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blurrycal · 8 hours ago

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no promise of tomorrow | joaquin torres

summary: you and joaquin work together and have sex--two entirely separate parts of your lives. but when you suddenly as for more one day, joaquin falters. a week long mission where another man captures your attention makes joaquin regret the words he doesn't say. but does it really change anything?

warnings: mdni. joaquin’s pov, pre-established situationship, angsty and passive aggressive joaquin, commitment issues!joaquin, jealousy, one-bed trope but on the floor but also on the bed, lots of fighting, a bullet graze, injured!reader, cursing, an overall very angsty fic, lowkey not a happy ending bc the situationship!joaquin universe shall persist after this. barely proofread by me everyone say thank u @sortagaysortahigh for reading every part as i wrote for an entire week

smut warnings: oral m!receiving, dick riding, ass smacking, hand pressed to throat but not choking (f!receiving), missionary, fingering, nipple sucking (f!receiving), creampie.

wc: 15.1k

gif credit: @optional

What a stupid decision, Joaquin thinks to himself. Jaw flexing, his finger trails the rim of the whiskey cup in front of him before downing the drink in one go. The shoddy, dimly lit bar was not where he wanted to spend his Saturday night and the stench of sweat and alcohol filling the air was somehow worse than some of the bases he’s been on. The worn leather is scratchy beneath his jacket, and he does his best not to focus too much on how his combat boots were sticking obnoxiously to the floor below him. Misery exudes off of him like a warning to any passerbyers.

But he pays them no mind. His eyes are focused on you.

You’re across the room, only a small distance away from him but somehow it feels like worlds. Perched on a barstool, your legs are crossed and one elbow rests casually against the bar, as if you were the most relaxed you could ever be. Joaquin’s eyes follow as you pick up a tall glass, fingers wrapping around the condensation before bringing it to your familiar lips. The carbonated, bright red liquid glides down your throat, and Joaquin’s lips part as he watches you swallow.

It’s a mocktail, he knows this. The reminder of why you opted for some bubbly soda sickenly reminds him of what the pair of you were doing in this seedy town to begin with. Naturally, Joaquin’s gaze moves to the man across from you.

CIA Agent Matteo Locke.

Zero, he said his codename was. Joaquin scoffs out loud. Dumbass codename. His name is The Falcon. He has wings.

Whatever.

Joaquin observes as your glossy wet lips spread into another wide smile, and his finger twitches in irritation at the way you throw your head back, hand landing on the bicep of the federal agent across from you.

Your laugh was loud. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe no one else in the bar could really hear it over the loud of conversation and camaraderie, but Joaquin hears it loud and clear, ears picking up the melodic giggle through the busy room. But a bitterness chokes him at who you were sharing it with.

He’s not that funny. Joaquin thinks to himself, eyes glued on your manicured hand that remains on his arm. Not that Joaquin would really know. They’ve only met five hours prior. Other than a brief introduction and a solid handshake once you and Joaquin were boots down in Arizona, which was truly the extent of his interaction with the man, Joaquin hasn’t really had the pleasure of getting to know him.

That honor was all yours it seems.

He’s brooding.

At the recognition of his own behavior, Joaquin lets out a sigh, forcing his eyes away from your couple with much difficulty. Instead, they scan the room. He checks every exit, surveying all the patrons. Despite the task at hand, he still finds his mind wandering to you.

You’re just trying to pass as casual customers, Joaquin reasons, that’s why you were so close to Locke. He hears you laugh again and grits his teeth.

He’s heard the laugh a million times, loved it a million more, but he can’t help the way his discomfort blooming in his chest at the idea that it may never be directed at him again.

All because of a stupid decision.

Two nights before you knew about the upcoming mission, you found yourself at Joaquin’s in the middle of the night.

“Fuck,” he grunted, slamming his head back against the wall. It took everything in him not to push his hips upwards and he remembers the feeling of his thighs shaking in restraint. You seemed to enjoy his misery, as teary wide eyes looked up at him. Joaquin opened his eyes just a smidge, sneaking a peek down at you. He couldn’t help the shuddering breath that left his mouth at the mischievous gleam in your eyes.

Lips wet with different liquid than the one you’re nursing at the bar now and spread wide over the girth of his cock, Joaquin thought you look absolutely mesmerizing.

He brought a large palm up to cup the side of your head, swiping sweaty strands of hair away from your forehead. Joaquin was absorbed in the moment, feeling every time your cheeks suctioned inward, every swipe of your tongue over the slit of his head, every inch of him that you sucked him in deeper and deeper.

With one hand, he gathered all of your hair, fisting it in his palm. A tight grip. But he didn’t so much as move your head an inch. Joaquin had let you take control and you had gone at your own speed until you found a rhythmic pace, his hand a simple accessory to your motions.

He had let out another groan when your hand came up to stroke the parts of his shaft your mouth couldn’t fit, hips had thrust upwards to chase after the warmth of your palm. The sound of you gagging had only turned him on more, but he would never push you further than comfortable, and forced himself back onto the bed.

But he eventually had enough, Joaquin needed more.

His hand had let go of your hair and gripped your upper forearm, pulling you up to his chest with ease. Joaquin tried to not let your displeased whine get to his head, giving you a satiating kiss to the cheek, murmuring some complacent phrases as his hands roamed along the sides of your body, gripping and massaging your curves as he went.

Joaquin remembers the way his fingers danced along the edge of your panties, your wet core grinding against his cock as one of his hands guided you back and forth. His head was spinning from pleasure, his cock aching to feel more of you.

Skillful hands had gripped the back of your panties before a gentle finger ran along the seam pressed against your ass until he reached your hole. His large hand was stretching the fabric, and he prayed that you wouldn’t care, but you hardly seemed to notice at all. Joaquin had teased, pads of his fingers just brushing against your entrance before pulling back.

At the sound of your moan and the feel of your hands fisting the curls at the back of his head, Joaquin finally pushed your panties to the side. He had adjusted his grip, each of his palms finding the flesh of your cheeks, his right palm pinning the thin fabric of your ruined underwear between his hand and your ass.

Joaquin had let out a relieved sigh, guiding your hips down the length of his cock slowly. The initial push past your hole made him throw his head back again, eyes closed in pleasure. Inch by inch, you gripped him like a vice and he had let out a guttural moan at the feeling.

Soon enough, in the dark of his room, salacious sounds had begun to fill the air. The two of you had found a harmonizing pace, a more than familiar one, as you worked in tandem to pleasure each other.

A loud sound of glass smashing makes Joaquin snap back to reality. Some drunken himbos had gotten into a fight it seems, and Joaquin just leans back into his seat as he watches security escort them out. It’s a non-threat.

He shifts uncomfortably in the booth, unsticking parts of his jacket from the patchy leather to adjust his pants discreetly. He shouldn’t even be thinking about this, should be focused on the whole reason they’re at the bar. But then his eyes find their way back to you.

You lean back, letting out another laugh, but that’s not what he pays attention to this time. Instead, Joaquin watches the way your denim shorts ride up your thighs, and there’s nothing he can do about the way that his mind flashes back to that night again.

In the glowing aftermath, Joaquin’s boxers rode low on his hips as he walked back into his room. Tangled in the sheets, you sat up at the sound of him returning, and he had passed you a cup of iced water without a word. Joaquin had sat on the edge of his bed, the cold of his gold chain pressed against his flush skin as he reveled in the silence. It wasn’t an unusual routine.

But then you reached over, placed the glass onto his nightstand and said, “Joaquin, we need to talk.”

His heart dropped in his chest. No good thing ever came from those four words. His lips had turned downward in a frown, and he rubbed a hand across his chest to ease the ache. You were making him nervous. “Alright, what is it?”

Joaquin had watched patiently as you sat up, and though he forced his face to remain stoic, he dreaded the many possibilities of what you could say. Joaquin watched as you hesitated, and dread only seemed to sink deeper in his stomach.

“I think…” Your brows knit together in what Joaquin perceived to be confusion. He gave you the time to find your words, unmoving at the end of his bed. “I don’t think we should keep doing this.”

His frown deepened. The words rushed through his head and Joaquin wasn’t sure what to make of them. He’s not sure what in his expression gave it away his distress, but you rushed to continue before he could respond.

“I mean,” you nibbled on your lower lip. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just need clarity.”

“Clarity about what?” Joaquin replied, frown unchanged as he straightened. He had folded his arms, thinking maybe if he kept his body in control, then his mind would follow. But Joaquin’s stomach had twisted anyways, slow and nauseating, and he’d been in enough missions to know that one wrong move here and things would go sideways quick.

“This,” you had gestured, a frantic wave between the two of you. “Us.”

“I don’t understand,” Joaquin had tiptoed. “I thought we were on the same page.” Things were going well, the two of you had a good thing going. One that you had already established. So what more did you want from him? He felt a lump form in his throat as he considered what you might truly be asking, and he had frustratingly hoped the conversation never came up to begin with.

Your loud sigh had him panic, but he willed himself to sit still. His eyes simply watched as you pushed yourself out of his bed, reaching for your discarded clothes on the floor. You were upset, that much was obvious, and he hated seeing that, so he called out your name.

You slipped your pants on before turning to look at him, shirt fisted in your hand as you sighed. “We are.” You replied before pausing. “We were.”

Joaquin’s arms had dropped from their defensive position, and at your admittance, he had forgotten how to breathe. He remembers the way his mouth opened, and then shut again, because what was he supposed to say?

“I think I bit off more than I can chew with you, Torres,” you had told him, voice significantly quieter than before. The way his name sounded when it fell from your lips, soft and tired—Joaquin didn’t know what to do with that. “I like you.”

He felt his chest crack wide open. All that did was remind him of why things had to be the way they were. Afterall, if he couldn’t handle how you sounded merely confessing, what would he ever do if he did pursue things? What would he ever do if it didn’t work out and he hurt you?

Joaquin’s jaw had clenched, and nothing had come out. Not an explanation. Not the reassurance you needed. Not the confession he didn’t want to admit. He had wanted to reach out to you at that moment, grasp your wrist in his hand and pull you towards him and say, “It’s okay. I like you, too.”

But his throat was tight. He felt his hand have the slightest of tremors, and all he could do was stare at the floor. Joaquin couldn’t trust himself. Not with you. You would matter too much and things could go too wrong. You work together, for Christ sake, there was too much on the line. He couldn’t lose you.

So the room fell quiet. Too quiet.

“Right.” He heard you say. Sounds of shuffling signaled to him that you were getting dressed and gathering the rest of your stuff. Still, Joaquin didn’t move. He had told himself that silence was the safest option here, knew that if he looked up at you he’d give in to you.

Joaquin heard his bedroom door open and without looking, he knew you had paused there. “You know…I didn’t need you to say everything, Torres.” He tried not to wince at how distant your voice sounded, cold and at arm's-length, but still low. “I just needed you to say anything at all. But your silence said enough.” His door closed with a soft click.

Joaquin felt like such a coward.

He shouldn’t have started anything with you to begin with, because then he wouldn’t be here. But he was selfish. And stupid. So, very stupid.

Joaquin sighs, shuffling in his seat in the booth again. Agitation crawls under his skin, exhaustion creeps in between the crevices. They’ve been here for so long and unlike you, Joaquin is not having a good time. Guilt sits heavy on his chest, dull and persistent, like an old bruise that aches when pressed. Rubbing his jaw, Joaquin relaxes it, realizing how tense it’s been from all the clenching he’s done.

“Iago’s not coming.”

His head snaps up, taking you in. One hand on your hip, the other presses flat against the table as you lean in towards him. Besides you, Agent Locke stands a bit too close for his liking, and Joaquin’s eyes narrow.

“We got word that TSA did an unexpected search on him when he landed in the States and after they let him go, he fled. Chances are he’s laying low on the West Coast for a couple days before heading over here,” you relay to him. Joaquin just takes in your words, mind shifting into work mode.

“So, he’s probably going to push the deal.” Joaquin’s voice is deep and horse, hours of not talking and alcohol doing a number on his system.

“That’s what we’re thinking,” an unwelcome voice chimes in, and Joaquin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he keeps them fixed on you, and the two of you inadvertently enter an unspoken staring contest, neither of you refusing to break away first.

Joaquin’s eyes are smoldering as he watches your movements. You reach across the table, picking up the empty glass sitting in front of him. Joaquin is silent as you bring it up to your nose. “Drinking on the job, Torres?”

His posture is relaxed, leaning back into the cushion of the booth, but underneath Joaquin can feel every muscle taut with tension. It’s a performative calm as he reigns in his embarrassment of being caught by you.

“How do we know he won’t bail?” Joaquin murmurs, deflecting. “He’s a cautious guy. What if he got spooked? Worried the Feds are onto him, and calls it off?” He waits for you to answer despite knowing you won’t be the one who would have that information.

“He won’t bail,” an irritatingly grating voice responds. “This is a huge trade. He won’t let it go that easily and he won’t risk leaving and coming back. Chances are he’s not off U.S. soil unless he’s got eight million dollars tucked in his pocket.”

Joaquin’s eyes don’t leave yours as he digests the CIA agent’s analysis. Despite his grievances, Joaquin has to agree with the man. With that realization, Joaquin’s lips press into a thin line. Still looking at you, he says, “Let’s get out of here, then.”

Joaquin should’ve taken you more seriously.

He swears that did in the moment, but Joaquin didn’t understand the gravity of the situation until now, as he lives in it.

The reality of your dynamic was one where he never asked you about your previous partners and never bothered to check if you had ones other than him. It was arrogance, he admits. Security in the fact that he believed you weren’t with anyone else, despite the non-exclusiveness of your relationship. But it was mutual. Joaquin would never disrespect you like that, and despite the ambiguity of your label, it was monogamous. He hopes you know that. He wouldn’t be surprised if you thought so little of him, though.

Regardless, certainty he felt meant he never had to deal with this. Jealousy.

The room is quiet as the two of you shuffle around each other, preparing for bed after a long day of travel and work. He hates that he’s uncomfortable in the silence now, a space that used to be filled with understanding now filled with hesitation and acute awareness of the other person.

Joaquin’s mouth opens as he turns around, preparing to break the discomforting silence, but a quiet click of the bathroom door has him locking his jaw back into place. The sound of the shower starts to take over the quiet, and Joaquin forces his mind to think of something other than your soft, wet body naked in the small bathroom.

With a shake of his head, he walks away from his duffle bag that sits in one of two armchairs, the other occupying your bag. He makes his way towards the nightstand, in pursuit of a pen and paper; might as well make use of the time and jot down some strategies.

But his foot gets caught on the way, getting tangled. Looking down, Joaquin lets out a quiet sound of confusion. Blankets and a pillow are laid out on the floor, next to the bed, and Joaquin’s head whips back towards the bathroom door where the shower is still running. His initial confusion narrows into realization—you were planning to sleep on the floor. To create distance. From him.

He’s frozen for a second, the sting of rejection hitting him in the chest at your deliberate actions before it’s replaced with a quiet guilt. His own actions made you feel this way. Joaquin wonders if he should move the blankets back on to the bed, wonders if you’d even let him.

“Hey.” Your voice is neutral, breaking Joaquin out of his trance. He instinctively straightens up, as if he had gotten caught snooping somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Turning around to face you, his mouth parts, getting ready to defend. But once he realized there was nothing to defend, he shut it. You point behind you, “Bathroom’s free now,” you alert him quietly.

“Yeah, alright,” he replies hastily, breathless for some odd reason. His heart hammers anxiously in his chest at his discovery and at being caught making said discovery. Grabbing fresh clothes on the way to the bathroom, he passes you, the smell of vanilla body wash invading his senses. “Take the bed,” he murmurs before shutting the door quietly behind him.

Leaning against the wooden frame, Joaquin lets out a sigh. He strips slowly, distracted and lost in thought by the events of the night. Despite the newly founded sexual avenue that the two of you have been exploring, at the base of it all was always friendship—one of the most important ones in Joaquin’s life. Working together for years, the two of you have always managed to ebb and flow so well. He shouldn’t have jeopardized it, should have been stronger.

Hot water droplets hit his back, but it does little to relax him, his chest feeling a bit too tight. He keeps replaying your neutral tone, the space you made on the floor. It’s dumb of him to feel surprised—he’s the one who pushed you away—but stupidly he still hurts.

He towel dries his hair with one hand, tugging his shirt down with the other. Stepping out into the room, his jaw tightens. You’ve already laid down. On the floor.

You don’t even look at him as he enters the room and that makes it worse.

Breaking the silence, Joaquin’s voice is low and frustrated. “You’re really sleeping down there?”

The sheets ruffle, but you don’t turn to look at him. “Yeah.”

“That floor’s gonna kill you. Last thing we need is you throwing your back out in the middle of taking down some bad guys.”

For a second, you don’t respond, and Joaquin’s heart seizes in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been this distanced from you, ever.

Then you let out a small chuckle.

Well…more like a huff of air. But it’s something.

“Come on, get up,” Joaquin insists, tone softening.

“Joaquin—”

“No,” he demands. “Seriously, get up.”

You turn over to glare at him, but Joaquin can feel the corners of his mouth lifting anyways because at least you’re looking at him. He’s patient as he watches you move at the slowest speed known to mankind. Snails have moved faster than you, he’s sure of it. Yet, he doesn’t dare utter a word, feet solidly planted near the bathroom entrance as you make you ascend from the floor to the bed. You’re stiff as a board, laying horizontally on the furthest edge of the bed you can manage, and Joaquin can’t stifle the snicker that he lets out this time.

“Goodnight,” he says gently, flicking the switch for the both of you. Joaquin bends down to the floor, lifting up the thin sheet that you were planning to use as a blanket for the night before his head settled on the pathetic excuse of a pillow this motel offered them. He slaps the pillow a few times, doing his best to fluff it up, but he stops midway when he hears you shuffle to peer over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” you inquire, and Joaquin looks up at your scrunched up brows.

“Uh,” he hesitates. It’s the most direct attention you’ve given him for the past few hours and Joaquin feels like he’s malfunctioning, cheeks warming under your gaze. “Just…thought if I smacked it enough times, it might remember how to be a good pillow.”

He winces when your expression is unchanged and he’s disappointed in the fact that his joke may not have landed; he might have pushed the thin ice he was already on with you.

“No,” you combat. “What are you doing down there?”

Your clarification does little to alleviate his confusion. Maybe it’s the gaping expression on his face or maybe it’s the lack of a swift response, but you steam onward.

“I’m not letting you sleep down there! Last thing I need is for you to throw your back out mid-battle. I’d never hear the end of it.”

Joaquin sits up, hands braced behind him. A warmth spreads through his chest because the worst part of him loves to hear how you care, no matter how threadbare it truly is. Part of him feels a sense of relief that you’re speaking to him, but then he looks up at your narrowed eyes and his smile drops the slightest bit. Vulnerability slips through his usual confidence as he takes in your face in the dark room. The only light that comes through is a soft, distant glow from the large neon sign out front shining the word ‘Motel’. It frames you like a halo.

He knows you made a joke of it, but he couldn’t help the honesty that bleeds through his words. “Figured it was only fair.” Joaquin’s eyes soften as he looks at you. “Didn’t want to push it.”

Your lips part, and an unfamiliar expression crosses your face before it settles into a frown. “Just get up here.” It’s quiet, a mere whisper, and Joaquin’s heart throbs in his chest.

“Relax,” he responds, voice significantly louder than necessary, intentionally breaking the ambiance. How soft you look, the concern in your voice—it’s too much for Joaquin to handle. So he reverts back to what he feels safe with—humor. “I’ve survived worse than some dingy one star motel room floor. Have you slept over on Sam’s couch? Not much better than this.” Joaquin lays back down and forces himself to turn his back to you, but his eyes stay open. He just stares at the carpet in front of him, and he hopes that you didn’t hear the crack in his voice.

The bed creaks, and Joaquin’s eyes shut in relief, thankful that you’ve dropped it. He lets out a shaky exhale, but then he freezes.

Familiar, warm skin brushes against his back. Not flushed, but close enough that he can feel the faintest kiss of your skin, and Joaquin tries not to jump that spark that dances along his back. He doesn’t dare move.

“What’re you doing,” he whispers.

You shush him. “Go to sleep, Torres.”

And despite the hammering in his chest and the rush that he feels when your skin ghosts against his in the faintest of movements, Joaquin feels his eyes growing heavy anyways.

Faint streams of sunlight shine through the small break in the curtains. Joaquin winces, blinking his eyes open with a slight groan. He tries to stretch his sore limbs, but instead finds himself restricted. Still in the midst of his dream and awake state, confusion floods him, until he starts to look around.

Regaining his senses, Joaquin starts to feel it. A pressure on his chest, his arms trapped underneath something, and his leg pinned down.

Holy—

Joaquin snaps awake, jolting in shock before forcing his body rigidly still. Steadily, he tilts his head downward until he sees you fast asleep. Arm slung around his waist, one of your legs hiked up over his, Joaquin melts at the attention. Your face is tucked below his jaw and your even breaths fan across his skin.

He should move. Create space.

But he hesitates.

Your grip tightens unconsciously and Joaquin finds himself relaxing into you, the smell of your shampoo has him closing his eyes in comfort. In and out, he forces, willing his heart to stop its incessant thudding. You’re holding on to him like he’s worth holding on to, and it’s doing things to him.

Joaquin’s eyes snap open.

No. He can’t think that way, it’s too dangerous.

But the feel of your body against his. It’s so…intimate.

You’ve been so distant these past few days, and Joaquin can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to deserve this treatment now. Maybe you didn’t mean to end up wrapped in him last night, even more reason Joaquin should let you go now, but he can’t.

A selfish hero.

Yet despite the realization he remains still, laying motionless with his breathing shallow to prolong the moment as much as he can.

His mind spins. The two of you have done a lot together, bodies wound in moments of primal instinct and heat, but never like this. Never lingering.

It’s his own fault. Admitting that truth, Joaquin swallows hard.

This isn’t sex. This isn’t a rushed need for physical touch. It’s simple closeness, the kind that terrifies him more than anything in this world ever could.

And it’s undoing him.

A soft groan below him makes Joaquin’s body stiffen before he forces himself to relax. In pure panic, Joaquin closes his eyes and forces his breathing to even out in a false illusion of sleep. It takes everything in him not to move as he feels you awaken.

A soft hand on his chest makes Joaquin sigh, the feeling bringing him an odd sense of comfort. His ears strain as he listens to your movement, some confused muttering before you sit up and untangle yourself from him. He instantly misses the warmth.

Joaquin hears you stretch, the loud moan you let out as you do so tells him all he needs to know.

“Joaquin,” your groggy voice calls out. He doesn’t dare move. A sharp finger digs into his waist, and he bites down on his lower lip in response. Stretching, Joaquin lets out a fake yawn before blinking his eyes open at you. Sitting with your legs crossed, you’ve turned your body to look at him. He smiles softly at your bedhead, a grouchy expression on your face that consists of the cutest pout he’s ever seen.

“Morning,” he bids you, pretending to rub his eyes.

“We gotta get ready,” you say through a yawn. All Joaquin can do is watch you.

You’ve been on missions together before, many times. And though Joaquins never admitted it out loud, one of his favorite versions of you is the one he’s looking at now. Early morning, fresh out of bed—you’re at your softest. God knows Joaquin has done nothing to deserve being on the receiving end of anything soft, but he cherishes the moment anyways. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a fallen strand of hair on your forehead.

Instead he’s silent, watching as you get out of the makeshift bed the two of you shared the night before. Joaquin doesn’t even care when you rip the comforter off of him and drops it on the mattress where it belongs, simply thankful that you had enough consideration last night to drag it down with you when you joined him on the floor.

