See Now This Is The Disrespectful Nasty But Loving Some Some I’m Talking Abouttttttt 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

See now this is the disrespectful nasty but loving some some I’m talking abouttttttt 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

safe harbor

pairing: dr. jack abbot x day shift resident!female reader

summary: you've been pining for the night shift attending dr. jack abbot ever since you started at the hospital, and when you wake up in his bed—alone—after having too many drinks in the park after a particularly bad shift, you finally do something about it.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), unspecified age gap, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, come marking, hand job, pussy job, dry humping/thigh riding, big dick/tough fit, tit play/nipple sucking, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, pet names (angel), begging, teasing, aftercare, cuddling and snuggling, drinking and drunkenness (nothing happens while reader is drunk), mutual pining. this fic is inspired by the scene of the doctors and nurses drinking in the park after work in the pitt season 1 finale, but it could take place after any rough shift.

word count: 8.3k

a/n: here's my entry for the a doctor a day writing challenge!! thank you to @letsgobarbs, @ananonymousaffair and @clubsoft for hosting this event!! my prompt was "You are my heaven, my obsession, my prayer and bliss." and my color was orange—and i'm really happy with how this turned out!! technically this is my first proper jack abbot fic (though i'm sure it won't be the last), so i hope y'all enjoy ♡♡♡

The soft orange light of a spring sunrise filtered into the room behind your eyelids, and for one hazy, wonderful moment, you drifted in the contentment that only comes from the liminal space between sleeping and waking. You were ensconced in warm blankets and the smell of earth and sunshine, and you wanted to live in that moment as long as possible.

Then, an almost gentle throbbing began behind your temple, a headache blooming to life as you slipped further into waking. Unbidden, memories from the night before flooded into your mind and you had to bite back a pained groan.

You’d had far too much to drink after work. Or, rather, you’d had too many beers for how exhausted you’d been after your particularly long and terrible shift. But you’d been riding high on surviving the day from hell, and it had been a pleasantly warm evening. And Dr. Jack Abbot had been there.

It had felt like some kind of small miracle—to get to share a couple drinks with the med students, doctors and nurses in the park across the street from the hospital. You hadn’t been the only one laughing too loudly, as if grasping onto the relief of making it through the day, because the alternative was sinking into the darkness.

You’d known that if you’d gone home and dragged yourself into your cold, lifeless apartment that you never had time or energy to decorate, you’d have ended up crying yourself to sleep. Instead, you’d accepted the invitation from your attending, Dr. Michael Robinavitch—Dr. Robby—and joined the others for a drink.

The amber glow of the lamplights lining the paths of the park had been welcoming beacons, and you’d felt the weight of the world slowly slip from your shoulders as you accepted a can of beer, letting the conversation flow around you. As everyone talked, sharing stories from the day, things hadn’t seemed so bleak.

So you’d lingered in the park long after you should’ve gone home, drinking far more than you should’ve considering how exhausted you were, and letting your eyes drift to Dr. Jack Abbot far more often than they should’ve. You couldn’t help it, though. You’d been drawn to the night shift attending ever since you met him at the start of your first day shift.

You were Dr. Robby’s resident, and he was a capable mentor—firm when he needed to be, and kind when you needed it. You’d gained a lot working with Dr. Robby on the day shift, and you’d become a much better doctor learning from him and everyone else in the ER.

Yet you couldn’t help but be intrigued by Dr. Jack Abbot. You’d always admired the older, silver-haired doctor, the way he carried himself, coming in as your shift was ending and taking over easily. You always knew your patients were in good hands when you gave them over to Dr. Abbot.

He was so competent and capable, and always so calm, even on the busiest nights in the ER. He was like a rock in the middle of a raging, tumultuous storm. Strong and steady. Safe.

And you wanted to climb Dr. Jack Abbot like a tree, to live in his strong and steady embrace, to allow his presence to keep you safe and sane. You wanted him to be your safe harbor—and to be his, too. You wanted to be the person he’d come home to and slip into bed with, and trust to keep him safe and sane.

In the park, under the amber lamplights, your thoughts had drifted to the idea of sliding into bed with Dr. Jack Abbot, curling your body around his beneath warm blankets, and sleeping the entire day away as you lay entwined together. You imagined waking up together, warm skin and gentle hands, soft kisses giving way to something more…

You hadn’t realized you were staring until light brown eyes caught yours and you’d startled back into the moment, heat rising up your neck and blooming in your cheeks. You’d known you should look away, but you hadn’t been able to, not with the electric tension thrumming between the two of you like a livewire.

Dr. Jack Abbot was as calm as ever, holding your gaze for a long moment.

His eyes were dark and inscrutable in the dim light of the park, but you noticed a glint in his gaze that made the breath catch in your throat. There was something in his eyes, something like wanting, which had your heart beating harder against your sternum and warmth pulsing between your thighs.

Then he’d tipped his can of beer toward you and dipped his head, giving you a nod while a smirk flickered at the edges of his mouth. Something in you had fluttered, low in your belly, and you’d wanted to squirm. You’d wanted to throw yourself at him, hold his face in your hands and kiss him until you were both panting and needy.

Instead you’d looked away and taken a sip of your beer, wondering if you’d imagined the warmth and hunger hidden deep in his gaze. You’d told yourself it must’ve been a trick of the dark amber light, the result of too much exhaustion, too much beer, and too many dirty thoughts about Dr. Jack Abbot.

The night had gone on, time unspooling slowly and leisurely the way it never did in the ER, and you’d drifted along on the current of conversation ebbing and flowing around you.

You’d tried not to look back at Dr. Abbot too often, but couldn’t help yourself. More often than not, though, you found him already looking at you, that ghost of a smile on his face and that look in his eye that had you questioning your sanity.

At some point, you’d ended up on a bench between Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot, listening as the men commended the work you’d done in the ER that evening. Their words of praise had flitted in one ear and out the other, even as you nodded along like you were paying close attention.

The smile on your face had everything to do with their praise, and nothing to do with Dr. Abbot’s warmth seeping into your side—at least, that’s what you’d told yourself.

Your memories got hazier from there. You remembered your cheek falling against Dr. Abbot’s shoulder, and staying there as your eyes slid closed; deft fingers gently prying the half-empty can from your hands; the smell of beer and something earthy, like moss; the deep rumbling of Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot’s voices as they talked over your head.

You hadn’t blacked out—you hadn’t had that much to drink—but the rest of the evening was too hazy to make out in your mind. You’d been so tired from working a 15-hour shift, and the alchohol had only exacerbated your exhaustion, leaving you to fall asleep on Dr. Abbot’s shoulder.

You remembered breathing in the smell of him, an earthy scent that reminded you of hiking in the woods on a bright, sunny day. It was the same scent you were surrounded by in the morning light, your eyes still stubbornly closed as a headache throbbed behind your temple.

Rolling over and pressing your face into your pillow, you took a deep breath. The fabric smelled so much like Dr. Jack Abbot that it made your head spin with confusion.

Even as your mind reeled, your body responded to the scent of him, the memory of his caramel brown eyes. You could perfectly picture the way his freckled arms flexed when he crossed them, his t-shirt sleeves hugging his biceps lovingly—the way you wanted to.

Heat cascaded gently down from the crown of your head, coasting down your spine and pooling between your thighs. Even with the slight edge of a hangover at the periphery of your mind, you couldn’t help the way your body yearned for the ER’s night shift attending, wanting him so badly it ached.

Your heart and your body wanted Dr. Jack Abbot. You wanted the older doctor who could be your rock, your light in the darkness, your safe harbor. And neither your heart nor your body would settle for anything less.

Your fingers were just beginning to slip down your stomach, trailing toward the needy, throbbing place between your thighs, when the soft click of a door opening sounded beyond the bed. Your eyes flew open for the first time that morning and, for one disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were.

The orange light of dawn was familiar enough, but the bedsheets and pillows looked nothing like your own. Flipping onto your back and sitting up quickly, you ignored the annoying pang of your headache to peer toward the door.

A sigh of relief gusted from your lips when you found Dr. Jack Abbot framed in the doorway, his brow creased with concern as he raked his eyes over you, as if checking for injury or illness.

You took the moment to look around the room, taking in the comfortable, masculine decor. Warm wooden furniture occupied the space, with plants positioned around the room in places that you were sure got the most light. A thriving monstera sat in a pot beside the dresser, a goldfish in a glass bowl on top of the wooden ledge.

On the floor next to the open door, there was a camouflage backpack, the only thing that appeared to be out of place. You recognized that backpack as the one Dr. Abbot always wore on his way into work.

Suddenly, your sleep hazy brain caught up and you realized you were in Dr. Abbot’s apartment—you were in his bedroom. In his bed.

The soft sheets of Dr. Abbot’s bed slid against your bare legs as you brought them up to your chest, his warm, orange duvet draped around your waist. It was the same color as the sunrise that lay beyond the windows, which were half covered in blackout curtains, like he wasn’t sure which way you’d prefer them.

It was all—all of it—almost too much for your mind to process. The headache behind your temples pounded a little harder as your body caught up to your sudden change of position, and you winced.

The expression of pain on your face seemed to spur Dr. Abbot into moving.

“You’re up,” he said, his voice low and soft like he was trying not to startle you. He padded to the bedside table beside you and set down a glass of water. “Do you remember how you got here?” he asked in that same tone, which you recognized as the one he used as patients.

You frowned as you watched Dr. Abbot open a bottle of aspirin and shake two pills into his hand. You tried to think of an answer that didn’t make you seem like a silly lightweight of a resident as you plucked the medecine from his palm when he held it out to you.

A shiver raced down your spine when your fingertips brushed Dr. Abbot’s warm, calloused skin, delightful tingles dancing along your nerves. You attempted to hide your reaction in a shake of your head, answering his question silently. But you couldn’t hide the way your shoulders trembled, so you busied yourself with taking the pills.

Thankfully, your hand was steady as you reached for the glass on the bedside table and swallowed the aspirin with a gulp of water. The cool water felt like salvation to your parched throat, and you ended up drinking the whole glass before you could even think to stop yourself.

When you were done, your found Dr. Abbot watching you, a hint of a pleased smile in the twist of his lips and pride in the glint of his gaze. You had the wild thought that if he looked at all his patients that way, you understood why his satisfaction scores were so high.

He took the glass from you, his fingers brushing against yours, the movement feeling more deliberate than before. You were grateful when he turned away to set the glass down, because your shoulders trembled with another shiver at the electricity in his light touch.

“You fell asleep in the park,” Dr. Abbot explained in a voice that was endlessly patient and calm as he set the glass down. You noticed your phone beside it on the bedside table, plugged in and charging. “You were so exhausted, we couldn’t send you home on your own. My place was closest.”

Dr. Abbot straightened as he gave his explanation, arms crossing over his chest and staring down at you in a way that made you squirm. He didn’t look disappointed or disapproving, just concerned. And the knowledge that he cared enough to be concerned sent your heart pitter-pattering inside your ribcage.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured, dropping your gaze to your fingers, which were twisting in the blanket on your lap. “Yesterday was…difficult.”

“Jack, please,” he said, his voice almost imperceptibly softer.

Your eyes flicked up to him, looking at the silver-haired doctor from under your lashes. His smile was wry and your belly gave a happy little swoop—and that was before you heard his next words.

“You’re in my bed, you don’t need to be so formal.”

It was clear that he meant his words as a teasing kind of joke, but they only succeeded in reminding you that you’d woken up in his bed. Alone. Lamentably alone. The warmth between your thighs stoked higher, until his words fully penetrated your mind.

Your gaze drifted to the other side of the bed, which was still made with military precision. It was clear he hadn’t slept there, and you realized that meant he must’ve slept somewhere else…

“Oh god, I’m so sorry for kicking you out of your bed,” you rushed to say, looking back to Jack with wide eyes. “Where did you sleep?”

“I got a couple hours on the couch,” he answered, a little bashfully. He seemed eager to move on from the subject as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You should get some more rest,” he said, unfurling his arms from his chest and reaching for your empty water glass. “Your scrubs are in the wash with mine, they should be done in a bit.”

A memory from the night before surfaced in your mind: Jack standing with his back to you as you swayed on your feet and stripped out of your scrubs—leaving you in only a tank top, bra and panties.

