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lending a helping hand | joaquin torres

summary: a big client’s request for a custom art piece has clouded your mind the past few weeks, leaving you stressed and tensed. it was a pain to be around, so joaquin had no choice but to confront you and support you. he’ll help you get unblocked, he insists, no matter how creative it gets.

warnings: mdni. porn with plot (sorry idk how to write porn without plot, maybe one day </3), oral (f!recieving), f!masturbation, fingering, use of sex toys, joaquin’s a perv and mean sorry, cursing, roommate!joaquin, joaquin does manhandles reader but this doesn’t come from a size-exclusivity perspective it comes from a “that man is captain of the air force and the current falcon and even though hes only 5’9 he’s strong asf and i believe that he’s such a whore he’ll go anything to get that cookie” perspective, i did not proof read (everyone say thank u lexiepoo @sortagaysortahigh)

wc: 6.4k

-

You’ve been so damn tense. The slamming of the cabinets, the constant murmuring to yourself, the one word answers in every conversation—it was driving Joaquin up the walls. He hates it, every second of it.

And the worst part? He’s so sure that you don’t even realize what you’re doing.

Sitting at the small dining table, Joaquin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Milk drips from his cereal spoon, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he focuses on finishing his prayer to any entity above—the one he started when he heard your bedroom door open—before finishing his bite.

In the kitchen, you’re oblivious to his antics. Oblivious to everything it seems, Joaquin complains internally, as he watches the fridge door slam. The contents inside are rattling from the sheer force. Next comes the mugs and cups cabinet, then the pantry door, then you leave the open milk container on the counter before you finally finish making your one cup of coffee. By the end of it, Joaquin’s head is hanging over his breakfast in defeat.

“Morning,” you quickly offer, before you’re shuffling out of the communal space.

“Don’t do it.” Joaquin whispers to himself. Your art room door opens and closes with a slam. “Fuck,” he curses, cringing. He pinches the space between his eyes, feeling a familiar headache starting to form.

This can’t go on any longer.

-

Joaquin gives you two hours to yourself. Truthfully, moreso for his sake than yours, but that’s neither here nor there. After a quick at home workout, tidying up the living room (and the kitchen, thanks to you), and eating a late morning snack, he knew he couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

He imagined that you’d be working diligently on some outline, crumpled sheets of paper all around you by the time he walked in, so imagine his surprise when you were doing exactly…nothing.

Your door is a bit creaky, and Joaquin made a mental note to WD-40 it later, but when his eyes finally land on your form things are much worse than he anticipated. Forehead flat against the desk in the room, you’re hunched over in obvious defeat. His eyes flicker over to the mug of coffee from this morning, spilled on the ground on top of a canvas with pencil marks all over it. Wow.

“Get out.” It was muffled thanks to the wooden furniture acting as an insulator. Groggily, you lift your head up, to look at Joaquin.

Obnoxiously shirtless with stupidly low sweatpants on, Joaquin’s hands were on his hips, a look of chastisement on his face. “Dude.” It’s all he says.

“Joaquin,” you whine. He needs to leave. Your head is all over the place and the last thing you can afford is a distraction. And that’s what he is: a distraction. “Leave me alone, I can’t go with you to the plant nursery to get more stuff for your cacti today, okay? I’m swamped.”

He sighs your name. Though Joaquin can admit that your unkempt hair coupled with the ‘U.S AIR FORCE’ tee you stole from him that’s currently sitting on your shoulders is one of his more favorite looks on you, the scowl you’re wearing with it is killing him.

“Seriously, Joaquin,” you insist, voice grumbling, “Please leave.” Your hand grasps at some loose papers, picking up a pencil, a clear dismissal. Both of you know that grabbing all that stuff means nothing, because you have no ideas to work with. “And put on a shirt while you’re at it. It’s 60° you freak.”

-

You stay locked in your art room for the next several hours before Joaquin comes barging in again.

Greeting him with a shout, you’re about to kick him out again when he walks around your easel and grabs you from the stool you’re sitting on, forcing you to stand.

