble enough for you now
Jan 15 “You’re not as quiet as you think.”
Jan 16 But it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then
Jan 17 “Captain, if I’m shooting I’m emptying the whole gat.”
Jan 18 “You started this.”
Jan 19 Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood
Jan 20 “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.”
Jan 21 They just said get up there and make some trouble.”
Jan 22 “I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth.”
Jan 23 You don’t surrender when you still got one bullet left
Jan 24 “Don’t move. I want to feel this.”
Jan 25 Some people call me the space cowboy.
Jan 26 “Every sound you make is making this worse.”
Jan 27 I’m open to that in a safer environment.
Jan 28 “I actually watch her back and not her backside.”
Jan 29 “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you… slowly.”
Jan 30 Do you believe in life after love?
Jan 31 “I said behave… not that I expected you to listen.”
Alternatives for swapping
I'll be stronger in your eyes than I could ever be in my own.
“How could something so real be so quickly erased?”
“You behave so much better when I have my hands on you.”
I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.
Can I Sleep With You Part 2 | Joaquin Torres x Reader
Summary: Since coming out of hospital Joaquin hasn’t slept well, he’s hoping sleeping next you will help.
Warnings: fluff, mentions of drowning/injuries, ptsd if you’re reading between the lines
Word Count: 1k-ish?
A/N: I feel like I’ve been neglecting you guys so thought I’d do one of my 2am quick one shots with Joaquin. I say one shot but it’s also a call back to another short I wrote with the same prompt except this time it’s Joaquin who can’t sleep and is coming to you. I know this is bread crumbs, I’ve been a busy bee and my writing has taken a backseat lately/I’ve been writing stuff for other hyperfixation characters but not actually finishing anything. Hopefully I have something proper to feed you guys with soon.
As he stands outside your door his heart is racing. His knuckles hesitate before knocking because it’s late and you’re probably already asleep and this is so very stupid. He feels very stupid. But ever since he came out of the hospital he hasn’t been able to sleep. It was okay at first because the drugs made him drowsy. But they were wearing off now. The doctors were weaning him off them.
‘Fuck’ Joaquin muttered to himself before he finally mustered the courage to just knock.
It’s silent at first on the other side of the door, so he tries again, this time knocking a little louder, his sleep deprived desperation taking over. It takes a moment, but this time he can hear the heavy thuds of your feet moving towards the door.
The second he sees you he feels like this is a mistake. You’re in a tank top and a pair of pyjama shorts that are both riding up on one side, a small slither of your mid riff becoming exposed. Your hair is sticks up slightly where it’s been rubbing against your pillow and you have the softest most innocent and sleepy look on your face as you rub them awake and stare up at him.
“Joaquin?” You question, your voice a little hoarse from misuse. It takes you a second, but you suddenly become alert, because why else would he be knocking on your door in the middle of the night if it wasn’t an emergency. He immediately feels guilty. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You say to him, your eyes now wide awake, no doubt a flood of adrenaline coursing through your body.
He can’t speak. His tongue feels numb. How the hell is he supposed to tell you he can’t sleep. That’s it. No emergency, just he can’t sleep.
“Joaquin?” You press him, your voice growing soft with worry as you search the sorrowful look on his face for all the answers he won’t say.
“I- uh- I can’t sleep,” he finally stammers, his eyes now looking at the floor instead of you.
“What?”
“I can’t sleep,” he says again, clearer this time, his eyes finally meeting yours now the worst part was out the way.
You don’t respond right away, like your brain is still processing his words. He uses the silence to fill in the extra information you’re missing.
“Ever since I got out the hospital, I’ve not been able to sleep,” he continues his confession. “My room is too quiet. When I was in the hospital I had all the noise to distract me, but here. In my room… it’s too quiet. There’s no distraction. Every time I try to close my eyes and go to sleep, I’m back in the water. My suit weighting me down.” He doesn’t say drowning, but you know.
He had told you when you’d visited him in the hospital. He had blacked out when the missile exploded. Was shocked back into consciousness the second he hit the cold water. But then his suit had hindered his movement in the water, the damage on it making parts rub and grind together in ways they hadn’t before. The damaged wings weighed him down, pulling him below the surface and with his injuries, there was nothing he could do.
“Can I sleep with you?” he finally asked.
You didn’t need to think about it. Of course he could. You’d been there before. Knew how comforting it was to have the energy of someone else beside you that you trusted to make you feel safe. To be there when you woke from the nightmares. To regulate your breathing. To match their breaths as their chest rose and fell. To feel their heart beat beneath their skin and know you were okay. That you would be okay.
As you climbed back into bed, you heard him shuffle around in the dark until he could climb in on the other side.
“Just nudge me if I snore,” you joked with him.
“No chance,” he quipped.
At first he continued to feel guilty, cortisol rushing his body with every move and shuffle of his body as he tried to get comfortable. Fear pulsing through him, feeling like he was disturbing your rest. But then he turned towards you. Not quite close enough to be the big spoon, but close enough that when he rested his hand on the mattress, he could feel the warmth of your body. He could hear your steady heavy breathes, could see your body shift slightly in the barely there light in the room.