“I’m g’nna go first,” you say, voice still shrouded in sleep, stretching up towards the ceiling. Joaquin wets his lips when your shirt rides up as you do so and the tiniest sliver of your belly reveals itself. He doesn’t argue with you, too entranced by the sight in front of him.

You mumble something about your back, both hands placed on it as you head towards the bathroom, but when the door slams close Joaquin falls backwards flat against the limp pillow. Both hands run over his face, and he cups his mouth with a loud groan.

Weirdly enough…Joaquin thinks he just had the best sleep of his life.

Five days into the mission and Iago still hasn’t made a move to cross the Arizona border. After days of endlessly following Iago’s very bleak paper trail, endless debriefs in some fancy CIA building, and spending more time than necessary in an entire life with him—Joaquin’s patience is wearing extremely thin.

“This guy’s good, I’ll give him that,” Agent Locke mutters from the bed. Joaquin’s side of the bed.

After the development of the first night, you had insisted that the pair of you share the motel bed instead of the floor.

“Don’t let it get to your head, but you might’ve been right,” you had muttered. “Damn floor might kill us before Iago even gets past border patrol.”

Granted, the two of you hadn’t cuddled since, much to Joaquin’s chagrin. The line of pillows you built between the two of you each night was a clear boundary that wasn’t to be violated, and despite missing the warmth of your body, Joaquin never pressed for more.

A container of takeout was held tightly in Locke’s hand, chopsticks sticking out as he uses his free hand to scroll through his computer. Joaquin scowls from his seat in the armchair, his own laptop going unattended.

He hates the way you’re brushing against Locke, your arms pressed against one another as you peer over at his screen. Joaquin’s laptop is working just as fine, mind you. You could have easily shared with him. Instead, you sit at arm’s length away from him, biting your lower lip in concentration as you read whatever data Locke has pulled up.

It’s distracting. How the hell is he supposed to get through any of the traffic cam footage if you’re over there doing that?

Joaquin taps his trackpad, just to look busy, the blue glow of the paused video feed flickering over his face. His eyes keeps sliding over to the bed, over to you, and the way your head tilts ever so slightly toward Locke while leaning into him. Joaquin’s jaw clenches, forcing his gaze back to his screen and presses play.

A car pulls up to the gas station. Not Iago. Don’t care.

A low laugh from the bed draws Joaquin’s attention, fingers tapping frantically on the table. Joaquin’s eyes focus on the grainy footage in front of him but none of it is truly registering. Every few seconds, his focus drifts. Your shoulders are relaxed as they pressed against Locke’s. Your laugh was airy and unguarded, for Locke. Your smile is soft as you whisper something to Locke. Joaquin’s jaw clenches.

You’re not together. That’s the unspoken truth. It’s not like he has a right to feel any sort of way, but it doesn’t stop the way his stomach twists and the ache in his jaw.

Close enough to touch, always, but miles away from him. It’s all been polite conversation and civil reports and division by those goddamn pillows.

He misses you.

Not the sex—you.

Joaquin exhales slowly through his nose, his own share of the food going cold on the table in front of him. At the sound of another laugh, he snaps.

The chair he’s in nearly flips backwards from the force of his standing, bumping loudly into the wall behind him. It has both yours and Locke’s gaze snapping up, but Joaquin avoids eye contact with you both. Instead, he slams his laptop shut and grabs his wallet. “Grabbing a soda.”

He’s stepping out of the room before his thoughts can catch up to his actions, but he doesn’t miss the subtle, “I don’t think your partner likes me very much,” from Agent Locke accompanied by your giggle. It makes Joaquin slam the door shut in anger.

In the little nook to the side of the motel parking lot, Joaquin stands in front of the vending machine. Rubbing his nose aggressively, Joaquin lets out a loud sigh as the low hum from the machines fill the air, fluorescent light flickering above him. It’s dark out and cold, the whoosh of cars flying by on the nearby freeway could be heard, but Joaquin’s not paying attention to any of those things. Instead, he tilts his head back, closing his eyes to take a shaky breath.

This is so much harder than he thought it would be.

Huffing, he shakes his head and pulls out a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the cash slot. Only for it to be returned to him. There was a bent corner, and Joaquin did his due diligence in fixing it before putting the bill back in. It slides right out. Opening his wallet only leads to the discovery that he had no other small bills with him.

“Come on,” Joaquin grunts, forcing his only dollar back in. He groans in frustration at the sound of the bill being pushed back out again. Straightening the money against the denim of his jeans, Joaquin curses when the vending machine still refuses to take his bill. “Take the stupid dollar,” he yells at the inanimate object.

In the midst of his tantrum, Joaquin fails to realize that someone else has joined him, until a hand he knows like his own slaps him away from the machine. You insert your own dollar and it accepts on the first try.

“Of course,” he deadpans.

He feels your warmth against his back despite you keeping a careful distance from him, and it was so familiar that Joaquin doesn’t have the strength to turn around and face you. His deep inhale forces him to inadvertently inhale the smell of your sweet shampoo again, and Joaquin holds his breath, lungs squeezing painfully in his chest.

You reach around him, pressing the code that has an orange soda tumbling against the glass before landing in the bottom compartment with a clank.

Neither of you move.

“That crap will clog your arteries before the age of fifty, you know that, right?” Your breath fans against Joaquin’s back, and it makes him shiver.

His voice is low, almost lower than the hum of the lights as he mumbles. “I just needed a minute.”

“What is going on with you?” you respond, matching his volume.

Joaquin hates that he can hear the tone of compassion in your voice, knows that he’s done nothing to deserve it. Your kind nature is unmatched, and Joaquin doesn’t deserve any of it. Even in this moment Joaquin knows—what can he even say? The situation he’s in is the result of no one but himself, and despite how greedy he’s been about you, he’s not selfish enough to confide in you about having to bear the consequences of his own actions.

But then a flash of you and Locke flashes in his mind, and his emotions turn into misguided anger. Afterall, how could you get so close to someone else in the aftermath of what happened? Did you truly mean so little to him? The hurt was too much for him, and instead bleeds into frustration.

“Nothing,” his voice is gruff, jaw clenching.

Your voice still carries the same tone as you state, “You were kind of being an ass in there.” Of course. Joaquin rolls his eyes. Is that what you were out here for? It sparks a flash of annoyance through him. Was he not being nice enough to Locke for your liking?

“Didn’t realize you noticed me there. Thought I was interrupting something.” It’s an obvious low blow, Joaquin should’ve taken better control of his emotions and kept it to himself, but he couldn’t stop the words from rushing past his lips anyways.

He doesn’t have any time to feel regret before you scoff, though, and the sound has him turning his head over his shoulder to get a look at your face. You’re less than pleased with him, fairly so, but Joaquin had a hard time caring. Not when Locke kept touching you and looking at you, the two of you sharing laughs at his expense.

You shake your head when the two of you make eye contact. “It’s called working, Torres. You should try it sometime this week instead of walking around like a brooding asshole.”

“Yeah?” He challenges, licking his lips. “Looked more like flirting to me.”

A noise of disagreement strangles out of your throat. “You’re ridiculous.” It’s conclusive. You and Joaquin simply hold each other's gazes, both holding your own ground in this deliberate staring contest.

It was you who broke away first, turning away from him with a clenched jaw. Looking back, there was something else in your eyes alongside the simmering anger, and all you do is reach past him to pull the soda out from the metal flap. A sniffle catches his attention, but you shove the drink into his chest before he can take a good look at you. “Don’t say I never got you anything.” Your voice is firm and decisive.

With that, you depart, and all Joaquin can do is take in another breath as he watches your retreating figure. It was only when your shared room door slams shut that guilt begins to swirl in tendrils in his veins. The lights above him go out.

That night, after Locke took his leave and confirmed that Iago’s been spotted at a nearby hotel, Joaquin merely watched in the corner of the room as you threw down an extra sheet and pillow onto the floor next to the bed before settling on the mattress. No words were exchanged, but it was clear: Joaquin was sleeping on the ground tonight—his metaphorical dog house. He took it in stride, laid down without a word, but his back wasn’t as prideful as him the next day. It certainly was not a good night's rest. And it definitely didn’t help when your foot landed on his stomach, using him as a stepping stone as you made your way to the bathroom the next morning. All he could do was groan and curl up on the floor, back and stomach now aching.

Now, in the dark, dingy van, Joaquin shifts uncomfortably in his designated seat, body complaining from the events that took place. One hand rubs the crease in his forehead while the other taps against the armrest. His eyes remain locked on the various monitors in front of him.

On the opposite side of the van, you sit just as tense and silent, working on the comms.

For once, Joaquin’s glad Locke is there as a buffer, though the agent himself doesn’t seem to be too glad about it. It’s so apparently obvious and even without multiple years in the academy, anyone can deduce that things are tense. It’s palpable, and obnoxiously fills the already stale air in the tiny vehicle.

To the right of him, Locke clears his throat, and Joaquin’s ears twitch in irritation. “So,” Locke drags. “Did something happen last night?”

“No.”

“Just focused.”

Joaquin’s and your response overlap one another, answering Locke with haste in a stern tone.

“Alrighty,” Locke sings, clearly unconvinced, but the message from both sides is clear and the man returns his attention to the same monitors Joaquin is watching. “Wait…” the CIA agent calls out, though all previous humor is devoid from his voice. The air shifts instantly, heavy with purpose, as everyone leans in.

“Right there,” Locke’s finger comes up to tap on one of the screens, the grainy picture flickering slightly as he narrows his eyes.

Following him, Joaquin’s eyes trail the screen, catching a small blurry figure peeking around a pillar before ducking into the building being surveilled, but not before turning around to look over their shoulder. Joaquin types quickly on his keyboard, the lens capturing the movement. The camera footage pauses, and Joaquin zooms in. “That’s him. That’s Iago.”

The sound of a camera shuttering fills Joaquin’s ears, and once Locke finishes capturing evidence, Joaquin zooms out.

“Wait, hold on,” you call out. Reaching across, you point at a different monitor on Joaquin’s side to the left—a different figure entering the frame from the opposite side of the building. “There’s Monica.” The confirmed buyer.

The trio watches as she moves towards the back entrance of the building, her signature confidence radiating off the screen. She’s flanked by two guards. “They’re armed,” Locke confirms in a grim voice.

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Joaquin keeps his eyes on the screen until all parties disappear inside. “They’re both here. This is it.”

“Hold on,” Locke demands, fingers moving with speed as he switches the feed to the cameras they’ve placed inside. “We need confirmation of the exchange,” he announces.

Watching in tense silence, Joaquin keeps his eyes locked on the screen.

The criminals move through separate parts of the building, and each one of you watches with intent, tracking them. Joaquin ignores the radio static of Locke’s comms, telling his team to hold their positions.

When Iago and Monica finally meet, it’s in one of the back offices, and Joaquin holds his breath as the two shake hands. Monica’s guards part slightly, forming a perimeter in the small room that barricades the door. The flash drive glints faintly as Iago pulls it from his pocket, and Joaquin can only watch as the two mouth to each other, unable to make much out due to the lack of audio and the low-resolution footage. The two of them take a seat on opposite sides of a round table centered in the room. Under different circumstances, Joaquin would have rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but he knows better. Big fish like these have a knack for flare.

“Wait. Something’s wrong,” you murmur. You reach over Locke, taking over the comms, shifting the camera away from Monica and Iago. Joaquin shouts your name in protest, but you simply ignore him. “There’s more,” you hastily rush out. “There.” You were right. With the change of perspective back to the entrances of the building, Joaquin sees it. More shadows. More shapes.

There’s others.

Joaquin counts five…six…eight others. Unmarked and heavily armed, surrounding the building from the inside.

“What the hell…” Joaquin’s heart rate starts to pick up.

“She brought extra backup,” Locke sounds distant, as though his mind was processing the information. “That’s too many bodies for a simple deal.”

Everyone falls still, watching the men on the screen. “Iago’s the biggest black market tech broker we know. He’s hacked into the U.S government more times than we can keep track of. All operative information—Super Soldier data, blueprints for war plans…” you let the insinuation hang in the air. “Whatever Monica’s buying…she’s not sticking around after,” you quickly pick up. “After the handoff, she’s fleeing.”

Locke overtakes the comms, switching it back to Monica and Iago, who are still sitting across from each other, a seemingly casual conversation taking place. “The target is Iago,” he states. “We wait for the handoff. Let Monica leave first, then we come in for him.”

“She’s right.” Joaquin jumps in to agree with you. “We can’t wait. Monica’s going to kill him after she gets what she needs,” he shakes his head. “I’ve read her file. With this many men, she’s planning something big. She won’t leave any loose ends.”

“We will get there in time. We need Iago to transfer the drive to her or we can’t get either of them. Right now they’re only crime is meeting up in an abandoned warehouse.” Locke insists, voice firm. “Let the exchange happen and we track Monica from there. Going in now just blows this whole thing.”

Joaquin’s lips part, ready to disagree, but the slamming of the van door draws his attention.

“She won’t wait that long.” You’re flying out of the van before anyone can process it, gear half on and boots hitting the gravel with a crunch.

Joaquin’s stomach drops. “Wait,” he shouts, calling after you, only to hear you shout back, “I’m not letting anyone die on a technicality.”

“Dammit!” Joaquin lunges towards you, but you’re too fast, and he hastily grabs his own gear despite the shouts and protest of Locke. “Fucking shit!” Joaquin curses, ankles ringing when he lands harshly on the ground. Joaquin chases after you, but you don’t look back once, and he keeps his head on a swivel as he locks his vest into place.

The two of you sprint down the alley, Joaquin only a few steps behind you, as you near the distance of the warehouse together. Slipping around the side, you crouch low behind a dumpster near the loading bay.

Joaquin’s breath burns in his throat, not from the sudden adrenaline rush, but from the fear that grasps him at the sight of you rushing into a scene without telling him anything. You’ve never done that before. Each inhale scrapes sharply against his ribs and muscle memory overrides the flurry of thoughts crashing in his head as he secures his weapons. He’s pissed—at Locke for his douchery and at Monica for ruining the fucking plan—but mostly he’s angry with you.

But none of that matters right now.

Dropping beside you, his back pressed to the rusted metal of the dumpster. Grasping your shoulder, Joaquin forces you to look back at him. “What’s the plan?” His voice comes out calm and focused—the exact opposite of how he feels on the inside, where he wants to shake you and yell at you for your reckless actions—but he knows the two of you have to make it out of this first. He needs to trust you.

When you turn towards him, your eyes are sharp, and he knows you’re where you need to be. “We go in quiet. Straight to Iago. If Monica gets even a hint that something’s wrong, it’s game over. Once we get in there, if she makes a move to kill him, we take all of them down. I don’t care what Locke says—we neutralize and extract, even if the exchange hasn’t happened.” Your eyes flicker down to the gun in his hand. “No gunfire.”

Joaquin looks down before tucking it back into the back of his waistband. He nods, once.

It’s a terrible plan. Ten people versus two. But Joaquin forces himself to push that thought away, it won’t do him any good on the field. Joaquin exhales slowly, steadying his pulse. He doesn’t say it verbally, but the two of you know—he’s with you.

Peering around the edge of the dumpster, the back entrance to the warehouse is maybe thirty yards away. Next to it, there’s a cracked loading door spilling yellow light onto the concrete. He sees a shadow move past the gap—tall and armed. Then he sees another shadow, moving the opposite direction—smaller feet, but Joaquin doesn’t dare make the mistake of assuming they’re any less dangerous. That’s two out of eight, not counting Monica and Iago themselves.

Joaquin feels you tap his arm once—ready?

He gives you the smallest of nods. Let’s move.

You both rush out from behind the dumpster, feet barely making noise against the concrete as you huge the warehouse wall. The two of you duck low, passing the cracked loading door and Joaquin holds his breath as you do.

Once your duo gets to the back door, Joaquin is quick to move to one side, flanking it, while you remain on the other, facing the loading dock. Reaching over, his palm grasps the knob and gives it a steady turn. All he can focus on is the rhythm of his breathing, eyes scanning you and your surroundings. One wrong move and they’re done.

You glance back at Joaquin and he nods before pushing the door open.

Joaquin slips in first, hunched low as he surveys the environment. The smell of oil and dust fills the air, and he takes in the wooden crates that surround the place. He tiptoes behind one for cover. When you slip past the door to join him, Joaquin signals you to move further in. You’ve yet to be discovered by the two guards, and Joaquin waits until you’ve found a safe spot, too. Both of your eyes are on the men pacing near the open door.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

One of them turns in his direction.

Joaquin shrinks down, hidden behind the wooden crate, just for a second. He presses himself to the side and turns to look at you. Joaquin holds up two fingers, waving them towards you then towards the guards. Take them down.

You give a single nod in return, eyes sharp.

Joaquin moves first, circling wide along the stacked boxes, steps-feather light. He keeps his ears trained on the sound of the guard's footsteps as Joaquin closes the distance between them. He times it. One heartbeat. Two.

Then he springs. Arms locked around the guard’s neck, the other reaching to grab the man’s weapon as he brings him down in one smooth, silent motion. He tosses the gun away and it slides smoothly against the floors. Joaquin’s face scrunches, quiet grunts leaving him as he forces the pressure of his forearm into the criminal’s neck, straining to keep a grip on the resisting man. His biceps burn as he presses down as hard as he can, dragging the man backwards with him.

Joaquin lets out a small breath of relief when the body slumps, unconscious, and he moves quickly to conceal the man’s body behind some crates. Then, Joaquin reaches down, stripping the man of his comms.

He places the earpiece in his left ear before turning around to look for you.

Across the room, you’re still in motion. A sharp crack as your elbow connects with the guard’s jaw before he can shout. The large man stumbles, and you’re quick to press him against the wall, arms braced across his throat until his body goes limp and slides to the ground.

Joaquin’s own silhouette glides through the room, reaching your side as he breathes fast and quiet. “Clear,” he whispers to you.

The two of you look ahead into the stretch of the warehouse—the endless grid of crates and towering shelves is casting fractured shadows across the concrete floor. You both knew that beyond them, tucked into the far back corner, are the offices. That’s where Iago is. That’s where Monica is.

But between where the two of you stand and there is large open ground—space that requires you to directly pass the front lobby—where the rest of Monica’s minions stand guard.

Joaquin hears a crackle of radio static in his stolen earpiece, and he reaches out to grasp your upper arm with a serious expression on his face. With a flat hand, he gestures across his neck. Don’t move.

“Alpha post, status report.”

A pause before another radio crack floods Joaquin’s ear.

“Clear at the front. No sign of movement. ETA on exchange?”

“Ten minutes. Boss says no one comes in or out. Keep your eyes on the doors.”

In the distance, Joaquin can hear the echoing of multiple pairs of shoes shuffling against the floor and the movement of fabric—they’re pacing, getting impatient.

“Bravo post, check in.”

Shit. Joaquin’s pulse spikes. That was their post. The two of you meet eyes, and Joaquin knows that you easily detect the trouble in his. Silence won’t go unnoticed for long

“Bravo, do you copy?”

Joaquin raises a finger, ready to press the comm, but your hand quickly clamps over his wrist. You shake your head fervently, and the scrunch in your brows reading the clear words, Too risky.

“Sir, heading to West wing to check on team Bravo now.”

His breath stutters in his chest, body going still, save for the twitch in his jaw as tension floods his limbs like ice water. Your warm fingers wrapped around his wrist serve as a reminder to wait, stay hidden. But they’re cutting it close, too close. Joaquin can hear them now, two pairs of footsteps marching in their direction.

“Bravo post, all clear.” The delivery is low and clear, an octave lower than his own voice, in his best attempt to seem inconspicuous. He holds the button for a second longer than needed before a shaky finger lets go.

The footsteps stop.

Joaquin feels your hand squeeze his wrist, but he can’t focus on it, mind still racing. If they don’t respond…

His eyes flickering over to you before seizing into knots in his stomach. A sour taste of worry settles in his mouth as he takes in your slow blinks, watching him with intense focus. Despite his efforts to keep a sharp mind and despite all his trust in you, if anything happens—

“Copy that, Bravo.”

Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, but the tension doesn’t leave him. He can’t take his eyes off of you, the close too close for his liking. At the realization that you’re waiting for an update, Joaquin mentally shakes his head of any previous fearful thoughts before giving you a singular nod. Then, one tap to your arm. With both hands, he holds all his fingers, relaying his intel. You nod back in understanding.

You’re in a time crunch now. Ten minutes to get in and out with no casualties.

But your problem still persists—open ground between where you stand and where you need to be. Wooden crates and shelves can only provide so much cover. But then Joaquin watches as you point upwards, head following your movements.

Overhead. A narrow catwalk runs through the length of the warehouse. Even from below, he can see how old and rusted it is, hanging on with metal wires that look ready to snap. Joaquin frowns. But it’s intact. And it gets you directly to the back offices without crossing free space.

His eyes flick to you. Smart.

Together, you rush over to the shelves lining the warehouse wall, climbing in quick, practiced motions.

Just a second after yours, Joaquin’s boots land on the metal in a quiet stomp as he pulls himself up. The steel groans under your shared weight, but Joaquin suspects that a gust of wind would have the old catwalk making the same noise. Straining his ears, Joaquin listens to the way the guards continue to pace, none the wiser.

Looking ahead, Joaquin watches how fast you move, low and silent as you make your way down. He follows your lead.

The whirling of vents overhead fill the air, and shadows from flickering lights cut across your forms as the two of you make your way towards the back offices. Focused and stealthy, being extra careful when you come into view of the lobby.

Four gunned men. Just as you had figured when you did your recon.

Soon, the back offices come into view and despite the multiple rooms in the row, you and Joaquin easily spot Monica and Iago’s location, for the small window on the door spilling yellow light into the hallway gave it away.

The two of you crouch down, watching the space from directly above for a few seconds. Turning to each other, you hold up a four with your fingers. Four people.

“How are you going to take them down? They’re all armed.” Joaquin’s voice is merely above a whisper, the hum of the vents blanketing his words.

But you don’t answer with words.

A mischievous gleam in your eyes makes Joaquin’s narrow in suspicion. When you pull a small metal bolt from your belt, some leftover scrap you picked up from the warehouse floor at some point, Joaquin shakes his head ‘no’. This time, it’s his hand clamping your wrist. “That’s a terrible plan!” he doesn’t hesitate to speak out this time, still whispering.

He looks at you as you raise your brows innocently, accompanying it with a slight shrug.

Joaquin’s gaze snaps back to the office door, and the counting he’s been keeping track of in his mind reminds him they only have so much time left. Shoulders tight, Joaquin’s teeth grit as he lets you go with a huff. The second he does, you toss the bolt over the catwalk, and the two of you watch as it clatters to the floor below, rolling.

You both duck back into the shadows.

Inside the office, one of the guards steps out with his gun in hand. He stands barricaded by the door, only peaking out to look back and forth down the hallway. Joaquin tenses, worrying that their plan backfired. Every line in his body is alert, gaze locked on the man’s movements. His mind is spinning as he calculates other options.

But then you reach into your pocket again, this time pulling out another bolt.

Joaquin’s hand shoots out, “Wait—” he hisses.

Too late.

The second small piece of metal sails down just as the guard begins to step back inside, landing directly at his feet. This time, the guard steps out, squinting upward in the direction the bolt came from.

You jump forward and drop.

Joaquin jerks with a sharp inhale, one hand gripping the edge of the catwalk as he watches you plummet downward. You land on top of the guard, hard, knees braced on his back as your arms snake around his neck before he can react. The two of you hit the ground with a loud thud. The man’s gun, strapped across his chest, slams into the concrete floor.