“Hey!” you protest, “Joaquin, watch it!”

Joaquin’s grip loosens momentarily as he squats down. You’re lost on what his actions are until he hoists you over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

“What the hell,” you shout. “Are you insane? Joaquin!”

He doesn’t even flinch, and you can only watch helplessly, upside-down, as the floor changes from various stained white tarped floors to the house’s dark wood floors, Joaquin repositioning you to the living room.

You fall onto the couch with zero ceremony and you feel like a sack of flour from his actions. Scrambling to situate yourself, you sit straight up on the couch and start to stand when Joaquin holds his palm up.

“You’re avoiding the hell out of me.”

“I’m busy!” you hiss.

“You’re being a menace to every door in this apartment.”

You wince, “That’s…my bad.”

“You’re not making any progress on this commission.”

His words initially strike anger in you, that frustration that’s been haunting you the past week coming up to bite. But Joaquin watches as your lips part, and jumps in before you can yell at him again.

“You’re blocked,” Joaquin states. The firmness of his tone is gone, instead replaced with a softer version of his voice, though his words insist truth.

You bite down on your bottom lip, eyes closing momentarily as you take in his words. Then you let out a big sigh. “Yeah,” you admit, slouching back into the couch. “Yeah, I’m blocked.”

At your confession, Joaquin drops the act and plops himself next to you. The couch dips dramatically under his weight, letting out a whoosh of air. Matching him, you slump back into the couch with a pathetic sigh, blowing raspberries with your lips.

You glance at him for a second and Joaquin raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for you to say something. You simply shake your head.

“Just take a break,” Joaquin offers.

“It won’t help,” you groan, dropping your head against the back of the couch to stare up at the cracked ceiling.

He shifts, turning his body to face yours. An arm wraps around the back of the couch, Joaquin suggests that you need to “stop trying to force it.” His other hand waves in the air, “I don’t know go touch some grass or something, maybe it’ll help.”

Eyes averting from the ceiling, you glare at him through your peripherals. You groan, “Maybe I should just call them and tell them I can’t complete this commission.”

Joaquin’s response is swift, “That’s quitter talk.”

“Well, I’m quitting,” you sulk.

He simply ignores you, and there’s a brief pause. If you listen close enough, you could hear the gears starting to turn in Joaquin’s head.

“Let me help you.”

You laugh curtly. “Yeah, how?”

-

“I hate you,” you squeeze out between huffs of breaths.

“Come on, give me another. You can do it,” he grunts, voice stupidly optimistic.

“Joaquin!” you whine, lowering your body with your elbows bent. Your chest brushes against the floor and you stay there for a bit.“Working out is not going to solve my problems! Your stupid workout is just going to kill me.”

For every push up you do, he does five, even now, through your complaints. Down then up. Down then up. He continues, all while turning over to look at you with a wide grin. “Yeah? But you were doing so good,” he teases, with slight strain in his voice.

It makes you lose focus temporarily, mind interpreting his words a bit differently than the given context, but you scold yourself. Shaking your head of the thought, you fail to give Joaquin an answer as you push yourself back up, locking your elbows.

You had about three more in you before you flopped ungracefully chest first into the floor. Rolling onto your back, you feel your chest rise and fall rapidly. Your face is warm and your heart rates fast. Turning your head, you look over at your roommate.

Big mistake.

Joaquin is unperturbed by your actions as he follows through with the rest of his set. Mid-rep, his biceps flex as he lowers and lifts himself in a controlled, almost lazy motion. There’s a sheen layer of sweat, barely perceivable, lining his arms and neck. The white tank top he wore left little to imagination. Your eyes trail his vein—that vein—that runs along his forearm, sticking out prominently.

You swallow harshly.

Annoyingly, almost as if he can feel your gaze on him, Joaquin looks over at you with a smirk before giving you a wink. “Impressive, right?”

He’s compliment-fishing. It’s something he does it all the time, to which you simply ignore. But this time it does something to you.