He breathed in deeply through his nose, the smell of your shampoo flooding his nostrils, the scent of your body lotion mixing together in the air between you. Gradually he felt his body growing heavier, his eyes becoming drowsier. Until finally, nestled in the safety of your bedroom, he fell asleep.
here is my first ever joaquín torres x reader i have been wanting to write him for such a long time and lowkey knew i was never gonna get a request for him and like idk i just love him and i love danny ramirez like so much okay bye this is so long and i actually edited it before posting and me rehuso has been on repeat i dont speak a lick of spanish i did my best i love you all sm sm sm sm sm
edit (7/7/25): i have seen a few people complain that this made them cry/sad and i’m telling you that wasn’t intentional!! it was supposed to be hopeful!!! like!!! yes the hotel door closed but the metaphorical door didn’t close and it never will!!!
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WC: 8.0k
Summary: It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.
Warnings: 18+, soft smut, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving, bc danny joaquín is a munch) hurt/comfort, angst, yearning, exes to something, unresolved tension, literally who can resist a man in uniform especially when he looks like THAT?
Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader
It’s been a while since you were back in D.C., long enough that the city feels both familiar and hollow. The air still clings the same way in summer, heavy and wet and full of car exhaust and carryout, and your body still remembers how to move through it without thinking. Your favorite coffee place is now a nail salon. Your old apartment has new curtains in the window. Everything’s a little different, just enough to remind you that you’re not supposed to be here.
You told yourself it was just a work trip. Nothing more. The kind of thing that comes with a company-paid hotel and a packed schedule and no time for nostalgia. In and out. A few handshakes, a few slide decks, then gone. That was the plan. But then Carla texted. Just a backyard thing, she said. Nothing fancy. Some old friends, some new ones, grill’s at six. You almost said no. You typed out the whole excuse before deleting it. Then you said sure. Maybe. Let me see how I feel.
You didn’t ask who’d be there. You didn’t have to.
Now the sun’s starting to dip and you’re still standing in front of the mirror in your hotel bathroom, brushing your fingers through your hair like it’ll make a difference. You’ve changed twice. You’re not dressed up, not really, but you still keep looking at yourself like you’re trying to find a version of you that won’t care if he shows up.
It ended quietly, the two of you. No real goodbye. Just a slow fade, a handful of unanswered texts, and too much space that neither of you tried hard enough to close. Maybe you were scared. Maybe he was. Maybe you thought you were doing him a favor. You told yourself if you let it go, he’d be free to move on. You told yourself it was kind.
But then the wrong song comes on in an Uber, or someone laughs like he used to, and the kindness feels like a lie. You still think about texting him sometimes. Just to see. Just to know.
You don’t know if he’ll be there tonight. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he is.
The Uber drops you two houses too early and you walk the rest of the way just to shake off the nerves. You tell yourself it’s because you need the steps, that you want to smell the jasmine creeping up the fences, not because your stomach’s doing that thing where it folds in on itself every time you think about seeing him again.
Carla’s backyard is already alive when you push open the side gate. Laughter spilling over the fence. A bluetooth speaker tucked into the windowsill playing something rhythmic and low. You step in and it’s like falling into an old dream—plastic cups, half-melted ice in coolers, the smoke of something charred and probably edible curling up into the trees. You recognize a few faces. You smile like it’s easy.
Carla pulls you into a hug almost immediately, smelling like sunscreen and perfume, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other. She says you look good. Says she missed you. Says she’s glad you came. She doesn’t mention Joaquín, which means she’s definitely thinking about it. You don’t ask. You just smile and say thanks and let yourself be folded into the scene.
Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks where you’ve been hiding. You give vague answers. Keep it light. You stay by the edge of things, near the folding table with the snacks and the half-full bottle of tequila. You sip slowly and pretend you’re not listening for his voice. You’re fine. You’re just here for a little while. You’re not hoping for anything.
It’s easy to pretend when he isn’t there.
For now, you settle into the kind of easy conversation that doesn’t ask too much. You laugh when someone tells a bad joke. You flip through the playlist on your phone when the music hiccups. You don’t check the gate. You don’t look toward the street. You’re not waiting.
Except you are. Obviously you are.
You hear him before you see him.
Just a burst of conversation over the music, his voice cutting through in that same warm, slightly-too-loud way. There’s a laugh, too, familiar and unfiltered, like nothing’s changed, like he’s still the kind of person who laughs with his whole chest and doesn’t care who hears it.
Your spine locks. You don’t even think—just set your cup down and slip through the sliding door into the house like you’re looking for something, like you had any reason to be inside at all.
You find the bathroom at the end of the hall and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the sink. The light overhead hums a little. The faucet drips once. Twice. Your reflection doesn’t look panicked, but your chest feels tight in that old way it used to, back when things were still fragile and good and you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You don’t know what you thought would happen. That he wouldn’t come? That you could handle it if he did? You breathe in. Out. Again.
