nathanbatemanfucker

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Hello, I hope you have a good day/night and everything is okay. I was wondering... If you could write something with Joaquin and fem!reader having painful period. And Joaquin comes up to something to make the pain go away and get her to relax, something unconventional 😏 ya know, some 🐱eating, etc... Basically SMUT, but fluff. It's okay if you don't feel like writing it, it's just a suggestion. BTW I love your work ❤️

~✨

Gentle Peaks

about this; wc: 618, pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader contents: NSFW/MINORS DNI/SMUT, oral sex (f!receiving), period pain, caretaker!joaquin, an: pwp basically but make it fluffy!!!! bc at the end of the day joaquin’s a simp. i hope you like this 🫶🏾

danny ramirez characters masterlist

You’ve spent most of the day curled up under blankets. Your cramps are relentless, the weight of them sitting heavy in your lower belly.

You’ve tried all your usual remedies—heat packs, medication, tea, even lying still in the dark—but nothing seems to help.

Joaquin notices because of course he does. He’s been watching you, the way you wince every time you shift, the way your body seems to recoil with the ache.

“Hey,” he says softly, his hand brushing over your hair. “Puedo ayudarte?”

You lift your gaze to meet his, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. You know what he’s suggesting— he’s offered before but you’ve been to shy. There’s part of you that wants it, craving the comfort and pleasure. But the other part? That part feels too exposed, too vulnerable. You feel self-conscious, unsure of yourself in this state.

“Joaquin, estás seguro?” You ask shyly. “I… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He smiles, tender and understanding, and leans down to kiss your forehead. “No te preocupes, mi amor,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “I want to help you feel better.”

You hesitate, unsure if you’re ready to let go of the tension in your body, to let him in so intimately when you feel this delicate. But Joaquin just keeps gazing at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

Slowly, his fingers brush down the side of your neck, warm and soothing, until they reach your hips. He guides you gently, lifting your legs and easing them apart with care.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” You can’t help the soft breath that catches in your throat, but Joaquin’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t rush—just keeps that soft, steady eye contact, his hands moving with a slow, confident rhythm.

When his lips finally find the sensitive skin between your thighs, you nearly flinch, the vulnerability of it making your skin heat. But Joaquin’s hands are there, cupping your body, holding you in place as he kisses you softly, slowly, the warm pressure of his mouth making the ache in your lower abdomen fade with each delicate stroke.

You exhale shakily as his tongue moves slowly against you, gentle and soft, just enough to tease, but never too much. His rhythm is slow, deliberate, as though he’s savoring each movement, each sound you make. You feel him press his mouth a little deeper, his lips curving against you in the most tender way, and the pain from your period begins to fade into something else—something much warmer, more comforting. His hands slide under your thighs, his thumbs gently massaging your sensitive skin as his mouth works against you, his breath hot against your skin.

The sensation builds, the ache inside you slowly being replaced by a new kind of tension, one that’s softer, sweeter, more pleasurable. You can’t help but arch into him, your fingers gripping at the sheets as your body relaxes under his touch. As his lips move with purpose, his tongue pressing just right, you relax completely, a soft moan leaving you.

“Shh,” Joaquin murmurs softly, pulling back to check in with you, his forehead resting against yours, eyes searching yours. “You okay?”

You nod, breathless and a little dazed, as the last of the cramps melt away. You’ve forgotten entirely about the pain, now only focused on the warmth of him between your legs and the way his touch makes you feel so incredibly safe.

He continues to kiss you, slow and steady, giving you just enough to keep you in that space between relief and bliss until it peaks. It’s a delicate orgasm, one that spreads calmly throughout your limbs. After a few more moments, he finally pulls back, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he smiles at you, tender and content.

“How was that?” He asks, mouth turned up into a smirk.

“Good,” you breathe, falling back more firmly against the pillows.