The tight workout shirt sticks to you uncomfortably, and you’re sure it has nothing to do with your sweat. You feel your nipples start to tighten underneath the sports bra you wrestled your way into this morning, and your own breathing starts to come out laboured despite recovering from the work out long ago.

You can only hope that Joaquin thinks it’s due to the push ups.

His dog tags clink against each other, but you’re hardly focused on the sound of that, ears instead trained to pick up on Joaquin’s grunts and breathing.

Before your thoughts can get any more inappropriate about your roommate, he drops with an exaggerated groan. Matching your position, Joaquin turns to lay on his back before turning to look at you. He interprets the daze look on your face as something else, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, maybe we need to try something else.”

-

The condensation from your slushy is pooling on your thigh, where it’s currently resting. Your gaze is up at Joaquin’s ceiling as you twist yourself back and forth on his gaming chair.

The beverage was refreshing after your thirty minute walk, which the two of you only took as a relief from your disastrous baking attempt that ended with two dozen burnt muffins lining the bottom of your trash bin.

Upon coming back home with your drinks in hand, the two of you just shared a quiet look before walking straight past your living room and into Joaquin’s room.

The baking attempt came after the elementary school art project, and that ended in the floor being covered with scraps of colorful construction paper and glitter glue on every surface. Not to mention the Wii controllers stuck in the wall after an especially competitive session of Mario Kart that came before the art project…

They’re all problems for later.

You hear Joaquin slurp loudly on his large drink that was already nearly finished. He sat criss-crossed on his bed, staring at you. “Have you ever considered that you’re having a different…kind of block?”

You stop your spinning, head lolling over to look at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

His eyes match yours, head tilting to the side as he observes you. Joaquin is biting his straw as he looks at you with deep contemplation. “When’s the last time you got laid?”

You sit upright in his chair, the condensation sliding off your thighs. “What the hell?”

Joaquin’s expression remains unchanged, face still stoic and deep in thought. His eyes start to trail from just your face, scanning down the length of your body as though he can just tell the last time you’ve had an orgasm just by looking at you.

“Stop it!” you throw the keychain that you crafted for Joaquin at his chest, grabbing it from where it sat on his desk.

“Answer the question.” He doesn’t even flinch at your assault, straw tucked between his teeth, nibbling on the plastic as he stares at you.

“No,” you protest. “None of your business is when.”

He’s quiet for a second before leaning back, but you pay no mind, too preoccupied with how flush you were suddenly feeling despite the cold, icy beverage on your skin. Your skin prickles with heat, like every nerve ending in your body was lighting up all at once.

The audacity of the question, how bluntly he asks you, it leaves your head spinning. It’s not like you and Joaquin have never talked about sex, you most definitely have. Hookups, short-term relationships, any time one of you needed the house to yourself or had guests staying over—it was normal enough. But you never talked about it like this, and he especially never looked at you like he was dissecting every tension wound inside you.

You squirm in the chair, thighs pressing together instinctively. “What is wrong with you?” you resort to scolding him. It was a poor attempt at deviating his attention.

When he doesn’t answer, you figure he’s dropped the topic, and your heart finally starts to return to a normal rhythm.

“What happened to that cute, pink vibrator you used to use all the time?”

Your jaw drops in complete and utter mortification. “What?” you squeak. Lips parted in disbelief, it takes you several seconds to remember how to breathe. Whatever normal circadian rhythm your body managed to rediscover goes flying out the window at Joaquin’s words. It’s not the embarrassment alone, but the insinuation of his words—how much he remembers. You hate the way it makes you clench your legs together a little bit tighter and the way a shot of electricity runs through your stomach. “What is your problem!”

You don’t know what you expect Joaquin’s expression to be, you don’t know if you even have it in you to look at him. Maybe amusement, his usual teasing grin on his face. Or embarrassment, cheeks slightly flushed from his brazen behavior. It’d be understandable, it would be manageable.