There’s a little window cracked above the mirror, and the sounds of the party filter in through the screen—muffled chatter, a cheer over something, the tail end of a beat you half-recognize. You think you hear his voice again, but it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what he looks like right now. You don’t know if he’s alone. You don’t know if he’s happy.
You press your fingertips to your lips. They’re dry. You should leave. You should walk out the front door and call another ride and go back to your hotel and tell Carla you weren’t feeling well. That it was nice to see everyone. That it had nothing to do with him. But you don’t.
Instead, you run cold water over your hands. You shake them off. You adjust yourself in the mirror, like that’s going to fix anything. You open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway, heartbeat loud in your ears. The house is empty, quiet in that way people’s homes get when everyone’s outside. You linger by the kitchen counter for a second, pretending to look for a napkin or something else stupid and delaying. Your hands feel weird. Too cold. Too warm. You’re not thinking, just moving.
The sliding door is half-open when you return to the backyard. You step through without looking, eyes on the ground, on the uneven concrete, on anything but what’s ahead of you. The sounds of the party rush back in all at once—music, laughter, someone yelling about overcooked burgers. You take one deep breath, steady and careful, and look up.
And he’s right there. Close. Too close. You barely register it before your shoulder brushes his chest and you jolt back a step, instinctively.
“Shit—sorry,” you say.
He blinks, startled. Then his eyes focus on you, and something flickers across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something else behind it that you can’t name.
You haven’t seen him in six months but it still hits you like a punch how easy it is to remember everything about him in half a second. His curls are longer. He’s tanner. His shirt fits like it always did, too well. And his eyes—those eyes—are still just as warm and dangerous and annoyingly kind.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He beats you to it.
“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.
There’s a plastic cup in his hand and a backwards snapback on his head and he looks so much like the last summer you spent together it makes your stomach twist.
You nod once, shallow. “Hey.”
A beat passes. Then another. He doesn’t smile like he used to. You step aside to let him through. He steps in the same direction. You both pause.
You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny.
“Sorry,” you say again, quieter.
He just shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”
But you are. Not just for bumping into him. For all of it.
You move to step around him again but he doesn’t quite move and you both end up doing that dumb side-to-side shuffle that makes you want to crawl into the grass and disappear. His hand brushes your arm and he pulls it back like it burned him.
“Wow,” he says. “We’re still great at this.”
You huff out something that might be a laugh. “Some things never change.”
He nods, a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Like my ability to embarrass myself instantly.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Pretty sure that was me.”
He makes a face like he’s weighing it out. “Okay, yeah, but I leaned into it with the whole—” He gestures vaguely, reenacting the world’s worst sidestep. “You know. That.”
You almost smile. He looks the same and not the same, older in a way you can’t quite define. Tired around the edges. But his voice is still warm and clumsy in the way you remember, like every word came out just a little faster than he meant it to.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say finally.
“Yeah, me neither. Carla sent me like three texts with a lot of emojis. Felt like a trap but I came anyway.” He takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “Did not realize I was walking into a... potential ex reunion arc.”
You glance down at your shoes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says too quickly. “It’s cool. I mean, I— I’m cool. Are you cool? You look... like you’re doing good.”
You look up. He’s watching you too closely, but when you meet his eyes, he glances away like he got caught.
“I’m fine,” you say. “You?”
He shrugs. “Still breathing. Still bad at parties. Still get sunburned even if I wear SPF 50, which feels like a personal attack from the sun. So. Yeah. Nothing new.”
You snort, and his eyes flick back to yours like he wants to hold onto the sound.
Another beat passes. He shifts his weight. You can tell he doesn’t know whether to keep talking or bail.
“So,” he says, tilting his cup a little. “You just visiting?”
You nod. “Work thing.”
“Ah.” He nods too, like that’s a safe word. “Short trip?”
“Four days.”
“That’s... not long.”
“Nope.”
Silence again. Not cold, just full.
He taps the side of his cup. “Cool. Well. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the grill. “Go stand somewhere else and say more dumb things over there now.”
You nod, but don’t move.
He takes a step back, then pauses. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”
You open your mouth, but he’s already turning.
You stay where you are for a minute after he walks away, half-wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Your hand finds your drink again. The condensation soaks into your palm and gives you something to focus on. He’s good at that, still — coming in like a wave and leaving you standing in the shallows, blinking at the water in your lungs.
The party goes on. Carla brings out skewers and people cheer like she just cured a disease. The music skips to something poppy and too fast. You sink into a patch of lawn chair conversation about travel plans and bad dates, your laugh coming a beat late every time. It’s not that you’re not present. It’s just that you know exactly where he is.
You don’t look for him, not really. But your eyes still flick to the side yard when the wind shifts. You still notice when someone tosses a beer in his direction. You still feel it when he laughs again across the lawn — quieter this time, like he’s trying not to be obvious.
He doesn’t come back over, but he doesn’t stay far either. At one point, he ends up helping someone carry drinks from the kitchen and passes right behind you. You feel the shape of him before you see him, tall and warm and barely there. You don’t turn, but your skin lights up anyway.
A while later, Carla corners you with her signature third-drink grin and a plastic cup of mystery juice.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says, and it sounds a little too loaded.