His heart lurches into his throat, the sharp echoing crack of your bodies hitting the ground was loud and unmistakable.

Shit.

He grips the catwalk’s edge tighter, knuckles going white as he grinds his teeth. Every instinct in his body was telling him that this is it—this is the moment where everything falls apart. Joaquin’s eyes snap to the left, panicking at the idea that the other four guards would head in their direction. They were running out of time.

When his eyes rush back to the hallway, the second guard is bursting through the office door, gun already halfway raised.

“Fucking dammit!” he curses. Joaquin doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.

Before his mind can catch up, Joaquin is already halfway over the railing. In one smooth, desperate motion, he launches himself off the catwalk. His body flies through the air, a blur of dark clothing and braced limbs. Joaquin feels the wind whip past his ear, pulse pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. His breathing is caught in his chest, and when the guard’s face tilts up and Joaquin’s boots crash into his shoulder.

The two of them hit the ground hard, launching away from each other from the force and trajectory of Joaquin’s fall. Despite the wind knocked out of his lungs on impact, Joaquin wastes no time. Pure adrenaline rushes through his veins, and he jumps back up to his feet before he can even process it.

Joaquin’s ears tune in to the way the guard groans, but before the man can reach for his weapon, Joaquin is already there, grabbing him by the collar and slamming his head into the floor. Releasing one hand, Joaquin swings his arm back before striking his fist into the side of the guard’s face. Once. Twice. Until the struggle stills.

He sucks in a large breath, knowing silence was no longer a necessary cover, and Joaquin blinks to focus his blurry vision from the sudden drop and adrenaline. Sweat beads along his brow, and his hands are shaking.

Whipping around, Joaquin searches for you.

You’re still struggling, pinning your opponent down with your knees as he thrashes beneath you. Joaquin’s stomach twists when he sees a smear of red along your sleeve, but there’s no time to check. Rushing towards you, Joaquin’s leg is already cocked, and he slams his boot into the man’s shoulder, kicking him to weaken his struggles. The man howls in pain, and Joaquin watches as your grip tightens. With the full use of your body weight, you slam the man’s head hard enough to knock him out.

Silence.

It’s heavy and shallow.

Joaquin's hands are shaking, and he kneels down to check on you. Hand brushing against your back, he asks if you’re alright.

“I’m fine,” you reply, chest heaving.

He doesn’t believe you, but there’s no time to argue.

Both your heads snap up at the sound of screaming voices, coming from inside the office. Instantly, you’re both back up on your feet, and Joaquin reaches towards the door to swing it open.

You both freeze.

Monica is on the other side of the table, the furthest distance she can be from the door in the small room. Her arm is locked around Iago’s neck as she drags him backwards—a pistol is jammed into the underside of his jaw.

Joaquin takes the time to scan her and he feels his blood freeze in his veins. She’s steady with sharp eyes and face devoid of any sign of fear. His eyes flicker to the gun in her hand. Safety’s off. Finger on the trigger. Whatever she’s planning…Monica’s not bluffing.

Iago is breathing hard, eyes flickering between the barrel and the two of you. His hands are raised in surrender, and Joaquin winces at his split lip, the blood dribbling down the collar of his shirt.

“Nobody move.” Her voice is calm.

Joaquin raises his hand in surrender and from the corner of his eyes, he sees that you do the same. “Easy, Monica.”

The hardened villain doesn’t so much as flinch. Her grip in Iago stays tight, pistol unwavering. “The only way this ends is me walking out of this building unharmed.”

Neither of you answer her.

Taking the gun off of Iago, she waves it in the air to make her point, “I have men crawling all over this building. Even more outside. Snipers, runners, you name it.”

The gun lands back against her captive, and Joaquin’s eyes train on him. He’s shaking like a leaf. “I walk out.” Monica proposes. “With him.” She flickers down to Iago, letting out a ‘tsk’ as she does, as though he was an afterthought. “And no one dies. Simple as that.”

Joaquin takes a step forward, just enough to show her that he’s not scared. “I can’t let you do that.”

From behind him, Joaquin hears you speak up, too. “Why do you want him?”

Monica’s eyes flicker towards you, and heat burns at the pit of Joaquin’s stomach at the idea of her attention on you.

“Want him?” She lets out a small laugh, though it sounds less than humorous. “Sweetie, I don’t want him. He just happens to be the unfortunate bastard who knows too much.” She slides the gun further down the column of Iago’s throat, and the man swallows harshly.

“It’s a shame,” fake sympathy laces her voice. “We could’ve done so much together,” she sighs. “But I can’t work with cowards who reach out to people like you.”

Iago parts his lips to protest, but before he can get a word past, Monica moves at lightning speed. She redirects the barrel of the gun in your direction with a whoosh, and a deafening, unmistakable crack of a shot flies through the air.

Before the echoing can finish ringing out, Joaquin’s body is in motion. “Get down!” he shouts, diving with all the strength he has towards you. His arm latches around your waist as he drives the two of you backwards, falling into the hallway behind you.

You crash into the floor in a tangled heap.

Joaquin tightens his grip on you when he hears you let out a strangled sound. A gasp or a cry, he can’t be sure, but then he feels it—warmth. He’s scrambling off of you in an instant, taking in your scrunched expression.

Panic rockets through his chest, clenching around his heart. “No, no no,” he’s muttering over and over, both hands pressing against the bloom of red on your shoulder that’s starting to stain your clothes. “Shit,” he cries, hands starting to shake. Joaquin doesn’t know where to start, what to do. You’re groaning beneath him, face scrunched in pain with gritted teeth.

His lungs start burning, and Joaquin realizes he’s been holding his breath. He lets out a stuttering exhale, fingers clenching against the wound. Whispering numerous desperate apologies, Joaquin continues to apply pressure despite your cries.

“Joaquin,” you grit, “Joaquin, stop.” The hand from your non-injured side comes up to grasp at his forearm, nails digging into skin. He hears your ragged breathing, the struggle in your voice as you tell him, “Graze. Just a graze.”

“Don’t move,” he shushes you. “Just…just wait, hold on—” He swallows hard, vision swimming for a second and Joaquin’s head starts to hurt, the way his brain is struggling to catch up.

“Joaquin,” your nails dig further, but he can’t register the feeling. “I’m fine. Monica,” you gasp. “Go.”

But it’s not fine. You’re not okay. You were nearly shot.

“Joaquin, go!” you scream.

He wants to argue, wants to scream at you for pushing him away because all he wants to do right now is keep you safe—the thing he should’ve done to begin with—and you’re not letting him.

But then—

A clattering behind him. A muffled grunt.

Joaquin’s head snaps around just in time to see it—Monica dragging Iago down the hallway. The man’s legs are failing and she’s got a grip on his collar, yanking him like dead weight, moving fast as her head occasionally snaps back to look at you and Joaquin.

She’s getting away.

He turns back to look at you. Beneath him, your face is twisted in pain, and the fabric around your shoulder only continues to darken with the passing time. His own hands are covered in your blood, fingers trembling. Your lips are parted, drawing in short, shallow breaths.

But then he looks in your eyes, and all he sees is sheer determination. No panic or fear.

Joaquin gets your message loud and clear: Trust me, you were saying. His heart constricts so sharply in chest, he aches and Joaquin blinks the tears in his eyes away. Slowly, he lifts his trembling fingers away from your shoulder. It’s the scariest thing he’s ever seen—the blood on your shoulders—but he wills his fingers to stop their shaking and clenches his jaw in resilience. “I’ll be back,” his voice is hoarse, and the words come out a bit choked up as they force their way past the lump in his throat. “You hear me? I’ll be back.”

He drops lower, just long enough to reach you, and Joaquin cradles your face in his blood soaked hands. A brush of his thumb over your cheek is the only moment of solitude he can give you before Joaquin presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s rushed and apologetic.

Then Joaquin’s gone. Running down the hallway, he doesn’t turn back once. He can’t.

If he does, he won’t be able to leave.

The door creaks open on its old hinges, the sound echoing through the small townhouse. Joaquin steps in first, multiple bags slung over his shoulders as he holds the door open for you. The weight of them burns, and internally Joaquin wonders if you packed ten pounds of rocks for your mission, but the thought quickly evaporates when you step in and his eyes land on your bandaged shoulder.

Joaquin watches as your eyes flicker to him on the way in. “I could’ve carried my own bag, you know.” He can hear the stubbornness in your voice, and all Joaquin can do is give you a sharp glare.

After making sure he locked and deadbolted the door, Joaquin drops the duffles onto the couch with a dull thud. Huffing, he places his hands on his hips as he looks around.

It’s nicer than the dump you’ve been holed up in the past week. Clean. Modern. A couch (his back is already thankful for it). Definitely a step up from the mildew and cigarette scented cardboard box you’ve been calling a room the past week.

Although it’s only a place to rest for one night before you catch your flights back to Washington, Joaquin’s thankful for the rest stop nonetheless. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sam had someone stop by to clean up the place before the two of you stopped by. A smile graces his lips at the thought of his friend, looking forward to being back home already. He’s been on much longer missions, but God knows this one has taken the most out of him.

Joaquin’s eyebrow twitches in irritation, smile dropping the slightest bit. He can feel you looking at him again.

It’s been like this the entire ride over.

He knows it’s wrong, knows that he should’ve been so much nicer to you considering the turn of events, but, simply, Joaquin is struggling. His usual optimism is locked in a chamber deep in his heart, unable to see the light of day, with the way his body is so busy aching over the reality that that mission could have gone a hell of a lot worse.

He’s been counting your breaths in the long silence that stretches between you two as a way to remind himself that you’re there next to him, that you’re okay. But it’s little consolidation. It’s a sense of loyalty masked by the frustration of not being able to protect you, Sam had said, noting the way you lingered awkwardly in the background during Joaquin’s debrief with him. You make him not himself.

Joaquin thinks it’s bullshit. He’s mad himself, that much he can recognize on his own. But he’s also mad at you.

You’re still looking at him, and it takes everything in him not to look back. Joaquin is sure that you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. Of course he does. All he does is notice you—how your hand kept ghosting over the center console towards him during the car ride, how you’ve been wincing and rotating your shoulder when you think no one’s looking, how you nervously picked at your fingers when the med tech cleared you hours ago despite wearing a stoic look on your face.

The reminder makes his face tighten, resolve hardening as he recalls the words “it could’ve been worse.” Locke meant it reassuringly, but all it did was anger Joaquin.

He’s being a dick. But he does it anyway, because what else is there for him to do?

It’s safer, Joaquin reminds himself. Simpler, because if he keeps the space between the two of you wide, he won’t start unraveling everytime you so much as squirm in pain. It’s what he’s been working towards all this time. There’s so much space, truly, as you toe the line between coworkers and more. So much potential. But even with the distance and without ever crossing that thin thread, Joaquin is already so undone.

He’s barely surviving you.

And this accident—no matter how much everyone around him keeps saying that it was fine, nonfatal—has been stabbing at his already bleeding heart. Joaquin is shook in a way that he isn’t proud of, because he knows he should be stronger, but everytime he closes his eyes all he he’s is you on the ground, blood blooming dark through your gear, and everything inside him screams.

He can’t be what you want, because caring about you like this? Risking feeling even more? It scares him in a way he can’t even begin to understand. If this is how hard he’s falling now, when nothing between you is even real…Joaquin doesn’t want to even imagine how much it might hurt one day if you might slip through his fingers.

“I’m g’nna hit the showers,” he murmurs in your general direction, the heat of your stare burning at the side of his face. Joaquin manages to take only a few steps away when you call out after him.

“What’s your problem?” Your voice is loud, echoing through the small living room. “Seriously, Joaquin, what is your issue?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Yes, you do!” you protest, voice getting louder.

Joaquin clamps his mouth shut, confident that silence is the only solution here. But you come up behind him, taking him by surprise when you shove him in the back. It hardly does anything, Joaquin leaning forward in surprise more than anything, but it pisses him off nonetheless. Whipping around, he meets your furious eyes, but still, he’s silent, opting to simply glare.

“Well?” you shout. “Joaquin, say something!”

“You’re my problem!” The words burst out before he can stop them—sharp and heavy with everything he’s been holding back. As soon as the words come out, Joaquin regrets them. He recoils, shocked by the weight of his own anger and the volume of his voice. He’s never yelled at you, never so much as raised his voice, but he knows it’s too late to take it back now.

“You don’t get it,” he shakes his head, hand running over his face. “You don’t—”

“Is this about Agent Locke?” your tone shrouded in disbelief.

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Asshole!” Joaquin can’t help but shout, but he quickly turns around to take a deep breath. He’s never been this way with you before, but God does that name rub him in all the wrong places.

Joaquin barrels forward, and though his voice grows quieter, it’s just as firm as he grits his teeth. He turns to you. “You getting hurt? That’s my problem. You bleeding out in some dark, crappy warehouse while I left, completely useless to you? That’s my fucking problem.” Heat crawls up Joaquin’s back, and his chest starts to rise and fall rapidly as he tries to rein his outrage back. Fists balled at his sides, his nails dig into his palm to remind himself to stay calm. “You were so reckless!” he accuses.

“Hey! That was the only chance we had—”

“I don’t care!” Joaquin cries, hands coming up to hold his head. He can’t believe the two of you are even having this conversation. Why don’t you understand? Why were you being so stubborn? His voice is cracking, exasperation seeping through every word. “The only thing that matters to me is that you got hurt.” He steps forward, forcing you closer to him as if somehow that would make you understand him better. His heart is pounding in his chest, louder than his thoughts.

“Before we ran in there, we weren’t even—” Joaquin pauses, jaw clenching as he forces himself to look away from you. He sniffles, once, to compose himself. “You wouldn’t even look at me in the van.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Joaquin continues. “I was still mad. And then next thing I know, I’m holding you and you’re on the floor bleeding—”

Before he can finish, your hand grabs the front of his t-shirt and yanks him forward. He barely has the time to register what’s happening before he feels your lips on his. It’s urgent and fierce, and instinctively, he kisses back. His hand finds your waist, gripping them tightly because it’s the first time he’s touched you in days. Starving for it, he pulls you flush against him. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck as he kisses you with everything he’s been holding in.

Frustration, fear, guilt—it all drains into the kiss, making it messy and hot.

You finally pull back, but Joaquin can’t just yet. He’s desperate, he needs more. So he trails his lips down the side of your throat, leaving sloppy kisses down the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your throat, and it’s less finesse than he usually has, but there’s not much he can do about that. Not when it’s driven from grief more than lust.

Your moan makes his pants start to tighten, but hesitation starts to swirl in his mind. But then you throw your head further back, your hand coming up to grip the back of his head, pushing his head further downward. He takes the encouragement greedily, lips finding your clavicle as he bites down gently, licking the skin soothingly when you let out a small his.

Joaquin’s hands don’t stop moving, brushing up and down your body and squeezing in various places. He needs to feel you, a physical reminder that you’re here and you’re okay.

He’s busy pressing kisses against the column of your throat again when he hears you whisper.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you say quietly, even though your fingers are scratching at the back of his head, twirling his curls.

The words burn him, snapping him away from his hungry daze momentarily. Though your voice is low, the words are louder than everything around him—the sting of your nails, your ragged breaths. It echoes past everything. His lips still against your throat, and for a second Joaquin hates that you’ve said it out loud. Hates even more the fact that he knows he needs to hear it.

This isn’t forgiveness or peace.

The realization makes Joaquin’s hand grip your waist tighter, but his kiss against your neck is soft as he whispers back, “I know.”

He ignores the way your hand soothes the back of his head, twisted in his curls in a shameful act of comfort. It makes his stomach sink in the worst of ways.

So Joaquin does the only thing he knows how to do with you.

His hands move quick, finding purchase at the junction between the bottom of your ass and the top of your thigh as he presses hurried, wet kisses to any surface his lips can reach. Joaquin squeezes the flesh there, letting out a satisfied groan before pulling you up. Ignoring your squeal of surprise, Joaquin forces your legs around his waist as he carries you through the townhouse.

Blindly, he carries you around, occasionally peeking around you to watch his step but his focus rarely strays from you for more than a few seconds at a time. Your body is warm against his, and your legs around his waist has your core pressing against his hard cock in a way that is growing increasingly distracting by the second.

Every part of him was trembling with urgency, and the way your breath is hot against his ear makes his knees buckle. Joaquin presses a kiss to your jaw, biting again, before finding the corner of your mouth in a feverish tenacity.

“I need—” he groans, words getting tangled in his throat when you press yourself closer to him, grinding against him over the denim of his jeans. He doesn’t bother to finish his sentence, instead, he rushes you further down the hall until he reaches a random door. Everything in him prays that it’s the bedroom door as he fumbles with the knob, letting out a curse as you gently nip at the lobe of his ear.

Joaquin pinches your ass in warning, and he marvels in the way you let out a surprised squeak. But his satisfaction is short lived, turning into annoyance as his shaky hands struggle to get the door open.

The second it swings inward, Joaquin all but stumbles in. Though his instinct is to press you against the wall and strip you of your clothes with you dangling on him, he’s hyper aware of your shoulder and slows his movements. Instead, Joaquin walks the two of you further into the room, feet searching for the bed frame before laying you gently on the mattress.

The movement makes your shirt ride up, and when you look up at him with plump, glossy lips, eyes hazy with lust, Joaquin feels his dick throb. He lets out a shaky exhale before climbing on top of you, palms reaching for your exposed skin like a man desperate for water.

“Take it off,” you demand from him, tugging at his shirt. Joaquin obliges with no complaints, peeling off the tee that was growing increasingly unbearable with his rising temperature before undoing his pants as well. He reaches towards you, nimble fingers grasping the bottom of your shirt before his eyes flicker upwards with permission.

You nod, and despite his previously ferocious movement, Joaquin works slowly, dragging the fabric upwards and pressing kisses along as he did. When he gets to your shoulder, Joaquin frowns at the white bandages. The sight punches the air out of his lungs. They’re so stark against your skin, so out of place beneath his hands.

His breath hitches, lips hovering just above the wounded area but not close enough to touch. It’s too much. Another reason to not cross that line.

So Joaquin swallows it.

Ripping your shirt off, his mouth is on you again. Harder, deeper this time. His tongue parts your lips like he’s pushing away the foul memory on his tongue, and Joaquin’s hands start to palm at your breast. They slide away to reach down your thighs, peeling off your pants in one swift movement that only has Joaquin parting from you for a second before he’s back.

This time, his lips trail down your chest. Undoing your bra with an expertise that typically would have him making an annoying comment, Joaquin throws it onto the floor into the pile with the rest of your clothes.

This is familiar. This he can do.

It’s not love, he denies to himself, just pure need. And right now, Joaquin needs you a lot more than he needs to feel okay.

His mouth finds your erect nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a pleased groan. Joaquin’s tongue moves in precision, licking in smooth circular motions around the nub while you moan underneath him. His free hand comes up to grab your right tit, pinching the nipple while his mouth works on the left.

Joaquin’s being greedy with the way he’s touching you; sucking on your tits brings him more pleasure than it does you, he believes, and he grinds his leaking cock against the sheets of the bed. But he knows that you feel good, wouldn’t do it if you didn’t, from the way you moan his name. It drives him insane. When he lets go, a thin strand of saliva connects his lips to your nipple, and it makes him lick his lips, effectively breaking it.

Bites to your chest ensued until he was satisfied, the splotches of red blossoming on your chest the only red he’s comfortable with on your skin. For every nip his teeth imprint, several wet kisses follow. Then he’s dragging downward, following your smooth skin until he’s settled between your thighs.

Any other time, he would have teased you, love feeling you squirm beneath him as breathy complaints fall past your lips. But this time, Joaquin wastes no time. In one flat, long motion Joaquin’s tongue licks you from your hole to your clit. The taste of you splashes against his taste buds in a way that has him groaning into you and the vibration has you mewling.

Joaquin moves fast, heeded with motivation, but his movements are precise no less. Two fingers prod at your hole, working you open as his tongue sucks gently on your clit. You’re so wet, he preps you easily. It soaks his hand, your arousal pooling into his palm as he fingers you.

Once Joaquin thinks you’re ready, he’s lifting himself up to line his aching cock against you. Licking your slick off the palm of his hand, he uses the moisture to stroke himself. The mixture of his spit and your wetness was more than enough to act as lube, but the precum dribbling from the head of his cock provided additional help as well.

When he first breaches past your hole, Joaquin groans. The feeling never gets old, and the way you cling to him makes it all the better. The tension that’s been coiling in his chest for days finally snaps, unraveling in one sharp gasping exhale. You’re warm and tight, so impossibly wet around him, and it makes his eyes flutter shut. His forehead drops against yours, shaking as he struggles to keep himself up. It’s too much.

But Joaquin knows it’s not just the feeling of you clenching around him as he pushes deeper and deeper into you, your body pulling him in. It’s the feeling of being able to hold you, feel that you’re there beneath him, because here, he can protect you.

He tries to hold still and memorize the feeling of being inside you, the way your body curves around him.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Joaquin whispers. It’s a reminder for himself, the words falling in a quiet cadence as his hips meet yours. He forces them out like acid burning his throat, heart clenched painfully in his chest.

But you don’t know that, and you respond all the same, gasping out, “I know.”

The admission makes him groan out your name, and he shakes his head in denial. Joaquin starts to move with urgency, not from lust, but from fear. He starts thrusting into you, gripping your thighs like they were the only thing anchoring him in the moment. Joaquin feels the sting of your nails in his back, the slick from both your bodies molding the two of you together.

Joaquin’s hips stutter when you clench tightly around him, and he bends down to grasp one of your bouncing tits in his mouth again. His movements are fast-paced, and the way you’re a babbling mess beneath him only spurs Joaquin further.

Broken groan falling past his lips, Joaquin’s teeth grazes over your nipple before pulling back just enough to look at you. You’re flushed—lips parted, eyes rolling back with his marks all over your skin. Fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts.

He can feel you getting close, your moans turning breathy and uneven. Your thighs begin to tremble where they’re wrapped around his waist and Joaquin slips one hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles quickly, messily, focus divided on keeping his hips moving at the same pace while pressing the right amount of pressure against your sensitive bud.

His free hand comes up to your throat, holding either side in a soft grip. Not a tight one. But equally possessive nonetheless.

“Is this what you wanted?” he pants, eyes drinking you in without a blink as your moans grow higher in pitch. “Yeah? Just needed me to fuck you?” He’s being so mean, Joaquin realizes this, but the words are the only shield he has against you. Your moans in agreement have him concentrating harder on getting you to reach your orgasm. His teeth bite down on his lower lip, fighting to keep himself from cumming, but your wet grip was slowly dragging him under.

“Come on, cum for me,” he urges you, before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours.

And you do. Your whole body aches into him as you let out a shattered cry against his lips, muscles clenching around him so hard that it knocks the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he curses, speeding up his pace. He’s working through your orgasm, but he can’t help the way he chokes out your name. Joaquin buries himself deep, hips shuttering as he spills inside of you in long, shuddering waves. His fingers tremble against your hip, his jaw going slack as his strokes turn into small, gentle ones.

Waves of aftershock tremble throughout Joaquin’s body, and he feels you shake in a similar way. He’s heaving, trying to catch his breath with his forehead pressed against yours. Even when your spasms subside, Joaquin doesn’t move. Instead, he stays buried in you, chest pressed against yours.

You make no move to push him off either.

Not even when Joaquin shifts your position, hands bracing themselves against your back and your thigh to flip the two of you over so that you lay on his chest. Despite the readjustment, Joaquin keeps his cock inside of you. Silently, the two of you lay together, slicked with sweat as heavy breaths fill the air.