You’d removed your bra and left everything in a heap on the floor before dragging yourself under the covers of his bed, snuggling deep into their warmth and his comforting scent. You were asleep before you’d even heard Jack turn around.

Not only had Dr. Jack Abbot taken you to his home so you would be safe, given up his bed so you’d have somewhere comfortable to sleep, but he was washing your scrubs for you.

There was something about the domesticity of it that pricked at your heart. You could so easily imagine throwing your dirty scrubs into the laundry with a load of Jack’s, washing them together, working side by side to put them away in the room you shared.

You yearned for the life you pictured—and you wanted it with Dr. Jack Abbot.

Before you could think about what you were doing, your hand darted out. Your fingers wrapped around Jack’s wrist as he reached for the water glass on the bedside table. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, strong and steady, if a little fast.

“Stay with me.” You hated how small you sounded, the desperate pleading in your voice, but your fingers wouldn’t let go. Instead, you squeezed his wrist tighter. “Please, Jack.”

For a long moment, long enough that you began to think he’d deny you, Jack just stood there. Half hunched over, his hand reaching past you, he stood and looked at you. His eyes stared deep into yours, his brows pulled together over his light brown gaze.

“Are you sure?”

The question was rough and raspy, like he’d dredged the words up from the very depths of his soul. His eyes were bright and intense as he stared at you, his gaze searching your face for any hesitation.

The sound of his voice and the weight of his stare sent your heart fluttering, and your thighs squirmed beneath the blankets of his bed. But you weren’t uncomfortable, only eager. You were excited that he hadn’t brushed you off and denied you outright.

“I’m sure,” you said, nodding your head for good measure as you began sliding toward the center of the bed, tugging on Jack’s wrist. “I want you to stay with me. Please.”

Jack stared into your eyes for a beat longer, then nodded his head. He flipped his hand around in your fingers and squeezed your wrist before pulling away and giving you his back.

You watched the muscles shift and move beneath the white t-shirt Jack wore across his broad shoulders while his hands undid the button and fly of his dark cargo pants. Before your mind could wrap around what he was doing, he was pushing them down, revealing so much more of his pale, freckled skin below the edge of his navy boxer briefs.

Jack shucked off his pants and sat down on the corner of the bed, removing his prosthetic and massaging his leg for a moment while you watched unabashedly, unable to resist the opportunity to look your fill of the doctor you’d thought about for ages.

You wanted to press yourself against his broad back and wrap your arms around him, clinging to his warmth and burying your face between his shoulder blades. You wanted to hold him and take comfort in him, you wanted to be connected to him.

Looking over his shoulder and breaking you from your thoughts, Jack caught your eye and you could see the question in his gaze. His quirked eyebrows were asking again if you were certain you wanted him to join you.

A smile curled the corners of your mouth and instead of answering him with words, you flipped down the corner of the blankets in a clear invitation. He held your gaze for another moment, but when you remained steady and smiling, he pushed himself up and slipped between the sheets.

Immediately, you felt his warmth and you let out a happy little sound while he settled on his back against the pillows—the same ones you’d pressed your face into after you’d woken up. You waited until he’d gotten comfortable, his gaze finding yours.

His light brown eyes, looking like warm caramel in the soft, tangerine light of morning, were a wondrous sight. It was a miracle, the way he looked at you in that moment, letting you see the hesitant hope in his eyes.

Slowly, as if seeking permission with every tiny movement, you slid closer to him. With a small, flickering smile, he lifted his arm, making space for you, and you slipped into it delightedly, making another happy sound.

Your cheek lay pillowed on Jack’s chest, the soft curves of your body pressing into his side. Without questioning the impulse, you slid your leg over Jack’s, hooking it around his thigh and shifting even closer, until you were practically plastered to his body.

Contentment settled heavily around your shoulders, and you took a deep breath, letting Jack’s earthy, sunshiny scent fill your senses and comfort you. As you exhaled, your body softened and you snuggled deeper into the older doctor’s chest.

Jack’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers settling on the bare skin of your arm, and you made another delighted noise. His fingertips trailed lazily up and down your arm, like he was learning the softness of your skin, and he made a rumble in his chest that sounded content.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, his voice even deeper and raspier than you’d ever heard it.

The tenor of Jack’s voice sent little sparks of desire dancing down your spine to settle between your thighs. He wasn’t using the voice he used on his patients anymore, and you couldn’t be happier that you were seeing a new side to him, one you suspected few ever got to see.

“Mhm, sooo comfortable,” you mumbled, hiding an elated grin in his chest.

It was true, you’d never been more comfortable, but you couldn’t seem to ignore the restless need in your body. You squirmed a little against Jack’s side, like you were trying to find an even better position, and all the while enjoying the feeling of his thigh pressing between your legs.

A soft, bitten-off whine squeezed from your throat and you shifted even closer to the older doctor, needing more of him pressed against more of you.

“Jack,” you whimpered, your fingers fisting in his cotton t-shirt while your hips writhed against his side, your body searching for something you couldn’t quite grasp.

“You need something, angel?” Jack asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. When you lifted your head to pout at him, his eyes were hooded, and his mouth was curved into a knowing smirk. “You need some help before you can settle down and sleep?”

The hint of patronizing teasing in his tone was like a drug, making your mind go hazy and soft while your body melted in his strong arms. Your lashes fluttered as you fought to keep your eyes open, biting your lip while heat flooded your cheeks.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded in answer to Jack’s question.

Jack’s eyes dipped to your mouth, the warmth in your face cascading down your body until it settled heavily between your thighs. You could feel yourself growing damp, your nipples hardening and pressing against the thin fabric of your tank top.

But all you could do was stare at Jack’s mouth, framed by grizzled cheeks and freckled skin. How many times had you thought about kissing that mouth? Too many times to count. And you could hardly breathe when it seemed you might finally get to make your dreams come true.

Slowly—oh, so slowly, Jack’s hand came up and cupped your jaw, his head rising from the pillows as you leaned into him at the same time. Your mouths were drawing infinitesimally closer and closer like there was some kind of magnetic pull between them.

He tilted your face until your mouths were aligned, and then your lips brushed his. Sparks zinged through your body and you sucked in a sharp breath at just that little touch, your exhale slipping from your lips in a keening, desperate sound.

Whatever was left of Jack’s self-control seemed to snap, and he crushed his mouth to yours, as if intent on drinking down that needy sound while a hungry groan rumbled in his chest. Another whimper was silenced by his mouth, and you pressed even closer, like you wanted to crawl inside his heart.

Your first kiss with Dr. Jack Abbot was hungry and greedy, with an edge of mutual adoration that made you light-headed.

Jack’s hands on your body were strong and steady, but for the slight tremor in his fingers, his mouth careful and hot as he explored yours. When his tongue licked into your heat, dragging a moan from you, he huffed a pleased sound, angling your face so he could kiss you deeper, more thoroughly.

Your hips rocked against the older doctor’s thigh as you tried to squirm closer, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and clinging to him while you whimpered into his mouth. Jack responded by trailing his hands down your back, curving around your ribs and dragging your body more on top of him.

“Oh god, Jack,” you panted, gasping for air while his mouth trailed kisses down the line of your neck. You tipped your head to the side, giving him more access as your wanton moans filled the room. “I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea.”

The confession spilling from your lips had Jack slowing, and even though you were practically on top of him, he eased back into the pillows so he could catch your eye. The light in the room was shifting from a honey orange to a golden yellow, but Jack’s eyes were still bright and warm like caramel as he stared into yours as he spoke.

“You are my heaven, my obsession, my prayer and bliss.”

The depth of emotion in his words, the evidence that he felt the same way you did, brought unexpected tears to your eyes and you cupped his face. His silvery stubble was rough against your palms as you surged forward, capturing his mouth in a rapturous kiss.

“You’re mine, too,” you mumbled against his mouth before pulling away to look at him so he could see the honesty in your gaze. “You’re my calm, my safe harbor, my happiness and heart.”

“Angel.”

The endearment was rough and ragged, an undercurrent of pleading in Jack’s tone as he wrapped his hand around the back of your neck and pulled you in. He kissed you harder, stealing the words freely given from your lips and locking them away in his heart—just like you’d done with his.

Emotion swirled in your chest and you nearly sobbed with need at the wet slide of Jack’s tongue between your lips, your mind going hazy as an aching need pulsed between your thighs. A desperate whine built in your throat, your hips squirming clumsily against his thigh.

Jack’s hands trailed down your spine, deviating from their path to slide beneath your tank top and curl around your ribs, his thumbs brushing the soft mounds of your tits. You huffed a needy whimper, feeling him smirk against your mouth, before his hands slid lower, his strong grip guiding your body to writhe against his thick thigh.

Your hips rocked in time with his guided movements, grinding your core against him while you whimpered into his mouth. You were so far gone in a pleasant haze of your desire, that you didn’t pay attention to what you were saying when you whined, “Daddy, please.”

There was the briefest stutter in Jack’s movements, and then his hands gripped you tighter, his thigh pressing deeper between your legs. Against your lips, his mouth curved into an indulgent smirk.

“Please what, angel? Tell daddy what you need.”

The patronizing teasing tone had slipped back into his voice, and it made your core throb between your thighs, a whimper escaping your lips before you could bite it back. It had been a slip of the tongue that you’d called him daddy, but to hear it echoed in his deep, raspy voice was another thing entirely. It was exactly what you needed.

Your fingers gripped his shirt tighter, your body squirming harder in his hands, rolling your hips and grinding against his thigh while you finally responded to his command.

“Need you,” you huffed, as if the answer was obvious.

A gruff chuckle rumbled in Jack’s chest and his hand slid up your back, thumb skimming the curve of your breast so teasingly, your body chased his touch. Arching your spine, you pushed your tits against his chest, but Jack’s hand kept moving. His calloused palm followed the line of your arm until his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist.

Gently, he moved your hand down his front, over his soft belly, until your palm settled against the twitching bulge in his boxer briefs. He felt so thick and heavy already, even though he wasn’t fully hard yet.

“This is what you do to me, angel,” he rasped, breath ghosting over your cheek, his mouth moving against the corner of your lips. “You have me—any time, any way you want.”

Your fingers wrapped around his girth through the soft cotton of his briefs, squeezing him gently and learning the weight of him in your hand. You stroked your palm up his length, thumb swiping over the tip and feeling the wetness of his arousal.

Jack grunted, his hips rising up off the bed to buck into your touch and the movement had his thigh flexing and pressing between your legs. You moaned into his stubbled cheek, the sound mingling with his heavy breaths as you stroked his length and rocked against him.

“Jack.” His name was a gasp for salvation, a desperate plea on your lips that had him shuddering under your touch.

“Nuh uh, angel,” Jack chided in an endlessly warm tone, his smile pressed into the corner of your mouth. “Don’t stop calling me daddy now—not when it makes me so fucking hot for you.”

“Daddy, daddy,” you babbled breathlessly into his scruffy cheek, your desire thick in your veins at the teasing command in his tone. “I need you inside me, please—please, I need you so bad,” you whined, your fingers squeezing his cock through his boxers.

“Christ, you’ve got me, angel, just take me out,” Jack rumbled, his hips rocking up against your palm while you worked his length.

Not needing more invitation than that, you reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock. He was still hardening and thickening beneath your touch, the velvety soft skin growing taut the tighter you stroked him.

Jack groaned at your pleasurable attention, and the sound went straight to the slit between your thighs, your arousal leaking into your panties. You were so drenched, you were certain he could feel it against his thigh, but when you rubbed your pussy against him, he only grunted, his cock twitching in your hand.

“Want more,” you keened against Jack’s stubbled cheek, both your heads tilted to stare down your bodies and watch your hand pump adoringly up and down his length while he grew harder beneath your touch. “Want your fat cock sinking into my needy pussy, daddy, please.”

“Fuuuck,” Jack groaned, the edge in his voice almost pained. His hips bucked off the bed as he fucked into your fist, precum beading at the tip and leaking down the side, slicking your strokes. “Keep talking like that, angel, and I’m gonna blow my load before I even get inside you.”

“But daddy, we can’t have that,” you whined teasingly, laughing softly as you turned your face and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then you were pulling away only long enough to shove your panties down over your ass and thighs, kicking them off into the sheets at the base of the bed. Once done, your hand wrapped around Jack’s cock again, greedy for the feel of him, loving the weight and warmth against your palm.