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s nice. Really.”
She hums, unconvinced. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She glances across the yard. You don’t follow her gaze.
“Right,” she says. “Well. If you’re not fine later, extra tequila’s under the table.”
Someone pulls her away before she can say anything else. You take a sip of your drink and immediately regret it. It tastes like melted candy and mistakes.
The sun sinks a little lower. The bugs start to swarm the citronella candles. There’s a soft hum of maybe-it’s-time-to-go from a few corners of the yard, but no one’s actually moving. You think about leaving. You also think about staying. You think about the way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to smile or break. You think about that little pause before he walked away.
You don’t notice the memory at first. It just edges in under your skin, like heat from the sun you didn’t realize was still there. It’s the smell of the grill and citronella, the sound of someone laughing in a way that’s too full, too familiar, too much like then. You blink, and you’re not in Carla’s backyard anymore.
You’re back in his apartment. The lights are off except for the one over the stove, casting this soft yellow wash across the living room. It’s too warm, too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s only possible when you know someone down to their breathing.
He’s on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn next to him. You’re stretched out behind him, sideways on the couch, one leg draped over his shoulder, the other tucked under you. He’s warm against your thigh and keeps muttering that your toes are freezing.
“You look cozy,” he said, with that dopey half-smile that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.
“This is my tired hoodie.”
“You should be tired more often, then.”
He reached up and grabbed your ankle, pulling it into his lap like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You remember that something was playing on the tv, but not what it was. You remember his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bone of your shin while he half-watched it, more focused on whatever quiet thought was drifting through his head. You remember the shape of his knuckles, the scratch of his callus when he ran his hand along the top of your foot. You remember not needing to fill the silence.
He said, “Don’t go next weekend,” voice soft, a little joking, like it wasn’t a request.
You said, “I have to,” like it didn’t cost you anything.
He nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to guilt you or convince you or say anything dramatic. Just tilted his head back against your leg, looking up at you upside down, hair flopped over his forehead, cheeks pink from whatever he was drinking.
You said, “It’s just a trip.”
He said, “Right.”
Then he pulled your foot into his chest, pressed a kiss to your ankle like it was a habit, like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. But he hadn’t. That was the first time.
You remember feeling it in your throat. That awful, beautiful ache. Like if you opened your mouth, something would spill out you couldn’t take back. But you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
Later, you’d press your face into his neck, and he’d whisper something that wasn’t quite Spanish, wasn’t quite words, and you’d fall asleep wondering if maybe it could be this easy forever. But it wasn’t.
The next weekend, you got on the plane. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But that was the last night that felt simple. That was the last time you let him hold you without guilt.
The memory lingers longer than it should. You feel it settle like heat behind your ribs. When you blink again, you’re back at the cookout, standing off to the side while someone fiddles with the speaker and two people argue about salsa. You’ve been staring at your drink for too long.
Across the yard, Joaquín’s still perched on the edge of the deck. He’s talking to someone but not really looking at them, like his brain’s somewhere else entirely. Like maybe it’s still in that apartment too.
He glances up. Your eyes meet. Neither of you looks away this time.
It happens gradually. The party thins out—people trickle off in twos and threes, hugging Carla goodbye, grabbing last slices of watermelon or half-frozen drinks from the cooler. The sky fades into that soft blue-gray that means the streetlights will flicker on soon. Someone starts collecting trash bags, and someone else is curled up in a chair scrolling through their phone with the dazed expression of someone who’s emotionally tapped out.
You drift toward the steps of the deck at some point without thinking. The music’s low now, something mellow. Joaquín’s nearby again, close enough to feel, but he doesn’t say anything.. Just stands beside you in a kind of companionable silence, the two of you watching someone struggle to relight a citronella candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Eventually, he speaks. Quietly. “I forgot how weird parties get when they start ending.”
You hum. “Everything smells like charcoal and sweat and regret.”
“That’s the real summer scent,” he says, grinning. “Should bottle it.”
You finally look at him. His hair’s a little messier now. There’s a smudge of something—maybe dirt, maybe barbecue sauce—near the collar of his shirt. His cup’s empty. He’s rolling it between his palms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
You tilt your head. “You always this awkward or is it just me?”
He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I’m always awkward. You’re just the one I can’t pretend around.”
You don’t answer right away. He shifts beside you, then gestures vaguely toward the house.
“You heading out soon?” he asks. “Or...?”
You shrug. “Hotel’s not far. I’ll probably order bad room service and pass out.”
“Solid plan.”
You glance at him. “You?”
He shrugs too. “Thought about going home. Then I remembered I live alone and my fridge is sad.”
You smile, tired but real. “So what’re you gonna do instead?”
He hesitates, just a second too long. Then—
“I mean... if you wanted...” He clears his throat. Starts again. “We could grab a drink or something. Like... like old friends catching up. No pressure.”
You raise an eyebrow. “At ten thirty at night?”
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “The best friend catch-up hour. You know. When the truth comes out and everything tastes like cheap whiskey.”