You won’t talk. Not tonight.

Afterall, you both promised each other: this changes nothing.

hellur this fic took me forever to finish </3 pls show some love and lmk what u think :) and don't worry, situationship!joaquin will be back..

#to be read

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blurrycal · 9 hours ago

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joaquin torres masterlist

and for us, it won't be long (joaquin torres x fem!reader)

3-part mini series. after joaquin's accident and a cross-country move, you reconnect with your childhood best friend. set after the events of captain america: brave new world. (completed)

part one | part two | part three

#to be read

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blurrycal · 9 hours ago

Text

Drunk!Joaquin paying for anything and everything for his gf even if she doesn't want him to because he always just wants to spoil her no matter if he's sober or drunk.

She asks for a soda at the bar? He's tapping his card. She needs to get gas on their way home? He runs out and taps his card. She stops at a drive thru to get food– mostly for him? He's waving his card at the cashier, yelling at them to take it before she does, and even snatching hers out of her hand and holding it out of her reach.

"Hurry and take it!"

"Joaquin, no!"

It doesn't matter if she borderline yells at him to not pay. He's doing it anyway because he loves her and what better way to spend his hard earned money on than his girlfriend?

#thinking of joaquín <3 #joaquín torres #joaquín torres fluff

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blurrycal · 9 hours ago

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*ೃ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

collection of my works organized by fandom! each fic will be tagged appropriately with what it contains. this post will be updated on a weekly basis.

all fics are x female reader unless stated otherwise. organized by oldest first, newest last.

tags for fics: FLUFF — ✿ / ANGST — ☾ / SMUT — ❤︎︎

⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄. ┊

ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS / THE SENTRY.

✿ ☾ oh, scaling all your shadows. — 4.0K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ oh, scaling all your shadows (pt. 2) — 8.3K. one-shot.

✿ three words and eight letters. — 1.5K. ficlet.

❤︎︎ oh, be my rest, be my fantasy. — 8.5K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ all of me wants all of you. — 5.4K. one-shot.

JAMES BUCHANAN ‘BUCKY’ BARNES.

❤︎︎ every time the sun comes up. — 4.2K. one-shot.

✿ number one party anthem. — 7.0K. one-shot.

JOHN F. WALKER / US AGENT.

❤︎︎ bite the hand that needs you. — 10.0K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ only pretend until it’s not. — 6.3K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ a black eye and two kisses. — 6.5K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ you’re the ache I asked for. — 4.4K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ pushing it down and praying. — 13.0K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ proximity check. — 5.4K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ baby, kiss it better. — 3.8K. ficlet. requested.

❤︎︎ find my way to your tongue. — 2.7K. ficlet.

❤︎︎ take me one more time. — 3.8K. ficlet.

JOAQUIN TORRES / THE FALCON.

✿ for the love of near death experiences — 3.5K. ficlet.

❤︎︎ the romeo and juliet protocol. — 9.6K. one-shot.

⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄. ┊

jacaerys velaryon

❤︎︎ what honor demands (i). — 11.5K. series.

jon snow

❤︎︎ shake this frost off of my bones. — 10.5K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ in the palm of your freezing hand. — 3.4K. ficlet.

robb stark

❤︎︎ laid bare before the wolf. — 5.7K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ howl, caught in the open. — 5.0K. one-shot.

aegon ii targaryen

☾ ❤︎︎ foolish, fragile spine. — 7.4K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. — 11.5K. one-shot.

aemond targaryen

❤︎︎ devotion. — 7.1K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ ascendancy. — 5.2K. one-shot.

daemon targaryen

❤︎︎ faithfully. — 13.0K. one-shot.

rhaenyra targaryen

❤︎︎ longed for as the sun-warmed earth. — 10.0K. one-shot.

cregan stark

❤︎︎ northern attitude. — 8.3K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ wolfsblood, dragonsblood. — 6.7K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ blood in the snow. — 8.5K. one-shot.

gwayne hightower

❤︎︎ touch of your heavenly hand. — 5.1K. one-shot.

harwin strong

❤︎︎ the strong and the maiden fair. — 12.1K. one-shot.

╱╱ updated 06.04.25.

#to be read

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blurrycal · 15 hours ago

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i mean i have an idea for sam but its soooo cliche LMFAO

- maybe being the assistant for sam n joaquin and what not and you just have a crush on sam...... sam kinda has his suspicions but joaquin would defs snitch on you by accident bc that man is a YAPPER he never shuts up. you dont know why you spilled about your crush on sam to joaquin but alas!!! it works in your favour

TALK TOO MUCH

INCLUDES -> sam wilson x reader WARNINGS -> fluff with a bit of angst (bc i can't help myself), misunderstandings, accidental machmaker joaquín, light blood and injury, alcohol WORD COUNT -> 3.7k

NOTES -> first sam fic, pls be gentle with me. also, the army man thing was 100% inspired by ted lasso, but sue me! it's such a sam thing to do. and as always: comments and rbs are much appreciated, and my asks are open!

it isn't unusual for you, sam, and joaquín to have a late night catching up on "official superhero business," as joaquín likes to call it. there's always more recon to be done, more adjustments to be made to the wings, more training. and with joaquín officially taking sam's side as falcon, that leaves you as the primary analyst.

which often means poring over hours of security footage or pages of legal jargon—especially now that there's a legal case being made against the so-called "new avengers."

but finding real, usable footage and evidence on security feeds is never like the movies. it's always terribly slow-going, even if you're watching it sped up. you've moved from your desk, to sitting on the couch, to draping yourself across it with a coffee in hand. you made a mental note long ago to thank sam for putting it in the base, but now you really have to deliver on that. without it, your back would no doubt be aching from the desk chair, and after well over an hour of footage and no sign of the weapon dealers you're supposed to keep an eye out for, it would have been hell.

that slow crawl of footage, combined with the quiet hours of the night, have your eyes heavy with sleep.

"working hard or hardly working?" comes sam's voice from the door.

he and joaquín had been training for the past hour or so—maybe longer now. time gets a little shaky this late in the night, especially with the dreadfully dull security tapes that play in front of you.

but the effect of the workout is obvious. there's sweat on his brow and a towel slung over his shoulder. and if you look a little too long at the broad spread of his shoulders or the flex of his arm, then you're more than willing to blame it on the hour.

"a little bit of both," you say with a tired smile, and your ears go warm when sam laughs.

"any sign of 'em?" he sits at his own desk and tips his head back, leaning back in his chair far enough that it gives you a great view of the angle of his jaw and-

yeah, you need to stop staring. so you turn back to your laptop only to see a heaping helping of nothing. when you take a quick glance at the time, it's well past 11.

"if there was, i'd be in bed already."

"mm, tell me about it," he sighs.

"why're you guys working out so late anyways?"

"joaquín insisted, the brat."

"hey, i heard that!" and right on cue, joaquín comes walking through the door with a pep in his step that is entirely unwarranted for how late it is. "i wanted to learn that move you did the other day against the serpent dudes."

"don't i know it." sam rubs out an ache in his shoulder, and you can't help but laugh. "this funny to you? the kid's beating up his elders!"

"aw, come on, old man," joaquín walks past sam to get to his desk and takes the opportunity to jab him in the shoulder. predictably, sam hisses and rubs at the sore spot. "just last week you were saying how you were proud of me."

"yeah, old man, you're the one training him," you manage through giggles.

"oh, i see how it is," sam raises a playful eyebrow at you, "ganging up on me?"

"always, sam, always." and maybe the look you give him back lingers just a moment too long, because when joaquín breaks the quiet with a clap, it startles you.

"tonight's my turn to put away the gear, right?" but before sam can even get out a reply, joaquín is already moving to their wings and suits—ready to pack everything away neatly without any further questions.

"guess that's my sign to head out, huh?" he stands with a grunt and stretches his arms over his head, lifting his shirt just enough for you to see his toned stomach.

if sam sticks around any longer, you will definitely have to blame your staring on how tired you are.

he hefts his duffel bag over one shoulder and trudges over to the door, but before he leaves, he turns to you.

"don't stay up too late watching those. we only need enough to prove that's their hideout," his voice is soft when he says it, a tone you swear he only uses with you. or maybe you're just projecting.

and then he's out the door, leaving you and joaquín to close up shop.

"so, sam, huh?" joaquín teases as he rubs away some dirt from his helmet.

"what about him?" despite your deflection, your ears still go hot, and your eyes are glued to the screen in front of you.

"i was in here for two seconds and you were making heart eyes at him," joaquín says with a shrug.

"i so was not!"

"were too!"

"okay, even if i like sam, it's not like i can do anything about it," you say with a huff.

"so you do like him!"

"ugh, drop it, joaquín." but it's true. you can't do anything about the hopeless crush you have on sam. he may not technically be your boss, but he can surely fire you if he thinks there's a conflict of interest. and that's the last thing you want.

you focus your attention back on the grainy warehouse on your laptop. and then something moves, just a dart of what could be a body in too much tactical gear on the roof and running down a fire escape. your heart nearly stops. "holy shit, i got them!"

the mission gets wrapped up a week later, leaving sam with bruised ribs and a sprained wrist and joaquín with a mild concussion and too many scrapes for his own good. despite the injuries, spirits are high as the three of you have a celebratory drink in a worn down bar in louisiana.

it was sam's idea, going home to delacroix. after a month of desperately trying to hunt down the smugglers and the dealers they took their weapons to, he had been itching for a break—just as much as you and joaquín were. so it only felt right to bring the two of you with him to meet sarah and the kids.

"should you be drinking with a concussion?" you gesture to the beer joaquín has been nursing for the past 10 minutes.

"one drink can't hurt, right?" he frowns at the bottle for a moment, "and the doctor said i'd be fine after a few days."

"it's been two, big man. let's cool it on the beers." sam chuckles when joaquín levels a glare at him.

"says the guy who insists on only wearing his wrist brace when he's working on the boat," joaquín grumbles.

"don't even start," sam returns with a lighthearted roll of his eyes.

"how's it feel to be back home, sam?" you ask, interrupting their banter before it turns into bickering. it's been ages since he's been back, and you can only imagine how homesick he's been.

"sarah's got me working like a dog on that boat," he says with an air of exasperation that only he can pull off in a loving tone.

"well, if you need extra hands," you gesture to yourself and joaquín.

"noted," he replies with a wink, and you hope that the fluttering in your chest isn't obvious. then he stands and turns to you, pointedly ignoring joaquín when he asks, "want another drink?"

"that would be great. thanks, sam." he smiles at you and walks to the bar with a few 'hello's' to the people who have missed him. and you, well, you make a great effort not to stare as he walks away. not that it works.

damn him for wearing tight t-shirts while working on the boat.

"'if you need extra hands,'" joaquín parrots when sam is out of ear shot and you groan.

"i was being serious!"

"yeah, but you made it sound like you were making a pass at him." your face goes hot and joaquín laughs at your wide-eyed look. "relax, i'm sure he didn't take it that way."

"ugh, i hope not," you swirl the watered down remnants of your own drink in your glass.

"you could just tell him, you know," he says with a comforting smile.

"and jeopardize the one tech job i've actually enjoyed? no, thank you."

joaquín seemingly doesn't have a response for that, or maybe he just notices sam returning to the table before you do.

sam is back with a smile on his face and two drinks in his hand, one of which he passes to you. you do your very best not to react when your hand brushes his to take the glass.

"so, who's helping me on the boat tomorrow?"

sarah's put sam and joaquín in charge of entertaining the boys while you help her with dinner. it's fairly mindless work, in a totally different way than your usual analytics gig. it's cleaning up fresh basil with a knife, it's peeling garlic and dicing it, it's mixing things when sarah hands you a wooden spoon. it gives you plenty of time to catch up with her while you do it, repetitive motions falling into habit.

"sam still a pain in the ass?" she asks while tenderizing meat to hell and back.

"only when he and joaquín are up to something," you reply, a smile that's very nearly too soft tugging at the corners of your lips.

she laughs at that, and the work continues like that: questions about sam, about you and what you do, and even a question about bucky—and that gets awkward very quickly. you're the one who's been looking into copyright law, after all.

that doesn't stop you from raising an eyebrow when she asks about him, though.

"bucky? really?" your voice is light, teasing, and you jostle her shoulder with yours.

"just asking! i mean, he's broody, sure, but..." she trails off with a shrug.

you glance out the window to see sam throwing a football around with his nephews. he lets cass tackle him with a laugh you can almost hear in your head, and he rolls his eyes when joaquín celebrates the win with his nephew. it's the most relaxed you've seen sam in months.

except, maybe, for those late nights on base, where it's nothing but easy conversation and laughter. the memories send something shooting sharp through your chest.

"he's sweet and one hell of a looker," sarah finishes.

"yeah, i'm sure he is," you say too quietly and look back down to the cutting board in front of you before sarah catches you staring at her own brother.

"what about you? any broody super-soldiers catch your eye?"

"uh, no-" you stumble, looking for an out, "not super-soldiers. they aren't really my speed."

"oh, so just regular soldiers then?" you gape at her, and she just laughs.

before you can get another word in, the kids, joaquín, and sam all come storming into the kitchen. aj is sitting on joaquín's shoulders, marveling at how tall he is—and making a point of rubbing it into cass's face that he's stolen his teammate.

"no running around the kitchen while we're using knives!" sarah yells over the commotion, but it comes a moment too late. cass bumps your arm and sends the sharp edge of the knife in your hand across your fingers. it's quick, sharp, and it stings.

blood is running down your hand in half a moment, and you move to the sink as fast as you can. shit, shit, shit. there's a lot more blood than there should be for a superficial cut—you've seen your fair share of the scrapes joaquín and sam come back to the base with.

joaquín is quick to herd the boys out into the living room, promising cass that you'll be fine, that you're stronger than him and sam by miles. but the vague lightheadedness you feel at seeing your own blood pouring down the drain seems to prove him otherwise.

sam, on the other hand, is by your side in an instant. he's got a handful of paper towels that he presses against the cut that spans across two of your fingers.

"there's a first aid kit in the bathroom upstairs, c'mon." he places a hand on your lower back and guides you forward. even with the throbbing ache in your hand, you can't ignore the warmth of him against you. his hand is gentle, just the ghost of a press against you to keep you moving.

he acts quickly once you're in the bathroom, running your hand under water to keep blood from dripping all over the tile—seriously, are cuts on your hand supposed to bleed this much? and he takes out the first aid kit. it's methodical, the way he takes it apart—the kind of thing that reminds you just how much military training he's really had.

gauze, antiseptic, bandaids—avengers themed ones that are certainly meant for aj and cass.

he doesn't speak as he patches you up, just holds your hand gently as he cleans up the cuts with the antiseptic and wraps them up in bandaids.

you watch the focus on his face, the furrow of his brow and the flitting of his eyes across your hand. you watch the way his fingers are intentionally light when they touch you, like it takes a conscious effort to keep from grabbing your hand in his.

and that thought is when you decide to pull away and clear your throat, which has grown unbearably tight.

"thanks," you say, avoiding his gaze by looking at his handiwork. there's a thor bandaid on one finger and an iron man one on the next.

"anytime," he replies, already packing up the first aid kit. then, he opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, and the look in his eye has your heart shuddering. it's the kind of look you only see when he says those impossibly gentle things, the kind that leaves you with more questions than answers, the kind that makes you think maybe you have a chance. just maybe.

but sarah's already yelling for him downstairs. he curses, stashing the kit quickly and turning to head back to the kitchen. "work never ends, huh?"

"yeah. right."

after dinner cass hands you a little plastic army man.

"sorry for hurting you on accident," he says, voice soft and heavy with guilt.

"it's okay. accidents happen!" you take the little figurine from him. "who's this?"

"uncle sam gives them to us when we get hurt."

"well, thank you." you look at it carefully. it's bright green and wields some kind of ancient gun that the military hasn't given soldiers in decades. he still stands in front of you, rocking from one foot to the other. "i'm all better, see? i have thor and iron man keeping me safe now." you put out the hand with the bandaids for him. it makes him smile, and then he's off to bug sam and sarah—who have banned you from the kitchen while they clean up.

a moment later, joaquín plops down on the couch next to you with a similarly guilty look to cass.

"i messed up."

"the cut didn't hurt that bad, joaquín. don't worry about it."

"no, i mean-" he cuts himself off with some quiet curse in spanish that you can't quite hear. "okay, so, earlier sam was kind of, maybe, joking around about bucky flirting with sarah when they visited, talking about how he had to keep, like, telling him off for it, or whatever."

your stomach dips. oh, shit.

"and i might've said something about how sarah was probably doing the same with you." joaquín is quick to react to the panic on your face. "i didn't mean to say anything! i was just joking around, and i wasn't thinking. i swear-"

"joaquín, please tell me you're kidding."

"he didn't say anything! he just laughed and moved on, so, like, i'm sure it's fine-"

he just laughed. joaquín opened his mouth, and sam laughed.

he keeps prattling on some long winded apology, filled with assurances and promises, but you aren't hearing any of it. sam knows, and that sends your heart racing in all the wrong ways.

he knows, and it'll be a conflict of interest. he knows, and you'll be fired for it. he knows, and you'll lose the guy who keeps you grounded on long stakeouts, the guy who makes you laugh harder than you ever have before, the guy you've been hopelessly falling for for months now.

he knows, and you're fucked.

"i'm gonna, um, head upstairs," you mumble, interrupting joaquín. "just, i dunno, tell them i'm tired, or something."

he calls your name softly as you get up, but you don't turn around. you just make a beeline for the room you've been given—well, the room you and joaquín have been sharing, since sam insisted he'd take the couch for the week. and maybe that's for the best since right now. the thought of sharing a room with sam makes your chest go tight.

you kick past the air mattress on the ground and fall onto the bed with a sharp breath, tugging your knees up to rest your head on them. your eyes are burning and your chest aches from the panic.

do you start packing up now? write a resignation letter while you're at it? surely, sam won't want you in his sister's home knowing you have some stupid school-girl crush on him, much less want to work with you.

or maybe sam will understand. maybe he can move past it like it's nothing. but can you? it's so easy to pretend when he doesn't know, when it's something you have to keep hidden.

now that it's out in the open, is that even a possibility?

there's no moving on from him, as far as your heart is concerned, and that sends a sharp pain lancing through you. a strangled sound fights its way out of your throat.

"it'll all be fine," you keep repeating to yourself, getting up to pace around the room like someone possessed. "it isn't the end of the world. it's just a crush."

it's just a crush on one stupidly good looking, achingly thoughtful, impossibly charming man. he's only the man who gave you a second chance when no one else would, who trusts you to watch his back in the worst situations. you can't think of a reason not to love him, and—oh, shit, is that what this is?

love?

you stop dead in your tracks when you hear a knock on the door. "you alright in there?" comes sam's voice from behind it.

"yeah, fine, just tired!" you reply, voice cracking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

"yeah, okay," he sounds unconvinced. "can we talk?"

"can, um, can it wait? i just really want to go to bed," and maybe your voice is too honest when you say that, because you hear sam sigh from the other side of the door.

"i don't think it should." a moment goes by, then two, before he speaks up again. "i can stay right out here, if that helps."

and it shouldn't, but it does.

"okay."

"look, joaquín said something earlier, and-" you can hear him shuffling behind the door, and then a quiet thunk on the ground. "i don't want you freaking out about it, so-"

you interrupt him before he can say anything else. "don't worry about it. i'm fine. i'll be fine. i'll just move on, and nothing has to change."

"no, that's not-"

"i promise! just please don't get rid of me, let me stay. i like being at the base, and i like you and joaquín. it'll be like it never even happened." your face is wet with tears, now, and your chest stutters with every breath you take.

"i'm not firing you, dammit!" he huffs. "i was waiting for the right time to say something, until after the mission."

you go quiet, and something nauseatingly hopeful sits heavy in your stomach.

"but i should've said something sooner, because here you are crying because you think i hate you." he makes a sound that sounds almost like a laugh. "you drive me crazy, you know that? you're beautiful, smart, and you're good with my nephews and sarah. and i spent weeks trying to find a way to ask you out but it was one mission after another-"

you fling the door open as he talks, and he must've been sitting against it, because he falls back against the floor with a grunt. he stares up at you wide-eyed and heartbroken, and you stare back, desperately trying to dry your eyes.

"you wanted to ask me out?"

"still do," he says simply. your heart does something funny at that.

he lays still on the floor for a moment, waiting with baited breath for your response.

"okay, i- yeah, okay."

"just 'okay'?"

"jesus, sam, get in here," you say with a laugh, and he gives you a cheeky grin as he stands.

he sits down on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him, taking your hand in his as soon as you do. his thigh is warm against yours, an insistent, grounding weight.

"sorry for making you cry," he says, voice too quiet and too honest.

"blame joaquín. he's the one who spilled it to you." his thumb rubs over the back of your hand in small circles.

"a-ha! but without joaquín we wouldn't be going out on a date next thursday."

"next thursday?" you shoot him a questioning look.

"i know your schedule. you're free then." but then he pauses. "if you don't have other plans."

"thursday is perfect, sam." he grins and presses a kiss to the top of your hand.

when sarah sees you both the next morning sitting next to each other at breakfast, she looks like the cat who got the cream. she raises an eyebrow at how close you are together, but doesn't say a word until she finds you alone.

"i was right about the not-so-super soldiers then, wasn't i?" and once again, you're left floundering.

#to be read

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blurrycal · 15 hours ago

Note

……um…..breeding kink with knight steve????? my brain is on fire

contains: knight!steve, royal!reader, reader with a vagina, reader referred to as ‘princess’ and ‘your highness’, reader readers to themself as a common whore lol, the THEORY of breeding, cum play, loss of virginity. steve gets a lil rough in this one… need to see him be bitchy in his suit of armor so bad …

reader would exploit the hell out of this.

it takes ages to convince him to fuck you. it’s mutual masturbation only for several months because he’s justifiably afraid of losing his life. it’s forbidden to touch you, to treat you as anything other than the most precious and pure thing on earth.

you detest this, of course. but steve’s patience only lasts for so long. he’s between your thighs soon enough, that long, thick cock stretching you to the point of insanity. he’s not the easiest thing to take for your first time, but you adapt quickly enough - what with the several rounds you do every night in the dark of your bedchambers.

your suggestion is truly a slip of the tongue. and if he actually did it, it would end horribly for you both. it’s not even exciting to think of being caught.

in short, you don’t know why you say it, but you do.

“cum inside of me.”

steve’s eyes had been closed as he hovers above you. now, they’re wide, his pretty face pink, pupils blown. he’s so shocked that he can’t speak, his mouth opening and closing incessantly. you know he likes it, though. you can feel his cock pulsing and twitching inside of you.

“your highness,” he finally settles on. his voice cracks.

“i want to be with you,” you whisper, cupping his face in your hands. “want to be marked by you, only yours.”

your knight shakes his head, brown locks falling over his forehead. his throat bobs as he swallows.

“i — we — i cannot, princess, i….”

your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him in. he groans and begins to thrust again, though much slower than before. his brows knit together as he holds himself back.

“don’t you want to see it?” you breathe. you take one of his hands and place it over your stomach. “seeing me swollen with you?”

he says something so blasphemous that you gasp, and then he’s fucking you, moving harder and faster than he ever has before.

“don’t,” he grits. it’s the first time he’s ever sounded like a knight to you. the threat he implies with his tone makes you reel, your back arching as a long moan escapes your throat.

“you want to get me pregnant?” you push, desperately trying to stop your eyes from rolling back. “want to give me an heir?”

he groans and buries his head into the crook of your neck. you gasp at his speed, the force behind each push of his hips.