Sliding your leg over both of Jack’s thighs, you moved your body until you were straddling his hips, your hand guiding his cock to press between the slippery folds of your slit. Your wet pussy pressing down on the length of his thick cock, your clit bumping against the ridged veins lining the shaft, had both of you moaning.

Jack cupped your jaw and guided your face back to his, his tongue sliding along your plump lower lip and licking lovingly into your mouth. He kissed you deeply, devouring your sounds of pleasure and groaning his own satisfaction like he’d never tasted anything as sweet—and he couldn’t get enough.

His other hand slid beneath the soft cotton of your tank top, his thumb brushing over your nipple and teasing the sensitive bud until it tightened into an achy, needy peak. Heat and desire pooled between your thighs, leaking from your pussy and coating his length as you rocked against him.

You broke apart only long enough for Jack to tear off your top, tossing it somewhere in the room you didn’t see because you were too busy slanting your mouth to his and greedily kissing him again. Your lips were swollen from kissing, but you couldn’t stop, you didn’t think you’d ever get enough of him.

It felt like the opposite of standing in the calm center of a storm—your body was a riot of pleasure and sensation, desperately rocking against the man between your thighs while the bedroom around you remained undisturbed, the light shifting and glowing brighter as the sun rose outside.

And Dr. Jack Abbot was still your rock, your tether to the earth, grounding you with the rasp of his calloused hands over your soft curves, his expert fingers plucking and stroking your nipples while his hips lifted from the mattress to grind his hard cock into your cunt.

You were so wet for him, so empty and aching, your pussy pulsed against his hard length, your desire coating him from root to tip. A sob was lodged in your throat, your hips working against his thick shaft in increasingly desperate movements.

“Jack,” you cried, the sound pitiful even to your own ears. You needed him, you needed him more than you needed your next breath. And you knew he could hear it in the ragged edge of your voice as you sobbed his name.

Thankfully for you, Jack Abbot was just as much of a competent, capable man as he was a doctor. He heard the anxious wanting in your tone and knew exactly how to handle you. He stroked his hands soothingly over your ribs and down your spine, cooing soft sounds of comfort against your cheek.

“Take me inside your sweet pussy, angel,” Jack rumbled, the steel of his order softened in the honeyed warmth of his tone. “Let me feel you—need to feel your heat hugging my cock.”

“Daddy, yesss, please, can I?” you babbled, burying your face in the weathered skin of his neck. His scent was stronger there, and you huffed greedily, breathing in the smell of sunshine and earth on his skin. It filled your head with amber clouds of comfort.

“Go on, angel, you’ve got this,” Jack murmured encouragingly, the calm warmth of his voice settling around your shoulders like the coziest blanket. He pressed a kiss to the pulse at the base of your throat, sending shivers down your spine.

“Yes, daddy,” you breathed on a exhale, shifting your hips until the tip of his cock caught at the entrance of your leaking hole. Sitting up on your knees, you lifted your hips and guided his cock to line up with your pussy. Then you pressed down determinedly.

A breathy cry burst from your lips when the fat tip of Jack’s cock pushed into your tight channel. He was thicker than anyone you’d taken before, and your heart fluttered against your ribcage in panic, the devastating thought occurring to you that he might not be able to fit.

“Oh god, fuck, you’re so big, Jack, I don’t know if I can—”

“You can take me,” Jack said firmly, interrupting your panicked babbling as he sat up to face you. He caught your wobbling chin in his steady hand and guided your eyes to look at him. “You can take me, angel,” he repeated, ducking his head and looking at you with confidence and pride written in the lines of his face. “You can do this.”

The belief Jack had in you—even about something as base as taking his cock—was enough to have tears gathering in your eyes. Your lower lip quivered and instead of giving in to the spiraling thoughts about how no one else had ever believed in you the way Jack did in that moment, you surged forward and kissed him.

You kissed Jack Abbot the way you’d never kissed anyone before. You kissed him like he was your past, present and future, like he was the calm in the storm of your life. You kissed him like he was your safe harbor, the steady dock under your feet and the man who was your home.

All the while, Jack kissed you in return, meeting the fervor of your lips with an adoration that had your heart singing in your chest. With every sweep of his tongue and nip of his teeth and pull of his mouth, he exulted your existence and promised devotion for as long as you’d have him.

“Jack,” you gasped his name, wrenching your bee-stung lips from his as you pressed down further on his cock, incandescent pleasure radiating from where you were joined through the rest of your body.

“Feel so good, angel,” Jack rasped, kissing his way down the curve of your throat and past your collarbone. His mouth left goose bumps in its wake as he trailed kisses down to your chest. “More, angel, you can take more.”

Jack’s words were muffled in the plush curves of your tits, cupped in his big, strong hands. His head ducked down until his tongue was lapping at their tightened peaks, torturing the sensitive buds while your head tipped back and you moaned. He sucked one of your soft tits into his mouth, tongue swirling teasingly around your nipple.

Your back bowed and you thrust your chest into Jack’s face, your fingers sliding into his curly silver hair and clutching his head tight. A cry of pleasure tumbled from your lips, the sound devolving into a filthy moan as you sank down on his cock, taking half of him inside you.

“God, daddy, you’re breaking me in half,” you whined, your hips writhing in his lap, lifting up and pushing back down for more of the stinging stretch. The pleasure bordered on pain, but it felt so good, you couldn’t get enough, pressing even further down on his hard cock.

Jack chuckled, pulling away from your chest with an obscene wet sound, your tit falling from his mouth while he looked up at you. His brown eyes were sparkling with mischief in the bright daylight.

“You love it, don’t you, angel?” Jack teased, in the warm, patronizing tone that sent your belly swooping. “You love the feeling of my fat cock sinking deep into your pretty cunt, splitting you open and spreading you so wide, huh?”

The filthy words went straight to your pussy, your tight hole pulsing around Jack’s hard shaft while you nodded your agreement. “Yuh huh, I love it, daddy, it’s sooo good,” you babbled, your fingers idly twisting in Jack’s hair as you clung to him and pressed your hips down on his thick length.

A small grin pulled across his face and he caught your eye, wrapping his lips around your other nipple and sucking hard enough to wring a squeal from your mouth. Your body bucked on his lap, and it was only his sinewy arm around your lower back that kept you anchored on top of him.

Spreading your knees wider on the bed, you pressed down hard on Jack’s cock until you were fully seated. The full, fat length of him was buried inside you to the hilt, stretching your tight cunt and punching the breath from your lungs.

A surprised yelp slipped from your lips at the sudden, overwhelming fullness, but the sound soon dissolved into a deep, dirty moan when the slight sting gave way to scorching pleasure. Your body melted against Jack, his head lifting from your tits to take in the look of ecstasy on your face.

“There we go,” Jack rasped, one of his hands pressing to your lower back, keeping your bodies locked together and still for a moment. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?” he teased, capturing your lips in a playful, nipping kiss.

You huffed a laugh against his mouth, and shook your head good-naturedly, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you clung to your strong, steady doctor.

Jack pressed his forehead to yours, his voice lowering to deep rasp. “You’re taking me so good, angel—you’re such a good girl.” He brushed a kiss to the apple of your cheek, and it was only then that you realized you were smiling, pleased by his praise. “Are you ok, does it feel good?”

“Mm, yes, daddy,” you murmured, sinking into the feeling of having Jack’s thick cock seated inside you, pleasure pulsing from where you were joined. “Feel so good filled up with your cock—you fill me up so good, I wanna stay right here forever.”

Your mumbled words were half lost to a moan as you rocked your hips gently, feeling his shaft drag ever so gently against your inner walls. It was intense and wonderful and felt so good, you couldn’t stop.

Jack’s hands fell to your hips, and he gripped your soft curves, helping you grind down on him.

“That’s it, just like that,” he urged, his own hips rolling beneath yours, bringing your bodies together in a delicious push and pull that wrenched a pleasured grunt from him. “Fuck, angel, you’re so tight and you feel so fucking good—so wet and warm. You’re making daddy feel so good.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” you chanted, lips parted and breaths panting against Jack’s grizzled cheeks as you bounced on his lap. Still, you wanted more, and you knew Jack would give it to you, all you had to do was ask. “Will you suck on my tits, daddy, please?”

“Fuck, of course, angel,” Jack rumbled in response, his head ducking down, mouth latching onto a nipple and sucking until your hips gave a reflexive kick. “Ya like it when daddy sucks on your tits, angel? Your perfect fucking tits.”

His words were muttered, almost like he was talking to himself, and he didn’t wait for an answer before burying his face in your soft mounds. His lips and tongue worshiped your tits, showing you just how much he adored your body.

“Yes, yes, daddy, I love it,” you cried, rocking your hips faster, rolling them in a steady rhythm that had your clit grinding against the base of him. The pleasure was building fast in your core, until you were suddenly on the precipice. “Please, Jack, ‘m so close.”

“Come on my cock, angel—fuck, I wanna feel you clench around my fat cock while you’re screaming my name,” Jack rambled in between wet, suckling kisses to your soft flesh. His hands cupped your tits, thumbs stroking maddeningly over your nipples before pinching them roughly. “C’mon angel, give it to me, show me what a good girl you are and come for me.”

“Jack—JACK!”

His words and his cock and his hands and his perfect mouth sent you tumbling over the edge of your release, making you come on his cock. Your hips worked furiously as pleasure crashed over you in waves, helpless moans and cries spilling from your lips while Jack held you tight and thrust into you from below.

He was hot and hard and everywhere, his thick cock still deep inside you, his arms wrapped around you, his chest and belly pressed against your soft curves. He was the calm in the center of the storm that was your release, and he carried you through it, whispering words of praise in your ear.

You were still coming down from the height of your pleasure when Jack rolled you onto your back, his hips sliding between your thighs and thrusting his cock deep into you. It felt so good that you moaned loudly, your arms and legs wrapping around Jack and holding him as he fucked you, chasing his release.

“You’re such a good girl, angel, taking me so well and coming on my cock like such a pretty slut. Fuck, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you, never felt anything as perfect. You’re perfect, angel, so fucking perfect—fuck.”

Jack bit off a groan and pulled his cock from your tight cunt. He stroked himself to completion, his come spilling across your belly and mound between your thighs while you watched pleasure contort his face.

He let out a fierce grunt, his shoulders shaking and arms shuddering as he hunched over your body. The hand not wrapped around his cock was gripping your thigh tightly—like, for once, you were his rock, his anchor tethering him to earth.

Bathed in the bright golden light of morning filtering into his bedroom, he looked magnificent, and you couldn’t help yourself. You grabbed Jack’s face and pulled him down for a kiss, tasting the pleasure from his tongue.

His knuckles brushed your bare skin, more come leaking from the tip of his cock and onto your belly. He was covering you in ropes of his come, but you didn’t care, not when his lips were moving against yours in a sensual slide, his tongue slipping possessively into your mouth and groaning his pleasure.

With a final pull on his cock and one last kiss, Jack rolled off you, collapsing onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes while his chest heaved. He was still wearing his t-shirt and you pouted at it.

Still gasping for your own breaths, you slipped your hand beneath the hem of Jack’s shirt and raked your nails through the hair dusting his belly. He let out a shuddering breath, his cock twitching as another drop of come leaked from the tip of his softening length, seeping into the cotton shirt.

If you weren’t so limp and sated—and you weren’t afraid of making a mess of Jack’s bed with the come slowly drying on your skin—you would’ve leaned over and licked him clean. But that could wait for another time, when you both weren’t so tired.

Jack settled a hand on the back of yours, stilling your fingers where they were softly stroking his belly and giving them an affectionate squeeze.

After a few moments of catching your breath together, he heaved himself up and reached an arm over his shoulders to yank off his shirt. He rolled onto his side and used the soft shirt to clean you up while you giggled happily.

“You good, angel?” Jack asked, his face hovering above yours, dark caramel eyes searching your expression for anything amiss.

A soft smile curved your mouth and you reached up to cup Jack’s grizzled cheeks, thumbs stroking over his skin. “I’m good,” you murmured, lifting up and pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth. “Thanks for pulling out—I can’t believe I forgot to tell you to use a condom.”

Jack made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat, but it was softened by the teasing smile on his face. “Not very responsible of you, doctor,” he said in a deep, playful rasp that had you laughing.