You study him, and he looks nervous in that familiar way he used to get right before saying something too honest. You can tell he’s trying to play it off like nothing. You can also tell it isn’t nothing. You take a breath.
“I’m at the Selwyn,” you say.
He perks up, like he didn’t expect that to work. “Oh, they have a bar, right?”
You nod. “Until midnight.”
He smiles, bright and crooked. “Plenty of time for bad decisions.”
You roll your eyes. “We’re just catching up.”
“Right,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently as you both turn toward the gate. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
“I’ll drive you,” he says before you can even open the app. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t used to sit in his passenger seat with your bare feet on the dash, arguing over playlists and sharing fries out of a greasy paper bag. His keys are already in his hand.
You hesitate, just a second too long. “Sure,” you say.
He grins, trying to play it cool. “Besides, I cleaned my car recently. Well. I threw out the empty protein bar wrappers. Same difference.”
You follow him down the driveway. His car is exactly the same—black Honda, scuffed on the side, faintly dented from something he once swore wasn’t his fault. You slide into the passenger seat and feel your body instinctively relax into old muscle memory. The door shuts. The quiet settles in.
Then he starts the engine. And the universe laughs in your face.
The first few notes hit—clean, unmistakable, loud enough to be cruel.
Me Rehúso.
Your heart jumps into your throat. His hand freezes halfway to the volume knob. His thumb hovers like he’s going to skip it. He doesn’t. You stare out the window.
“I swear I wasn’t trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles.
You keep your voice even. “Didn’t say you were.”
The song keeps playing. You don’t speak. Neither of you move to turn it off.
That chorus hits like a sucker punch. ”Me rehúso a darte un último beso,” I refuse to give you one last kiss... The kind of lyric that would’ve made you both laugh six months ago. Now it just sits there in the air, crackling. He drums his fingers against the wheel, trying to be casual. You sit stiff in your seat and wonder if he feels it too—that pull in your chest like something snapping back into place and tearing a little as it does. You wonder if he skipped this song on purpose for weeks after you left.
By the time it fades, neither of you has said a word. But it’s louder than anything either of you could’ve said out loud. Joaquín clears his throat, glancing sideways like he wants to break the silence.
“Well,” he says, aiming for levity. “That wasn’t emotionally catastrophic or anything.”
You breathe out a quiet laugh. “Your playlist’s still ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but it slaps, unfortunately.”
You fall into silence again. This one is easier. Not light, but... familiar. Like slipping back into clothes you’d left behind, still warm from the last time you wore them. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like a hundred miles and no time at all. When he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel, he parks without asking. Turns the key. Lets the quiet settle again.
“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask, your hand on the door handle.
He shrugs. “Only panicking a little.”
You look at him. He looks at you. That same crooked grin.
“Let’s go,” you say.
He nods. “Catching up. Strictly platonic.”
“Totally.”
The Selwyn’s lobby is quiet, sleek in that generic boutique hotel way. Modern art you don’t understand on the walls. A bowl of apples no one’s touched. The bar’s tucked just off to the right, low-lit and mostly empty, a few couples nursing nightcaps and a lone businessman half-asleep over a bourbon. You lead the way without speaking.
He follows, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that nervous scan of the room like he’s checking for exits but not planning to use them. You pick a booth near the back. Leather seat, warm lamp overhead. It’s too intimate to be neutral. Neither of you moves to sit across from the other. You both slide into the same side, a little too close. Neither of you comments on it.
The bartender comes over, eyes flicking between you both like he’s trying to figure out what kind of night this is.
“Two whiskeys,” Joaquín says, before you can answer. Then he glances at you. “That okay?”
You nod. “Perfect.”
The moment he walks away, Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding it in since the car. “Well. Here we are.”
You smile. “Just two old friends. At a hotel. At eleven o’clock at night.”
He grins. “Nothing suspicious about that.”
You both look straight ahead for a second, not speaking. The tension has shifted—it’s quieter now. Less sharp. More like gravity.
“I missed this,” he says eventually.
You turn to him. “What part?”
He shrugs. “All of it. You. Talking. Sitting next to you and saying dumb shit until you laugh.”
You look down at your hands. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again.”
“I didn’t either.”
You glance up.
“I was pissed,” he says, not hiding it. “You just disappeared. No warning. Just—gone. I didn’t know if I did something or if it was just easier that way for you.”
“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just didn’t know how to say goodbye.”
He nods. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both great at that.”
The drinks arrive. You each take one, clink glasses without ceremony.
“To bad decisions,” he says.
You raise your eyebrows. “This is a bad decision?”
He smirks. “I think it might be.”
You both drink.
The whiskey burns a little. Just enough.
You settle into the silence again, but this one’s warmer. You can feel the heat of his thigh pressed against yours. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you.
“I thought about texting you,” he says, voice lower now.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to be a maybe.”
That lands. It sinks in and sits heavy in your stomach. You set your glass down. Turn toward him fully.
“We were never a maybe.”
He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Like he’s trying not to hope and failing miserably at it.
“Okay,” he says softly. “So what are we now?”
You don’t answer. Instead, your knee bumps his, and you leave it there.
