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yourauthorjen · 27 days ago

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|| ALL EYES ON ME (ii) || — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | l’appetito vien mangiando— in which apparently appetite comes with eating. yet it also seems to come with your clingy bodyguard who can’t seem to keep his hands off you. or the food.

| includes: | bodyguard!joaquintorres x italianmodel!reader, flirting, some suggestive content, steamy, fluff, clingy joaquin, grumpy reader x sunshine

| word count: | 1.7k

| a/n: | from this lovely request! thank you for this idea! can be read as a part two of all eyes on you or can be read as a standalone. inspired by the song viva la vida by coldplay. to add, i am not italian so if i do portray anything wrong please tell me!

THE SPATULA IN your hand quivered slightly as you watched Joaquin reach for the saucepan for the fifteenth time in a row.

Or was it the sixteenth time?

At this point you weren’t even counting anymore.

“Back off,” you snapped, smacking his hand with your wooden spoon. “If I see you look at that goddamn pot one more time I’m chopping you up into pieces and turning you into meatballs.”

Your bodyguard smiled with an awful lot of pride for someone who had just been threatened to be turned into traditional sicillian meatballs, raising his hands in mock surrender as the grin plastered to his lips widened.

“Just trying to help, sweetheart.”

“You can help,” you said, “By not touching that fucking pot every ten seconds.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to die happy.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled, sticking your utensil back into the simmering pot of red sauce tomato sauce, a dizzying aroma wafting to your nose in return.

“You like me,” he singsonged.

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re furious.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because your cheeks betrayed you and went warm as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

It had been two months now, since Joaquin Torres had strolled into your life as your new “babysitter”. Your old bodyguard, Clint, had left you in the hands of this big baby man to take care of his new infant, and now you were stuck with this big doofus who had an unseemingly large appetite for your cooking and had a really bad habit of walking around the house shirtless.

And now that the two of you were a little more closer than your PR team would’ve liked, he had become terrible at boundaries. He clung to you like a sponge, making sad puppy eyes when you so much as walked to the other room without inviting him, or he’d spend an hour lying in your lap without moving an inch, just for you to run your hands through his hair once.

Now he was leaning against your marble counter, watching you cook, eyeing the pan like a starved hyena.

“You know what you look like?” you questioned, turning around to face him properly.

“A hot, charming man, who happens to be your boyfriend?”

“No,” you snorted, “You look like those hyenas from Lion King— what where their names?” You snapped your fingers, trying to recall, “Shenzi, Banzai, and Ed.”

His eyebrows flew to his hairline as his mouth dropped open and his posture straightened. “Seriously? Not even Scar? At least he had some dignity.”

You raised your spatula like a pointer. “Scar didn’t beg for scraps.”

He grumbled underneath his breath, before positioning himself back against the counter, legs crossed and eyes glued back onto the saucepan.

For a moment, it was silent, just the soft sound of the bubbling sauce and the occasional clinks of the wooden spoon hitting the pot.

“Ahem.”

You turned back around eyes flitting towards Joaquin as he stared at the stove, before he inhaled deeply and opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not!”

“What?” he whined, crossing his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“You were going to ask if you could have a bite.”

“It could’ve been a compliment about you!” he defended.

You gave him an unimpressed look. “Oh yeah? What were you going to say then?”

He blinked, and you could practically see the gears in his head spinning. “That… your pasta smells like heaven and I’d risk my life for a bite of that stuff.”

“Exactly,” you said, stabbing your spoon into the sauce with emphasis.

Joaquin sighed. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are,” you snorted, “You’re six feet tall and built like a damn brick wall. You probably burn three thousand calories just existing.”

He smiled smugly, the one where his eyes glinted with mischief and his grin turned crooked— one you despised and loved at the same time. “So what you’re saying is you think I’m hot.”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“I didn’t twist anything,” he said, pushing off the counter and sauntering over to you. “You said I was tall, muscular, and hungry. Sounds like every woman’s dream.”