“Don’t act like you didn’t forget, too, Dr. Abbot,” you retorted, batting good-naturedly at his shoulder. He laughed along with you before sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed.

“Do you need anything while I’m up?” he asked, putting on his prosthetic then standing and tossing his soiled shirt into the laundry. He paused at the foot of the bed to wait for your answer.

Lifting your arms above your head, you stretched languidly in the warm sheets of Dr. Jack Abbot’s bed, smiling like the cat that got the cream as you reveled in the feeling of him watching you unabashedly.

It felt like warm, orange flames of flickering heat licking at your skin, his eyes bright and intense in the morning light as they trailed over every inch of your bare skin and naked curves. That adoration you’d felt in his arms was clear in the gleam of his eye and the slightly awed smile on his face.

“I could use some more water,” you finally answered, exhaling deeply as you relaxed and settled into the bed. You were eager for him to return so he’d wrap you back up in his arms, and you could snuggle together.

“You got it,” he rasped, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then he wrenched his eyes away from you and seemed to force himself to walk out of the room.

While he was gone, you got up and went to the bathroom, cleaning yourself up a little better. When you were washing your hands, you heard a knock on the door before it opened a crack.

“Got you a shirt if you want something to wear,” Jack said, opening the door only enough for his arm to slip in. He hung a t-shirt on the hook by the door and then closed it again.

With a smile, you dried your hands and slid the soft cotton shirt over your head. It was plain white like the one he’d had on earlier, but clean, and it smelled like his earthy, sunshiny scent. You took a deep breath of the fabric, your nipples tightening and pushing against the fabric as warm pleasure flooded you down to your toes.

But then you remembered the man himself was waiting for you, and you eagerly exited the bathroom, finding Jack reclined against the pillows on his bed. He was sipping a glass of water, another full glass on the bedside table for you. You picked it up and drank half before setting it back down and climbing into bed.

Without hesitation, Jack lifted his arm and you slid into the space next to him. The two of you settled beneath the blankets together, your head laying on Jack’s chest, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your fingers idly traced the veins and freckles of his other arm, brushing through the hair dusted across his skin.

Outside, the soft, suffused orange light of dawn had given way to the bright, blinding light of morning. The sun was still climbing higher in the sky, but you and Jack needed rest.

So your bodies relaxed together, laying entwined in each other’s arms. You drifted to sleep in the calm, still bedroom while the rest of Pittsburgh carried on in the world beyond.

From that day on, Dr. Jack Abbot was your rock, your calm in the storm, the man whose arms were your home. He was your safe harbor. And you were his.

heavy | joaquin torres x reader

summary: you’ve worked with joaquin a lot over the years, from the military to his career as the falcon, as his physical therapist. as easy as joaquin was as a patient, it was hard. hard because he was such a shameless flirt, hard because he was so charming—but you’ve always been friends and nothing more. after the events of the red hulk, joaquin finds himself having a harder time recovering than usual despite having you by his side. a slip of the tongue leads to a fight that leaves the both of you tense, but all is forgiven when you find yourselves in an attack and confessions come to a head.

warnings: porn with a LOT of plot however the story could be a stand alone without the smut so i added a cut before the smut happens (on that note, reader is anatomically fem), barely proofread by me (everybody say thank you @sortagaysortahigh for reading and giving feedback), post!cabnw, inappropriate doctor patient relationship, pre-established friendship, angsty joaquin, mention of previous injury (reader’s and joaquin’s), cursing, grumpy x sunshine if you squint, they’re under attack at some point ahh, slowburn…?, this story is in second and third pov cus its whatever i feel in the moment i fear, “say my name” trope, they fucked before confessing any real feelings mb, oral fem!receiving, p in v, spit as lube, missionary, doggy, ass slapping, light choking fem!receiving, dirty talk, kind of loser!joaquin?, slight overstimulation, creampie

word count: 12.6k

You’ve worked with Joaquin countless times over the years. His medical rap sheet cost you more in printer paper than you could truly afford and your computer lags every time you try to pull his chart up electronically…but it was never something you could truly complain about. Afterall, it was Joaquin. Sweet, shameless flirt Joaquin.

Sometimes it was a quick bounce back, a simple video chat where you outlined instructions for him to follow. “Non-strenuous exercise, Torres,” you’d emphasize hopelessly. You practically watch the words go in one ear and out the other. His eyes clearly averted on another screen, his mouth slightly agape in focus. “Uh-huh. ‘Course, no prob, doc,” before your screen went black.

Other times, it’d take longer than he wanted, weeks before he was out and onto the next wound-awaiting mission. “Slow down, tough guy,” a gentle hand placed atop his, pushing the resistance band back down. All he does is shoot you a lopsided smile, flashing his dimples at you as he asks, “Yeah? You think I’m tough, doc?”

Working with Joaquin was easy, so maybe you were a bit naive after the events of the Red Hulk for believing that it would be the same as before.

“I’m getting kind of tired of seeing your face, Torres,” you step into his hospital room, hands in the pockets of your white coat. “You’re looking a little worse than usual.”

You watch his jaw shift, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. The faint bulge only did so much to hold back his light chuckle. “Hey doc. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, I wish I could say the same.” Your hand comes up to grip his jaw, turning his head to the side so you could take a closer look at the bruising and stitches on his face. Not your area of expertise in the least, but it doesn’t take a medical degree to know it was a rough battle.

“Ah, come on. This? I’ve never felt better.” His dimples deep as he bore what only could be described as a shit-eating grin.

“Mm,” you can only let out a hum of disapproval as you pull the computer station in his room closer to you. The keyboard clacks obnoxiously as you put in your credentials, bypassing any security measure that stands between you and his information. That’s what you get for taking on the Falcon as a patient, you suppose. Friendship be damned—Joaquin was a pain in the ass. You try to ignore his gaze, burning into the side of your face as you work. Without even glancing through your peripherals, you already know what he looks like. Eyes wide, gaze attentive, as he focused all of his attention on you. It made your skin tingle and heart beat faster in a way you didn’t want to think about.

You unconsciously let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when his scans finally popped up. “Alright, let’s see.” You do your best to keep your expression neutral, but you can’t completely stop the small frown that has the corner of your lips turning downward as you scroll through pages and pages of images.

Leaning towards you from his bed, Joaquin tries to peek at the screen. “That bad, huh?”

You pull your lips tight, doing your best to eradicate any sign of displeasure on your face. “Not at all.”

Joaquin casts you a skeptical look.

You let out a puff of air, eyes closing for a moment before pushing the computer away. Hands on the railing of his hospital bed, you admit, “I heard about what happened, and considering the fall you took, I expected worse.” Your tone is gentle, maintaining eye contact, “But…it’s not great, either.”

With his best effort, Joaquin straightens up in the bed. Shifting uncomfortably, he asks, “Alright so what’s that mean for me, then?”

You hesitate, racking your brain for the right words. His look of impatience prompts you to just be honest.

“It means you’re not going to be The Falon for a long time.”

He starts off optimistic, business as usual for Joaquin, but you start to read through him soon enough.

“Torres, stop that,” you hiss, slapping his hand away from the buttons on the treadmill.

“That was lightwork. Come on, ramp up the speed a bit, doc. I can take it,” he insists, clapping his hands together as he tries to exceed the light jog you set for him.

You let out a sigh before gradually slowing his speed down to zero.

“What, that’s it?” he turns to you with his arms outstretched in mock disbelief. He continues to goad you into letting him do a more difficult exercise, insisting that he can handle it. His words hold little bark, though, as he forces them out in between heavy breathes. You place your hands on his waist, over the trainer you have tightened around his torso and help guide him off the machinery.

He doesn’t put up a fight, and the two of you ignore the droplets of sweat lining his forehead.

“That was good work,” you murmur, scribbling down some notes. Throwing him a bone, you add, “You went a further distance than I thought your body could handle at this point. That's a positive progression.”

When you’re greeted with nothing but silence, you cast a look over in his direction. He leans against the railing that lines the wall, his hands resting on the bar. His chest continues to heave, slower now, but not quite steady. You can’t help the ache in your chest when you catch his somber expression, eyes lost in deep thought.

“I know it’s a lot.”

He doesn’t answer you at first. You start to think that he didn’t hear you, but then you watch as his jaw clenches.

“I know it’s different from the last times we’ve gone through this. Taking longer than you want—”

But just when you think you’ve gotten through to him, he shakes his head and wipes the grim expression of his face, blowing out a puff of air. “What? This?” Joaquin lets out a less than convincing laugh. “No. It’s fine.”

“Torres—”

“No, really.” With a grunt, he pushes himself off the bar and you hold back a grimace, restraining yourself from stepping forward to help him. It would only make things worse right now. “I’m fine,” he continues. He ignores the look on your face as he steps closer, the drawn in eyebrows and your pouting lips that are almost enough for him to forget the dilemmas he’s in. He hates how worried you look.

“I’ll see you next session, doc.” He heads for the door before you can get another word in, but not before looking back and throwing a wink in your direction.

It had been a long day. Someone at work finished the last of your creamer and left the empty carton in the fridge, your patients were especially frustrated and took it out on you, and the bottom of your maxi skirt had gotten caught on some equipment, causing a huge tear.

You’ve just about had it, so you sit in the silence of your car with your eyes closed. It was dark out; you got out of work so late today. You sigh again at yet another reminder of how terrible your day has gone. On any other day, by now, you would’ve been deeply nestled into your bed already, freshly showered and fed. The whine of frustration bubbles past your lips involuntarily.

Peace is had for all of two minutes before your phone buzzes. Naturally, it’s ignored, your lip twitching in irritation and your eyes stay closed in determination. But then your phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

You can’t help but curse as you riffle through your bag, praying it’s just some to-do list reminder.

Notification Center: 5 new messages from Torres

“What the hell?” you whisper to yourself.

Torres: Hi

Torres: Need your help

Torres: Did something bad

Torres: Bring an arm brace.

Torres: Please…😀

“Oh, Christ,” you curse, rolling your eyes so hard you feel a headache start to form. You take five seconds to pity yourself before your pathetic excuse of a car roars to life and you’re down the road, following your maps to the location Joaquin shared.

“Hello?” you call out, stepping into the entryway of Joaquin’s apartment. The spare key he told you about hangs from your hand and you drop it into what looks like the designated key bowl. “Torres?”

Your eyes inadvertently take in the space, curiously peering at his decorations. In front of you sits a blue, worn-in couch that seems to be well-loved, adorned with a bunch of throw blankets that aren’t really cohesive in color.

Spinning around the living room, you find a large TV mounted across from the couch that warranted a small chuckle. Unsurprisingly, it seems to be the fanciest piece of furniture he owns; he’s the biggest sports fan you know. In between the space sits a cute coffee table, an unfinished coffee mug sits on the table alongside a phone charger.

A warmth blooms in your chest at how human it all was. Before you can move on to any pictures or any other space in the home, a loud voice yells, “In here!”

You snap out of your daze, the weight of the arm brace suddenly reminding you why you were even there in the first place. Rushing past his kitchen, you continue until you bypass a few doors. Unsure which room he’s in, you call out his name again.

At the end of the hallway, light spills out as Joaquin opens the door to his bedroom. The look on his face is sheepish, and he gives you a boyish, wide smile. “Thanks for coming by.”

“House calls aren’t really part of my payroll, you know.”

“Well,” his brow rises and face scrunches into a look of false calculation. “I figured if there was any patient you’d break the rules for, it’d be me. I heard I’m your most charming one, after all.”

You greet his wink and tongue click with an eye roll, but before you get the chance to reply, Joaquin finds himself trying to lean against his doorframe. A loud hiss fills the air as his left hand comes up to clutch his right shoulder. An embarrassed look is sent your way. “Maybe, uh, not as charming, um, right now…don’t freak out.”

He sucks in a sharp breath and opens his door further, a silent invitation for you to come in.

You glare at him as you pass the threshold of his room, maintaining eye contact as you shake your head. “You’re actually the worst of my patients, you know that?”

“The worst?” he exclaims in genuine shock. “Wow, okay.” His uninjured arm clutches his heart. “Now I’m wounded in more ways than one—”

You wish you could say you heard the rest of his ramblings, but his words start to trail off as you step into his room. You’re suddenly engulfed by the smell of him and it’s making you…dizzy. The unmade bed, the hoodie draped over the back of his desk chair, the mess on the nightstand, standing there you suddenly realize how intimate it all was. His musky cologne and the scent of fresh laundry invades your senses and you start feeling nervous.