He glances at your mouth, just for a second. It’s quick, but you both notice.
The second drink comes faster than the first. Neither of you says anything, but the meaning is clear. Just one more. Just an excuse to keep sitting here a little longer.
The bar’s quiet around you, some indie playlist humming overhead, glasses clinking behind the counter, but none of it really registers. It’s just the booth, the shared warmth between you, and the way the whiskey makes your skin feel too soft for your bones.
You’re both leaned in now, legs angled toward each other. His arm is stretched behind you across the booth, not quite touching you but close enough to feel. His knee keeps bumping yours. It’s not accidental anymore.
He’s talking with his hands. Always has. One of them knocks his glass a little too hard and he mutters a low “shit” before catching it. You laugh and he grins, sheepish.
“Okay, so maybe I’m a little drunk,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “Little?”
“Tipsy,” he corrects, lifting his hand in mock defense. “Buzzed. Whiskey-charmed. Still within the range of plausible deniability.”
You tip your glass toward him. “Sure.”
“You?”
You sip. “Comfortably reckless.”
He laughs, and it’s that real laugh, the one that fills his chest. The one you haven’t heard in too long. He tips his head back, curls falling over his forehead, and for a second you forget how to breathe.
“You always did drink whiskey too fast,” you say.
“You always stole mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. He goes quiet, eyes settling on you with a different kind of focus now. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer, smaller.
“I remember that,” he says. “All of it.”
You don’t move. The air between you is tight.
“You used to do this thing,” he continues, “where you’d swirl the ice in my glass with your finger and act like it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the world.”
“I don’t remember doing that.”
“You definitely did. And it worked. Every time.”
You lean in a little, just enough to make him feel it. “You’re easy to distract.”
“I was in love with you,” he says, too fast, too loose.
It lands between you like a dropped glass.
He blinks. “Shit. That sounded cooler in my head.”
You swallow. “Was?”
He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at the table. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You didn’t give me a lot of space to keep saying it.”
You look at him, really look. He’s flushed from the whiskey, eyes a little glassy, but his expression is wide open. Honest in the way only tipsy people get when they’ve been waiting too long to say something. You don’t reach for your glass this time. You reach for his hand. You brush your fingers over the back of it, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away.
“You know,” you say, “I still think about that night. The one before I left.”
His eyes flick to yours. “The peanut butter dinner?”
“The one where you kissed my ankle like it meant something.”
“It did.”
“I know.”
The silence now is thick. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full. He turns his hand over beneath yours, lets your fingers slide together. His palm is warm and steady.
“So,” he says, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing right now?”
You shake your head, half-laughing, half-something else. “Catching up, remember?”
He leans in, slow and careful. His shoulder brushes yours. His voice is right at your ear now.
“This doesn’t feel like catching up.”
You don’t pull away. You press your leg against his under the table. You feel his breath stutter.
“It’s not,” you say.
He shifts toward you, hand tightening in yours. There’s a question in his eyes. You could stop this. You could pull back.
You’re so close you can feel the moment tipping forward. One more second and his mouth will be on yours. You know exactly how it’ll feel — warm and familiar, a little clumsy, a little desperate. You want it. God, you want it. But it’s too much, too fast, too easy to fall back into something that once shattered you so quietly it didn’t even make a sound.
You pull your hand away. Slow. Gentle.
He freezes. You don’t look at him right away. You take a breath instead. Your voice is soft when it comes.
“I can’t.”
It’s not sharp. It’s not final. It’s just honest.
His face shifts — not hurt, exactly. Just something quieter. A flicker of understanding. Maybe disappointment. Maybe relief. Maybe both.
He nods, slowly. “Okay.”
You glance around the bar like you’ve just remembered where you are. The lights feel too low. The space too small.
“I should go up,” you say.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
You stand, and he follows without question. Neither of you says much as you cross the lobby. You’re sobering up, not from the drinks but from the tension, from the weight of how close you came to doing something you wouldn’t be able to take back.
The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, thick with all the things you didn’t say downstairs and the weight of the moment you pulled away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood. But you can feel him beside you now — his body still turned slightly toward yours, hands in his pockets like they’re keeping him grounded.
You reach your floor and step into the hallway, carpet soft under your shoes, air humming faintly with recycled chill. You walk ahead, both of you a little unsteady, a little too aware of each other. He stays close but doesn’t touch you. Not once.
When you stop outside your door, you turn toward him and smile, barely.
“You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”
“Old habits,” he says.
There’s a pause. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You know that move. You remember him doing it when he wasn’t sure if he should kiss you that first time. He looked just like this. Nervous. Hopeful. A little in over his head.
And still, you don’t move.
“I should go in,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”
You look at him.
He looks at you.
It’s nothing and everything all at once. That ache that’s been stretching all night tightens until you can’t take it anymore.
And then you kiss him. You don’t think. You just lean in and grab the front of his jacket and pull him down to you and his mouth meets yours like it’s still been waiting this whole time. It’s not soft. It’s not neat. It’s relief. All heat and breath and too much all at once, like if you stop it’ll disappear again. His hands find your waist and you stumble back into the door. He laughs against your mouth, breathless.