“stop,” he begs, his voice hoarse.

“y-you will,” you insist. “i am your princess, aren’t — aren’t i? you’re going to say no to me?”

he fucks you so hard that it hurts, and you revel in it. split open on him, your virginity taken, completely unholy underneath him.

“you’re filthy,” he says, voice forceful. he sounds like a knight again and it simply makes you more wet, more eager. “a princess sh-shouldn’t speak like this.”

you smile. “then i must be a c-common whore.”

steve’s voice strains. “it’d make this much. easier. if you were.”

“do it,” you press.

he grips your cheeks in one hand, thrusts landing harsh. your tits bounce in your night dress, skin shining with sweat. he looks down at you, face twisted in conflict, and then he smashes his lips against yours.

you’re thankful he does. each thrust lands harsh enough to fuck a shout out of your throat. he keeps your mouth occupied as his tongue licks against yours. your clit pulses, stomach tightening. you fist at his shirt, twisting and tugging as if it would bring you any relief.

his hands unbutton your dress until it’s open enough to expose your breasts and torso. the rough linen on his chest rubs against you, making your nipples pebble.

it feels so good.

you try to tell him that you’re going over the edge, but his lips occupy yours. he can feel it, anyway. the way you clench, your hips squirming as if you’re trying to get away from the pleasure. he swipes his thumb over your swollen clit one, two, three times, and then you’re coming with a cry into his hot mouth.

he swears against your lips. you’re certain you’ve got him, that he’ll do it. but your legs have gone slack and he isn’t forced against you anymore. he pulls out and ruts against your soft stomach until he cums between your breasts, biting his lip so hard it bleeds.

it takes you a moment to come back to earth, aftershocks rocking through you. but when you do, you grab a fist of his hair, pulling his slack head upwards to look at his flushed face.

“never disobey your princess again.”

he laughs.

“oh, your highness,” he coos. his shaking fingers gently touch the cum on your chest before dragging it down your stomach. his hand rests where you’d put it previously.

he’s mocking you. what you could have had. what he could have given you.

steve’s eyes are dark as he shakes his head. “i’m not afraid of you.”

#to be read

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blurrycal · 1 day ago

Text

making a mess || calvin evans

includes: smut 18+, semi-public, mean dom to soft dom calvin, degradation, fingering, a hint of pussy spanking.

“didn’t i say don’t touch anything?”

you whimpered, writhing in your place on his lap. calvin held you in a vice, making sure you didn’t wiggle out from his grasp. he grabbed your jaw and forced you to look at the shattered glass below you, the debris scattered in a wide radius on the tiled floor.

“‘m sorry, cal…didn’t mean to…” you mumbled meekly.

and truly, you didn’t. you had no ill intention of breaking the lab beaker on purpose.

but you were so bored. bored and impatient, practically begging for his time. calvin was busy—dutifully working on his experiments, writing lab reports, and tweaking with his setup measurements. and you, being the desperate little brat that you were, huffed and sighed dramatically every minute, vying for his attention.

in the middle of your petulant tantrum, you accidentally knocked over one of his beakers. the sound of it colliding with the floor made you jump, letting out a shriek. instantly, calvin lifted his head up from his work and assessed the damage.

when he saw what you had done, he clenched his jaw and shot you a look that simultaneously made your heart drop and your pussy throb.

and that was how you ended up here—manhandled into his lap, one of his hands slapping your sensitive heat, and the other gripping your jaw. despite the countless of apologies you babbled out, calvin resumed his relentless torture on your hole, alternating between shoving his fingers inside of you and spanking the sore flesh.

“didn’t mean to, huh? but you were being such a pathetic brat, huffing and pouting like you’d die if i didn’t look at you,” calvin said, tilting your face to look at him.

you let out a whine, tears pricking the corner of your eyes, “i just wanted your attention, cal…” you replied shakily between hiccups.

he growled, the noise coming from the back of his throat, “well now you have it.”

he increased the pace of his fingers. you threw your head back against his shoulder. it took you a while before you became acutely aware of the fact that the door was right in front of you, unlocked.

“cal…” you murmured with a sniffle.

“what now?” he sighed.

“the-the door is unlocked…someone could come in…”

he looked up at the door and, just like you said, the door was, indeed, unlocked. you thought he would let you go to go lock it, but instead he just grunted.

“so?”

your eyes widened, your walls clamping down at him, earning a hiss from him. “w-what?”

he scoffed, “what, you’re shy now? you wanted to be played with so bad, so i’m playing with you. and if someone wanders in, well…then you get all the more attention. just like you wanted.”

you shook your head frantically, “no, no, only want your attention…” you whined.

he tsked and squeezed your little bundle of nerves, making you sob. “you’re in no position to make any demands, brat. after all, you still need to make up for the damage you’ve done.”

your eyes fell on the sight of the broken glass again, whimpering and shifting on his lap in an act of guilt.

“do you have any idea how much this is going to cost?” he asked you, adding in a third finger.

you cried out and shook your head, “no…”

he chuckled; he had a sadistic smirk on his face that only made you wetter. “of course you don’t. you don’t know anything, just a dumb little bunny in heat that wants to get fucked.”

your eyes rolled back at his words, you couldn’t help but find pleasure in the filth that dripped out of his hot mouth. you let out a heady moan, your hips bucking up and down to meet the force of his nimble digits.

suddenly, the both of you heard a flock of footsteps outside the door. you turned to calvin with panicked eyes, your pussy walls tightening in fear.

he glanced at you then the door before muttering, “better finish quick, hon.”

his fingers started working faster on you, his lips showering your neck with little nips and sucks. his hand that was holding your jaw moved a smidge so he could push two of his fingers past your pouty lips, inside the wet cavern of your mouth.

you sucked and licked at his digits obediently, producing muffled moans around them. you didn’t realize he was doing it so that the people outside wouldn’t hear you; you were too fucked out of your brain to focus on anything besides his fingers inside your mouth and inside your drooling cunt.

“and when you’re done, you’re gonna clean up the mess you made,” he told you. you nodded without protest, easily submitting to his command.

“and if you’re lucky,” he added, his mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear, “i’ll shove my cock inside of you while you’re bent over with the broom.”

you couldn’t help the wanton whine that bubbled up from your chest. the image in your head—calvin plugging you up with his dick, hugging your walls so deliciously in a way only calvin could, while you swept up the broken pieces of glass from the floor. it was enough to make you cum.

his hands flew to cover your mouth as you cried out in pleasure, your pupils dilated—seeing so many stars that it left you dizzy. you gushed all over his fingers, leaving a damp spot on his slacks and the sleeve of his lab coat. he shushed you gently as he helped you ride your high, his digits gradually slowing down, softly rubbing your clit.

your breathing was labored, every puff of air entering your lungs burned. calvin pulled his hand away from your lips and stroked your back in soothing circles. “there there, take it easy, angel…just like that…”

it gave you whiplash sometimes—the way calvin could switch so quickly between being mean and cruel to tender and soft-spoken. but you loved the duality he possessed, you felt great contentment in knowing he played each role diligently and appropriately, catering to your needs at the given moment.

he helped you up on your wobbly feet, his hands on your waist there to steady you. “you alright?” he asked.

you nodded, too blissed out to form spoken words. he smiled and gently tapped your ass, “the broom’s in the closet.” he directed you.

your dazed eyes took a moment to focus on his face before you looked over at the small broom closet he spoke about. you hummed mindlessly and walked over there in slow strides.

calvin chuckled and stood up, dusting his trousers off before silently stepping to the door and locking it with a small, knowing smile.

written by vivianfiles

#to be read

224 notes · View notes

blurrycal · 2 days ago

Text

tastes like trouble

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: cowboy!bob reynolds x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: cowboy!au, smut, nsfw 18+ [mdni], kinda dom!bob, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected piv sex (wrap before you tap), praise kink, size kink, creampie, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, nipple sucking, mutual pining, sexual tension, use of pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby), hair pulling (mentioned once), no use of y/n, aftercare.

summary: the ranch was supposed to change your attitude. instead, you caught bob reynolds’ attention — and once you’re his, he’s not letting go.

bob reynolds masterlist

a/n: this took me ages and i don’t even know if i like it. i feel like im bad at ending my fics 😭 gif not mine! smut under cut. mdni

requests are open

It’s been a few weeks since Daddy dearest shipped you off to the family ranch in the middle of nowhere. Well—technically, it’s Lubbock. But as far as you’re concerned, it may as well be the edge of the earth. Your father decided it was time you “learn some responsibility,” and apparently, being surrounded by farm animals and dirt roads was the perfect cure for your so-called attitude.

Not everything is terrible, though. There’s one silver lining: Bob Reynolds — the ranch’s quiet, broad-shouldered farmhand. Tall, sun-kissed, and built like the kind of trouble you wouldn’t mind getting into. Always in that damn hat, too — worn low like he’s hiding something, or maybe just watching everything a little too closely.

He thinks you’re a spoiled brat, of course — made that noticeably clear on day one — but you like to believe you’ve somewhat changed his mind over the weeks. You still complain and roll your eyes every time someone asks you to carry hay bales, but… there’s something about it. As much as you hate to admit it, life on the ranch isn’t entirely miserable. You’re starting to get used to it: the early mornings, the dirt under your nails, and the way the sky looks just before sunset — wide open and endless.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls, voice smooth and lazy like honey dripping off the edge of a spoon. “You gonna help me with supper, or just stand there lookin’ like trouble?”

It pulls you from your thoughts, but he doesn't stop staring.

He can’t.

That little green sundress is damn near killing him, clinging soft at your waist, swaying just enough to tease with every step. Sunlight dances off your skin, those long legs bare and golden, and Bob swears under his breath because it's almost too much.

You don't even notice what you’re doing to him. Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the worst part.

He shifts his weight, trying to think about anything else — but his mind keeps slipping, tumbling into places it shouldn’t. Not with you. Not the boss’s daughter.

But God help him, he’s already there.

“Coming!” you shout, tossing a quick glance over your shoulder to double-check the gates are locked.

When you turn back toward Bob, your gaze lingers — just a little too long. You can’t help it. The afternoon sun catches the sweat slicked across his skin, making every muscle stand out in sharp relief. His shirt is half undone, clinging to his chest, and the veins in his forearms flex as he wipes his brow.

You swallow hard.

Yeah… maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.

You tear your gaze away before he turns around and catches you staring — though the thought lingers. You wonder how those muscles would feel under your hands, strong and solid beneath your touch.

You curse yourself under your breath, feeling heat settle low in your belly — and lower. Great. Now you’ll be tossing and turning all night, thinking about the way his forearms flexed. Maybe if you moan his name loud enough, he’ll finally get the damn hint.

By the time you step into the kitchen, the air feels thicker than it should — heat from the stove, or maybe just the way Bob looks over his shoulder when you walk in. “You’re on choppin’ duty.” When you glance over, he just holds your gaze. No smile, no tease. “You’ve got steady hands,” he says simply. But somehow, it sounds like more.

You feign annoyance, but honestly? You’re kind of glad. Chopping means standing next to him, close enough to smell his cologne and feel the brush of his arm when he reaches for the salt. Not that you’re thinking about that. Obviously.

You grab the apron hanging on the back of the door and tie it around your waist, slow and deliberate. The fabric pulls just right across your chest — and you know Bob’s not immune to the view. He doesn't look away. Not once. Not even when your apron pulls tight against your chest. It’s not cocky — it’s quiet, fixed, hungry.

You smirk as you pick up the knife and get to chopping.

The rest of the cooking goes smoothly, with flour and laughter flying as you both settle into a rhythm. Bob shows you how to fry up some golden chicken, the sizzling sound filling the kitchen.

You roll out dough for biscuits, get your hands sticky with homemade jam, and watch as he stirs a pot of creamy mashed potatoes on the stove. The smells mingle — comforting and familiar in a way you hadn’t expected.

By the time you’re done, the counter’s a delightful mess of flour dust, crumbs, and chopped herbs, and you’re both a little dusty and sweaty, grinning wide.

“You know the drill, princess,” he murmurs, voice low and warm like a secret. “Pick us out a drink, and I’ll get everything plated.”

You step over to the fridge, letting the burst of cool air hit your skin — a welcome relief from all the heat you’ve been feeling lately, inside, and out. You grab a cold bottle of beer for Bob and one of the fancy cocktails he stocked just for you — the kind you’ve made a habit of enjoying every night like it’s your little reward for surviving ranch life.

You hand him his, and when your fingers brush, barely, it sparks. A flicker of something dangerous. His gaze lifts, calm but focused, and you catch the way his tongue runs across his bottom lip like he's thinking something he shouldn't say.

“You alright?” he asks softly, that damn drawl curling around the words. “You’re lookin’ a little flushed.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, smoothing down your dress like it’ll hide anything. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. Just chuckles under his breath and guides you to the table, pulling out a chair like it’s nothing — like he hasn’t been quietly knocking the air out of your lungs all week with moments like this.

You sit, heart thudding in your chest that you're not just having supper.

He sets the plates down, brushing past you with that same slow ease, and it takes everything in you not to reach out and touch — just to see what he’d do.

You take a bite of the chicken and let out a soft, involuntary sound — all buttery heat and pepper and crisp skin. He made this for you. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Across the table, Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle, grip just a little too firm. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, eyes unreadable, jaw clenched tight.

You look back at him, the air thick and heavy like a storm about to break. You chew slowly, careful not to say anything. You both know that if you do, there’s no taking it back.

You take a sip of your drink, eyes flicking to the old hat tossed carelessly on the table. It’s faded, worn down at the edges, and something about it pulls at you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way that Bob hasn’t stopped watching you like he’s afraid to blink.

You reach for it without thinking.

“This cap’s kinda legendary,” you say, fingers brushing over the fabric. “Think I can pull it off?”

He doesn't say a word. Just watches as you lift, slow and deliberate, and settle it on your head with a grin that dares him to say something.

You tilt your head. “I think it suits me.”

There's a shift in the air — You feel it before he speaks. A crackle, subtle and sharp, like the second before lightning hits.

“It does,” he says, voice low. “Too well.”

You blink, the grin softening, your fingers resting lightly on the brim.

“It's just a hat,” you murmur.

“No. It's not.”

He stands, the movement slow but full of intent. When he crosses the room, it's the kind of focus that makes your skin heat. He stops just in front of you, close enough your knees graze his thighs.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Putting that on.

You look up at him, heart thudding. “Then tell me.”

Bob exhales though his nose, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough to make your body hum.

“Means something, he says. “To me. And now you’ve got it on like it’s nothing.”

You swallow. “I didn’t mean– “

He cuts you off with a kiss.

It’s sudden but not rushed — like he’s been holding it in for hours, maybe longer, and it finally snapped. His mouth moves over yours like he’s tasting something he’s been craving too long. His hands gripping your hips, firm and steady.

You kiss him back without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer. He groans softly against your lips, like the sound’s been buried deep in his chest and you just dragged it out.

The hat tilts on your head, and he pulls back just enough to smirk. “Keep it on,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re not done wearing it yet.”

Then he’s on you again, mouth hot and insistent. Tongue sliding against yours, slow and filthy. His hands move to your thighs, spreading them just enough to step between, dragging your body into his. “You’ve been drivin’ me crazy,” he mutters, lips brushing your jaw. “Sittin’ there in that dress like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over your neck, when his fingers slip beneath the hem of your dress. “I– I didn’t,” you whisper, through your voice betrays you, shaking with want.

He laughs against your skin, low and rough. “Liar.”

His hands are everywhere now, like he can’t get enough — up your thighs, over your waist, cupping your ass and squeezing until you whimper. His mouth follows the curve of your neck, sucking bruises into your skin, like he’s leaving proof behind. “I’ve been trying to be good,” he says, dragging his lips back up to yours. “But you? You just made that real hard.”

You tug him in by the collar, breath catching as he kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. You feel it in your gut — the way he wants to ruin you slowly. The way you want to let him. And when he lifts you into his arms, his hat still perched on your head, he doesn’t say anything more.

He doesn’t need to. You already gave him permission the moment you put it on.

He carries you toward his bedroom—your forgotten food fading into the background. His lips trail fire down your neck. His teeth graze, bite, suck bruises into your skin, like he’s desperate to leave proof that this is real. He shoves the door open with his shoulder and kicks it shut without looking. His hands never leave you. His mouth never lifts.

Then he tosses you onto the bed. Not roughly, but with urgency — like he’s seconds away from losing control. You look up at him, dazed. Chest rising and shallow breaths. Heart hammering.

Bob moves between your legs, slow and deliberate. His hand trails up your inner thigh, and your skin prickles under the heat of his palm. God. He looks so good from here. Broad, golden, flushed. Eyes darker than you've ever seen them. You bite your lip, pulse quickening as you meet his gaze. There's nothing playful in it. Just pure, aching hunger period.

He swallows, chest rising hard. “You don't even know,” he says, voice strained like he's trying to hold something back. “What you do to me.” He slides his hand higher. You suck in a breath. ”Been thinkin’ about this,” he continues, barely above a whisper. “Thinkin’ about you spread out and soft and wet for me.

The patch darkening your panties should embarrass you. It doesn't. Not when he looks at you like that. His hand cups you through the fabric, firm enough to make you jolt. Your legs twitch, trying to close, but he keeps you open with a quiet, “Don’t.”

A pause. His gaze flicks up. “Let me see you like this. Don’t hide.”

You nod. Swallowing thickly.

He breathes out slow, like he’s grounding himself. “That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb starting to move in slow, teasing circles. “Good girl.”

Your hips buck up to meet him, chasing the friction. His jaw tightens. “So impatient,” he mutters, voice low and almost fond. “I’ll take care of you.” He hooks fingers into your panties and pulls them down, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then, without pause, his fingers part your folds, sliding through the slickness gathered there. His thumb catches your clit and presses gently, rubbing enough to make your back arch.

He watches every reaction like it’s art. “Bet you taste even better than I imagined,” he says quietly, like it’s just for him. Like it’s a thought he didn’t mean to say aloud. Then he likes a long stripe up your centre.

You gasp, head thrown back, fingers tangling in his hair. He moans against you, deep and rough and the sound vibrates through your core. He doesn’t stop. His mouth is hot and unrelenting, tongue working you over like he’s desperate to memorize your taste. His grip tightens around your thighs. You feel him lift your hips, anchoring you to his mouth and then –God– he’s everywhere. Tongue pushing inside you, lips sealing over your clit, sucking hard. He moans again, louder this time, like he needs it.

“Bob–“ your voice breaks, body trembling. He doesn’t stop. Just slides his tongue deeper, drags it over every slick inch. You cry out again as he sucks and laps and groans against your swollen lips. You’re close, so close, the tension coiled low in your belly threatening to snap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he rasps against your skin. “Right here, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, raw. “Let me feel you. Let me taste all of it.” The possessiveness in his voice, the reverence, it breaks something open in you. The wave crashes hard. You cum with a cry, hips trembling, thighs squeezing his head.

But Bob doesn’t stop. He holds you in place, tongue still working, drinking down everything you give him. He’s messy with it. Starved. And when he finally pulls back, mouth glistening, he looks wrecked. “You’re unreal,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then licking it clean. “Could get drunk off you.”

You’re trembling, barely able to breathe, the aftershocks coursing through your body. The only answer you can give is a soft choked moan as your thighs try to close around him again.

He chuckles low—deep and warm. Then starts to move up your body, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he does. He pushes your dress higher, until your breasts spill free. The chill in the air makes your nipples harden, and his gaze flickers there, caught. His hands are slow as they tug the dress over your head and toss it aside. He stares down at you like he’s looking at something holy. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to see you like this.” His thumbs brush over your nippled and you arch into his touch. His palms are rough, gentle.

You laugh softly, breathless; a little dazed. “Keep looking at me like that,” you whisper, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He stills. Just for a second. Then he leans in and presses a kiss between the swell of your breasts. “I do,” he says, no hesitation. No grin. “I do.” His mouth moves lower, trailing fire as he goes. He nips at your skin, lingers over your breast, sucking bruises into the soft flesh. When he takes your nipple into his mouth and bites down gently, you moan. Your hips grind against nothing.

Empty. Needy. You mumble, almost broken, “Need you inside me.”

Bob pushes his boxers down, his cock springing free and slapping against his abdomen — thick, flushed, and already leaking. Your eyes widen as you take him in, and he notices. A dark look crosses his face, like he’s fighting some deeper urge. He steps closer, wrapping a hand around his length, stroking once — slow. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “You scared?”

You shake your head, breath catching. “No.” you manage, though your body’s already trembling with anticipation.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Good,” he breathes. “Because you’re gonna take it. Every inch. You hear me sweetheart?”

Another wave of slick coats your thighs at his words. Your voice is a breathy whisper, half defiant, half teasing: “Then stop talking and make me.”

His breath catches. Just a flicker, but you see it. Feel it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his hand tightens around his cock. Your words strike a nerve, sharpen something already on edge. Your words strike a nerve, sharpen something already on edge.

“You really want that?” he murmurs, voice low, like a warning. “Want me to ruin you?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

Bob climbs over you, guiding the thick head of his cock to your entrance. He drags it through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing your clit with slow strokes. His gaze stays locked on yours the whole time, hungry and unflinching.

“You’re already shaking,” he whispers, more awe than mockery. “So soft…fuck, you’re soaked.” He presses in just a little, and your breath hitches. The stretch is immediate—intense. He grits his teeth, stilling.

“Easy,” he breathes, one hand sliding up your side before tangling in your hair, gently but firmly tugging your head back. The motion exposes your throat, makes you feel bared, offered. His touch grounds you, even in its roughness. “Let me.”

He pushes deeper, inch by inch. His free hand grabs your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh to keep you steady. The stretch burns, just a little, but the way he fills you…it’s overwhelming in the best way. “God,” he groans, jaw tight. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, baby. Feels like heaven.

You're panting, nails digging into his arms. You can feel every vein, every inch of him as he finally bottoms out, buried fully inside you. The weight of him settled heavy in your core, full and stretching and perfect. A whimper breaks from your throat. “S’too big, f-feels so good– “

“I know, I know,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. “You’re takin’ me so well. My good girl.”

Then he starts to move.

He starts off slow at first, giving you time to adjust. Each stroke is deep and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him. But then your walls flutter around him, clenching tight, and his control shatters.

A groan rips from his throat as he grips your hips tighter, dragging you closer, and starts to drive into you harder — rough, fast, relentless. Bob grunts against your ear, voice ragged. “This pretty pussy was made for me.” Each word hits like a thrust, like a claim. Skin slaps against skin, loud and filthy and perfect.

A moan forces its way out if your throat: loud, shameless. You can barely breathe, barely think, each thrust stealing more of your mind. You claw at his shoulders, fingers digging into firm muscle, trying to ground yourself. But there’s no anchoring. Not when he’s this deep, this rough, this relentless.

He’s everywhere—his breath in your ear, his hands gripping your hips like you’re something he owns, his cock hitting that perfect spot again and again until you’re teetering on the edge.

“Bob–“ It’s a gasp, a plea. You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Your thighs start to shake. That fire in your belly tightens, winding sharper and sharper, ready to snap. “I– I’m gonna–“

“You cum when I tell you to,” he growls, cutting you off. Then his hand slides down—fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. You cry out, hips bucking, but he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t let you go. His grip on your waist tightens, holding you still as he fucks into you, rhythm brutal and unrelenting.

A whine slips out of you before you can stop it, your body clenching around him, every nerve on fire. Bob notices. Of course he does. His eyes are locked on yours now, something sharp and burning behind them, like he’s seeing straight through you.

