It's time for another round of Joaquín and his dog tags with him taking you from behind, the feel of the tags against your bare back
joaquín torres, how i’ve missed you. (smut. 18+)
there was this one time at a bar, somewhere loud and low-lit, thick with music that buzzed through the floorboards and settled in your bones. and for some reason, it’s the only thing you can think about. the memory clings to the inside of your chest like sweat on skin, refusing to fade.
you’d been leaning against the bar, elbow pressed to the counter, fingers lazily circling the rim of your half-empty glass. the crowd was alive behind you—bass thumping, bodies moving in the low, warm light—but you were half-tuned out, nursing your drink and ordering a second one for joaquín torres because you knew he’d be back.
he came up behind you casually, his chest pressing to your back, still damp with heat from dancing, a few buttons now undone. his breath was warm as it coasted over the bare line of your shoulder, lips brushing the shell of your ear, and he pressed a light, gentle kiss at your temple.
“miss me?” he’d said, barely audible over the music, but the grin in his voice was unmistakable.
“so much,” you teased, turning your head to look at him.
he smiled at you, and then you’d become aware of the way one of his hands found your waist, fingers settling just beneath the dip in your back, nonchalant, like he did this all the time—touched you like that, held you like that. and yeah, he has; he’s touched you plenty and he’s touched you everywhere, but it threw you for a loop every single damn time.
it shocked you how he held you as if the curve of your body was made to fit in the hollow of his palm.
and then the other hand reached forward, sliding beside yours on the bar just as the bartender placed down his beer.
that’s when you felt it.
the clink of metal against your back. just a whisper of cold, a fleeting tap that made your whole body go still. his dog tags—those worn, familiar tags he never took off—brushing against your spine. and of course you’d worn a backless top. of course.
your breath caught in your throat. the contrast between the cool metal and the heat radiating off his body was enough to send a shiver crawling up your neck. he must’ve felt it—your sudden tension, the way your hips shifted slightly back into him, unintentional and obvious—and his fingers at your waist tightened, just enough to make your pulse spike.
and he leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“cold?” he asked, voice dipped in something you hadn’t been ready to name yet. something teasing, something curious, something sweet and undoubtedly genuine and kind and so joaquín.
and you could barely reply. all you could think about was how close he was, how casually he touched you, how those tags were touching your skin.
“yeah, something like that.”
and you still couldn’t stop thinking about it. not on the walk home, not with the way his hand kept brushing yours, or the way his eyes lingered longer than they needed to on your lips whenever you spoke. like he wasn’t really listening, not properly, but he was trying really, really hard to pay attention.
not in the elevator either. it was hard to get it out of your head when his hand had crept behind you, fingers grazing the curve of your lower back until they rested just beneath the hem of your top. his thumb brushed your spine affectionately, right where his dog tags had tapped you earlier, and it made your knees threaten to buckle.
and it wasn’t until he had you pressed against your door, lips on yours, tongue sliding past your teeth, that it all came crashing down.
you fumbled with the keys, barely able to breathe, let alone think, as his mouth moved against yours, slow and shameless and dizzying. he kissed like he knew he could make you forget everything else, as if you could do the same to him.
his hands weren’t idle either. one flattened at your waist, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts. the other was braced by your head, fingers splayed against the doorframe, boxing you in completely. it made your stomach twist excitedly.
you gasped when his fingers dipped lower, when he groaned softly into your mouth at what he found. hot, slick, waiting. it drove him a little wild, the way you arched into him, back pressed to the door and legs trembling.
“you gonna open that door?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and ragged. he kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower, along your jaw, down to the soft dip of your throat. “or… did you wanna do this here?”
you huffed, a smile threatening on your lips. “you gonna give me a chance to open it?”