“You said you couldn’t.”
“I lied,” you murmur, kissing him again.
It’s messy. Familiar. A little dizzying. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw like he forgot what your skin felt like. Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, tugging him closer, closer.
He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, “Tell me to go.”
You don’t. You just kiss him harder.
He makes this low sound against your mouth that you remember too well, and suddenly you're fumbling with the keycard, trying to get the door open while he's still kissing you, his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. The card reader beeps angrily. You try again, breathless, and he's laughing into your neck.
"You're shaking," he says, not teasing. Just noticing.
"Shut up," you breathe, and the door finally gives.
You stumble backward into the room, pulling him with you. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. The only light comes from the city through the window, casting everything in amber and shadow. You can see his face now, flushed and a little stunned, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.
"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough.
You don't answer with words. Instead, you step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. His eyes flutter closed at the touch.
"I missed you," you whisper. "I missed this."
He opens his eyes, searching your face in the dim light. "I never stopped missing you."
This time when you kiss him, it's slower. Deeper. Like you're both trying to memorize something you lost. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast. Unsteady. Like yours.
You walk him backward toward the bed, lips still locked, hands roaming over familiar territory that feels both foreign and like coming home. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down hard, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. His hands find your hips, steadying you, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.
"God," he breathes, looking up at you like he's seeing something he thought he'd lost forever. "You're so beautiful."
You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the way his breath catches when you bite his lower lip gently. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arch into his touch.
His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, hovering there in silent question. You nod against his mouth, and he slowly pulls it down, the sound cutting through the quiet room. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine. You shiver, and he pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.
"We don't have to—"
You press your finger to his lips. "I want to."
The words hang between you, heavy with meaning beyond this moment. You're not just talking about tonight. You both know it.
He kisses your fingertip, then your palm, then your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel something unravel inside you—that tight knot of regret and longing you've been carrying for months.
Your dress slips from your shoulders, and his breath catches. His hands are reverent as they trace your skin, like he's relearning a map he once knew by heart. You tug at his shirt, impatient now, and he helps you pull it over his head. His chest is familiar—that same constellation of freckles, that same scar near his collarbone from when he fell off his bike at twelve. You touch it, remembering the story he told you once, laughing in bed on a Sunday morning.
"You remember?" he asks, watching your fingers.
"Everything," you whisper.
He pulls you closer, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat, and you close your eyes against the rush of sensation. It's too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide up your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, and you laugh softly against his hair.
"Still got it," he murmurs, grinning against your skin.
"Some skills never fade," you whisper back, and then his mouth is on your breast and you can't think anymore, just feel—his tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against you.
You rock against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and his hands tighten on your hips. There's an urgency building between you now, months of distance collapsing into this single point of contact. He flips you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress, his weight a welcome anchor. His lips trace a path down your stomach, and you arch up, wanting more, wanting everything.
"Joaquín," you breathe, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.
"Otra vez," he whispers.
You say his name once more, quieter this time, like a secret you’re not ready to share with the world. His eyes fall shut as though he’s holding the sound within himself, letting it resonate in the hollow spaces where loneliness used to cling. As his hands find their way to the waistband of your underwear, they tremble, a delicate dance of anticipation and reverence. You lift your hips slightly, a silent invitation for him to continue, to explore uncharted territories that still remember the map of his touch. The fabric is gone in a heartbeat, lost somewhere in the chaos of desire that swirls around you both.
His lips trace a slow pilgrimage along your skin, starting at the curve of your hip bone before journeying inward to the sensitive haven of your inner thigh. Each kiss is deliberate, an act of devotion that speaks volumes louder than words ever could. You’re quivering beneath him now, every nerve alive with sensation, and your hands clutch the hotel sheets as though grounding yourself against an oncoming storm.
When his mouth finally finds its destination, it’s like a homecoming. You arch off the bed with a breathy gasp that breaks through the room’s stillness and wraps itself around you both. He moves with an intimate knowledge of you, every motion recalling memories of nights past when only the moon bore witness to passion unfolding between whispered promises and dreams half-spoken.
The rhythm he adopts is one learned long ago but never forgotten, seamless in its execution as though no time has passed since last he worshipped at this altar. His touch is gentle yet insistent—the perfect paradox—exactly as you need it. Your fingers entwine into his hair once more for anchor and connection both; he hums against you—a low sound that vibrates through your core and ignites every part of you all over again.
The sense of nearing completion builds inside you rapidly—too rapidly—as if months apart have condensed into this singular moment of intensity threatening to spill over without warning. Waves crest within your belly, hot and urgent in their sweep toward release.
"Wait," you breathe out urgently, yet soft enough not to break what threads hold this tapestry together just yet. Tugging at his shoulders slightly with desperate urgency tinged by longing unspoken but always present there beneath everything else clouding these precious moments shared tonight after too long apart. "Come here."
He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you dizzy with want. Your hands fumble with his belt, and he helps you, kicking off his jeans until there's nothing between you but skin and heat and six months of longing. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at your face like he's searching for something.