A lump swells in your throat, so you clear it, letting out what you hoped was a subtle cough to shake the feeling.

By the time you regain focus, you realize how uncharacteristically quiet Joaquin’s being behind you. You force yourself to turn his way. That was when you took in the state of him. Standing by the door, his right arm is cradled in his left as he carries a nervous expression.

“Oh, what did you do!” you chastise, all other thoughts billowing away as you rush towards him.

“I was doing some light exercise—” he lets out a yelp of pain when you press against his shoulder and you look up at him with another glare.

“Just a few pushups,” Joaquin’s voice gets higher, already defending his careless actions. “It wasn’t,” he hisses as you adjust him again, “anything I can’t handle.”

You cast him another disparaging look, causing him to shut his mouth.

“Torres, are you trying to make my job harder?” you let out a groan. “You’re only supposed to do only light movements on non-PT days. Definitely no exercise involving your arm or back muscles.”

“No pain, no gain, ‘miright?” his laugh turns into a groan of pain when you harshly press an ice pack onto his shoulder. “Hold this,” you harshly instruct. His hand comes up to grab the cold pack tentatively, all while avoiding eye contact.

“And it’s not funny,” you scowl. “You’re disregarding my advice and look where it’s gotten you.” You guide his arm into the brace. It’s a bit tactless, the way you’re talking to him, but your patience has completely dissipated this late into the day. Maybe tough love is what he needs to hear. “You have to stop pushing yourself like this and just trust me.” Your own frustrations clearly start to bleed through.

A long stretch of silence fills the space between the two of you, but you’re too focused on patching Joaquin up to truly notice. It seems to eat at him, though, because after a few minutes of velcro tearing and your manhandling, he speaks up.

“Could do it before.” It’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

“What?” you ask in exasperation, not truly hearing what he said.

“Last week.”

You pause your movements, waiting for him to continue.

Joaquin’s face scrunches in hesitation, thoughts running amok through his mind as he debates whether or not to keep going. “After physical therapy last week I did fifty. No pain at all,” his brows raise in feign disbelief alongside a humorless chuckle. He purses his lips, turning his face away from you as he whispers, “Couldn’t even get through ten today.”

Your eyes close, God, how insensitive could you be? Taking a step back from him, you take in how upset he looks. His shoulders ripple with tension as the nails of his right hand clenched and dug into his palm before unclenching, a grounding technique he told you about from his military days.

Placing a hand on the bicep on his non-injured side in an action quietly asking him to stop, you try to meet his eyes with a tilted head. “Hey, I mean…progress isn’t always linear, Torres. You can’t always—”

The way he shrugs you off is sudden, he turns his back to you and merely casts a sullen glance at you over his shoulder. With a shake of his head, he begs, “Please, don’t. Don’t start doing that.”

“Look, PT is always really hard. And we talked about it, this time, you’re not going to come back as fast as you did before. You need to give your body more time—”

“How much more time?” his voice rises. “I mean, at the very,” Joaquin starts to stutter and his eyes scrunch in anger, “At the very least I shouldn’t be going backwards.”

“I know…it feels like you’re going backwards,” you carefully place your words, “But you are getting better. It’s only seems hard right now—”

“Yeah, I get that,” he cuts you off, his tone much harsher than you’re used to. “You don’t have to constantly tell me that, I know.”

“Alright, fine.” You can’t help that your tone, too, takes a bit of an icy turn, too. “Then I shouldn’t have to explain to you how active recovery works and if you just tried to be a little more patient—”

“I know that too!” he hisses, “I get that it's supposed to be hard but,” he blows out a breath. “It shouldn’t…it shouldn’t be this damn hard.” Joaquin starts pacing, his right hand running through his unkempt curls. “I’m doing your exercises—”

“But you’re not following the rules,” you defend. “If you actually listened instead of pushing yourself for things you aren’t ready for—”

“Or maybe you just don’t know what the hell you’re doing!” Joaquin shouts as he buries his face into the palm of his right hand before pinching the space above his nose and between his eyes.

The words strike you harder than you expect, and you can’t help the way your mouth parts in surprise. “‘I don’t...?” Your sentence starts off as a quiet whisper, merely repeating the words Joaquin threw in your face, but soon changes to anger as the meaning behind what he says truly sinks in. “I ‘don’t know what the hell I’m doing?’” you sneer.

The sound of your outrage fills the air, and Joaquin snaps his head up. It only takes one look at your face for him to shut his eyes and breathe out through his nose. Wetting his lips, he starts speaking before opening his eyes, “Shit. Wait, I didn’t mean—”

To your mortification, your eyes start to burn. “You know what I do know, Torres,” you cut him off. “I know that you called me here. I know that you called me here and I showed up for you, like I do every single time. I know that it’s hard,” you can’t help the hint of mockery in your voice. “Believe it or not I do get it. The only one here who doesn’t understand is you, because you’re too damn stubborn to admit that you need more time. You’d rather hurt yourself more, just to prove something.” You huff, turning your back to him, “And I’m not just going to stand here, waiting to watch you crash and burn. You can figure it out your damn self, Torres. I’m done.”

The sound of his bedroom door slams behind you and his front door follows in a similar fashion soon after. Chest heaving, you lean against the entrance to his apartment as the adrenaline flees from you. It leaves you with your head in your hands. “Fuck,” you murmur to yourself.

“I shouldn’t have let her leave,” Joaquin continues his ramble to a less than interested Sam.

“Uh-huh,” Sam replies, voice monotone. It was his only contribution to the conversation thus far, his attention more-so occupied on polishing some equipment.

“I didn’t mean what I said. It was something stupid that just slipped out. Heat of the moment, y’know?” Joaquin pauses mid-scrolling, swiveling in his chair to face Sam. “She knows that…right?” he scratches his chin.

A loud sigh and the clink of metal hitting the table makes Joaquin’s ears perk up. He takes in Sam’s tense back and the way he throws his head back in obvious annoyance.

“Man, I don’t know what she knows.” Sam finally puts in his two cents. Chin tilting down, Sam looks up at his friend with a deadpan expression. “You talk. A lot.”

Joaquin’s face scrunches in protest, head jerking back in offense, “I mean—”

“You’ve been talking for half an hour, dude.” Sam retaliates before Joaquin can argue, left hand pointing up at the clock on the wall. “At some point, you went on about, like, Messi leaving Barca and how that was the same as her walking out on you? I don’t,” Sam sighs loudly, “I don’t know.”

“Dude, that was a big deal! And it was a metaphor—”

“Well, she’s not Messi, is she?” Sam places his hands on his hips, face twisted in annoyed disbelief. “And last I checked, you don’t have a billion-dollar contract.” He turns back to the work at hand whilst murmuring, “God knows the government barely pays us to keep this place running,” his hand waves nonchalantly through the air.

“I don’t need a billion dollar contract,” Joaquin huffs, the wheels of his chair squeaking as he turns back around to face his array of monitors. The sound of keys clacking ensues as Joaquin returns to work, but his mind continues to stray elsewhere as he murmurs absentmindedly to himself, “I just need to figure out how to get her to talk to me again.”

“Hope you can figure it out soon ‘cause you got about thirty seconds.” Sam’s response surprises Joaquin, not realizing his mentor had even heard him.

Once the initial shock wears off, Joaquin finds his voice. “Wait, what?”

“Hello?” The sound of someone so sweetly familiar greets him.

Joaquin’s chair swivels again, but the source of his attention is directed not to Sam this time, but to you. “Hey,” Joaquin laughs breathlessly, “Hi. Uh, what are you doing here?”

“We fought, Torres. I didn’t die,” you respond sarcastically.

“Right,” Joaquin laughs obnoxiously. You and Sam share a look. “No, I just, uh, didn’t expect you to see you here…so soon…”

“Well, despite what you might think of my skills, you’re still my patient.”

Joaquin winces.

“You might have been able to skip PT and ghost me for a week, but I can’t let you off the hook for your reassessment.” Your knuckles rap against the iPad you’re holding. “Government orders.”

“That’s today?” Joaquin squirms in his seat, face going pale.

“One every month.” You avert your gaze from his, shuffling on your feet as the interaction grows awkward. “I’ll be in the med bay,” your tone softens. “See you in a bit.”

Joaquin takes a bit too long to respond, shouting after you a beat after you’ve already set to leave. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there!”

You slowly cast a glance over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in confusion before exiting without another word.

“Smooth.” Sam inserts.

“Shut up.”

“Real smooth.”

Joaquin sits quietly on the exam table with his hands clasped between his knees. The crinkly paper tore the second he tried to take a seat and is only now pinned down under the weight of his thighs. Other than the chuckle and head shake from you, the two of you have yet to exchange any real words since he’s walked into the cold, sterile room.

He’s nervous for more reasons than one, and Joaquin can’t tell what’s killing him more: the reassessment or the unknown between the two of you.

Hands rubbing against his thigh, Joaquin lets out a big breath before blurting, “I’m sorry about the last week.”

You look up from the tablet you’ve been scrolling through, but before you can respond, he continues in a rambling tone. “I didn’t mean what I said. It was stupid,” he murmurs.

The sound of your shoes squeak against the linoleum as you approach him, stopping just before his bed. Looking up at you, his eyes are wide, irises swimming with remorse as he admits, “I was just frustrated, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re angry,” you sigh, your tone carrying a tone that indicates you’re admitting this more for Joaquin’s sake than yours—he needs to hear it more than you do. “I get it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No.” You admit, but at the sight of his absolute guilt, his top teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he stares up at you, you can’t help but give him a playful eye roll and smile. “No it doesn’t.”

At the sight of your cold facade cracking, Joaquin’s face slowly emerges into a smile of his own. It’s hopeful on his end, but you don’t shut it down, and that’s all he needs right now.

“Now let’s just see if your shoulder is as apologetic as you are.”

The reminder of what they’re doing there sends a swarm of butterflies through Joaquin’s stomach, but he bears his smile all the same. “Haven’t done anything I’m not ‘spose to.” It’s a lame attempt at appeasing you, but Joaquin considers it a win either way when he catches the tiniest grin slip through on your face.

You remove his brace, humming in approval as you guide Joaquin through simple shoulder exercises to test his healing process.

Joaquin catches your gaze through your lashes. “What?” he asks quietly.

“I’m almost impressed, Torres.”

Before he can respond, a bright red light begins flashing throughout the room. A shrill alarm blaring makes the both of you jump, and Joaquin instinctively stands at the sound, grabbing your arms as the two of you begin looking around.

“What the hell is that?” you question, shouting over the alarm.

The sound of footsteps pound down the hallway, shouts and yells causing a commotion that leaves your head spinning.

“Come on, we gotta go,” is all Joaquin can offer as he drags you out of the med bay. You have no choice but to follow as his grip remains firm. You don’t question his authority as he pushes you in the opposite direction of the stream of people running for the exits.

“Cap!” Joaquin draws Sam’s attention from down the hallway. “What’s going on?”

“Compounds under attack,” Sam barely gets the words out, his speed remaining consistent as he sprints toward the exit. “Stay put, get to the lower levels,” the last of his words fade, barely audible over the sirens.

“Let’s go.” Joaquin urges, though he doesn’t give you much of a choice. Pushing you ahead of him, he cradles your head as he strongarms the crowd. The two of you force your way through, though you’re not quite sure where you’re going. “Turn here,” you hear him shout over the alarm.

You have only a second to adjust to the new setting before Joaquin shouts, “Keep moving!”

The corridor hits a deadend and Joaquin reaches past you to shove the stairwell. The two of you rush downward, the dim, flickering lights making your heart beat faster in your chest. You can’t help the scream that escapes when a loud explosion occurs overhead, the ground shaking below you. For a moment, you lose your balance and you close your eyes to brace for impact. Stumbling, you expect to take a turn for the worse when a steady arm wraps around your waist.

“You okay?” Joaquin’s voice is hushed against your ear, and it grounds you for a moment.

“Yeah.” You quickly nod, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “You?”

Joaquin doesn’t answer, instead, he pushes you forward again. “We’re almost there,” he reassures as you two round the last set of stairs.