What you don’t anticipate is how utterly serious he looks. With his chin tilted down, Joaquin looks up at you through his curls. He’s leaned forward on his bed, elbows on either knees as he stares at you. The slushy cup is an ironic contrast between his large, calloused hands. His voice is lower than his usual cheery tone, “Maybe your pent up frustration has nothing to do with your art. Maybe you have a different kind of pent up energy.”

You swallow hard. Joaquin’s eyes are locked into yours, and you feel stuck. Even if you tried, you couldn’t look away from him. Your body was reacting faster than your brain can catch up; it would be a lie to say your panties weren’t feeling a bit sticky from his attention. But it’s Joaquin, you reason. How serious could he really be?

So you force a laugh. “Alright, thank you,” you say pointedly, but your voice is shaky. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis, but I’m fine.” You’re stuttering at this point. “My orgasms, er, sex life, it’s…it’s fine.”

You’re lying. And Joaquin is well aware of it.

“You sure?” he tilts his head, teeth biting down on his inner lip. It was clear he was trying his best to hold back a grin and for a second you’re annoyed at how close the two of you are. He knows everything apparently.

Your mouth opens and a humorless chuckle falls past. “I’m not—this is not—” you huff, unable to come up with any retaliating commentary. “You’re being fucking perverted right now.”

The words hold little bite and Joaquin knows it, because all he does is offer a casual shrug. “Maybe.” he confesses, bringing his slushy cup back up to his lips. “But I can’t really do much about the way you whimper when you think I’m not home.” He gives you a cheeky smile, “Thin walls.”

Your hands tighten around your drink, which is mostly just ice now. The cold does nothing to curb your body now which is building and building with every word that passes his lips. An ache is growing between your thighs, one you’ve been trying to ignore, but it’s no use. Not when Joaquin is looking at you like he does.

Joaquin doesn’t look away from you when he admits all the time he’s heard you, doesn’t take it back with his usual laugh and joking mannerisms. He just stares at you—relaxed and smug—like he knows that you’re a thread away from giving in.

You need to say something. Anything. But you can’t, all the synapses in your brain have stopped working as the two of you just look at each other.

The atmosphere in the room has changed—thick and pressing, becoming impossible to ignore, and you know it’s not just you who feels that way as Joaquin’s eyes begin to darken with a playful gleam that you’ve never seen before.

There’s a decision to be made here, and you know it’s yours. His gaze drags over you, and you feel sparks on your skin as he does. Joaquin is being patient, though, waiting quietly for you. His eyes soften at your hesitation. “I’m just saying,” he starts, “You can’t get inspired until you get inspired.”

It snaps you out of your daze a bit, his wording making you laugh. You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking, and for a moment the weight pressing down on your chest lifts. “You’re ridiculous,” you tell him. And he is. Because it’s Joaquin—he’s your best friend. It’s the same guy who just DIY’d a banana muffin recipe with you because the two of you didn’t have bananas or eggs and then bought you blue slushies when it all went to hell.

When your laugh dies down, you slowly look at him again. Joaquin is still looking at you, but it’s different now. The tension still lingers in the air, electricity zapping in the air, but there’s also a sense of normalcy. Despite the uncharted territory, it’s still just you and him.

There’s heat in the air, for all the things unsaid between the two of you, but it’s safe.

Joaquin senses the change in you without you having to say anything. Now it was your turn to look at him, bashful.

“I’d say I’d help,” he murmurs. “Let me help.”

You bite your straw, nodding at him.

Joaquin grins—it’s wide and completely mischievous—before he turns around and starts walking out of his room.

“Wait, where are you going?”

He glances over his shoulder, completely unbothered. “Go get your toy.”

-

You're up on your feet before your mind can really process it. Next thing you know, you’re ruffling through your drawers, a hiding place that you thought was secretive enough. You don’t give yourself time to talk yourself out of it, grabbing the toy and closing the drawer a little too fast.

You walk back into Joaquin’s room, but he’s not there. Stepping out into the hallway, you peak your head over the corner but the living room and kitchen seem to be empty too. You start to wonder if this was some sick joke, but then you see it—a soft glow spilling out from the other end of the wall; the light to your art room is on.