He makes his way up to lay beside you, pulling you close. “Good. I’ll always be here, hmm? Always happy to take care of you.”

lmk if you’d like to be on the nsfw joaquin taglist!

nsfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69 , @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @peacefangirl, @soularsss, @everydaydreamer, @violetpassionfruit, @seraphibunni

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Him: you better not be a man of constant sorrow when I get home

My stupid ass:

[nathanbatemanfucker]

pls reblog <33

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Also there’s something so important to me about Smoke and Stack openly saying they love each other and constantly proving that they love each other

[nathanbatemanfucker]

guys my sister said i can’t write manny fanfiction bc of the principle 😔

[nathanbatemanfucker]

*my sister talking about tommy killing manny*: i hope he tears out his larynx so he can never spit on anybody again. i hope he picks poor robin clean

[nathanbatemanfucker]

i'm still here by the way

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Simone de Beauvoir, from a diary entry featured in Diary of a Philosophy Student

[nathanbatemanfucker]

forehead press during missionary tn?? cupping your face in my hands and ragged breathing and pressing our foreheads together for a moment during a pause in missionary and you’re still inside me and everything in the world feels so so far away except for you tonight?????????

[nathanbatemanfucker]

psa clint isn’t joel miller and if you’re flattening him into a joel archetype we need to talk about race again

i’m aware they both wear plaid, have a daughter, battle with grief, and are hot covered in blood and enacting violence

this isn’t a callout i just don’t remember where i saw these specific posts about the red handkerchief and clint as a ‘blue collar’ man. but i know i’ve seen plenty of clint = joel posts floating around. 

AND i wasn’t going to say anything bc i thought i was just being gatekeepy bc i didn’t wanna see clint get the dbf treatment which would be my personal problem and i can happily write about him on my own blog how i want etc etc and i know i don’t have to read anyone else’s takes BUT then i thought about it and once again…it’s always about race… re: the post i saw somewhere about someone having a head canon about clint having a red handkerchief as a snot rag - sorry i forgot where i saw it and this isn’t an attack on whoever wrote that, but an fyi to anyone thinking about him the same way… if you’re writing a latino man in 1987 oakland—especially someone working street-level jobs or tied to criminal economies—and you think a red bandana is just a ‘snot rag,’ you’re missing major context

fyi, in 1987, color politics were not optional if you were a man of color in california. even though bloods (red) and crips (blue) originated in LA, their color codes and the larger gang culture around them were already known across the state. in northern california specifically, norteños (tied to the nuestra familia prison gang) wore red. their rivals, sureños (tied to the mexican mafia), wore blue. 

who cares? well, even though oakland wasn’t dominated by bloods and crips the way LA was (in part due to the black panthers), it had its own street crews, plus a heavy norteño/sureño influence by the mid-80s. even outside organized gangs, the association between red and gang affiliation was strong enough that wearing a red bandana could get you profiled, targeted, or attacked—by cops, by other crews, or by random people trying to read your allegiance.

if you were a latino man in oakland in the 80s—like clint—you wouldn’t carry a red bandana by accident. it would be flagging. even if you weren’t affiliated. as a street smart guy, survival would mean being hyper-aware of how you present yourself, especially in neighborhoods policed by gang dynamics and racial profiling. cops would use color displays like a bandana as probable cause for harassment searches or worse during the height of the ‘war on drugs’ and the crack epidemic. 

characters like clint—latino, working-class, street-adjacent—would have understood the consequences of being read wrong. this doesn’t mean no one ever had cloths, handkerchiefs, or functional rags. it means the color and the way you carried it mattered: what pocket, what visibility, how deliberate it looked.

throwing a red bandana in your pocket wasn’t neutral. it wasn’t folksy. it wasn’t just blue-collar roughness. it was a risk, and survival was about reading the street, not walking through it like color codes didn’t apply to you.

clint wouldn’t casually rock a red bandana like a cowboy. latino men have never had the privilege of being casual about how they're read in public, especially not in a city like oakland, especially not in the 1980s.

re: clint as a ‘blue collar’ character there’s a difference between being ‘blue collar’ and being trapped in criminalized labor. wearing a plaid shirt and working with your hands doesn’t automatically make someone a blue-collar worker in the traditional sense. 

