#arson writes

Time of death— 14:07.

His heartbeat sounds violent in his ears, like a cruel joke in the presence of death. Could he possibly deserve it?

“Robby. Robby?” Collins gently knocks Robby’s shoulder with her own, trying not to look concerned.

Robby blinks, the corner of his mouth turning up as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Hmm?”

“Dana’s waiting for you outside.”

“Got it. You all come find me if you need to,” he says to the lot before stepping out, his eyes meeting Dana as he closes the door behind him.

As usual, Dana wastes no time. “Kiara’s here to talk to you about the 17 year old.”

He turns on his heels, heading towards room 14. “Right, thanks.”

Dana falls in step beside him, quiet for several moments before she asks, “You okay?”

Robby wrinkles his nose, nodding. “I’m okay.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know. But I’m fine. Hour left, I’ll be fine.”

“Just one,” she murmurs encouragingly.

–

The hour felt like 10. They’d lost someone else, saved many others. Sometimes it was hard to feel in the face of loss that he’d done anything right.

The answer to that question can be saved for another day, a reckoning with god.

Robby tries to zone out and tune in all at once on his commute home, wanting to be moved by the yellow tulips planted in a school garden, by the laughter of a man and woman who walk hand and hand together down a street. Wanting to forget that his back is aching and that he watched more than one person take their last breath today. Because maybe if he can do those things, the thoughts will go away. Maybe.

When he steps into your shared apartment he knows you’re home immediately. Your things are haphazardly strewn about, keys barely missing the catching tray, shoes in the foyer, your jacket barely hanging on the kitchen counter.

He frowns, head tilting in wait for your footsteps but the apartment stays silent.

“Honey?” Robby calls out.

“Hmm?” you groan.

He’s heard that groan before and knows it very well— you aren’t feeling well. His shoes are off and bags on the floor in an instant, then his eyes are on you.

Curtains drawn tight, not a lick of light being let in besides small streams through the bedroom door. You’re curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, wrapped in one of his t-shirts, migraine cap on.

Though he knows, he asks anyway. “What do we got here?”

“Our usual suspect,” you whisper. “Shut the door please.”

“Of course,” he agrees easily, shutting the door before he joins you on the bed.

An aura migraine. You get them often even with routine treatment and prevention. Robby’s snapping back into gear before he can think about it.

“What have you taken? Did you do all the steps we established?”

You walk him through each course of action you’ve taken, opening your mouth to let him know how much medication you’ve taken when he cuts you off.

“And your pain? How’s it scaled?”

You sigh, finally opening one eye to peek at him. There are shimmers all around him, ones that would make him look magical if they weren’t making your head feel like it would explode at any minute.

“Robby,” your tone is gentle but chastising.

How many times have the two of you had this conversation? How many times have you had to remind him that your home is not The Pitt, even when there’s something wrong? That he’s safe here, that the decisions are small. Weightless. Shared.

He ducks his head, squeezing your hand. “I know.”

“I’m not one of your patients,” you remind him softly.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

It takes some strength but you raise your other him, cupping his cheek. “You can trust me to take care of myself.”

He sighs. He can trust you. He does trust you. “Sweetheart, I know, I just—“

“You’ve taught me so well. You know that I listen to you.”

You finally feel some of the tenseness in his body melt away as he rests his head more firmly into the palm of your hand.

His smiles down at you apologetically, eyes crinkled in the corners. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can get you?”

“More water. And the largest dose of cuddles.”

“Coming up. No more pain meds?”

“I’m maxed out.”

Robby frowns, trying to do the math. But that would mean…

“How long have you—“

“I didn’t even make it to my first planning period,” you admit softly, and when his frown deepens you keep talking. “You were working. We have a plan for when I’m struggling. I’m okay, Michael.”

He takes a deep breath without recognizing it. “You’re okay.”

You smile, wincing a bit. “Just the sight of you is helping with the pain.”

It’s true. You’re sure it’s a combination of the meds, the ice on your temples and yes, of course, the man that you love.

Robby brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing it gently. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

On his return, Robby helps you sit up, guiding the glass of water to your mouth. And when you’ve had your fill, you ask him again to lay down with you, scooting over as you curl up. He shrugs out of his scrubs, pulling on a fresh set of pjs before sliding in beside you and gathering you in his arms.