The alarm sounds distant now, almost acting like background noise in the cold, concrete basement. The sound of some mysterious liquid dripping in the background is much more prominent. It seems only the two of you are down here, and you made a joke about how everyone’s probably bunkered down in some fancy, state of the art basement and not the humid atrocity the two of you are in, and Joaquin just laughed. “There’s only one basement, mi corazón.”

Now, the two of you share a random wooden crate, leaning on each other in silence.

“It’s been so long.” You break through the silence. “Do you think everything’s okay?”

You can hear the sound of Joaquin’s rhythmic tapping against the wood, and you sit in contemplation as you await his answer.

“I don’t know.” He’s honest. A brief pause later and he continues, “But if Sam’s out there, then it’ll be alright. He always figures it out.”

You let his words settle over you for a bit before the gears in your mind start to turn, leading you down a different pathway. If your lack of response perturbs Joaquin, he doesn’t show it, the tapping continuing in an obscure pattern.

“You…didn’t run out there,” you state, voice laced with hesitation as the words fall through pursed lips. Joaquin’s tapping stops. Again, silence stretches between the two of you and you can hear your blood rushing in your ears. You can’t help but sneak a glance at him through your peripherals, and at the sight of a sharp, clenched jaw and a tense side profile, your lips turn downward into a frown.

He finally exhales through his nose. “No, I didn’t.”

Biting your lip, you tread lightly as you continue. “You always run toward the fight.” Throughout physical therapy, during missions, as the Falcon—all the years you and Joaquin have known each other run through your mind. He’s never been one to walk away.

Joaquin breathes through his nose again, a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Not this time.”

The two of you fall quiet again, only the sound of breathing fills the space. So much time had passed, you were sure that was all Joaquin had to say. It startles you when he starts again.

“Before…” he trails off. Now it was his turn to bite his lower lip in hesitation. Joaquin looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, “You said something about, um, ‘getting it’?”

It takes your brain a second to register what he means, but once you realize he’s referring to your words during the fight, you lag. The question he’s trying to ask leaves you feeling uncomfortable. Deflecting, you joke, “Oh, are you referring to when I was putting you in place?”

Joaquin hangs his head, laughing. “Yeah,” he nods. “When you were putting me in my place.” He turns to look at you, wetting his lips before giving you a close-mouthed, dimple-full smile. God, he’s so pretty, it was intoxicating.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a brief moment and you involuntarily part them. Joaquin’s smile slowly drops, along with his voice as he continues. “It just sounded like you meant something more than just being on the job.”

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, thumping so loud you can hear it in your ears and you’re scared he can, too. He’s unraveling you, bit by bit, and you don’t have the strength to stop him.

“Yeah,” you whisper. You shift away from Joaquin, and for a second he panics, thinking that he’s crossed a line. But then the sound of shuffling fabric fills the room, and Joaquin leans back, giving you space as you pull up the sleeve of your pants.

A soft finger points at your knee. Leaning close again, his eyes close in on a scar—faded, but long and jagged. His eyes lock with yours, and he takes in the way you’ve been watching him.

“Played soccer when I was a kid,” your confession is quiet. “I loved it. And I was good, too.” Your emphasis on the word ‘good’ cracks a hole in Joaquin’s chest. Even though you’re looking at him, he recognizes that somewhere in your eyes, you’re far away, reminiscing on this past version of yourself. “Got a full ride to my dream school to play on their team. Then boom.” You pop your lips. “ Tore my ACL two weeks before graduation.”

Joaquin just watches you, hanging on to every word.

“I tried going to rehab.” You start rolling your pants down again. “But…I was impatient. Stubborn. Wouldn’t listen to anyone.” Joaquin can’t help but wince at how awfully similar your story was starting to sound. You snap out of your dissociative gaze, locking eyes with Joaquin before earnestly confessing, “I never played again.”

He can’t even begin to think of what to say, but even if he did, Joaquin never would have been able to get them past the lump in his throat.

You nod alongside your next statement. “So, yeah. I get it.” There is no malice in your voice, only sincerity.

Joaquin lets your words sit there for a moment. Eventually, all he can do is let out a groan. “I’m such an ass.”

It earns a hearty laugh from you, and the sound was sweet enough that it even manages to grace a smile on his face too. It only lasts a second, though, before Joaquin grows somber again.

“You know, I’ve wanted this for so long.” Joaquin’s hands come up, dragging down his face. “And then I got it. I was The Falcon…for all of five minutes before I screwed it up.” He shakes his head, disappointment in his own actions and failures radiating between the small space between the two of you. “I just thought that if I just pushed harder, worked through it I could…” Joaquin pauses, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know…get back out there and prove that Sam didn’t make a mistake choosing me. That I am The Falcon.” He lets out a breath and when Joaquin looks at you again, his eyes are misty. “But I guess I still have a long way to go, huh?”

Your brows lower in sympathy, hand resting on Joaquin’s bicep. You offer a comforting smile. “Not that long,” you reassure. “You got me here. Last week’s Torres would’ve gone running after Sam in that hallway.”

There’s a pause, and you feel the way it's charged with something heavy and unsaid, like something had just shifted.

“Yeah, well,” Joaquin’s eyes fall to your lips again. “I guess I wasn’t really thinking about Sam at that moment.” Slowly, the two of you inch towards each other. You’re not sure what came over you; it was like a gravitational pull that had the two of you falling into each other. His forehead pressed against yours, Joaquin blinks slowly as he confesses, “In that moment I just… wanted to make sure you were safe.” The words are breathless against your lips.

“Joaquin, I—”

A loud slam echoes through the basement, making the two of you gasp and jolt apart in panic. Shooting up from where you were sitting, Joaquin stands protectively in front of you.

“Torres!” a familiar voice shouts out before calling your name as well. “You guys in here?”

“Oh, my God, Sam,” you let out a sigh of relief, hand clutching your heart.

Joaquin’s back muscles are tense. It takes him clearing his throat and smoothing his hand over his shirt to gain composure, but once it’s found, Joaquin’s face grows serious, taking Sam in. He helps you off the crate before stepping away, as though putting some distance between the two of you would make him think more rationally.

The sound of boots hit the concrete floor as Sam makes his way over. “You guys alright?” he calls out.

“Yeah,” you answer for the both of you, watching as Joaquin steps forward.

“What happened?” his voice is urgent, shrouded with concern.

“Everything’s clear for now,” Sam answers, eyes flickering back to you. “We should get back up there, though. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Silently, you step forward, following Sam’s lead, but not before looking back at Joaquin who can’t quite make eye contact with you right now.

You tie your robe hastily, feet struggling to put on your fluffy slippers as you rush towards the door. The incessant knocking was throwing off your nighttime routine, and you tried not to get grumpy about the fact that you were just about ready to slip into bed to begin your British Bake Off binge but were sorely interrupted.

Peering out of your peephole, you find your annoyance shriveling in your chest. The sight of a disheveled, heavy-breathing Joaquin throws you way more off than the knocking.

Swinging the door open, you hastily question him, “Torres, are you okay?” You reach out, examining for any cuts or blood. He lets you spin him around to check his backside. “Is it your arm again? Your back?”

When you spin him back and look up, you’re greeted with nothing but a barely-contained smirk, his enjoyment clear as day. Rolling your eyes, you let him go with a slight shove.

“No, please,” he raises his hands in surrender. “By all means, please continue.”

You put one arm up against the doorframe, the other landing on your hip. “What do you want?”

Joaquin’s eyes flicker down momentarily, and he tries his hardest not to let the sight of your slightly open robe get to him. His Adam’s apple bobs as he tries his best to regain concentration. Clearing his throat, he states, “I didn’t get to see you after the attack on the compound.”

Once your trio was able to get back up to ground level, you and Sam agreed it would be best if you went to the med bay to help where you can. You assumed Joaquin would be busy debriefing with Sam afterwards, and not knowing the threat level they were facing, you haven't reached out for fear he was working.

“Came by to check on me?” Something like insulation slips between the lines.

“Something like that,” he hums. Joaquin raises his brows, quietly asking to be let in. Reluctantly, you open the door wider, but you don’t exactly move from your doorway.

Stepping towards you, Joaquin leaves you face to face with his chest, his classic scent of cologne and fresh laundry invading your senses. You try not to think about how broad he is as you step aside. His shoulder brushes yours as he passes, and you swear you see a slight mischievous upturn of his lips when you make contact with each other.

He pauses a few steps in. You close the door. Standing behind him, you just watch him. The way he’s surveying your place makes you nervous; his gaze is so intentional, almost as if he’s taking in every detail. Maybe this is how he felt when you were at his place.

There was a dim glow in your apartment, a few lamps here and there that you intentionally turned on to create a quiet ambiance after the afternoon’s rattling events. The candle you lit just mere moments before Joaquin came knocking created dancing shadows along the wall, and though you had no idea he was coming, you couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed at how intimate the setting you had created was.

Joaquin was taking too long to say something, but you refuse to be the first to break the silence, so you continue your observation, watching the rippled chords of his back muscles rise and fall as he takes in slow breaths. The quiet and vanilla scent wafting through the air made your mind start wandering, and you couldn’t help but recall the past times you’ve laid hands on those same muscles—strong and taut under your fingertips. The memory of his skin, sometimes slick with sweat from working out, sends electricity through your body in a way that was inappropriate.

You’ve admired him previously, sure, but you’ve never been so outright perverted in the way you oggle hm. You’re a professional, you remind yourself, only for the thought to be cut short by the reminder of what almost happened hours before.

Skin tingling, you pull your robe tighter around your body, but the friction of the silk makes your breath catch in your throat. The sound was loud in your ears, and you pray he didn’t hear you.

Finally, Joaquin moves. His steps are slow as he moves further into your apartment. You’re not sure why he’s being so quiet, you’ve never known him to be such a way. Stopping at your kitchen counter, he turns to look at you as he runs his curls through his hair. Whether it was nerves or habit, you weren’t sure. Either way, it was distracting.

“I noticed something…earlier,” the last word tacts on to his sentence as though it was an afterthought. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning into your kitchen counter before he crosses his ankles too. The look on his face makes your chest tighten, his jaw clenched as he eyes stay locked with yours. You feel like a fish out of water because this isn’t the Joaquin you’re so used to—shameless, flirty, sweet—all things you could handle, but this? Smoldering, cocky, and all of it so intensively directed at you; you could hardly stand on your own two feet.

You feel stuck in your place for a second, and it takes every fiber of will in your body to push you forward. The sound of your fluffy slippers slide across the wooden floors, and you try not to focus too much on them for fear of the embarrassment drowning you. Joaquin watches you every step of the way, eyes trained on your body in a way that makes you burn.

At first, you make your way to stand before him, but then decide to change course at the last second and place yourself on the back of your couch. Making yourself comfortable on the plush furniture, one leg crosses over the other, and you use your left hand to support your body weight. It might be your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear you can feel Joaquin’s eyes trail up your leg, up to your exposed thigh. Instinctively, your thighs squeeze together.

“What did you notice?” you finally ask, voice sounding awfully loud in the dark room.

His stance is unchanged, only his shift as he averts from your body back to your eyes. Voice considerably lower than before, Joaquin says, “You said my name.”

Confusion washes over you. “What?”

Joaquin pushes himself away from the marble countertop. He takes one calculated step towards you, hands still crossed tight across his pecs. Looking at the floor, Joaquin claims, “I’ve known you for five years.”

Swallowing, you meekly contribute, “That’s a long time.”

Dimples pressing into his cheek as he smirks, looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Oh, for sure,” his voice is raspy and you hate the effect it has on you. Even more mortifying, his tone is mocking. “Back in Kirtland, post-op in Kandahar, even on that trial mission in White Sand,” for every location he takes a step closer to you. “It’s always been just Torres to you.” His voice cracks, and it almost feels like he’s coming undone by the realization. “You’ve never said my real name once.” He sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, as if he was debating the predicament.

Standing in front of you, his hands drop from their previously defensive position and instead land on either side of you, trapping you on the couch. Without thought, the hand you were previously using to support your weight finds itself on his right bicep, gripping for both support and a reckless anticipation. Leaning down, he forces you to look him in the eye as he whispers, “Until today.”

It’s inevitable, the way you shrink under his gaze; you can’t help it, he’s just being so damn intense. But he doesn’t let you. His left index and thumb cups your chin, forcing your gaze back to him. “Why?” he questions.