You’re confused and a bit dazed, but when you push open the door with a squeak, there he was.

Joaquins rolled up the sleeves of his fitted compression shirt. He’s kneeled down in front of your easel, a spread of open paint bottles surrounding him in a semicircle.

“What are you doing?” your voice is curious, observing as he pours a bit of each color out onto your palette. You’re starting to feel silly, one hand holding the plastic toy, the other on the doorframe. Maybe you really misunderstood what he meant. You tried not to get too miffed by the idea that you might not be cumming tonight, skin still buzzing with energy from earlier. Taking a cautious step into the room, your heartbeat quickens as Joaquin looks up at you, a familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.

The low light from your desk lamp casts a warm glow over his face, making him look even more relaxed, his shoulders slightly hunched from his kneeling position. After moving to stand, Joaquin pulls you further into the room. Looking back at you, he just gives you a smile, “Do you trust me?”

Wordlessly, you nod, a bit dumb-founded. You let him guide you through the room that’s been suffocating you the past week, compliant as he places you on your stool. You simply observe as he pulls the pink vibrator out of your hand, replacing it with a clean brush and the palette of colors.

“You’re going to paint me,” he says, a playful edge to it. You hear the challenge in his voice, as if he was daring you to rise to the occasion.

Your brows furrow, lips agape as you cast a glance at the canvas; the intimidating blank slate glares back at you. Turning to look back at Joaquin, you find that he’s no longer there. Before you can refuse, you jump at the feeling of warm palms against your thigh. Looking down, you see Joaquin on his knees. His eyes are calm, patient as he watches you. There’s a boyish grin that tugs at the corner of his lips as his hands start to massage your legs, down your calf.

“Well?” He raises a brow. “Get to it.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and the realization that you were really going to cross this line with Joaquin starts to settle in. Brush in hand, you look down at him, “This is insane.”

“So?” he smirks, eyes still locked in with yours as he brushes his lips against your inner knee. “Doesn’t hurt to try, right?” A soft kiss is placed and the action shoots right up to your core.

Shakily, you dip your brush into a primary color, painting a wide streak in the middle of the canvas. You feel Joaquin smile against your skin. Once the initial seal was broken, you set to work, dipping your brush into your paints and streaking it onto the blank surface over and over as you set the background.

Below you, Joaquin starts on a mission of his own. Slow, sensual kisses are set along your legs, first along your calves, then your knees, before he wordlessly spreads your legs further apart. Maneuvering himself, Joaquin forces his way between your legs, his wet kisses following his movements until the defined curls of his hair start to tickle your lower belly.

You’re doing everything you can not to look at him, but you can feel him everywhere.

His lips on your inner thighs, his hands trailing up your waist and squeezing, his hot breath blowing against your skin between every kiss. It has you shifting in your seat, wetness pooling between your legs. Your grip on the paintbrush is tight, knuckles whitening as you fight to keep focus.

It’s nearly impossible—every part of your body is aware of him.

A broken breath escapes you when his fingers slide underneath your shirt, the rough pads of his finger gripping the flesh of your hips. He was gently massaging the skin, his mouth continuing their ministrations on your inner thighs. The ache between your legs intensifies, deepening with every kiss he lays on you. It’s almost shameful the way your body pulses for him—desperate and needy, strung so tight you almost snap. He hasn’t even done anything yet. But the anticipation of it all—his lingering kisses, the assuring touches, the implication of what he wants you to do—it’s all too much.

You’ve been avoiding looking down at Joaquin for as long as you could, but when the entire canvas was filled with the muted shade of blue and you’ve gone over it several times, you have no choice. You lower your brush, heart hammering in your chest as your gaze finally falls.

Joaquin is already staring up, eyes heavy-lidded and warm, his lips parting from their spot at their junction between your core and thigh, wet and plump.

The sight was downright sinful.

“Stand up,” he murmurs, tone leaving no room for questioning.