"You okay?" he whispers.
You nod, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. "More than okay."
In the soft shadows of the room, he enters you, and you both exhale sharply, as though surfacing from the depths of an ocean where breath had been a distant memory. The sensation is one of rediscovery, a familiar yet long-forgotten dance. Stillness enfolds you as he pauses, his forehead resting gently against yours. You can feel the ragged ebb and flow of his breath matching your own. This dance—this intimate choreography—is etched into your bodies, even if time and distance tried to erase it from your minds.
Wrapping your legs around his waist, you draw him deeper into the space that feels both foreign and unmistakably home. His groan reverberates through the stillness, your name a sacred chant murmured against the warmth of your neck. His movements begin in slow, deliberate strokes, each one held with the weight of potential farewells lingering in unspoken words. It’s cautious yet intense—a savoring of moments that feel fleeting.
Your fingers dig into the solid expanse of his shoulders, an encouragement driven by urgency that pulses under your skin. As he hones his rhythm, it transforms gradually—a measured tempo building to something more urgent and alive. The room captures the symphony created by your intermingled breaths and soft exclamations of pleasure; tender whispers punctuate every shared heartbeat.
“Mírame.” he murmurs softly, and you oblige by opening your eyes. What you find in his gaze transcends physical intimacy—a vulnerability laid bare beneath the depth of those dark irises. There’s something exchanged between you in that shared look; a silent acknowledgment binding hearts entwined not just by touch but by something deeper—a promise unspoken yet understood.
As he moves within you with growing intensity, everything coalesces into a crescendo orchestrated by longing rekindled after months apart. This moment stretches beyond time—each motion weaving threads back together until they form one seamless tapestry, rich with color and meaning.
You unravel beneath him then, as pleasure overwhelms your senses like waves crashing upon the shore—leaving you trembling in its aftermath—a mosaic remade anew with each crescendo reached. It's only heartbeats later that he too succumbs; whispers woven with devotion spill from his lips—your name uttered like prayerful benediction—as he collapses against you under comforting weight rather than burdened heaviness reminding once distant souls they are home again.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you press your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—soap and something distinctly warm that you could never quite name but always recognized.
The sheets are tangled beneath you and one of your legs is still hooked loosely around his, the weight of him grounding you in a way nothing else ever really has. He shifts just enough to ease some of the pressure from your ribs, but he doesn’t pull away. He just rests his forehead against your temple and exhales, long and shaky.
You could fall asleep like this. You think maybe you will. His fingers keep moving, slow and aimless, brushing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it all over again. Your name leaves his lips again, softer now, like it doesn’t have to be anything more than sound.
You whisper, “You okay?”
He nods. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Yeah. I just… missed this.”
You close your eyes. That ache settles in your chest again, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. He missed you. You missed him. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.
You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, sleep-soft and open in that way only Joaquín can be when he’s let his guard down completely. You brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking.
“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“You don’t have to.”
That’s it. No big promises. No next steps.
He nods again, relief flickering through his features so fast it almost doesn’t register. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone—slow, tender, like punctuation. He pulls the blanket up over both of you and shifts to lie beside you properly, one arm curling beneath your neck, the other resting across your stomach. You curl into him like you never left.
Outside, the city keeps humming, but in here it’s still.
Eventually, his breathing evens out. You listen to it until yours matches. He’s heavy against you, solid and warm, and you feel the weight of everything that just passed between you start to settle. You let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment.
Sleep takes you slowly. Quietly. With him still holding you.
You wake before the sun’s fully up, the room washed in a soft, blue-grey hush. For a second, you don’t know what stirred you—until Joaquín shifts beside you, mumbling something half-asleep into the pillow. His leg slides against yours, warm and lazy, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck like he never left it.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and ridiculous.
You laugh, quiet and raspy. “You drooled on my arm.”
He lifts his head, barely squinting at you with a slow, stupid grin. “Worth it.”
You hum, brushing your fingertips along his side. His skin is warm, soft in places and still humming with leftover heat. You could stay like this for hours, wrapped up in his breath and that dopey smile, but he glances at the clock and winces.
“I have to go soon,” he says, voice soft. “Work.”
You nod, even though you want to pretend this room doesn’t exist outside of this moment. He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your mouth—slow, unhurried, like he’s still not ready to leave either.
When he finally pulls back, he gives you this look. Gentle. Unspoken.
He doesn’t say thank you, or I’ll call you, or what happens now?
He just says, “You made last night feel like home again.”
And somehow, that’s the thing that gets you. You swallow around the ache building in your throat and try to smile. He kisses you one more time, then slips out of bed and pulls his shirt back on in the grey morning light. You stay where you are, curled in warm sheets, watching him tie his shoes with one knee on the floor like he’s done this in a hundred quiet mornings—only he hasn’t. Not like this. Not since you left.
He glances over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sleep a little more,” he says. “I’ll see you.”
You nod. He doesn’t push it further. He just gives you one last, crooked smile and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left sitting up in bed, hair a mess, covers pooled around your waist, staring at the door like it might open again.
You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t scare you.
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