Words are fleeting and your brain short circuits. You don’t know that you have an answer to his question. Why did you always call him by his last name? Lips agape in thought, you recall the first time you met Joaquin.

The suffocatingly hot base in Kirtland could never leave you even if you tried, the dry air and burning concrete haunted your dreams. It wasn’t a pretty place to be.

You had just finished doing your fourth intake in a row. Rolling through physicals for every soldier on base was going to be the biggest pain in your ass. Sweat was dripping down your temple and you had wiped it away with an angry sigh, internally cursing for subjecting yourself to this role. That was when he walked in. Laughing.

You remembered being so annoyed when you first heard it ring through the air. ‘Who the hell can laugh in these conditions?’ you bitterly thought to yourself.

Then you turned around.

His laughter filled the space and you watched as he threw his head back, shoulders loose with an aura of confidence and carefreeness that you’ve yet to see on the bleak base. Your head roared with the sound of his voice and it felt like the room belonged to just him.

That’s when he turned to face you, his dimples deep and eyes shining, radiating a sort of charm and charisma that had you swallowing for reasons other than your dry mouth from the weather.

“Hey, doc. Heard I’m up next.” There was a remnant of laughter still remaining in his voice. He pulled his helmet off, sweaty curls sticking to his sun kissed skin, and you knew you were fucked.

“Yup. Torres.” Your hand had caught the pen that had started to slip. “Right up here.”

You drew the line then, between you and him, because you knew he would have drowned you otherwise.

But he didn’t need to know that.

- smut warning -

“I never thought about it.” To others, your sutter would’ve given you away, but Joaquin was watching you so closely you’re sure he didn’t even hear you complete your sentence before interjecting.

“You’re lying.” All hints of teasing from his voice are gone as he leans in closer to you.

Your fingers tighten around his bicep, feeling the way it flexes as you dig your nails into his skin. “This is wrong,” you whisper. It’s the last line of defense that you have, and even you can hear how weak your resolve sounds.

“Say my name,” Joaquin demands, but you hear the hidden plea lying within.

“Torres—”

“My actual name.”

You can feel yourself trembling, thighs clenched in suspense. Your nails dig deeper. His hold on your face tightens, but you don’t feel trapped. Heart beating wildly in your chest, you know that once you cross this line with him, there is no going back.

“Joaquin—”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat before his lips slide over yours. Your hand drops from his bicep, instead curling up to the nape of his neck to tug onto his curls. Joaquin’s own hands wrap around you, one circled tightly around your waist, the other curling up your back to hold the nape of your neck.

The kiss is heated, raw passion from both sides as the two of you push back and forth between one another, trying to assert dominance.

Joaquin wins in the end, his canines coming down to bite your lower lip, inadvertently making you gasp. He easily slips his tongue into your mouth and you can feel his cocky smirk. It makes you pull his hair, and he lets out a groan followed by a breathless laugh that goes straight to your core.

His hips press against you and your legs part instinctively. Joaquin wastes no time taking advantage of the access, pulling you closer to him. He’s everywhere. His hands are trailing along your sides, getting knotted in your hair, brushing against your back. Joaquin’s signature scent clings on to you and it makes you unbearably hot, your thin robe suddenly not providing enough ventilation.

Breaking away, you gasp, the burning in your lungs a strong reminder of the necessities of oxygen. Joaquin doesn’t seem to have the same needs though, as his lips begin trailing downward without hesitation. A pause against your neck and a not-so-gentle bite against the puncture of your shoulder causes you to let out a moan, arching into him.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your neck, the word drawn. A silent apology is offered in the way he kisses the wound, tongue poking out to soothe the skin, before continuing on his downward path. One large palm grips at your thigh, massaging the tissue. Each press of his mouth, his touch leaves you aching.

When his kisses move from your shoulder to the center of your chest, you feel Joaquin begin to get down on one knee.

“Wait,” you grasp at his shoulders. Joaquin stops, all movement halting, and he looks up with you with eyes blown wide. His pupils nearly swallow his honey brown irises. “If we do this, everything changes,” your words are airy, carrying a truth that you’ve been too scared to admit.

“Baby, we’re long past that.” You see him pause. “But if you’ve changed your mind, we don’t have to do this.” And you know he’s telling the truth. If you say the word now, this all stops.

A beat passes.

The pressure of your palm hands on Joaquin’s shoulder, pushing him towards the ground. He does a shit job at hiding the enthusiastic smile that breaks out on his face, and he wastes no time in pulling you back into him. His broad, large form forces your legs further apart as he leaves a sequence of kisses from your sternum down to your navel. They’re sloppy, and rushed, as if he couldn’t get enough. You can’t help but throw your head backwards, eyes closing in pleasure.

Your robe falls open with no resistance, and Joaquin kneels before you. His hands rub both of your thighs, a slight grip to them as he sucks in a breath of admiration. Palms round from the side of your thighs to the plump of your ass, where Joaquin greedily squeezes before pulling you forward in one swift motion. You nearly fall off the back of the couch, but he makes sure it doesn’t happen, strong arms bracketing you in.

Meeting you halfway, his face is already buried in the junction where your thigh and cunt meet. He’s so bitey you realize, hissing when he sucks yet another mark on your left inner thigh. No apology to be found from him this time though, as he switches his focus to your right thigh, placing sweet kisses along your skin. You’re so aware of his hands, now placed tightly on your waist, clenching and unclenching as he explores you.

You can’t help but squirm impatiently. He was so close to where you wanted him, you could feel his breath and God if that didn’t make you wet. Oblivious to your predicament, Joaquin just continues to leave marks all over your legs. Your clit begins to throb at the neglect, and you grow frustrated, nails digging into your couch.

“Joaquin…” His name comes out in a sort of a whine.

“Shh,” he blows into your left thigh, “Ten paciéncia, princesa.” (Be patient, princess).

You’re about to complain again when you feel him. His tongue, flat and warm, licking a wide strip from your entrance all the way to your clit. The touch is overwhelming, and you let out a gasp, hand coming forward to grip the curls on the crown of Joaquin’s head. It seems that only motivates him though, as after that initial touch, something snaps.

Joaquin doesn’t hold back, his mouth gently latching onto your clit, tongue flicking the sensitive bud rhythmically. He alternates his attention between there and your hole, his hands moving from your waist to circle around your thighs, palms clenching the inner flesh unyielding, actively preventing you from squirming.

Your legs dangle helplessly over his shoulders, robe sliding down both your arms. The piece of fabric was merely decorative at this point, sprawled out on either side of you, barely held on by your elbows. But, still, the feel of the silk was such a stark contrast to your burning skin that it sent volts of arousal through you. The hand not gripping Joaquin’s hair moves up to grab your right breast, and the fabric dragging along your skin only makes your nipples tighten more.

Hungry in a way that was driving you insane, Joaquin’s lapping at any drop of arousal coming out of you, his head buried so deep in your lap you’re confident that his lungs have to be burning. The bridge of his nose nudges against your bundle of nerves with every lick, providing the slightest bit of pressure but not quite enough. It’s driving you insane.

“Fucking hell, you taste so good, baby.” It’s the only time he’s separated from your cunt since getting on his knees. When he looks up at you, you can’t help the way your hole clenches around nothing. Absolutely debauched, the lower half of his face is covered in your slick, eyes hooded as though he were drunk. They start at your face before dragging down to your chest, where they pin themselves to your hand on your chest. Joaquin can only groan again.

It’s all he offers before delving back in, his tongue exploring you almost expertly, as if he was trying to memorize your anatomy. Suddenly, you feel the rough pads of his thumb circle your clit, and the added sensation has you panting, your own fingers giving your nipples a pinch.

He spreads your leg impossibly wider, arranging himself so that his hand can comfortably fit between your thigh and his head. You feel a thick finger press against your hole before sliding in with ease. It was both of you moaning—you in satisfaction and him in appreciation.

One finger turns to two, Joaquin pushing them in and out, fingers curling inside you. He moves with precision, intention, watching the way you react. Suddenly, your breathing changes, hitching when he hits that spot. Joaquin recognizes it immediately, focusing his fingers on swirling that soft center inside you. Your moans get higher in pitch and your pulsing around his hand.

You’re getting close, your grip on his hair releasing and instead moving back to grip the couch. He can feel it, the way you’re fluttering around him and he watches as you throw your head back.

Just when you’re about to cum, all touch is lost.

“What—” you start, the word tumbling out before you truly even process the loss of sensation.

You whine his name but are instantly silenced by the feeling of his lip on yours as he whispers, “I know, baby, I know.” Too overstimulated to recognize what’s going on, you focus all of your attention on returning his kiss instead of the emptiness inside you.

Joaquin’s hands find themselves on your ass again, but this time, instead of groping the flesh, he tucks them underneath to lift you effortlessly off the couch. His lips never leave yours. Instinctively, your hand comes up and wraps themselves around his neck, a finger twirling the hair at the back of his neck.

Clumsily, he navigates your clashing bodies through your apartment. Your back slams into your photo wall in the hallway leading to your bedroom, but neither of you pay mind to the sound of clattering frames hitting the floor.

“Joaquin,” you break away from the kiss. He hums in response, landing kisses on the corner of your lips and cheeks. “Your shoulder,” you continue, though your eyes close at the feeling of him finding your neck again.

“Doesn’t matter,” he rushes out, desperation lacing his tone. “Doesn’t hurt,” he insists.

It’s all the reassurance you need. You know you should care more, but you simply don’t. You find each other again, his plush lips slotting over yours. The kisses were more teeth than lips now as the two of you pant urgently, barely breathing.

“Which one’s your room,” Joaquin’s words come out in a slur and you quickly answer, “Left, go left.” He pushes you against the wall beside your bedroom, hastily ripping off your robe before lifting you again.

Your back is pressed against the door for a split second before it slams against your bedroom wall. For a split second, you worry about the damage, but then Joaquin’s whimpering and all thoughts leave your head.

The plush comforter is a welcome contrast from the scratchy couch and solid walls as Joaquin lays you down with haste. Climbing over you, you can finally fully appreciate how burly he is, his entire body pressing against yours. But it’s not enough.

It’s unfair, your hazy mind protests. He has too much on. “Take it off,” you fuss, hands pawing at his fitted Air Force tee. Joaquin can’t help but snicker at how bratty you’re being, but compiles wordlessly. Leaning back on his haunches, Joaquin pulls off the material in one swift movement. You chase after him, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch.

Chiseled with moonlight gleaming across his chest from your open curtain, your mouth salivates. You’ve seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, but that was different. All those times before, he wasn’t so available for your perusing and he especially wasn’t looking at you like that.

It wasn’t enough, though.

Your eyes cast themselves downward, growing irate at the sight of the secured belt around his waist, but the sight of the sizable tent in his jeans provided some consolation. Hands latching themselves onto his buckle, you use his steadiness to pull yourself up to him. With your chin tilted upwards, he meets your wordless request halfway, and it distracts him well enough that he can’t feel you unfastening the leather with eager hands.

Pulling back, the belt comes with you with a smooth whoosh, but the two of you hardly care as you toss it onto the ground with a loud thump.

Joaquin isn’t off the hook that easily, though, as your hand refinds purchase on the denim of his jeans, palming him through the material. The slight damp patch at the front makes your head spin. He’s big you realize, even though the thick fabric, and it has you clenching again. Your stomach burns at the thought of him inside you.

Gracelessly, Joaquin settles you back down on the bed and goes to shimmy off the rest of his clothes. He almost faceplants into your tits, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles. He’s still him despite it all and it spreads a sense of reassurance through you.

Any sense of amusement dissipates once he pulls his briefs off, though. His cock stands tall and is practically weeping, the tip leaking beads of precum in a way that makes you bite your lip. Even in the dark, he’s impressive to look at.

Still on his haunches, Joaquin’s right hand gives his length a few pumps and the sight has you entranced.

“Spit on my hand,” he demands. He moves to hunch his body over yours, his skin practically buzzing with energy. Eyes locked with his, you lift up your head. Turning your head to the side, you nuzzle your cheek against the comforting heat of his awaiting palm before parting your mouth, letting it fall, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck, you’re g’nna ruin me,” he pants, voice ragged. Your saliva pools in his palm and Joaquin watches, transfixed at the thin strand of spit between the corner of your mouth and his hand. Unable to help himself, his thumb finds itself wiping it away, but not without dipping itself into the warmth of your mouth along the way. When you bite down on the appendage before giving it a gentle suck, Joaquin hisses, his jaw clenching.