You and Robby have argued about it before but this— the two of you wrapped around each other, nearly fused together— is what real medicine is.

—

Robby wakes before he means to. His consciousness loads like a wave, a slow return that never fully let him go.

The room is still dark— darker even now that the sun has gone down, curtains in their same place. For a moment, he doesn’t move, he simply listens.

Your breathing is the first thing he finds. It’s steady and even, just like you. A soft exhale against his chest where you’ve tucked yourself in closer sometime during your shared slumber. One of your hands is fisted loosely in the fabric of his shirt, like you needed something to anchor yourself and chose him without thinking.

He tries to get himself stay there, he longs to stay there in the rhythm of your breath. But before he knows it his mind is starting, instincts taking over.

How long has it been since your last dose? Did you drink enough water? Is your temperature—

Robby takes a long, deep breath through his nose. He won’t go there.

His eyes close again, hoping that the squeezing motion will send his racing thoughts packing.

He knows this pattern. It builds quickly, how easily it pulls him back into something clinical, something controlled. Something that feels safer than just being here…beside you.

His hand shifts where it rests against your back, flattening there instead of moving. He doesn’t try to find a pulse, doesn’t try to check your temperature. Instead he notices how soft you feel, how good you smell beside him.

You stir slightly at the movement, your brow tightening for a brief second before it smooths again.

“Robby?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

“I’m here,” he answers immediately, softer than he expects.

You hum at that, something content and small, and press closer without opening your eyes.

The instinct is back, sharper this time. Louder.

He should ask how you’re feeling. Check for the pain? To make sure it hasn’t gotten worse, that’s okay right?

Robby swallows, his gaze dropping to where your face is half-hidden against him. There’s no strain there now and no tightness around your eyes. Just the lingering traces of exhaustion, the kind that comes after pain finally loosens its grip.

“Need anything?”

You jump a little, smiling as you crack one eye open to look at him. “A really big breakfast in the morning. I’m talking pancakes. Toast. Every carb we can find.”

“You’re hungry.”

“More hungry for this right now,” you assure him as you rest even more firmly against him.

He grins, dropping a kiss ever so gently on your forehead. He wants to feed you now, to check your vitals and maybe give you one more dose now that the night wanes on.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt before he can say anything, and you sigh, clearly content.

That’s what stops him. Your ease, your comfort as you melt more firmly again, breath warm.

You’ve told him what you need. He’s not your doctor, he’s your partner. He can settle in that even if it’s just for tonight.

His thumb moves along your arm, slow and absentminded. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, to you, to himself.

You don’t respond, already drifting again, your breathing evening back out like it never changed.

Robby watches you for a moment longer. Then, carefully, he adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it in where it had slipped down. He settles back into the pillow, his hand finding its place at your back again.

This, here is more than enough. And for tonight, maybe he believes that he is too.

Napoleon Bonaparte (remember when I said I was biased?)

"Oh, hey. Have you thought of a word we could use?" you asked discreetly since you were currently in public on a date.

"Um." Oh no. He completely forgot. He was too focused on your Sunday regular crepe date that he– Wait! That's it!

"How about… 'crepe'?"

"Crepe? Pfft, that's so like you," you chuckled. "Alright, crepe it is."

You thought it was cute, but the issue is that he actually brings up crepes during smexy time enough that it didn't work in the end…

(My brain told me it should be 'Waterloo' while edited this lmao)

So, you both settled on 'aigle', which is eagle in French (correct me if I'm wrong).

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Subaru but he doesn't know why. I'm not sorry.

Jk jk it's Beethoven.

Leonardo Da Vinci

"Tap tap tap" or tapping on any body part three times.

He's not creative (anymore).

Arthur Conan Doyle

Sherlock

Why? Because it's the best way to get his horny ass to calm the fuck down.

Vincent Van Gogh

This angel doesn't need a safe word

But just in case it's the color system. And he will ask how you're doing if he thinks for the slightest moment something is even a little bit wrong.