“maybe,” he laughed against your skin.
eventually, the door swung inward, and joaquín wasted no time. he walked you backward into the dark, his hands still greedy on your body, and the second the door shut behind him, he had you pinned again—this time to the wall of your own home, where no neighbours could interrupt and you didn’t need to hold back any of those sweet, breathy sounds he loved so much.
his mouth was everywhere now, hot and open and wanting: down your neck, along your collarbone, dipping lower as he tugged at your top, exposing inch after inch of skin like it was some long-awaited gift.
you were already gasping, already burning, already arching into him, hands fumbling to undo every stupid button of his shirt and pushing it off his skin.
his hands slid beneath your thighs, palms warm and rough against your skin, and with a grunt that rumbled low in his chest, he lifted you up. you clung to him on instinct, legs wrapped around his waist, your arms locked around his shoulders, holding tight as he stumbled with you through the threshold of the apartment.
he found the nearest surface, your kitchen counter, a sturdy edge in the dark, and pressed you into it.
and then he was grinding into you. slow at first, like he wanted to savour the drag of your hips, the soft friction of your core against the hard line of him through his jeans. but it didn’t stay slow.
not when your head tilted back with a breathy gasp. not when your nails started digging into his shoulders and the nape of his neck, dragging him impossibly closer.
he groaned as his hips bucked up again, chasing the feel of you, the warmth, the wet heat that pooled and bled right through your shorts.
you moved with him, rolling your hips down against the thick pressure of his thigh, rutting through the way the denim caught at your centre in just the right way.
joaquín’s hands were everywhere but mostly on your ass, gripping and squeezing, guiding you over him like he needed to feel every single stroke.
and then his dog tags started swaying, catching the light as they swung forward. they bounced gently off your chest, the cool metal tapping rhythmically against your flushed skin with every movement; each shift of your hips; every grind of his cock between your legs; made them jingle faintly.
joaquín stilled for a moment, breath caught in his throat. his gaze dropped, fixated.
“shit...” he muttered, dragging his lips down your neck. “that’s… that’s really fucking hot.”
“it’s hot,” you echoed, panting, your fingers tangling themselves with the chain, tugging him back to your lips, “yeah.”
he looked at you, flushed and wild-eyed, brows arched like he couldn’t believe this was happening.
“i kinda wanna…” he didn’t finish the thought. didn’t have to.
you nodded frantically, all breath and want and no hesitation, “yeah. yeah.”
his hands squeezed tighter around you. “yeah?”
“yes.”
he blinked. “really?”
your head fell foward, knocking against his forehead with a frustrated moan, grinding down against the stiff, aching press of him. “oh my god, joaquín, if you don’t fuck me right now, you’re sleeping on the couch.”
and he was smiling like an idiot.
suddenly, you were face-down, cheek pressed to the mattress, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan as joaquín pushed back into you, slow, deep, and torturous, stretching you open all over again like it was the first time.
you shivered under the weight of him. the way he filled you up, took his time with you, every inch dragging against your walls until your toes curled and your knees nearly gave out beneath you.
the bed creaked softly beneath the rhythm, but it wasn’t the only sound in the room.
his dog tags.
they swung forward with every thrust, brushing your spine in a soft, steady tap-tap-tap.
the first time the cool metal kissed your back, you gasped. you jolted like it shocked you.
but now? god, now they were warm with the heat of your bodies, sliding and clinking against your sweaty skin, tapping your back with a metallic jingle that drove you just as mad as the way he groaned your name.
they followed the motion of his hips like a metronome, a filthy, perfect rhythm. and joaquín was so deep into it, into you, hands clutching at your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear, his grip hard enough to bruise.
he leaned forward, and you could feel the tags move now. you felt them as they dragged along the dip of your spine, caught between you and his skin. they slid higher as he got closer, sliding in deeper, kissing between your shoulders like they wanted to brand you with his name.
finally his chest pressed to your back, his tags flattening between you. his breath was hot at your ear, damp with sweat, his voice a hoarse wreck.
“fuck—” he groaned, forehead resting at your shoulder, lips brushing the damp skin there. “you feel so good, baby. perfect.”
you tried to say something back, you wanted to tell him the same, that he was perfect in every way possible, that your brain could barely keep up with the way he fucked you so full and deep, but all that left your lips was a slurred, embarrassingly loud, moan.
his hand slipped down the curve of your waist, rough palm smoothing over your stomach before dipping between your thighs, fingers circling where you were already soaked and needy and aching. his fingers circled around your clit exactly the way you liked it.
“this good?” he murmured against your ear, teeth grazing your jaw as he pressed in deeper.
you nodded, helpless. “s—s’good,” you gasped, arching into him. “so fucking good.”