“You close?” he murmurs, voice lower now. Less cocky, more reverent — like watching you fall apart beneath him means something. His thumb doesn’t stop. Neither do his hips. “You gonna fall apart for me, darlin’?”

You nod, frantic, too far gone to play coy. The heat building in your belly is unbearable now, all-consuming.

And then his voice softens–not in volume, but in weight. “I ain’t ever wanted anyone like this.”

Your breath hitches as you take in his words, and you nod, barely able to speak, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. His thumb keeps circling your clit, still snapping into yours, harder now — more urgent. “I’m close,” you gasp, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know, baby,” he grits out, his rhythm growing rougher. “Want you to cum for me. Now. Wanna feel this pretty pussy milk me dry.”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and overwhelming — your body seizing around him, thighs shaking, breath catching on a cry that sounds more like his name than anything else.

A groan tears out of him, deep and raw, as your walls flutter around him. “Fuck, just like that. Gonna fill you up.” His hips stutter, pace faltering as he slams into you one last time and buries himself to the hilt.

You feel it. The heat of him spilling deep inside, thick and hot, and the way his whole body trembles with it. He stays there, pressed against you as if he’s trying to pour every last drop of himself into you.

His voice is low, hoarse, right against your ear. “Mine now. Inside and out.”

He stays still for a moment, just holding you. Then you feel the shift in his body as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

You hum in protest, half-asleep already. “Too far…”

Bob chuckles low in his chest. “I’ll carry you princess. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

And he does — lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a feather in those strong arms of his. You tuck yourself against him, limbs limp, still soft and slick between your thighs. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick down for a moment, like he’s remembering exactly what he just did to you.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the top, one hand on your back to steady you while the other reaches for the knobs. The water starts to fill — warm, slow, steam curling in the air. He grabs a bottle from the shelf and adds a little, something herbal and clean, and you watch him, dazed, while he works.

Once the tub is ready, he helps you in first, steady hands guiding your hips as you sink into the heat with a sigh. “There you go,” he says softly, climbing in behind you.

You settle back against his chest, his arms curling around you like instinct. He presses a kiss to your damp temple. “Better?”

You nod. ”So much.”

His hands wander, but not in the way they had before — now, it's slow and soothing. he grabs the washcloth and gently runs it down your arm, over your thigh, between your legs with reverence. every touch says the same thing: I've got you.

“You know,” he murmurs after a while, voice low against your neck, “you wear my hat…now you’re wearin’ my touch…I might have to start keepin’ you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering shut. “You already do.”

By the time the water turns lukewarm, your skin is flushed and pruned, your body relaxed in a way you didn’t think was possible. Bob helps you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders before drying you off himself — slow, careful, like you might break if he rushes.

He hands you one of his shirts after, soft and oversized. It smells like him. You pull it on without a word.

In bed, he tucks the blankets around you both, pulling you close until you’re tucked against his chest, your legs tangled with his. His fingers trail absently along your spine, slow and gentle, like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the way he’s watching you, soft-eyed, lips parted. It’s like he’s still not over the way you said his name. Without a word, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s unhurried this time. Sweet. His lips move over yours like he’s savoring it — like he has nowhere else to be but here, with you. You sigh into him, hand slipping up to rest over his heart as your mouths move together, slow, warm and easy. The kiss deepens, just a little. Enough to make your chest flutter. His hand slides up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing in the corner of your mouth like he's trying to soothe a need you didn't know you had.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours. “Still mine,” he whispers, voice low and rough.

You smile, lips brushing his. “Yours.”

He pulls you closer — chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat — and this time, when he kisses you, it lingers.

Like a promise.

please like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think ♡

#to be read

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blurrycal · 2 days ago

Text

the love confession

summary: bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try ;)

warnings: fluff/smut, longing, pining, some use of y/n, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, dirty thoughts, tension, body worship, bob is down bad, bob is a MAN, you are just as down bad, yelena is number one supporter, idiots in love, confusion, jealousy, a pinch of angst, just playing: so so much angst, possessive bob, oral sex (m&f receiving), canon-typical violence, reader gets hurt badly (more on that later), bob is not okay, fear, love, please just kiss alr you two

monday (chapter one)

Bob wakes up early this morning. Rolling over to take a drink of water. His first thoughts, as always, are about you. Your hair in the morning, what you were doing, if you had already fixed your coffee. He throws on sweats and a t-shirt, stumbling around so he can see you sooner. A sticky-note on his door read:

“BOB- do not forget, therapy on Mondays and Thursdays at 4:30 pm!! DONT MISS IT AGAIN! - ur fave :)”

He smiles dumbly and walks out, shutting the door behind him. As he enters the common area near the kitchen, he sees you wondering around the cabinets. He smiles, there you are. You looked as if you were about to burn the kitchen to the ground.

“What’s up?” He asks, settling behind you and sitting on the counter.

You groan, slapping your hands to your forehead and running them down your face. “Bobby, I swear to god if Walker eats my cereal again, I’ll cut his dick off and feed it to Yelena’s rat thing,” you grumble.

He laughs out loud, “Oh cmon now, you can’t do that to Yelena’s guinea pig. Besides, I have a secret stash, just for you.” You flip around, gripping his shoulders in a very serious stance, eyeing him. “Bobby. You. Are my hero.” His smile falters slightly at the closeness of your faces. What feels like a minute passes as he stares at your lips. He can just barely feel your breath on his chin. You’re too pretty.

You remove your hands, “well? Lead the way!” He grins again, hopping off the counter and showing you the faulty crack between the fridge and microwave, “tada!" He waves little enthusiastic jazz hands at you, handing you the box. You smile, a big, beautiful smile, and slap his shoulder.

“I’ll have to keep you around I suppose Robert Reynolds.” His name rolls off your lips like sin. He rolls his eyes to mask the tightness in his chest, “sure Y/n, sure.” You mock a pouty face and he laughs.

You giggle and stroll over to the bowls, a pep in your step at the promise of your favorite cereal. Bob had thought of you again, it made your ears and cheeks burn red.

He was always extra thoughtful of you, whether that meant your snacks were always stocked, your dishes were the first he worried about cleaning, or the way your stories always seemed the most interesting to him. You always thought it was just him being mindful of your sensitive feelings.

Little did you know, he was trying to show you everything he felt for you in every glance, action, and gesture. To everyone around you it was obvious. The rest of the team had pools on who would finally have the balls to tell the other first. Neither of you did, it seemed.

Eating your cereal together, you don’t have to say much. Each other’s presence is enough. Bob mindlessly made your coffee just the way you liked it as you prepared the cereal bowls. It was clockwork, it was normal. Some might even say it was domestic.

You relay your plans for the day to Bob, “I need to workout, seriously. Even though I’ve got the same serum you do mr. god, I swear my bones are aching. Also, I was thinking about going to the bookstore, do you want to tag along to either place? I was thinking it’d just be us, almost like a da-…” you cut yourself off, mortified.

You often didn't think as you rambled, always just speaking your mind. It's not like you two hadn't hung out before... but it had always seemed coincidental, the right place at the right time. You had never asked him with the intention you had just now. Or almost asked...

Bob sputtered: did you want to go on a date with him? No, that’s not possible. You just saw him as a friend. His cheeks turned pink. His body felt on fire.

“Wow okay, I’m not offended at all,” you quickly reply at his reaction, taking your bowl to clean it. You frown, goddamn it. I pushed too much. He doesn’t see me like that. Stupid! Your heart pounded in your chest.

“No, wait what? Y/n, of course I want to go with you.” He chases after you, grabbing your wrist, taking the bowl from your hands slowly, and rinsing it. Your lip pulls to the side, “it’s okay if not. I just thought it would be something we would both enjoy. I had a book recommendation lined up and everything, but I didn’t even ask what your plans were, I'm sorry...” Bob put a hand on your shoulder, “hey, you’re starting to sound like me, quit it,” he smiled. “I always want to hang out with you Y/n.”

Your halfway serious grin returned and you punched him in the shoulder. “Then don’t almost spit up next time! You had me worried I overstepped a boundary in our heart warming friendship.”

Not that word again. Both of you cringed in your mind at the thought of just being friends. Neither of you wanted to just be friends. Bob smiled anyway, "You could never overstep. You know that, right?"

Your smile lessened at his tone, and you touched his shoulder again, grazing it with your hand, a serious look on your face. "I know."

It was a silent plea for physical reassurance. You often thought about curling up to Bob, taking your worries and your fears, and letting him take over. He always talked to you first about nightmares, he always held you then, in the quiet of the night. It was always innocent. That was an easy conversation for you to have together, having gone through the same trials. He just got you. You pulled away.

It meant everything to Bob that you touched him.

You were sweaty and tired, training had worn you out. The sparring with John took way too long, so you ran back to your room to shower and change quickly. Stepping in, the hot water washed away all the physical exhaustion, but the mental side never truly went away.

You just simply had too much on your mind. Everything with Bob, constant life-threatening missions, the pressure of the press, your serum trauma. It was always so much to carry.

It would help if you had someone to help you carry it, but the one person you want is your best friend.

You couldn't mess that up, you wouldn't lose Bob. Just the thought of scaring him away by your feelings kept you from telling him the truth.

That you wanted him. That you pictured it, everything with him. From date nights, to lingering touches, to a home, all the way to wrinkles.

You step out, drying yourself off. Maybe one day, when things calm down. When Val isn’t breathing down your neck constantly. When you have more control over your emotions, over your new powers. You would tell him.

Putting on a sweatshirt and shorts, you throw your hair into an easy style, curl your lashes, put a little extra effort into your makeup and jewelry for the ‘date,’ and head down to meet Bobby by the cars.

You take the elevator, staring and dreaming of how to make it known that you like Bob, knowing that you wouldn’t dare. But just his company was enough for know.

Bob is leaning against a Cadillac, waiting for you when you walked up. He looked up from his phone, “Oh hey! Um... Wow, are we only going to the bookstore?” He swallows.

You look down at your outfit, “yeah? I’m only wearing sweats.”

Bob chuckles and runs a nervous hand through his hair, “well, it’s just. You look good—um. You always look good.”

You smile on instinct, blushing hard. “Thank you.” He leans forward enough to brush a stray piece of hair away. Every touch felt electric, wanting, right. You leaned into his touch. A slam of the door behind you both startled you, Bob dropping his hand.

Alexei greeted each of you with a hug, running up and yelling, “EYY! My favorite Avengerz.”

You each pat his back awkwardly and greet him. He grins, “finally going on a date? I told you Bobby, she’s a good one.”

Bobby looked stunned and blushed firmly, staring at his feet. You quickly cover, patting Alexei's shoulder and pulling Bob towards the car, “no, no Alexei, we’re just going out. Thanks for the compliment though.” You would never assume anything. You murmur, "I'm sorry" to Bob as you each get in. He assures you it's okay. You know better.

With a reaction like that from Bob, you felt grounded. Back down to Earth. He didn’t want you like that, he cared about you, but it wasn’t anything more than family- sister and brother. Even thought you dreamed of more, something more like teammates against the world and lovers... you still had him. Robert. That was all that mattered.

Besides, it was impractical.

You understood, it was a dangerous risk to fall.

Each of you stayed silent on the drive to the bookstore. Bob had let Alexei's words get to his head and it was obvious. You had noticed, and spent the entire drive trying to find the right words to comfort him.

When you parked, Bobby went straight for his seatbelt, but you stopped him. "Hey, I know what he said bothered you. But I appreciate you coming anyways."

His eyes squinted and he looked frustrated, "it's just... that's not how I wanted things to go. Not how they should go," he painfully admitted. Your heart winced at his words, of course that isn't how he wanted it, he doesn't want that. Why can't I just accept that.

"Let's just go inside, yeah?" You ask, trying to hide the storm brewing inside your head. He looked at you. For a beat, words you wish each other would say, hung in the space between you. The only thing holding you back was yourselves.

The bookstore was quiet, slow, and steady. Each aisle was littered with old, new, torn, and worn books. You had already found a poetry book on your tbr list and immediately added it to the stack you each had compiled. You would swipe Val's card on your heart's desires any day of the week. She deserved it.

The tattered books you held reminded you of each person on the team.

A pristine covered novel, with poorly hidden rips and markings inside - Walker

A short, honest, and used memoir with a broken spine - Ava

A thick, very beaten book, which you couldn't tell if it'd been well loved or torn apart on purpose - Bucky

A gleaming fiction of a story of glory which ended in disappointment - Alexei

A series book, contained to its beaten holder with its fellow victims who had all been through beatings together, torn apart - Yelena

A hopeful manuscript with dried tears on it's pages, not yet finished - Robert

And you, a soft cover, written over in ink and tears, full of empty meaning, alone.

You needed a drink.

After your selections, you checked out, the cashier seemingly satisfied with the absolute library you were taking home, gave you a free tote to haul them in. You and Bob always shared books, so there was no reason to split them into piles. You would read his margin notes, and add yours nearby.

Bobby seemed off on the ride home. He obviously had something on his mind. You silently willed for the words Alexei had said to roll off his shoulders. The more it bothered him, the more worried you became about your feelings.

They could become a real problem if you didn't shake them. If you couldn't let go of this, then it would effect your work, your safety, his safety. It could not get to that point.

It was time to end your crush on Robert Reynolds.

God you have no idea what you'e doing.

Dinner was good. Yelena made something with pork and stew, her own recipe. It was delicious, but dinner had been ruined for you when Bob turned in extra early, blaming it on his desire to read a new book. Your unhappy attitude had been noticed fairly quickly. But nobody dared say anything.

You retreated to sulk on your own soon after dinner. Passing Bob's door and opening your own, you heard the shower on. You two had to share a bathroom, which connected your suites. Sometimes, it was torture when you'd accidentally almost see him naked.

Lord had the serum been kind to him. His body looked amazing, he was the rugged, but subtle kind of ripped. The freckles across his chest made you want to tear him apart with your lips. His veins, leading down to his long fingers, made you want to be fucked stupid with his hands choking you. It was embarrassing, but it was true.

You laid in bed with a book in your hands, carelessly reading the same lines over and over again, willing your head to focus. But you couldn't, you needed to talk to Bob.

After abandoning the book, you stood, trying to convince yourself to be brave. To face what you felt.

You knock on the door on his side of the bathroom, and after he mumbles, "One sec!" You hear a tumble and a small curse. He finally opens the door a crack after a minute. "Yeah?" He croaks, his hair a mess. He looks sweaty, has he been working out or something?

"I'm sorry if I interrupted, we can talk tomorrow," you quickly whispered, and turn to go. He catches your wrist, "no wait."

His hand was sweaty, almost moist. You looked down at the contact. Bob's adam's apple shifted up and down as he swallowed the tension. "I, I should apologize," he speaks lowly.

"I was so quiet, I had to have made your head spin. I was just thinking about what Alexei said, and I-" You interrupt bringing your hand to his cheek, "I get it, I knew that's what it was."

Bobby's brows furrowed, and his mouth opened to speak, but he hesitated. Why were you avoiding his opinion so much? Had he upset you? Why were you touching his cheek and not fucking kissing him with those lips. He wanted you. You dropped your hand, so he pulled you in for a hug. God this is too friendly, you both thought.

"Listen, if I hurt you by my reaction it was not meant. You know that I care... about you." He whispered, his lips barely grazing your hair. When had you changed the scent of your shampoo? It was incredible. Fuuuuuck.

You didn't dare meet his eyes, keeping your face buried in your friend's neck. But a soft hand guided your chin, tilting you up to meet his eyes. "You get some sleep, and we'll figure it all out tomorrow, mkay?" He strains. Your touch was too much after his previous activites. His cock was gonna burst. You nod, slowly, and your eyes flicker down to his lips for a second.

That split second made Bob so hard it hurt. He brushed a piece of hair back behind your ear, and you silently retreated to your room, stunned and wet as hell.

Each of you laid in bed, restless, thinking the same thoughts.

What the fuck.

I want her

I'd fuck him right now

Maybe tomorrow. But for now, you each needed sleep.

Bobby dreamt of your new shampoo and you mouth around his cock. You dreamt of his hands around your throat again, and a wrap-around porch with his hand in yours, reading books.

For now, you were each content.

#to be read

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blurrycal · 2 days ago

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BACK MUSCLES!!!!!

I will never get over this scene 🧎‍♀️‍➡️

rhett abbott, im inlove with you. (episode 5, season 1 - outer range)

#rhett I’d treat you better than maria get away from her #outer range #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott

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blurrycal · 2 days ago

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yuppity yup yup, we're back - the other post flopped so now we're here

⋆★⋆ i'll volunteer for you ⋆★⋆

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: good looking by suki waterhouse (3:34)

1940's!Bucky Barnes who gets scuffed up during a practice fight with another soldier, he spots you on the sidelines watching - he was embarrassed, to say the least. You being Steve's sister just added to it.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who is confused when you usher him off to the side, examining his bloodied nose and bruised knuckles but doesn't complain in the slightest.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who happily walks with you down to the medical station that you worked at, following you like a lost puppy dog - ignoring the weird looks from other soldiers as he follows quite eagerly behind you.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who sits patiently as you tend to him in one of the private areas of the medical facility, wincing a bit as you cleaned his knuckles with some anti-septic, making them sting.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who didn't expect you to place a kiss to his cheek as you discharged him, except he didn't move - grabbing your wrist as he stood from the bed, pulling you into a kiss.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who has you pushed up against a wall, fucking you slowly - your dress flipped up, clothes still on both bodies. He didn't expect his day to end up like this but he wasn't against it.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who shushes you when your moans get too loud, placing a hand over your mouth. "You don't want anyone to hear us now, do you doll?"

1940's!Bucky Barnes who places kisses to your neck as a silent thanks for caring for him in more ways than one. Pushing his hips into yours harder, feeling your soft heat clench around his cock as he pushes himself deeper.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who is the one taking care of you instead, using a towel nearby the station to wipe you up and pull your dress down.

1940's!Bucky Barnes who is always there at your beck and call whenever you need to just let loose and calm down.

#yum #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes

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blurrycal · 2 days ago

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can I put in a request for Rhett Abbott x Reader? They’re in his truck since they were “star gazing”but a hot steamy make out ends up with reader riding him and before he finishes, reader goes down on him.

DEAD OF NIGHT ╱ RHETT ABBOTT X FEM!READER

"you wake me up, you say it's time to ride in the dead of night"

+18 MINORS DNI 𓏲 ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ no use of y/n, fluff, explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (m!receving), best friend!rhett, dirty talk, explicit language, praise kink, grinding, save a horse ride a cowboy!!!! mention of unrequited feelings, mutual pinning, sexual tension, friends to lovers trope, stargazing under the wyoming sky with rhett!! <3

SUMMARY: you didn't really plan on spending tonight anywhere but in bed, binge-watching true crime and savoring wine. but when your best friend rhett abbott texts you at 1 am asking you to come outside, your comfortable night in turns into a starry, intimate confession beneath the wyoming sky. the lines of friendship blur deliciously into something deeper and hotter—under constellations and blankets on rhett's truck. and he finally shows you exactly how long he's been waiting to make you his.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: aaaaahhhh!!! thank you soooo much for requesting rhett!! this is my first ever fic for him and i'm so excited to write more outer range stuff!! ughhh i love rhett so fucking much you have no idea!! i'm already through season 2 and oh my god?? it's soooo good!!!! literally obsessed with rhett and cowboys. head over heels for my favorite bull rider!! he just does things to me gahhhhh stargazing, confessions under the night sky, and riding rhett?? sign me tfff up!!! thank you for this ask, i loved the idea so much<3 i hope you like it! love, your friendly neighborhood cowboy-lover, bri.

You weren't really planning on doing anything tonight. Your warm bed awaited patiently, the cold sheets a welcoming embrace, while an unopened bottle of red Sauvignon shimmered in the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through your window. Netflix was paused on your TV—a true crime documentary glowing softly on the screen—waiting patiently to wash away the week's stress.

Your phone buzzed, jolting you from your cozy haze. You groaned softly—who the hell was texting at nearly one in the morning?

Rhett🤠💛: You awake, sweetheart?

You bit your lip, smiling softly. Your heart fluttered involuntarily at the sight of his name on your screen. Of course, Rhett Abbott would be the culprit. Always Rhett, your best friend since forever, your ride-or-die cowboy with that infuriatingly cocky grin and sky-blue eyes that always made your breath catch in your chest.

You: depends on what awake means

He responded immediately, almost as if he'd been waiting for your answer.

Rhett🤠💛: Eyes open, heartbeat steady. You missin’ me?

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm.

You: you wish, cowboy

Rhett🤠💛: I sure do. Come to your window.

Frowning curiously, your phone buzzed again—his picture lighting up the screen. You sighed, unable to hide your amusement as you swiped to answer.

"You're ridiculous," you murmured into the phone, padding across the floor and pulling back the curtains.

There he stood, propped against his trusty old truck, cowboy hat tilted just right, his smirk lazy and infuriatingly charming beneath the porch lights. He lifted his head to meet your gaze, and even at a distance, you could see his eyes shimmer mischievously.

“It’s almost one in the morning, Rhett. What the hell are you doing here?” you whispered into the phone, but he could hear the smile in your voice.

He chuckled warmly. “C’mon down, sweetheart. Don’t keep me waitin’. Got somethin' to show ya.”

“Fine, give me a minute.”

“Take your time, darlin’. Not like I'm freezin' my ass off or anything.”

“It’s barely cold, drama queen,” you scoffed, and he laughed lightly, a sound that melted into your bones.

You ended the call, grinning to yourself, excitement making your heart skip as you quickly shed your oversized shirt and slipped into a delicate white sundress, stepping into your worn, beloved cowboy boots.

You ran down, finding him exactly where you'd left him, the same stupidly charming smirk stretched across his face.

"Howdy, darlin'," he drawled, eyes flickering appreciatively over you.

“You’re obnoxious,” you teased, nudging his shoulder lightly.

“Ah,” Rhett countered easily, swinging open his passenger door for you, eyes glittering warmly beneath his hat. “But you love it.”

You hesitated dramatically. “You sure you’re not kidnapping me?”

Rhett grinned, eyes darkening playfully beneath his hat. “Kidnappin’? Well shit, sweetheart, sounds terribly hot.”

You scoffed, climbing up into the truck. "You're disgusting."

“Only for you,” he drawled, sliding into the driver's seat and firing up the engine.

As he drove, you stole glances his way. Rhett Abbott—playboy, flirt, and the keeper of your deepest secrets. He knew your favorite songs, your go-to midnight snacks, how you liked your coffee, and the names of every one of your childhood pets. He’d been there for your best and worst days, steadfast and irritatingly observant, noticing things about you no one else bothered to. Like how your brow furrowed when you were stressed, or the particular kind of silence you kept when something upset you. He noticed every detail. Every quiet shift.

God, you loved him.

You'd loved him—helplessly, recklessly, and quietly.

You’d loved Rhett Abbott for longer than you could remember, every stolen glance embedding deeper in your heart, every casual brush of his hand against your skin lingering long after he pulled away. Your love had become a secret you cradled close, hidden safely in shadows and subtle sighs, nestled in sleepless nights spent dreaming of what could be, wrapped in every heartbeat that stuttered at the mere sound of his laughter.

But confessing? Fuck no.

The thought alone terrified you. It was easy to joke with him, easy to laugh at his teasing comments and playful flirtations because that was Rhett. Cocky, charming, effortlessly alluring, the guy who could walk into any room and draw every eye. He had always been your best friend, your constant, your confidant. But turning this steady, beloved friendship into something else—something uncertain and dangerously delicate—felt far too risky.

And then there was Maria Olivares.