With shaky legs, you rise from the seat, and even through your movements Joaquin’s hands continue to trail down your legs. He barely moves from his kneeled position, giving you just enough room to stand before him. You hate how the sight of him on his knees for you makes you feel. Delicately, Joaquin’s fingers tuck themselves into the waistband of your pajama shorts, pulling them down along with your now ruined underwear.

When Joaquin gets them down midthigh, he sucks in a breath before his palms rounded your thighs to your ass. You feel so incredibly exposed, cunt exposed to him with no barrier in between. After a quick squeeze, one of his hands makes their way back to the front, as he continues to pull your pants off.

He’s moving so frustratingly slow as he peeled your panties away from your cunt, your arousal making the fabric cling to you. At the sight of your slick, Joaquin lets out a groan— you can only whimper in response when his thumb comes up to gather some of it, dragging it down to your clit. The pressure he places is incredibly light, just a touch, and it’s not nearly enough to give you any sense of relief.

But Joaquin pays little mind to your turmoil, as he pulls down the rest of your clothes swiftly. Pushing you back down onto the seat, he pushes your legs apart. He’s no longer looking at you as he demands, “Focus on the painting.”

Your grip on the materials he passed to you has become impossibly tight, you’re afraid you might break them. Unlike before, Joaquin has your legs spread wide now—not just enough for him to fit—but wide. He has you on display for him, unapologetically.

Your legs are shaking in expectancy, waiting for him to finally do something, finally touch you where you’ve been wanting him all day. But a harsh slap on your inner thigh has you break out of your trance, looking down at him, Joaquin greets you with furrowed brows and a frown.

“Paint.”

There’s no refusing him, you realize, because if you don’t then he’ll leave you here, untouched and needy. Your nipples are tight, breasts aching for stimulation and you let out a sigh when you feel Joaquin’s blow air against your pussy. It’s making you sensitive, and he knows it, but he won’t relieve any sort of pleasure until you do what he asks.

With weak hands, you dip back into your palette, starting on Joaquin’s outline.

At this point, you have no choice but to look at him—your muse. He looks up at you with a smile of satisfaction. Taking two fingers, he dips them just past your folds. He runs his fingers through them, brushing over your hole before he makes his way up to your clit. Joaquin is making a mess of you, spreading your arousal for his own amusement rather than your pleasure. His touch is light and makes you dizzy.

Your breathing is coming out labored, lines shaky. Joaquin takes his time the same way you do, though he is more intentional.

Then, you feel his curls again, the top of his head pressing against your lower stomach as he scoots closer to you. You don’t look down, an unsteady hand making its way across the canvas. But you feel him.

His fingers are still playing with you. You feel his middle finger just ever so gently nudging against your hole, not quite penetrating yet, just there. His teasing has you gritting your teeth, and just when you’re about to push your hips forward, he licks you.

Tongue flat and warm, Joaquin licks from your hole, meeting his middle finger, all the way up to your clit. The sensation makes you lurch forward, but his free hand comes up to push you back. He repeats the action, licking you in your entirety as he pushes a finger in. You can’t help the moan that escapes, hole clenching around his penetrating finger.

He sets a brutal pace, a stark contrast from his previous teasing. Joaquin works restlessly, his finger curling inside of you every time he pushes in while his mouth gently wraps itself around your clit. There’s a soft suction, tongue flicking the nerves in a way that leaves you delirious.

But despite his preoccupation, Joaquin persists in his promise, for every time your brush starts to lower in the midst of being overcome by overwhelming pleasure, he punishes you.

A slow of your strokes meant the same for his own, the pace of his fingers becoming unhurried, despite the whine of complaint leaving you. A pause in your painting meant a pause in his sucking, mouth letting out a pop as he removed himself from your clit.

It was unfair.

But you persist, through moans and clenches, as your brush falls into the paint time and time again. Your vision is hazy, eyes shuttering with every intoxicating movement, so you’re not quite sure how much of a masterpiece you’re really creating but you don’t care. Anything to keep Joaquin moving.