It’s your turn to watch him as he takes the liquid and spreads it all along the stretch of his achingly hard cock. Eyes closed, Joaquin moans in your ear and you spread your legs in response. Still stroking himself, Joaquin leans down to capture your lips in another kiss. His forearm rests besides your head, and your own hand comes up to grab it, holding it as an anchor.

You feel him slip his dick between your legs. The lubrication allows him to easily slide between the folds of pussy, grinding himself against you in a way that has his tip nudging your clit. The friction was enough to make you go delirious and all you can do is moan, lifting your hips up to meet his movements in greed. His other hand goes to constrain you, pushing you back down into the mattress.

The exasperation you feel is short-lived, your complaint turning into a moan as Joaquin pushes his thick head past your hole. It’s a tight fit, the initial breach, despite the amplitude of preparation. Inch by inch, you feel Joaquin press into you slowly. His fist is clenched beside your head and you feel the muscle of his forearm flex as he restrains himself.

Buried to the hilt, Joaquin drops his forehead against yours, breath fanning over your face. Your legs burn, the way they’re stretched so wide to accommodate his figure.

“Give me a sec, baby,” he heaves before rasping, “‘Try’na not to make a fool of myself right now.”

The confession has you pulsing around him, unable to provide any real response when all you could feel was his thick, hard cock embedded deep inside you. But you needed him to move, it was too much, just feeling him pulse inside of you. Despite his hand on your hip, you roll your waist and pleadingly mewl.

“Mierda,” Joaquin hisses, you feel his hand beside your head grip the pillow you lay your head on as he snaps. Any restraint he was holding onto slips away as he hikes your leg over his shoulder and begins pounding into you relentlessly.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I can’t,” Joaquin is just rambling, his words all rushing out garbled as his hips snaps against yours again and again and again. You’re not much better, a puddle of whimpers below him, just holding on as his cock hits your pleasure center over and over and over. You feel tears brimming your eyes and you turn your face into his forearm, a babbling mess.

Joaquin rounds his back as he leans down, but it’s not your face he searches for this time. Instead, his wet lips attach to an achingly hard nipple. If you were a mess before, there were no words to describe you now as your hand fists his curls. You arch into him, forcing more if your tits into his face, to which Joaquin has no complaints.

Salacious sounds fill your room and the air starts to grow humid, not that you or Joaquin notice.

His tongue swirls around your sensitive bud, teeth grazing over it before soothing over it with a flat lick. Joaquin can barely contain himself, saliva slipping past his lips, spreading over your chest. Once he’s satisfied with one side, Joaquin effortlessly slips over to your other nipple. His treatment is the same, but you’re growing more sensitive with each touch. With his cock splitting you open and the intense attention on your chest, you were getting close again.

It was overwhelming, and you can’t help the whine, but Joaquin only shushes you.

“’S okay,” he says in between licks. “Know you can take it,” pinning you down to the mattress.

Detaching, Joaquin begins to bite marks onto your chest, nips here and there, before he unsheathes himself from you completely. A rough slap against your thigh from one of his calloused hands is all the signal you need. Without a word exchanged, you flip onto your front. Your forearms are flat against the pillow, head face down, as you arch your back for him, his hands guiding you the whole way.

You hear Joaquin mutter something behind you, but it’s too quiet for you to hear. Suddenly, a resounding smack fills the air and the force pushes you forward, moaning his name. You feel a hand on each one of your ass cheeks, Joaquin massaging the skin, before they slide up your back. He asserts pressure on your lower back, all the way up to the side of your breasts, and it feels good.

Joaquin’s body follows his hands and you feel his broad, firm body press against his back once he’s done. Both his forearms find themselves bracing either side of your head this time, but before settling Joaquin takes the time to move your hair away from your face. Delicately, he places it over your right shoulder, and you turn your head to look at him. A kiss is placed upon your shoulder, then your jaw, before he places a soft one against your lips.

At the same time, his tip is penetrating you again, and you moan into each others’ mouths. Hips slapping against your ass, your hands grip the pillow below you to brace yourself. His strokes are a stark contrast to his tender acts earlier, persistent in his pursuit of your pleasure, rocking firmly into you.

In this position, your moans are unrestricted, spilling out of you with no control.

Joaquin bites your shoulder, gritting and breathless when he admits, “Needed this.” He slaps your ass. Groaning, “Needed you.”

The words ignite something in you, his words traveling up your spine in a burn. Moaning Joaquin’s name, you interlace your fingers with his beside your head. You needed him just as badly. With his hand in yours, you’re grounded, and it’s all you need to start matching Joaquin halfway. Back arched, you begin to push yourself back onto Joaquin’s cock. You feel his hand clench around your digits.

The two of you work together, finding a fast and messy pace. Every push of his hips forces a gasp from your lips. Your bodies start to grow slick with sweat, but it only motivates you further.

Suddenly, Joaquin releases his grip from your hand, sliding his palm over to the base of your neck.

He doesn’t quite grasp your throat, but the pressure is there, and you swear you couldn’t have gotten any wetter than you already were but somehow you do.he thrusts into you.

Effortlessly, Joaquin lifts the two of you up. With your back to his chest, arched in the air, you have nothing to ground you, so your hand grips Joaquin’s forearm where his hand is choking you. Your other hand reaches back towards him and grip the tense muscle of his thigh. Joaquin continues thrusting into you, pace unwavering despite the change of position.

Your head falls back onto his shoulder and he can feel your moans reverberating against the palm of his hand. The other grips your waist as he continues to slam into you. The new arrangement has the head of his cock pressing into you just right and you feel a familiar fiery sensation start to build.

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Right there, Joaquin, please.” You’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for, but you hardly have any thoughts right now other than how pleasure absolutely consumes you.

“You g’nna cum for me?” You don’t answer instantly, only focused on the way his dick absolutely stuffs you.

Moments later, you’re teetering on the edge. “Yes, yes, yes,” you chant over and over again, mind blankly. Pressure continues to build as Joaquin keeps himself consistent, a lewd noises only spurring you on further.

When Joaquin’s hand squeezes your throat just right, the coil snaps. Bouncing faster on Joaquin, you chase after your high.

“Yeah, just like that baby, cream all over my cock,” Joaquin encourages and it only makes you moan louder. Thighs trembling, your fingers dig into his skin and hold on for dear life. Hot, blooming pleasure travels from your core to the rest of your body and you bite down on your lip to hold back a cry. Waves of pleasure roll through you, muscles tightening in the aftermath.

The way you were clenching so tightly around Joaquin has him whimpering. He was trying, he really, really was, but you were squeezing so damn warm. So damn tight. His brows furrow, mouth parting as he helps you through your orgasm.

“I’m close. Baby, I’m so close,” he groans.

“I’m on birth control,” you rush out hastily. You’re not sure what came over you, cock-drunk, surely, but you just needed him so bad. Every part of him. If he pulled out now, you’d die, you were sure of it.

Joaquin says something in Spanish that you can’t quite hear or understand and before you know it, he has you flipped back around. In the midst of the movement, he’d pull his cock out, but once you were on your back, he thrust himself hip deep into you with no second to spare.

He’s driving his dick into you, your pussy fluttering over him after your orgasm. Joaquin gives you no time to recover as he finds an impalpably quick speed. As if he can’t get enough, Joaquin desperately ruts himself into you, barely able to hold back his cries of pleasure. With your growing overstimulation, you know your voice is matching his all the same.

When you clench around him again, he comes undone. Letting out a string of curses, Joaquin throws his head back as he slams into you, hips snapping into yours so strongly you’re sure you’ll ache tomorrow.

The feeling of his hot, thick cum spurting into you has you clenching again. He fills you so completely and it’s so electrifying, you feel a familiar pressure build in your lower stomach again.

Steadily, Joaquin begins to slow his thrusts, and you feel the way he pushes his cum further into you with each push. When Joaquin finally pulls out, both of you groan at the loss of sensation. Without looking, you can feel your slick mixed with his starting to spill out of you.

“Shit,” he curses, hand coming up to push sweaty curls away from his eyes. Letting out a chuckle, Joaquin leans down and gives you a long kiss.

A wet rag, a cup of cold water, and one Air Force t-shirt hanging over your shoulder later, you and Joaquin are tucked cozily under a blanket that you had him pull out from your closet. Your usual comforter is now on a heap on the floor of your bedroom, and you try not to think about the way it might be permanently stained with unspeakable fluids.

Joaquin’s fingers gently scratch your back, up and down, in a rhythmic fashion as you rest your head on his pecs—your own fingers tracing a pattern on his chest. It’s quiet and dark, save for the glow of the moon and your small TV from across the room.

“I’ve had a crush on you since the first day we met.” Joaquin’s voice cracks at first as he whispers, breaking the silence.

The confession makes your fingers halt. Palm flat against his chest, you use the leverage to push yourself up to look at him.

Blinking lazily, Joaquin’s face is earnest, brows raised as though he’s waiting for you.

“You did?”

“Pft,” Joaquin’s head rolls to the side, “Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

Stuttering, you look at him with wide eyes, “I didn’t. I had no idea.”

Joaquin places his own hand over the one you have over his chest before sitting up straighter. “Mami, I flirted with you every chance I got.”

“You’re Joaquin,” you insist. “You flirt with everyone.”

He looks at you with his lower lip jutted outward, shaking his head. “No…not everyone. Just you.”

You pause. “Huh…” is all you offer before you place your head back down, the two of you settling once more. All Joaquin can do is chuckle as he moves to rub your back. Sleep almost has you in its clutch when Joaquin’s voice breaks you out of your trance.

“Were you watching British Bake Off?”

The smell of coffee is the first thing that greets you before anything else does the next morning. The ache in your body is the second.

Groaning, you make your way towards your kitchen to what you believe to be the prettiest sight you’ve ever witnessed.

Shirtless and tan, hair tousled from sleep and…other activities, Joaquin stands so proudly in your kitchen, it was as though he belonged.

“Good morning, princesa,” a familiar dimpled face turns to you, holding your favorite mug. You take in the marks on his neck when he passes you the cup, and you're grateful for the steam as it provides enough of a cover for your heating face.

You sip your coffee quietly, watching Joaquin from the rim of your mug. He appreciates the attention, which is a surprise to none.

After picking up his own cup, he takes a sip before turning to you with raised brow. “Like what you see?” he asks before flexing his muscles.

“Oh, gag.” You wipe your smile on his face, but it doesn’t deter Joaquin, who can sense your amusement lying beneath.

“Come on, I put in some serious work last night so I know these bad boys have never looked better.”

You just walk past him with a head shake and a slap to the shoulder. “It’s nice to know that even after losing a nightful of sleep in favor of sex, you still have enough energy to outrun a golden retriever.” You slide into your breakfast nook, placing the half empty coffee cup on the table with both hands wrapped around it.

Joaquin slides in next to you, effortlessly. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Your humor fades as you turn to Joaquin. “Okay, what is it?” You try to not let your mind race.

“Remember our fight?” he asks. You only hum in acknowledgement. “You said something that’s kind of been on my mind.” A pit forms in your stomach at his confrontation.

“When you said you couldn’t watch me ‘crash and burn’...” Joaquin pauses, and your heart squeezes in your chest. He holds up his pointer and thumb, the space between them miniscule as he asks, “You were being a little on the nose don’t you think?”

It takes a second for you to process. Once you realize he was only messing with you, you couldn’t stop yourself from slapping his hand away. “Oh my God, you asshole! You scared me!”

Joaquin’s loud laugh fills your kitchen, and his bubbly demeanor makes your armor crack, unable to stop the smile that forms on your face, too.

Continuing to joke, Joaquin states, “I mean, come on. That part was a little cruel, even for you.”

You let out a laugh of disbelief. “You were being a dick to me, I had to say something.” You defend yourself.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nods, face serious. “But you’re still going to have to make it up to me.” His hand comes up to cup the back of your head.

“Well, jeez,” you concede. “I don’t know what I could possibly do to make up for such a big offense.” Your palm rests on his chest, face leaning towards his.

“Oh, I could think of a few things.”

end.

a/n: this is my first ever smut so meep, thank u for reading. lmk what u think! comments and rb's appreciated, mwah mwah mwah

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