blue collar historically refers to wage labor—construction, manufacturing, trade work—where the worker is paid (poorly) but still operating within the boundaries of legal employment. union jobs. often unionized labor, tied to systems that, at least in theory, protected workers through collective bargaining, benefits, and job security. those protections were never equally available, especially to workers of color, but they existed as part of the larger working-class structure. 

clint’s labor isn’t protected. it isn’t recognized. it’s criminalized. he’s not just a man doing rough work for low pay—he’s disposable labor, surviving in a system that sees him as expendable from the start. calling him ‘blue collar’ erases the fact that he’s not inside the working class safety net. he’s on the outside, paying off debt with violence he didn’t choose.

it carries a specific context of class exploitation, yes, but it’s still different from the kind of criminal coercion characters like clint are caught in.

clint is not a proud working man making an honest living. his entire arc in freaky tales is about being forced into violent labor to pay off inherited debt he had no choice in. he is not rough and gritty because he chose a rugged life. 

he is rough because he was born into a system designed to keep him indebted, desperate, and expendable. he’s not working a blue collar job—he’s surviving in a criminal economy that feeds off people like him, using violence he doesn’t even want to enact just to stay afloat.

flattening clint into a vague ‘marlboro man’ archetype (joel coded)—rough clothes, kind heart, good intentions—it strips away everything sharp and painful about his actual story. it whitewashes the complexity of being a latino man criminalized by birth and survival, not by choice. it reframes his struggle as a generic americana fantasy about working-class virtue, when what’s actually at stake is how structural violence forces people into roles they never asked for.

especially when it’s a latino character, this flattening isn’t neutral. it erases the realities of racialized labor, racialized criminalization, and survival. clint’s tragedy isn’t that he’s a gruff tough guy with a soft interior. his tragedy is that he was forced to become violent in order to pay off a life he was never allowed to own, and he carries that weight without any guarantee of getting free.

you can’t understand clint if you don’t understand that. and if you’re not willing to sit with that discomfort, what you’re writing isn’t really him—it’s just a projection of a character he was never allowed to be.

clint and joel might overlap in aesthetics, being single girl dads, and physical strength—but reducing clint to a copy of joel misses everything that actually defines who he is, and why his story matters.

joel miller is a texas man—a man shaped by frontier mythology, southern survivalism, deep mistrust, and violent individualism. he is, by his own admission, a man whose grief and guilt hollowed him out so badly that even his brother was scared of him. he’s not just traumatized; he’s actively dangerous, closed off, and isolated. his story is about losing his humanity and clawing parts of it back, maybe too late.

clint is not that. clint is an oakland man—east bay, west coast, working-class and criminalized, not because he chose violence but because he was born into debt he could never pay off. he’s an underdog, not an antihero. 

he’s soft with his woman, he lights up under her attention. he’s goofy in the video store with the clerk. he’s not some hardened loner who scares everyone around him. he’s just a man trying to survive a system that was designed to use him up.

when you flatten clint into joel, you’re misreading two characters with different emotional cores and fetishizing the aesthetics of pain and ruggedness while ignoring race, class, place, and survival context.

clint isn't a texas cowboy. he’s not steeped in frontier violence or manifest destiny myths. he’s a west coast underdog who knows every step he takes could get him crushed, and he still tries to protect the people he loves without letting it rot him from the inside out.

the tragedy of joel is that the world took everything from him and he let it turn him into something colder, crueler.

the tragedy of clint is that the world gave him no choice- he says he was born into breaking bones to pay off his father’s debt, and he still tries to hold onto his softness anyway.

if you can’t tell the difference, you’re not seeing clint, you’re just projecting a fetishized joel trope onto another character… 

[nathanbatemanfucker]

[nathanbatemanfucker]

[nathanbatemanfucker]

hi! are you still working on your joaquin torres x winter soldier reader series?

hi, yes i am! last thing posted for it was earlier this month, you can find it here. next bit should be posted before the end of may :)

[nathanbatemanfucker]

happy april 30th!