A shadow from high school, Rhett’s supposed ‘great love.’ You’d spent years watching him chase after her, hearing him speak her name like it was poetry he memorized. Though lately, you noticed he barely mentioned her anymore. Still, the echo of her presence lingered—a reminder that maybe you were just a placeholder, someone to distract him when the memories became too sharp. Maybe his lingering glances and softened touches were simply illusions your foolish heart conjured because you wanted them so badly to be real.

How could you risk it?

Because risking your heart felt like risking everything else too—every late-night phone call, every comfortable silence, every inside joke whispered conspiratorially between you two. Your friendship with Rhett Abbott was your safe place, a precious shelter built over countless nights spent laughing until dawn, confiding secrets no one else knew, sharing fears, hopes, dreams you trusted only to each other.

It was safer to keep quiet, safer to keep smiling and teasing, safer to pretend you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you longer lately, the way his voice softened whenever he murmured "sweetheart," the way your heart skipped wildly, frantically, beneath his attentive gaze.

Because losing Rhett—even the smallest chance of it—would shatter your heart completely, leaving you lost and adrift without the boy you’d always loved quietly, desperately, hopelessly from the shadows.

So, you buried your secret deeper still, hiding it behind careful laughter and practiced smiles, behind sarcastic retorts and playful banter, hoping it would remain safely hidden—hoping, selfishly, that someday it might finally, mercifully slip free.

But until then, you'd guard it fiercely, keeping the love you felt safely, silently yours.

It was safer this way, even if it hurt.

And god, did it hurt.

“You’re definitely kidnapping me,” you teased lightly, noticing he was heading toward his ranch’s secluded pastures.

“Maybe,” he replied playfully, eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight. “Maybe I’m gonna murder you and hide your pretty little body somewhere out in these woods.”

“So romantic,” you deadpanned sarcastically.

He snorted softly, shaking his head. "Shut up, dumbass."

Beside you, Rhett’s heart beat quickly, his thoughts tangled and aching. He glanced at you—his best friend, his sweet torment. You were everything to him: your laughter, your teasing words, your stubborn kindness. He knew every hidden freckle, every quiet sigh, every favorite snack. He’d spent years drowning himself in meaningless distractions, Maria a distant memory that had long faded beneath your gentle presence.

He loved you desperately, fiercely, terrified that admitting it would send you running from him. Because if he lost you—he’d lose everything.

When Rhett parked in the open field, he hopped down smoothly, rounding to your side. Before you could protest, his strong hands gripped your waist, easily lifting you from the seat. You squealed in protest, and he laughed warmly, setting you down gently by the tailgate. Opening it, he revealed blankets and pillows piled invitingly.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “If you wanted sex, Abbott, you could’ve just asked.”

Rhett leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. “Sweetheart, trust me—if I wanted that tonight, you'd already know.”

Your cheeks flushed hot as he chuckled, delighting in your reaction. His grip softened, gentle once more, easing you up to sit atop the truck bed.

“I remember you told me once—probably drunk off your ass—that you loved stargazin’,” Rhett said softly, almost shyly, glancing upward. “Thought you might like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He remembered. Always so perceptive, attentive to every quiet detail you'd shared, every fleeting whisper you'd half-forgotten yourself. Rhett Abbott somehow catalogued every secret part of your soul.

"Are you serious?" Your voice was breathless, touched.

"Dead serious," he confirmed softly, hopping onto the truck bed beside you, reclining back and patting his chest invitingly. "C'mere."

After a shy hesitation, you sank against him, head gently nestled over his steady heartbeat. The sky stretched out overhead, an ocean of glittering starlight, infinite, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Rhett pointed lazily upward. "Alright, stargirl. Which one’s that?"

“Orion,” you smiled.

He hummed approval, voice teasing. "Alright, what about that one over there?"

"Cassiopeia."

He chuckled warmly. “You’re real good at this.”

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

“Yeah,” Rhett murmured, voice softer. “So damn beautiful.”

Your gaze shifted, heart thumping, realizing he wasn’t looking at the sky—he was looking at you.

His fingers brushed tenderly along your cheek, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. His thumb traced your lower lip lightly, and he whispered huskily, eyes searching yours, “You're beautiful.”

“Rhett,” you murmured breathlessly.

In the breathless heartbeat that followed, he surged forward, cradling your face in his strong, calloused hands, claiming your mouth in a fierce yet tender kiss. Your world spun wildly as you melted instantly into his embrace, lips moving hungrily, passionately against his own.

He groaned low into your mouth, desperation and relief laced in the sound. “God, sweetheart,” he murmured feverishly between kisses, “wanted this—wanted you for so fucking long.”

His tongue traced hotly along your lower lip, teasing entrance until your mouth parted eagerly beneath him, allowing him in, tasting and teasing until you moaned breathlessly.

“You drive me crazy, darlin’,” he growled softly, gripping the back of your neck possessively, deepening the kiss until it felt like he was stealing the breath straight from your lungs. “Think about you all the goddamn time.”

“Rhett—” you whispered, clutching at his shoulders, fingertips sinking into muscle, holding him desperately close. “Me too—god, please…”

At your whispered confession, something snapped in Rhett, and his kisses turned frantic, heated, teeth tugging lightly at your lip, dragging delicious moans from your throat. His hands roamed possessively, slipping beneath your dress, tracing urgently over the curve of your thighs, your hips, grasping firmly to anchor you closer.

“C'mere, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with need as he pulled you onto his lap. You gasped sharply, thighs parting instinctively, knees bracketing his waist. Your dress rucked up high, pooling carelessly around your hips as his hands gripped and kneaded your bare thighs, pulling you tight against him.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart—” he groaned, head falling back slightly as you ground experimentally against the rigid, straining bulge of his jeans. “Just like that, baby—god, you feel so fucking good.”

Your hands tangled into his soft hair, tugging lightly to tilt his head back, exposing his throat for your lips to explore hungrily. Rhett shuddered beneath you, growling deeply in his chest, fingers gripping tighter, pulling you closer, hips thrusting upwards desperately, chasing friction.

“So good,” he whispered fervently into your skin, teeth scraping tenderly at your collarbone. “So fucking perfect, baby—wanted to touch you like this for so damn long.”

You whimpered softly, rolling your hips faster, grinding harder against his hardness. He hissed sharply, fingers bruising into your hips, guiding your frantic movements, desperate to feel you closer, deeper.

“Need you, Rhett,” you pleaded softly, breath ragged and trembling.

He surged upright, pressing you flush against him, kissing you deeply, fiercely, as his fingers swiftly undid his jeans. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. Always.”

When you finally sank onto him, stretching deliciously around him, he groaned loudly—unrestrained, wild with pleasure. “Fuck—sweetheart,” he gasped, voice strained with raw pleasure. “Look how good you take me, darlin’—goddamn—so tight, so fucking perfect.”

You moaned his name, tossing your head back, riding him slow and deep beneath the watchful eyes of the stars. He leaned back against the truck bed, eyes glued hungrily to your flushed face, awed by every gasp and whimper falling from your parted lips.

“You look like a goddamn dream riding me like that,” he praised roughly, hands gripping your waist, guiding you up and down, matching each roll of your hips. “Fuck—just like that, beautiful. God, yes.”

Your nails dragged lightly down his chest, back arching beautifully beneath his heated gaze. Pleasure coiled tight within you, spiraling, pushing you to the edge until your rhythm faltered, breath catching sharply.

“Rhett—fuck—I’m gonna—” you gasped desperately, riding him faster, harder, chasing release.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he urged roughly, his thumb brushing firmly over your sensitive clit. “Let go—I wanna feel you come undone.”

His words sent you spiraling, shattering instantly around him. “Oh fuck, Rhett—” you cried out loudly, moaning shamelessly, trembling as pleasure consumed you, shaking wildly around him.

“Good girl,” he groaned, voice thick and hoarse with adoration. “So perfect, sweetheart—fuck, you feel so good.”

Before he could tip over the edge himself, you slid off his lap with a wicked smirk, sinking down onto your knees between his spread thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, eyes darkening hungrily as your mouth enveloped him completely, hot and wet and perfect. “Oh fuck—baby, yes—”

He trembled beneath your touch, hips bucking involuntarily as your tongue swirled and teased. “God, your mouth—fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart—gonna make me come.”

You hummed softly, the vibration sending him spiraling, fingers gripping your hair desperately, gently guiding your head, hips thrusting shallowly, lost in your wet, warm mouth.

“Fuck—I’m—” Rhett gasped raggedly, head thrown back, stars dancing behind his eyes as he came undone, spilling hotly into your mouth. You swallowed obediently, savoring him, your eyes locked wickedly onto his flushed face.

“Come here,” he rasped breathlessly, pulling you urgently back up, crashing his mouth onto yours fiercely. He groaned against your lips, tasting himself, tasting you, the intoxicating blend making him dizzy.

“Goddamn, you taste good, baby,” he murmured breathlessly, forehead pressed tenderly against yours, fingers still threaded possessively into your hair. “I love you, sweetheart—I’ve always fucking loved you.”

Your heart skipped violently at his whispered confession. “You do?”

Rhett laughed softly, tenderly, kissing you again, softer this time, almost reverently. “More than I know what to do with.”

You smiled shyly, your fingertips tracing gentle circles over his chest. “I love you, Rhett. Always have.”

He exhaled, relief flooding his eyes, expression growing boyishly sweet. “Thank fuck for that.”

You laughed quietly, settling comfortably against him, nestled safely in his arms. “Mmm,” you teased lightly, drawing lazy patterns on his chest. “I could get used to this.”

His grin turned mischievous, cocky smirk returning as he pressed a teasing kiss against your forehead. “Oh, you definitely will. I ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight now, darlin’. Especially now that I know what your pretty mouth can do.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, giggling softly. “You’re impossible, Rhett Abbott.”

He chuckled deeply, wrapping his arms around you possessively, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Oh, but you love it.”

You tilted your head, gazing up into his beautiful blue eyes, heart swelling with affection, softness overwhelming you beneath the starlit sky.

“Yes,” you whispered quietly, truth heavy yet freeing on your lips, “I do.”

Beneath the vast Wyoming stars, Rhett held you tighter, knowing for certain now that everything he'd ever needed—everything he could ever want—was right there, safe in his arms.

#to be read

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blurrycal · 2 days ago

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════ ⋆★⋆ ════

☆˚₊‧ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ... ╰┈➤ 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚢, 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚙𝚝.𝟷/𝟺 𐙚₊˚

⋆★⋆ late nights in the laboratory. ⋆★⋆ Part 2 & Part 3.

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: pushing it down and praying by lizzie mcalpine (3:54)

✰ pairing: calvin evans x fem!lab tech!reader

✰ cw: arguing + swearing + calvin is a bit of an uptight dick

✰ word count: 1.3k+

✰ summary: you are new to hastings laboratory, being placed on a search for different materials around the lab. you entered calvin's laboratory without knocking, and arguments ensue.

(IMPORTANT: collaborated with @sammygidd with writing process + planning)

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

༺colour chart༻ reader ❀ calvin ⚛︎

It was your first day at the Hastings Laboratory, working as a lab tech. You woke up early, ensuring that everything was perfect - that you wouldn’t be late in the slightest and that you had everything that you needed. Deciding that morning, after packing your bag for the day, that you would curl your hair shortly after eating breakfast, given that there was enough time to do so. You brushed out the smooth curls, pinning them back in place as you grabbed your things, taking a last once-over in the mirror, then heading downstairs. Making sure your cat had food and saying goodbye before walking to the door and leaving shortly afterwards.

You made your way into the parking lot, finding an open parking spot. Taking note of the scientists and secretaries scattered across the way, some making their path into the laboratory building, promptly making your way inside along with them, hearing the lively chatter around you. A taller, leaner man brushing past you, not exactly seeing who it was at first, but you could already tell by the way he pushed past the people on the stairwell, not even muttering an ‘excuse me,’ or a basic apology. It was Calvin Evans - the man that you saw on the front cover of the Scientific American, the proposed chemistry prodigy.

You've read about him, nothing really remarkable about the Dr. Evans besides the fact that he could draw up chemical reactions in a comprehensible way, but couldn’t even muster an apology - the article did say that he was a reserved person after all. And the chemistry prodigy was wearing pajamas to work? You were confused, only for a moment, before brushing it off and heading to the lab that you were supposed to be in… on time.

Arriving in the smaller, well-lit room filled with older and some younger male scientists, looking at you standing in the doorway. An older man pipes up, “You’re late, sweetheart. You were supposed to be here at seven, on the dot.” Eyes flickering over to the clock that was higher up on the wall, and it read 7:01 - nodding your head, deciding not to retaliate since it was your first day. “Apologies,” you murmured as you walked into the room, setting your notebook on the table, a small distance away from the group of men and their prying eyes.

Before you could even get started on your work, the older guy who ridiculed you said that he had chores for you to do, and when you were done with those, he wanted a cup of coffee. You didn’t even get to mutter a word out, to say you were a lab tech, not a secretary. He didn’t care in the slightest and ushered you away, forcing a clipboard into your hands. Grumbling softly but reluctantly, you moved back out the door and into the hallways of the building, looking at the list that was now in your hands, reading off the items that were needed:

Sulphuric Acid

Methanol

Bunsen Burners

Ribose

Beakers

Coffee

Each item was in a different part of the building, of course it was. You didn’t expect anything less. You made haste, practically running around the building collecting the apparatus needed, checking it off the list as you went. You finally came to the final thing on your list, beakers, which was written to be upstairs. Walking into the first room you could find, your eyes are planted on the clipboard in front of you. Not even bothering to knock, which was your first mistake.

“Did you not see the sign?” The voice went unheard as you looked up from your clipboard, more focused on the task at hand than whoever was talking to you. Your gaze landed on the counter of the lab, finally finding the beakers that you needed. You grabbed the tray, then noticed a man across the room.

“Oh– shit..” You nearly dropped the beakers, “You– shit, sorry.. You scared the hell out of me…” Then a look of recognition, “Oh–.! Oh shit- I mean- sorry, oh your.. Dr. Evans… – pardon me for my language…”

“No, no.” Waving you off, his eyes now boring into you, “First off, tell me why you are in here, stealing my beakers and not even knocking when I have a sign that says.. do not disturb?”

“Sorry, I must’ve not seen it.” A small smirk flashed across his face, finding the entire ordeal entertaining, before he cleared his throat. “Well, you're one for apologies, but sorry doesn’t cut it. Why is a secretary stealing my beakers? When I’m not to be disturbed.” “I’m not stealing, I’m simply borrowing for the time being, and I’m not a secretary, Dr. Evans.” His eyebrows knitted together, his arms crossing over his chest, “You’re not a secretary? Then what are you?” “I’m a Lab Tech.” Calvin stifled out a laugh. “I highly doubt that. You look like a secretary with that hair.” He moved closer, noticing your name tag. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you? Stealing on your first day… I’m disappointed, expecting you’d know better as a proposed Lab Tech.”

“Well, I’m not stealing, like I said before. I’ll get these back to you by the end of the day.” “I’ll hold you to that, secretary.”

You had to refrain from talking back to him, he’s Calvin Evans for christ sake, but god, he found a way to just get under your skin from a singular conversation. You looked down at the tray of beakers as you headed out of his laboratory, noticing that he wrote his initials “C.E” on every single one, charming.

Later that night, you were packing up in your laboratory, ready to head home for the evening, suspecting that every other scientist and secretary already left the building. When you hear a sudden voice come from behind you. “Beakers.” You jumped, turning around. Noticing Calvin. “What?” You regained your composure. “My beakers. Where are they? You told me you’d have them back at the end of the day.” He leaned against the counter, noticing that Calvin was wearing the same clothes he had come into work in that morning, the sleeves rolled up, showing his forearms. A small thought swirling around your head, before realising you were staring dead at his arms, your gaze shifting away.

“Beakers?-- right, right. They’re…” You looked around the laboratory, expecting them to be on one of the many counters in the room. “They’re where?” He looked unimpressed. “They’re in a different lab, one of the locked ones.” “Of course they are.” He sighed, pushing himself off the counter - back turned to you. “I’m sorry– I’ll give them to you tomorrow, they’ll be hard to miss with your initials written onto them.” You joked, he turned around. ��This is funny to you?” “You’re getting mad over beakers.” “I trusted you with my beakers, and you have proven yourself not to be worthy once more. That's not surprising.” He let out a breath.

“What’s more surprising is that you’re wearing pajamas to work, Calvin.” His name slipped out of your mouth before you even recognised you did. His eyes shifted a bit, like he was mulling things over. Letting out a hum before speaking again. “These are my running clothes.” “Of course you run.” You mumbled under your breath, eyes diverting away - looking out the window as a crutch. “What was that?--” You cut him off, “Let’s just go home, Dr. Evans. I’ll have your beakers tomorrow.” Grabbing the rest of your things, heading to the door. Calvin followed close behind, basically towering over you as you walked out into the cold air.

“Let’s hope your second day is better than your first.” Calvin walked to the sidewalk, beside you. As you walked to your car, you muttered under your breath, “Dick.” “What?” “Nothing! Night, Dr. Evans... Get home safe.” You plastered a fake smile on your face. He turned away muttering a "Night" in response - your smile immediately dropping as he did. As you got into your car, you knew that you would never get along with Calvin, if it was the last thing you’d do.

#to be read

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blurrycal · 2 days ago

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✮⋆˙ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ... ╰┈➤ 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚘 .⋆˚࿔

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: angel by massive attack + horace andy (6:20)

✰ pairing: rhett abbot x fem!reader

✰ cw: (no use of y/n & proofread) smut, enemies to lovers, swearing, bratty!reader, brat tamer!rhett, pure filth tbh, car sex, p in v sex, fingering, tit play, oral fixation if you squint, multiple orgasms (f!recieving), reader on top, save a horse ride a WHAAT?? sweetheart, baby, sweet girl and bunny nickname when referring to reader

✰ word count: 2.3k+

✰ summary: you and rhett are enemies and have been for years, after he lost his rodeo you find him brooding by his truck you poke fun but it soon grows hotter.

✰ a/n: apart of the maria hate club

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༺colour chart༻ reader ❀ rhett ✪

You and Rhett locked eyes from across the tournament, you were sitting alone - almost like you came just for him. But he knew better, he knew that he needed to focus in. He had to win this, but your eyes made him falter. He found himself staring back at you a few times, he hated you, sure. But god the way you smirked at him made him crumble.

After the bullride, Rhett was ushered of the field - he scored, but he scored low. Faulty bull, is all. He packed up his things, silently hoping that you conveniently weren't watching him eat shit just before. He placed his things into the backseat of his truck, when he heard gravel against boot.

"You took quite a tumble out there, cowboy." He practically heard the smirk in your fucking voice. "What do you want." He said it more maliciously than he wanted, but you were mocking him at the wrong time. His eyes were locked in on his truck, as he sifted through his bag for something. You leaned against his truck, "To poke a little fun, is all."

"Now's not a good time." "It's always a good time, Rhetty." "Don't call me that." He finally turned to face you, his arms crossing. You stepped closer to him, reciprocating the same body language - crossing your arms. "Your attempts at intimidating me are as good as your bull-riding skills, so that's not sayin' much." You flicked back his hat as you spoke. He grabbed your arm, "Don't fuckin' test me right now, sweetheart." You faltered a bit, his grip strong."You were starin' at me from across the field, did I make you mess up?" "In what world?" "Do I make you nervous, Rhett?" You'd step closer. "Quite the opposite." "Mhm, I bet." A smirk was plastered onto your face. You'd pull your wrist away from him, "Careful now, cowboy."

You'd step away, moving to walk off - feeling Rhett's eyes on you. When he suddenly wrapped an arm around your waist, practically pulling you back to him. You let out a noise of surprise as he kissed you.

You soon melted into the kiss, Rhett pushing you up against the side of his truck. Rhett forced his tongue into your mouth, tilting your head up to accommodate for the height difference between the two of you. The kiss was all teeth, tongue and spit. Pent up frustration coming through.

Rhett broke the kiss before opening the door to his truck, "Get in." "What?--" "I said get in, sweetheart. Need to fuck this out of my system." You'd settle into the truck without another word, watching as Rhett crawled in after you - closing the door behind him from any prying eyes.

He'd pull you into his lap, hands moving up the sides of you - you giggled a bit, taking off his hat. "Need to blow off some steam huh?" "Yeah and put you in y'r goddamn place, got quite a mouth on ya." "Want me to use that mouth?" "I want you to shut the hell up." Rhett wove a hand into your hair, tugging you into another kiss. Teeth clashing against each other, as he made work on your jeans as you shrugged off your jacket.

His mouth moved down to your neck, as he shoved down your jeans to your thighs. He bit into your neck, running his tongue over the bites as a silent apology. His calloused hand dragged down your body, slipping underneath your panties - thick fingers finding your clit.

He pulled back from your neck, resting his head back against the head rest as he watched your reactions eagerly. "There you go, bunny. Already so wet for me." He'd murmur, pushing two fingers into you with ease. He'd make work of you, moans spilling from your mouth as Rhett found that spot inside you almost immediately, fuck. "Yeah, right there? That feel good, doesn't it?" He tilted his head at you, the teasing evident in his voice. You couldn't voice your pleasure, so you just nodded - moans leaving you. Of course he'd be experienced, you wanted to feel his fingers inside you all the time if you could. Hips bucking against his hand as you rested your head against his shoulder, fucking his fingers into you as you practically rode his hand there in the backseat of his truck.

"I hate you." You let out a soft moan. "Yeah?" His palm was now grinding into your clit, your hand immediately going to his shoulder to stabilise you. Your orgasm found you quickly, he placed a hand around your waist - coaching you through it. Moans spilling from your mouth, Rhett moved to cover your mouth. "Shh, bunny.. you dont want people hearin' now?" As you came down from your high, Rhett pulled you closer, "You still got some more in ya?" "Can't leave you pent up now can I, cowboy?" Your hands made quick work of his belt, hands shaking slightly from your previous orgasm.

Rhett's hands covered yours, "I've got it." He chuckled, unbuckling his belt - tossing it somewhere else in the car. Unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down his thighs.

You'd notice the very obvious tent in his boxers, he was big. Bigger than you thought. You wondered if he'd let you suck it, atleast once - if this thing you were doing was going to continue. "You still with me?" "Mm-- mhm." You'd nod, fingers dragging down his abdomen to the bulge. You'd toy with the waistband, just for a few seconds - just to confirm that this is actually happening. Then your hand dipped beneath it, pulling down his boxers down to his knees.

His cock bobbed against his stomach, the tip already leaking pre-cum, a bit of it landing on his stomach. The tip swollen, red and angry.

"Condoms in the glovebox." Rhett murmured, a hand resuming it's spot on your waist as you turned around on his lap, your back now facing his front. Leaning over in the car into the front seat - adjusting yourself to open the glovebox, practically on your knees.

"You really need to clean out your glovebox." You mumbled fishing around it before finally finding a condom. You settled back into Rhett's lap, turning around so you were now facing him. He took the condom from you, ripping it before placing it onto his hard cock. "I didn't force you into my truck for you to complain more." A smirk on his face, as he placed his hands back to your hips. "All good?" You'd nod, "Gonna have to give me words, baby. Or did I make you cum that hard?" Another tilt of his head. "Yes-- god yes." "There we go.." He'd muttered.