Joaquin’s tongue is merciless. He flattens against your clit before drawing slow, delicate circles, just to then change his pace, tongue flicking at the swollen bundle with a teasing quickness that sends tremors down your spine. It was unpredictable, it was electrifying.

He keeps his lips sealed around you, humming lowly with every strangled moan that passes your lips. He moans against your pussy, like he enjoys the taste of you more than anything he’s ever put in his mouth, like he could live off of it. You watch as his sharp jaw flexes with effort, opening wide to take you in.

A faint brush of his stubble brushes against your thigh as he pushes his face deeper into you, tongue joining his fingers to push into your hole like his life depends on it.

One finger becomes three soon enough as he works you open.

“Fuck,” Joaquin murmured, breaking away from you for just a second. He watches the way you suck his fingers back in, the resistance as he tries to pull them out. And you watched him, curls messy, brows twitching. His lips are parted, the slightest bit of tongue peaking out, and so incredibly wet. The mark you left on him. The sight alone has you moaning.

You’re not quite sure how far you’ve gotten on the painting itself, and when you look back, a very rough outline stares back at you. Looking up, Joaquin lets out a ‘tsk’ of disapproval.

“I’m doing my part, mami,” he whispers, burying himself between your legs again. “Need you to do yours.”

“‘m trying,” you stutter, your shirt feeling so incredibly tight. You needed more. From the look in Joaquin’s eyes, he knows. He pulls all fingers out simultaneously and the sudden lack of stimulation has you keening. Hole clenching around nothing, you’re ready to drop all art supplies and get on top of Joaquin to get the job done yourself.

Before you can complain, you feel something press into you. Gasping, you feel a cold, foreign object pushing into your hole. Your toy.

Joaquin just watches as your greedy cunt sucks it in, teeth digging into his lower lip. Shifting, he groans at the feeling of his sweatpants brushing against his achingly hard cock. He’s leaking and he can feel it.

Sliding the vibrator in and out, Joaquin’s breath comes out in quick pants, matching your own. Joaquin has seen it before, so many times, and he’s heard you when you used it even more—it always left him hard, having to go back to his own room to fist his cock. But it’s different now, watching the way it disappeared inside you, over and over. Covered in your slick, soppingly, as if you couldn’t get enough. He could cum in his pants just watching.

You’re no better than Joaquin. You never knew that you could be this wet before, the sound of the toy abusing your cunt fills the low lit room and it’s so incredibly dirty. You feel no shame, though, clenching and unclenching around it as Joaquin watches, transfixed.

Hands returning to work, you start to paint what you see in front of you. You let out a loud moan, hands stumbling when he presses the On button. The toy buzzes to life inside of you, low and steady.

It’s obscene now, the squelch of the toy working your cunt, echoing in the room.

Absolutely filthy.

Joaquin finds a steady pace, one hand working expertly as the tip of the toy presses deep in you with every thrust. His other hand starts to trail upwards, rough fingers making their way under your shirt and up your skin. A large hand finds your left breast, and he gropes the flesh with a groan before finding your achingly hard nipple.

It was a lot. The vibrator, Joaquin’s pinching your nipple, his own sighs filling the room. It has you on the brink.

“Joaquin,” you whine. “‘s too much,” you pant.

“Just paint, mami,” he growls.

You have no choice. Broad shoulders, dark curls, a dazed look in Joaquin’s eyes—you try to capture it all. A loud moan slips out of you when you feel Joaquin’s lips on your hip. The new angle has the toy brushing against your sweet spot and your hips twitch in response. You go to close your legs, but Joaquin’s reflexes are quick, hand dropping from your tit to press your knees open.

“Right there, huh?” he asks breathlessly.

You can only whimper in response, staring down at him with a pleading look. You moan his name again, quieter this time, begging for release.

But Joaquin isn’t moved. His eyes flicker up, meeting yours calmly. He continues at a deliberate pace, slow and deep, as he coax you further to the edge. His thumb brushes lazy circles into your outer thigh, all while the toy continues hitting that tender spot inside you. “Painting done?” he asks.