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Braveheart

summary: joel helps you in the middle of a panic attack.

pairing: joel miller x reader

contents: panic attack, firearm mention, illusions to ptsd, romantic tension, soft!joel, a kiss!

wc: 1,459

an: was thinking about joel’s panic attack from season one & wanted to write him helping reader bc i can!!! bc he’s alive and well!!

pedro pascal characters masterlist

You don’t notice what’s happening to yourself right away, you never do.

It’s late. Patrol is done for the night, and you and Joel are back in Jackson, sitting outside the weapons shed, oiling down your gear. The firepit between you crackles, burning hot, but the chill in the air has teeth. Despite the cold, despite the nature of life these days, it’s peaceful.

Quiet in a way you never take for granted.

You’re not talking much. Joel doesn’t need to fill silence. That’s one of the things you like about him; how he lets the quiet be a comfort instead of a punishment.

But then he says something. It’s a simple comment about the western trails being clear. It's benign, or at least it should be. The western trails hold meaning. They were practically your second home at one point— one you got sent out on alone.

You go completely still just at the mention of them, your mind allowing in scenes you try to forget.

You don’t know why it hits you the way it does. Maybe it’s the smoke in the air coupled with the flick of a memory you didn’t mean to touch. But suddenly your chest is tight, your ears are ringing. The world feels ages away, blurred at the edges like you’re not with Joel sitting by a fire in Jackson anymore.

You don’t realize how still you’ve gone until Joel shifts beside you.

“Hey.”

You blink, trying to answer but the words don’t come, a soft sound in the back of your throat. Your hands feel wrong, light and heavy all at once. You can see yourself, see Joel like you’re floating too far above your own body.

“Hey.” He repeats, voice lowering. “You with me?”

Your breath stutters. You try to inhale but it’s like trying to take a breath in through a straw. Your chest goes tighter.

You wish you could say you’re fine, brush it off, and joke about zoning out. But you can’t— you can’t move, can’t breathe right, let alone lie.

There’s a rustling beside you, then Joel crouches in front of you, knees popping, his expression calm but focused.

“All right,” he murmurs, “I think you’re havin’ a panic attack. That’s all it is.”

All it is.

Like it’s manageable, like it doesn’t feel like the world is forcing your chest to cave in.

You barely register when he takes your hand. He does it gently, so painfully gently. There is no tug or rush, just a warm, steady grip that makes you feel here, even when everything else feels far away.

“Can I show you somethin’?”

You can’t nod, but you don’t pull away. You force your eyes to flutter and it’s enough for him.

Joel guides your hand forward, rests your palm flat against his chest. Right over his heart.

“You feel that?” he asks.

You do…eventually. The beat of it like a drum, the solid warmth of his chest. How strong, slow, real Joel is with you right now. It anchors you, because if he feels so real underneath your fingertips, aren’t you?

“I want you to match it,” he says, like he’s done this before. “Don’t overthink it. Just breathe with me.”

You try. The first breath stutters in your lungs, but Joel’s still watching you, breathing slow and deep like you can sync to him. And somehow, you do; little by little, the tightness eases. The tremble in your body evens out.

He keeps his hand over yours. When you look up, his eyes are already on you. Quiet, and encouraging, shining with familiarity in a way that undoes you.

“I didn’t realize,” you rasp finally. “Thought I was just being… weird.”

Joel shakes his head. You notice that his hand stays where it is. “You weren’t. You got hit by somethin’. Happens more than folks admit.”

Your voice breaks a little. “I’m sorry.”

His fingers tighten around yours just slightly. “Don’t be. You don’t owe me an apology for bein’ human.”

You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let go. Not until you stop trying to run from it—from him.

“Why’d you notice?” you ask. “Why’d you know what was happening?”

He hesitates but eventually is honest. “Because I’ve had ’em too.”