Rhett's hands moved to the button up shirt you were wearing. You'd swat his hands away. "C'mon, not even a peak?" "Gonna have to pay extra for that." He'd simply pout, "I bring you into my very comfortable truck and I let you cum on my hand and you wont even let me have the pleasure of seeing your tits? Plain criminal." Rhett placed a hand to your cheek, his thumb dragging down your bottom lip. "C'mon, sweetheart... I'll make you feel so good." You let out a breath at his promise, "Fine. I'll hold you to that though." Then, a smirk, "Thank you," Rhett placed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, hands working at the buttons on your shirt - pushing it off your shoulders with your help. His hands expertly unclasping your bra, slowly pulling the straps off you. Placing kisses to your neck and collarbone as a thanks. He looked down at you, "Fuckin' gorgeous.." He'd mutter more to himself, cupping one of your tits - a cold thumb slipping over the perked nipple, earning a soft whimper from you. He took your nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling against the hard skin. You placed a hand into his hair, egging him on - pulling at the soft curls.

You could only imagine how his tongue would work between your thighs, you could only imagine a lot of things with his man who previously hated you sitting in front of you now sucking on your tits.

Rhett pulled back a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your tit, he looked up at you - a lopsided smirk on his face. "If I don't fuck you now, I am going to lose my mind." He placed his hands to your ass, pushing you further onto his lap. The tip of his cock grazing your soaked core, learning a groan from the both of you. "That makes two of us." You leaned forward, capturing him in another heated kiss as his strong hands directed your hips for you to sit down directly on his cock, feeling unbelievable full. The moan you let out soaked up by the kiss as he smirked against your lips. "Th're you go, bunny.. s' good, doing s' good just for me." Rhett muttered against your lips. You pulled back a bit, looking down at where you two were connected, Christ he was big. "You alright, baby?" Rhett placed a hand under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. He looked concerned, not a look you commonly saw on Rhett Abbott's face. "Y-Yeah.. you're just, it's big." You wanted to smack that egotistical smirk off his face, "Big, yeah?" He tilted his head. "Don't be a dick." "Well you're riding mine." You felt him twitch inside of you, earning a small whimper from you.

You took a moment to collect yourself, get used to the sensation of your enemy's cock buried to the hilt inside of you. "O--Okay, I'm gonna start moving." "Be my guest." Rhett leaned back as you started to move your hips, moving forward and back first - building the pace. "Jesus-- you're so tight.." He looked down to where the two of you were connected. You started to move your hips upward, Rhett's hands moving to wrap around your waist - hoisting him up for the two of you to be chest to chest, his own hips bucking up now meeting your rhythm.

"I hate you." You said between high pitched moans. "Hate you too, baby." You felt that sensation deep in your belly again, overstimulating yet soothing. Rhett knew that too by the way you were clenching around him. "Y' close, sweet girl?" His hand snaked between your two hot bodies to have his thick fingers work in circles against your clit. You could only nod with this new pleasure, head resting against his shoulder. His other hand moved to weave into your hair, tugging gently as he tsked. "Nah, bunny. Look at me when you cum, I wanna see it." Because of course he did, he wanted to see the girl that he argued with for years cum like it was her first time, because of him. Just needed that ego booster. Your mind was completely turned off at this point, your thoughts just filled to the brim with Rhett - in more ways than one. The way his dark blue eyes watched you, his thick fingers working against your swollen nub, and his cock pushing into you and filling you ever so deeper. Your mouth open as moans and whimpers poured out, if people didn't hear you before. They sure as hell did now. "C'mon, cum on my cock." That deep southern growl in his voice was the last thing you needed to tip over the edge, hands gripping as his chest as you came around him, earning a groan from him as you tightened. As you came down from your high, Rhetts hands caught you from falling into him, then you realised Rhett still hadn't cum yet. That fire still in his eyes, your cunt was overstimulated but a front row seat to Rhett Abbott being ruined by your pussy was too good to give up. He tightened his hands around your waist, switching your position for you to be laying down on the carseat. Rhett overtop of you as he fucked his cock into you, his face planted in his neck - peppering kisses there. You whined from overstimulation. "I know-- god, I know baby.. just.. give me a minute, okay?" His words muffled by your neck, you then weaved your fingers into his hair - deciding to give him a taste of his own medicine. Pulling his head back as you looked into his eyes, you saw the smallest amount of drool in the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide as his hips didn't let up, in fact fucking into you faster - but his hips soon faltered, with one last thrust he came into the condom.

You both just laid there for a moment, catching your breaths as realisation set in. Rhett pulled back, looking down at you - chest heaving. You simply looked up at him, your hand still in his hair. You pushed yourself with the remaining energy you still had, pulling him into a kiss by his hair. This one wasn't heated like the others. It was soft, promising. Promising that there was something more to this. You then pulled back, smiling against his lips. "What?" A breathless chuckle left him. "I actually came over to your truck before to tell you that the guy who placed above you got disqualified." "..What?--" His eyes widened. "You're going to the semi-finals, Abbott." "Why didn't you tell me?" An evident smile on his face. "Because I wouldn't have gotten fucked if I did." A beat of silence, he'd laugh - placing his head on your shoulder. "I hate you." "I hate you too."

#to be read

897 notes · View notes

blurrycal · 2 days ago

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this was so sweet and soft <3

Haircut - B.R.

✵ Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

✵ Summary: You offered to keep Bob company during a team outing, and he had an interesting request for you

✵ Warnings: No use of y/n, Nothing concerning really, discomfort in silence (trauma-related, but not specified), lots of fluff, idiots in love

✵ Word Count: 4.4k

The soft click of the door cut through your quiet room as it found its home in the frame. Its only competition was the faint hum of the little desk fan perched near the opposite wall. Your room— the entire tower, really— held the heavy weight of silence, which began when the rest of your team had departed for a mission early that morning.

Normally, you would have gone with, but last night you spoke up mid-briefing and volunteered to stay back with Bob. There were a few reasonable murmurs of protest, likely because your particular skill set would be missed. Each of you knew the topic would have been brought up sooner or later and that Bob wouldn't want to be left alone for very long.

He sat in a chair a little way away from the table, busying himself with the cuff of his sleeves. Upon hearing his name, his eyes flickered upward. You glanced at him for a fraction of a second with the softest expression you could. It was fleeting and likely missed by the others, but the shift and softening in his shoulders told you he had caught it.

It was true, he didn't want to be alone. While it had been a few months now since the void incident, he was still reluctant to go off anywhere by himself.

Most days, he spent tethered to you as often as he could be. You were gentle with him right from the start and always had been. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but quickly something he craved. It didn't take long for him to be drawn to you, to your soft and stable way of handling him. No matter what happened, you were always right there beside him.

While at first, for you, it was simply a way of showing kindness to him, it very quickly blossomed into something more than that. You found yourself looking for him in a room just as quickly as he'd look for you.

Your connection didn't go unnoticed by the other five people living in this part of the tower. You started to raise suspicions. But every time you were confronted, you chalked it up to Bob just needing someone to be there for him, and you were that someone. It threw them off you for a while, but you weren't surprised when there were a few questioning glances among the protests against your staying behind.

"Are you sure?" Bucky asked, not bothering to press further than that.

"Yeah, why not?" You shrugged as casually as possible, leaning down onto the arm of your chair to sell your point. "I could use a little quiet anyway."

This was far from the truth. Too much quiet drove you crazy. The trait was something you were sure followed you from your past, but you never sat down long enough to pinpoint exactly where. Regardless, you hated it.

Only two people at the table knew this: Bucky, who had known you a lot longer than anyone else here, and Bob, who had seen it firsthand on several occasions now.

Your words caught his attention again, his brows tugging together just barely in silent questioning. Bucky took on a similar expression, but it went unnoticed by everyone else. He didn't say a word.

You were grateful for him. His constant willingness to protect you in whatever way the situation called for. It stemmed back years ago, before you knew anyone else around this table. He nodded and agreed with your point that someone needed to keep Bob company, and you were the most obvious candidate.

After that, there were no more questions. And mere hours later, at the very first hours of the day, they were off. The last thing you heard was the ding of the elevator before silence laid its weight on the entire room.

Giving up on more sleep, you busied yourself in whatever way you could. Soon enough, Bob joined you, his long hair disheveled from what looked like a difficult night's sleep. he seemed just as restless as you.

Upon seeing you on the couch, curled up with a book, he tried to brush back his hair to make it a little more presentable. It was clearly unsuccessful, which he realized with a sigh.

His hair had grown quite a bit in such a short amount of time. You blamed it on whatever serum he had been given, but never pressed to find out. No matter the source, it was clear it started to bother him.

You could cut it for him; you did Yelena's every time she wanted another trim. But you were hesitant to offer. You had very little experience with haircuts beyond hers, if you don't count trimming Bucky's one time years ago, which you don't. That particular experience didn't inspire much confidence, since it ended in frustration and a new baseball cap that didn't leave his head for weeks.

It was safe to say he'd never let you near his hair again. In your defense, you've improved significantly since then. Yelena's hair didn't turn out half bad when she appeared at your door six months ago and convinced you to cut half of it off.

All in all, you could probably manage Bob's. But you were going to let him ask you, just in case it didn't turn out well.

So far, nothing.

"Hey," Bob greeted quietly, as if worried about breaking the silence. You lifted your gaze from the book, which was starting to lose your attention anyway, and found his piercing blue eyes. He stood a few feet from you, fumbling with the cuff of his sweatshirt sleeve, which was long enough to be pulled up over his wrists.

"Hi," You smiled at him, speaking in that gentle tone you always used with him. His posture shifted dramatically at just the one word, his entire body relaxing. His lips parted just barely and then closed again, biting back a question he was too cautious to ask.

Your head tilted, but you understood. There was an unspoken language between the two of you. One that you've now become fluent in. You shifted on the couch and patted the spot next to you, opening your arms to him

He quickly took your offer, taking a few large steps to close the space and sinking onto the couch. His arms found your waist, wrapping around as gently as he dared.

You wouldn't easily admit it, but you had a hard time keeping hold of your book after the sudden contact. The warmth radiating off him and the clean smell of soap and whatever fabric softener he used on his sweatshirt took all your attention. You did a fantastic job of concealing this as he curled up next to you, ready to read whatever you were over your shoulder.

You often sat together like this. It distracted both you from the quiet hours of the morning and late night, and him from the fast-moving chatter in his head. The first time was a month or so ago when he had a particularly bad nightmare, and you just so happened to be awake for the aftermath of it. You let him spend the rest of the night with you, and ever since then, he craved your closeness. You never said anything to him, but you did too.

So from then on, you stole little touches from each other, whether it be the brushing of his hand against yours or the long time spent cuddled up next to him. The comfort was something you both were starved for.

Over time, he had gotten much braver. While at first he avoided it, yearning from a distance unless you approached him first, eventually he began to initiate contact himself. He still tended to tread lightly when he wasn't sure, but you were always quick to assure him he was more than welcome with you.

You spent a long time there, only disrupted by hunger and the remembrance of breakfast. So you stood reluctantly, missing his warmth once it was gone, and continued onto your next task.

Now, hours later, you had decided to retreat to your room and trade the ongoing silence for the buzz of your spinning fan, even for just a few minutes. It only took the time for you to get from your door to your bed for there to be a quiet tap on your door.

You didn’t really expect Bob to leave you alone for long. He had disappeared maybe fifteen minutes ago— you guessed it was to shower— And the absence of him left you restless in the living room.

“It’s open,” You called, and watched your door slide away from its frame, revealing Bob, hair damp and dripping onto his simple cotton t-shirt. A little guilt tugged his lips into a frown, giving away that he felt bad for leaving you by yourself when he knew you were uncomfortable with the quiet.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to disappear. I just…” He started, trailing off like his mind was moving too fast for his mouth to keep up with. He cleared his throat, coming to and letting himself cross the threshold of your bedroom.

Before he continued, you caught his words. “You don’t have to worry about me, Bob, I’ve had plenty of quiet days before.” He continued forward until he reached you, and you lifted a hand to caress his cheek. He seemed startled by your touch, but relaxed into it quickly.

You could tell he wasn’t convinced, but your hand against his skin eliminated any argument before it could be spoken. Instead, his eyes found yours and stayed there, conveying all he wanted to say through his stare.

Bob suddenly broke out of his daze as he remembered what else he’d come in for. “I- uh- I have a strange question.” You raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue. “Well it’s not really a question it’s more of a request—”

You cut him off before he got too distracted. “What is it?” It was your gentle voice alone that brought him back from his chatter.

“Well… It’s my hair. I-I saw you give Yelena a trim a few weeks ago, and mine’s just getting so long. I was wondering if maybe you’d—” He spoke so quickly, you barely had time to let the words sink in. Your other hand went up to cup his face as well, slowing him down a little. He took a breath before continuing. “You’d be willing to give me a haircut?”

A smile pulled at the corners of your lips. “Of course I would, Bob.” Your words were steady, a foundation he could cling to that brought confidence to him even when he had none. He sighed at your response. “But I do have to warn you. Last time I cut a guy’s hair, it was Bucky’s and… let’s just say he’ll never let me do it again.”

Your words brought out a breathy laugh from Bob. “I think anything is going to be better than this.” He gestured to his hair. You had seen so much worse, but you did understand where he was coming from. Especially now that it was wet, it was past his shoulders. Obnoxiously long for someone who wasn’t used to it.

“Well, it does need a trim,” You admitted with a teasing smile. This washed away any last bit of nerves he walked in with.

“Maybe a little more than that,” Bob replied, moving a hand up towards your hair and letting a piece of it twirl around his finger. “I don’t know how you manage having yours so long.”

“Well, for one, I have a solid haircut.” Another chuckle from Bob, and you let your hands fall away from him.

You turned on your heel and crossed the room to your bathroom, which was rather spacious for being tucked between bedrooms on one of the top floors of the building. Bob followed suit, close enough to you that he could be your shadow. You didn’t mind it in the slightest.

Your feet hit the tile floor when you came to a stop, putting a gentle hand out to keep Bob from bumping into the back of you. He shuffled as he came in contact with you, whispering an apology. “Sorry,” He mumbled.

“No need to apologize.” You assured quickly. Satisfied with your answer, he leaned onto your marble countertop, watching you as you dug through your things for the right tools.

His gaze was soft, as if he were admiring you in a way he wouldn’t dare say aloud. The way his eyes looked reminded you of a deer. Round and doe-like. Like he was something quiet and innocent, that could persuade anyone who came across his path to care deeply for him.

You left this thought hanging, eyes drifting back down into the organized chaos under your sink. You pulled out a few things: A pair of scissors, a comb, a spray bottle, and a couple of towels.

“Alright,” You started, standing and turning to him. A hand went to either side of his shoulders as you guided him toward the mirror, positioning him to face it. “What are you thinking? How short do you want to go?” Your fingers went to his hair, examining it. But you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy it a little when he sighed into your touch. It was barely audible. Just a slow exhale from the sensation of your closeness.

Your hand falling to his neck brought him back to his senses. “Oh- uh- I don’t know… I never really thought about it.” He told you, letting his gaze drop. You could tell he was thinking, trying to recover some memory that was stolen from him. “I can’t really remember how I used to like it.”

His voice, filled with quiet sadness, tugged your brows together. You released a soft breath, changing your expression to something a little more lighthearted. “Well, that just means you can try anything you want.” You said, attempting to cheer him up. It did work somewhat, his shoulders shifting just enough for you to notice.

“I-” He started, but didn’t really know what to ask and let the words die on his tongue. You gave him the gentlest smile you could muster, hand shifting to his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“Or…” You leaned an elbow against the counter, increasing the already dramatic height difference. “I could choose something for you.” Bob practically jumped at the suggestion, giving you a swift nod.

“Yes please,” He said, trusting you wholeheartedly. It felt like a huge responsibility, even with something as simple as this. Trust wasn’t something you took lightly, and he was willing to give you all of his.

You stood up and gestured to the toilet, the only place available for seating in the bathroom. “Alright, sit.” He, of course, immediately did.

Your hands went right back into his hair, calculating. Over the years, you mastered having a steady demeanor. One that was solid and unchanging. This usually came off as cold and closed off to anyone who didn’t know you, and a fair few who did. But not Bob. To Bob, it was like an anchor. Something he could hang onto in his time of need. It was warm and inviting and tested and proven against any challenge he had brought so far. You hoped he still felt this way while you pointlessly massaged through his brown locks, stalling while you made yourself a plan.

He didn’t mind the delay, even letting himself sink into his seat a little more until you finally got to work. Though you secretly questioned yourself, you didn’t show it in the slightest. Nimble fingers took up the tools and began to snip away at his still-damp hair.

You stood directly in front of him, perched slightly between his knees, while you worked on the sections around his face. In your peripheral vision, you noticed the way he held his hands, as if he didn’t know where to put them. This brought a smirk to your lips, watching him silently debate with himself about a decision he wasn’t brave enough to make.

A hand slid down to the side of his face briefly, giving the skin of his cheek a delicate brush from your thumb. It was a small but meaningful movement, immediately putting him at ease again.

As if it had given him the courage he needed, he raised a hand to your waist, hesitating when he felt the subtle shift in your body. It was nothing more than surprise at the sudden touch in a place that rarely received it. Once he realized this, he settled his palm there, long fingers curling around toward your back.

You continued on after that, just like that. Only when the quiet began to ring in your ears did anything change. To fill the silence, you let out the softest hum. It wasn’t any song in particular, just a sweet melody to replace the empty lack of noise.

Bob gazed at you, having nothing else he’d rather look at. But the way he did suggested he would still be even if there was something else to compete for his focus. His stare was the same as earlier, round and gentle like a doe. No, not a doe. Something younger, softer, and fairer. He was like a fawn, still with long, wobbly legs and white spots of fur. So full of love and trust.

You faltered, unable to avoid his eyes. Some part of you was already aware this version of him was reserved for you and you alone, but it only just hit you now, slamming into you suddenly enough that it seemed to knock the wind right out of your chest.

You only let yourself lose focus for a few moments, drinking in the image of him like it was something you needed to live. After a deep breath, you regained yourself and continued, humming again as you worked through his hair. Several inches had come off already.

“Why don’t you like the quiet?” Bob asked you in a soft but rather steady voice. At first, it didn’t sound like it belonged to him.

You let a hand fall again, this time to the side of his neck. “I’m not sure.” And you weren’t. It was always something you disliked. At least, as far back as you dared remember. “It makes me restless, like I have to find something to do to fill it. But very few things have worked so far.”

He let out a gentle “Hm” in acknowledgment, absent-mindedly brushing his thumb across your side. Or maybe it was intentional, reminding you that he was still there. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right things yet.” His round eyes never strayed from their target, the stare so intense, it demanded your attention.

There was a sudden, heavy shift in the air. Tension found its way between you, laying its hand. But it wasn’t the bad kind. No. This was different.

“Maybe I haven’t,” The words were the only thing you could think of to break through, though it did very little. Bob’s eyes flickered across your face, drifting from your eyes to your nose, the arch of your brow, the curve of your neck, your lips. He didn’t make a move on it, just admired you, waiting, not yet brave enough to take the lead.

So you did, leaning in just enough to feel his breath touch your skin and nose brush against yours. He tensed at first, so you paused and waited there for any sign he was ok with this. What you didn’t know was that every second you were there, he spent scraping up any bit of courage he had.

Your other hand, which still held the scissors, remained in his hair; free fingers ran slowly through the half-cut locks. The sensation of this seemed to bring him to his senses, and, to your surprise, it was Bob who closed the space between you.

Your lips met so suddenly, it seemed to shock you. But you quickly melted into him, scissors clattering to the floor in abandonment as your hand tangled further into his hair.

Even in a moment like this, he was nothing but gentle. His free hand moved so lightly up your back, you could barely feel it. It made a shiver follow up your spine. This didn’t go unnoticed, but if anything, it made him braver. Bob used this little burst of confidence to tilt his head, inviting you in further to him, which you obliged immediately.

The kiss was slow, patient, and intimate. It was the kind of kiss that would change the way you looked at each other forever. In this case, you had a feeling that it would be for the better.

But you didn’t want to ruin it by pushing it too far. So slowly, you pulled yourself away from him, knowing he wouldn’t be the one to do it himself. There was silence at first, just the two of you locked in place, and then came your smiles. The first to laugh was you; just a light, breathy sound that came from someone whose chest felt filled with air and light as a feather. Bob was quick to follow.

You could stay there for hours without needing to move, just staring at his pretty face. How you didn’t realize it before, you didn’t know. His perfect nose, the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes sat straight from how long they were, he was gorgeous.

“You’re beautiful.” The words escaped at nothing more than a whisper, but that was all they needed to be heard. Color rushed to his nose, spreading out across his cheeks and towards the tip of his ears. This didn’t pass by you, of course. You curled a hand under his chin and pulled his face back to you, pressing the lightest kiss to the bridge of his nose. It only made the color more vibrant.

“I-I should be the one saying that to you.” Bob did his best not to seem flustered, hating how easily you made him that way. But he was never very skilled at hiding things from you. That breathy laugh left you again as you let the words hang in the air a little longer before disrupting them.

After they had settled, you spoke again, tone lightening. “Y’know, at this rate, you’re never getting your hair cut.” It brought him a little closer to his senses, his hand sliding back down to your waist.

“Sorry,” He started, doing his best to mimic your tone. “I’ve been easier to distract lately.”

You understood his meaning, and then it was your turn to blush. Although you were far better at hiding it. To combat the sudden giddy smile, you tried to make a move for your forgotten scissors. Bob, whose hands still lay against your sides, gave you a gentle squeeze. It was a halfhearted effort to keep you in place, knowing he would lose.

An eyebrow raised. “If you let me finish your hair, we can do this somewhere more comfortable than my toilet.” Your words were meant to be playful, but the suggestion that you’d be close to him like this again was enough to bring back the color he had worked so hard to remove from his face.

“R-right,” He stuttered as the tips of your fingers brushed across the rosy hue of his skin.

Your expression changed into something much softer, settling him again. Once he had relaxed completely, you went back to work, using slow, deliberate movements. It coaxed him to lean in, closer and closer each time.

His hair had dried quickly and had to be rinsed again. After that, it was smooth sailing. Bob tapped his fingers against his leg, trying not to make it too obvious how much he enjoyed the feeling of your fingers working through his locks. What he didn’t know is that every once in a while, you pretended to reposition his hair, using it as an excuse to run your fingers through it.

After you had checked and double-checked, you finally deemed it finished, stepping back to stare at it for a while. You could start to tell that the prolonged silence was making him nervous.

“Alright,” You said after a while. “Go ahead and look.”

You moved out of his way, leaning back against the wall behind you. Slowly, he held his breath and stood, navigating the ring of loose hair surrounding where he sat as he stepped toward the mirror.

You’ve never seen his eyes light up faster.

Bob’s hands went straight to his hair, examining it from every angle. It was the perfect length; not too long, not too short. If you were being honest, it was a miracle you had pulled it off so well.

“It’s perfect.” He spoke softly. The haircut was different from any he had in the past. It was refreshing, like starting a new chapter of his life.

“It’s definitely not my worst work,” You started, crossing your arms. “But I still have plenty of room f—” He cut you off by wrapping his long arms around you and burying his nose into your shoulder.

It caught you off guard, but it wasn’t unwelcome. You slid yours around his torso, letting him pull you to him. “Thank you.” His words were muffled against your clothed shoulder. You had no idea how much it meant to him.

“Anytime, Bob.” You told him, trailing your fingers gently along his lower back.

The silence that followed was different than any before it. It was easy and gentle.

It was welcoming.

A quiet sigh escaped you as your body melted into his, suddenly switching roles and tightening your embrace to keep him there. You had Bob, and Bob had you. And even though it was starting to mean something different now, it would always be that way.

And all it took was a haircut for you to realize it.

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#i love intimacy #bob reynolds #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#bob reynolds fluff

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