You raised your spoon threateningly, but he was already in your space, crowding you, forcing you to back you slowly up against the counter. His hands landed on either side of you, caging you in as you shook your head, trying to muster out the words. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point,” he murmured, leaning in, brushing his nose against yours. “I could distract you all day if you’d let me.”

“Joaquin—”

He kissed you before you could finish. Soft at first, just enough to steal your breath. Then deeper, with that usual confidence of his that always left your knees a little wobbly. His hands found your waist, then your thighs, and in one swift motion, he lifted you up and set you on the counter like you weighed nothing at all.

You let out a surprised noise, which he promptly swallowed with another kiss, all heat and teasing tongue and a barely restrained laugh between your lips. And with no place for your legs to go, you had no choice but to wrap them around his waist.

“Joaquin,” you breathed against his mouth, cheeks flushed, “The pasta—”

“Can wait,” he mumbled, lips tracing down your jaw, “This is my appetizer.”

Your brain turned into fudge— like the Italian fudge you used to eat as a kid, as his fingers grazed your thigh, absolutely wrecking your common sense.

He smirked against your mouth, messy and warm, as his fingertips ghosted under your shirt. God—why was he so good at this?

“Joaquin,” you tried again, more desperate this time, even though your fingers curled around his shoulders, “Seriously, the food—”

His eyes darkened as he cupped your chin, thumb brushing softly along your jaw. “Let it burn,” he murmured, voice low and rough with want. “You taste better.”

Your heart did a ridiculous flip as he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he had all the time in the world to savor you. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him, your legs parting instinctively as he pressed between them. You could feel his smirk widen against your lips when you gasped a little, warmth flooding every inch of your body.

At that point, you’re brain had turned into pure fog as his fingers tucked your hair behind your ear, and his mouth traced your neck. “This isn’t fair,” you grumbled, palms bracing against his chest.

“Of course it’s not fair,” he murmured, “You said I couldn’t have food. You never said anything about you.”

You groaned, half in protest, half in delight, tilting your head as he nipped at that spot just below your ear that made your knees tremble.

“Okay,” you panted, shoving him away. “No more of that, not until I make sure my food’s not burnt.”

He pouted, his lips tugged downwards. “You care more about your food than me.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed, “I’m just trying to feed your grumpy ass so you stop staring at the food and me, like a crazy hyena.”

“Too late,” Joaquin muttered, following you like a lost dog as you returned to the stove. His chin landed on your shoulder like dead weight, arms snaking around your waist as he swayed you side to side. “You’re all five courses and dessert.”

“Don’t you have security cams to monitor? Maybe a rooftop to patrol?” you said, dishing the chicken you had made for the secondo. “Or I don’t know—an actual job?”

“This is my job,” he argued, as you turned to the cupboard. “To make sure you’re not… doing anything dangerous in the kitchen.”

Rolling your eyes you turned and reached out to grab a cup, but by the time you had faced Joaquin again his mouth was chewing and his eyes were blinking too innocently. Beside him, a corner of your grilled chicken had dissapeared and when your brain finally clicked he had already swallowed.

“Che Dio ti fulmini!” you seethed, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at you. “Stop that!”

His eyes met yours, tawny coloured and wide as your brows narrowed.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Joaquin smirked, “But whatever you put in that chicken is really good.”

You whacked him with the nearest thing you could find— an oven mitt.

“Ouch,” he said dryly, rubbing his shoulder like you’d just hurled a brick at him. But his lips quickly formed into a delighted grin again.

"No dinner for you," you scowled, "Keep doing this I'll feed you solo pane secco for the rest of the week.”

"What's that?" he asked smugly, grabbing your waist to spin you into a kiss.

You rapped your knuckles onto his temple before your hands found his shoulder again. "It means if you keep touching my food like that I'll feed you dry bread. Now, go set the table before I make you eat outside with the pigeons."

He groaned, burying his nose into the crook of his neck. "You're so bossy."

You smirked, mimicking his forever cocky smile. "Yet you still love me."

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