The idea of Joel, the one who’s always composed and grounded, the one who people look to as a pillar falling apart like that twists something sharp and tender in your chest.

“When?”

He exhales shakily, looking toward the fire. “First time was years ago, right after Sarah. Thought I was dyin’. My heart was racin’ and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I laid in the dirt behind a gas station and thought that was it.”

He thought that was it? He sounds as if he was so resigned to drifting away, to letting the panic take him under. You’re silent, watching him. His eyes have gone far away, but his hand is still on yours, and his touch is still gentle.

“Tommy found me,” he adds after a beat. “Didn’t say much, he just sat with me. That helped more than anythin’.”

You swallow hard. “So that’s why you stayed with me.”

Joel looks at you again. His voice is lower now, almost rough. “I’d stay anyway.”

Quiet stretches between you, laced with the soft sounds of Jackson. The fire pops, the night sighs, and the weight of his words settles somewhere behind your ribs.

“I didn’t expect you,” you whisper.

He tilts his head, not understanding.

“To be the one who noticed,” you clarify. “To be the one who… stayed.”

Joel’s eyes soften. Not in pity but in something else, something warmer. He lifts his free hand, caressing your hair, slow and hesitant like he’s not sure he should. But when you don’t flinch, he lets his touch linger.

“I notice you more than you think,” he says.

All you can do is look at him, his words winding you. Look at the way the firelight dances along the sharp lines of his face, at the silver in his hair, at the steadiness that you’d come to rely on without ever naming it.

You think about the way he always shows up. The way he knows how to help without making someone feel like they owe him. The way he touches you now—not like you’re broken, but like you’re his.

“I think I’ve been waiting for this,” you say quietly.

“Waitin’ for someone to see you?” he asks. “Or waitin’ to let ‘em?”

Your chest pulls tight again—but not with panic. With anticipation and bravery. With honesty.

“Both,” you admit.

Joel’s eyes fall to your mouth, then flicker back to your eyes. “I see you,” he says. “I’ve seen you.”

The space between you narrows. His forehead tips toward yours—not touching, but close enough you can feel his warm breath.

You don’t kiss him; not at first.

But when he takes your hand again, presses it back to his chest like a vow, and murmurs, “Still right here. Whenever you need it…”

That’s when something in you breaks open.

You don’t crumble or fall apart— it feels like being freed. Like letting yourself go. Like a lock unlatching or a coveted breath finally exhaled.

You lean in slowly, just a few inches, just enough to ask the question without words. Your eyes stay trained on his, and as far as you can see there is no fear. They’re warm, almost amber in the fire light.

Joel doesn’t pull away. His hand tightens just slightly at the back of your neck, to ground you, a reminder that he’s here. And then he closes the last of that space, kissing you.

It’s not a dramatic kiss. It’s not ravenous or desperate. It’s smooth, syrupy.

It’s full of every moment you didn’t let yourself want this—every look, every silence, every small act of care that now blooms into something more.

His mouth claims yours with that same quiet certainty he carries in everything he does. When he kisses you, it’s with reverence. Like he’s known for a long time this might happen—but wasn’t going to take it until you were ready to meet him there.

Joel takes his time; kissing you and kissing you and kissing you. Ignoring the ache in his knees, letting the worry of being seen slip away. There is just your mouth on his, and you taste as sweet as he’s imagined.

When you part, you don’t pull away far, just enough to see him, to see his eyes. Bright and warm and full of adoration. Yours look much the same.

You let your forehead rest against his, and whisper, “Still here?”

“Still here,” he answers, just as softly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

lmk if you’d like to be on the joel miller taglist!

joel miller taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @veritable-trash, @yesjazzywazzylove-blog, @lowrisemiller, @ficsavin, @diedorleft, @meetmeatyourworst, @amyispxnk, @marc-spectorr, @luzhesrozes, @arsonhotchner, @ashmiller

[nathanbatemanfucker]

guys i have to write a fic where joel helps reader with a panic attack, i have to do it, and i have to do it SOON

[nathanbatemanfucker]

source: x