It’s a stupid question because of course not, how can it be? How can you focus at all with the way he’s touching you?

You grip the brush like a lifeline, fingers starting to ache. “Joaquin, please,” you beg, hips stuttering to meet his pace.

But he grips your hip, pinning you to the chair. “Keep going,” he forces.

He’s a masochist, you’re convinced. He likes that you’re struggling so much, that your hands are trembling with every stroke of the brush, that your moans are unconstrained with every move he makes. He revels in it—the sight of you coming undone while trying so hard to obey him.

Joaquin leans in again, lips ghosting over the swell of your thigh. He bites you there, leaving a mark that has you hissing, before licking over the spot. Once done, he finds your clit again and your whole body jolts.

The canvas is a blur in front of you, colors bleeding into one another. Your brushstrokes are wild and uneven—a desperate attempt to appease Joaquin—because your attention is completely fragmented. Your eyes are taking in the messy painting, but your mind is focused on his mouth and the consistent rhythm of the toy. Your arms move languidly through the air, more focused on the burning that’s starting to build in your lower stomach.

You’re not sure what’s dripping more—your cunt or the brush in your hand.

It was coming in overwhelming waves, curling tighter and tighter in you with every passing second.

Joaquin doesn’t let up. His tongue continues drawing frantic circles around your clit, lips sealed in a soft, wet suction. The toy inside of you hits that devastating spot again and again in perfect cadence with his tongue. You start to lose track of everything but the heat that’s spreading through your body like a wildfire.

Your strokes start to falter, and to your immense relief, Joaquin doesn’t care. You’re panting now, gasping as you paint because you’re sure your orgasm depends on it, because even if he’s giving you a bit of leniency now, you know that if you completely stop, so will he.

You choke on a moan, hips twitching and legs trembling with effort to stay open. The muscle in your stomach tenses, tightening and tightening until something inside you finally snaps.

The palette and brush fall from your hand, hitting the floor with a sharp shatter, but neither you or Joaquin hear it. It hits you all at once, white and blinding, and you reach forward, finding purchase in Joaquin’s hair. You grip his curls tightly, and he lets out a strained groan in response, but he doesn’t stop. Your cunt clenches tightly around the toy as it pulses inside you. Joaquin continues to suction on your clit, his fierce licks turning into calculated, slow circles as he works you through your orgasm.

For every tremor, shudder, and ragged moan, Joaquin stays with his head between your thighs. Your body writhes under his touch.

After an eternity, you start to revel in the aftershocks that spread in waves. The feeling of Joaquin on you starts to be too much, and you whimper. Finally slowing, Joaquin begins to let go, tongue giving your clit one last gentle flick before pulling back. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, smoothing over the mark he left earlier. The toy slides out of you with a soft sound, and you clench around the empty space.

You watch as Joaquin leans back on his haunches, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt. His dark curls cling to his forehead in damp strands and he looks thoroughly wrecked. Lips swollen, his chin glistens with evidence of what he’s just done to you. There’s a dark, unmistakable tent in his pants, the outline of his cock stretching against the fabric. A damp patch bleeds through the front, impossibly wet and undeniable.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the curls back, before letting it fall to his lap again. His eyes are fixed on you—half-lidded and burning with restraint. His tongue darts out to taste the corner of his lip before spreading over his pearly whites, a boyish grin taking over his face.

“Let’s see this painting, then.”

-

You and Joaquin stand side by side, though your expressions are drastically different. Arms crossed over your chest, your lips are turned downward, while Joaquin has his hands on his hips with a wide grin.

“We’re not keeping this up in the hallway.” Your voice is stern as you make the executive decision. Turning, you leave Joaquin standing alone. You don’t stick around long enough to see the way he raises his arms in disbelief.

“Come on,” he shouts after you, amusement laced in every word. “This is real art!”

end.

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well 😁 if you need me i'll be writing angst now because i feel so freaked out after this and need to reconnect with my roots