Theodorus Van Gogh

At 4 AM my brain went "Scooby snacks" so that's now his safe word now.

Osamu Dazai

Color system but it's "blue, orange, pink" (instead of "green, yellow, red")

Isaac Newton

Apple pie.

No I will not elaborate.

Jean D'Arc

"I need/let's take a break" or something of the like because I see him having a horrible memory (like me).

William Shakespeare

The one who needs a safe word the most this kinky playwright (derogatory)

And it's "Swagger"

Comte de Saint-Germain

Baguette

But he's referred to his dick as a baguette before so it didn't really work (I'm not sorry).

"Hourglass" sjjakajsksk

Sebastian

I… I um. I don't fucking know.

Probably something similar to Jean.

Vlad

*snorts* It's, um… Pfft. I-It's Dracula.

Charles-Henri Sanson

Color system.

P.S. I love him. Good boi. Peg him Give him love.

Johann Georg Faust

I don't know 😭

I've tried to think of one and nothing comes up

“Don’t what?” He asks, feigning innocence.

Though you can’t see him, you can hear the smile in his voice. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Ya sabes qué,” You suggest, reaching out to lazily brush his hand away from your shoulder.

He had started to rub them, massaging the tension out of your shoulders that always finds a home there. It’s sweet and you appreciate his care, but Joaquin’s touch is like a drug. Saccharine and sensual, it makes your insides warm in ways you didn’t know were possible until you fell in love with him. 

“Oh this,” He murmurs nonchalantly. His hands don’t stop, continuing to rub out the knots in your flesh. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m trying to study,” You say matter of factly.

“You’ve been studying all damn day, querida. You could use a break.”

“I can’t afford to break, the test is tomorrow. I need to cram as much information into my brain as I can.”

“You know so much already— look, it’ll be a piece of cake. You can do this, se que sí.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re the goddamn Falcon. This is important to me, Quino. All I’ve ever wanted was to be a S.H.I.E.L.D agent and I know you know how that feels. To want something so bad it feels like you can’t breathe.”

Joaquin did know. Looking up to Sam for all those years, wishing and waiting— working harder than he thought was possible brought him to where he is now. But, he’d also had you for a lot of that. Always there to make sure he was taking care of himself, that he didn’t wither away who he truly was for his dreams. He would always repay the favor; it’s what you deserve. 

“I know, querida, I know. This is important, but so are you. You’re so stressed— feel how tight you’re wound,” He murmurs, taking your hand and placing it on your shoulder. He’s right, your shoulders feel like bricks. 

“I could help with that,” He insists.

“You aren’t playing fair,” You whisper, leaning your head back against the couch as he increases the strength of his hands.

“Never said I would, baby,” He teases, planting a kiss on your forehead. “C’mon, qué quires hmm? ¿Qué puedo hacer por ti?”

You shiver at the smooth sensuality of his words but still have the mind to tease him. “Aren’t you the one who distracted me? What do you want?” 

He guides your head to one side, rubbing at the base of your neck in a way that makes you pant. “That requires demonstration. Will you be my volunteer tonight?”

“I’m your volunteer every night,” You quip half heartedly. 

“I never hear any complaints,” His lips brush your ear as he strengthens the pressure of his fingers on your scalp. “Tell me, mi amor. What do you want?”

There’s no turning back now— he’s got you right where he wants you. And there’s no place you’d rather be right now. 

“Just…help me relax a little?” You breathe, letting your eyes flutter shut.

“Mmm. Stay right there for me. Don’t move a muscle, okay?”

“Mhmm,” You hum. A whine slips from your lips when you lose contact with his warmth, but soon he reappears, his hands smoothing up your thighs. 

“Lean back, head against the couch for me.” He watches you comply, grinning as he praises you, “Good girl. Now hips up, these shorts gotta go.”

You raise your hips without any defiance, and he slips them and your panties away, discarding them across the room. You’re nearly trembling with anticipation despite the fact that he’s barely touched you. 

He notices and in typical Joaquin fashion, refuses to breeze past it. Gently, teasingly, he sinks his teeth into your thigh before soothing the spot with a kiss. “I haven’t even started yet, querida and you’re already shaking. I do that to you, hmm?”

“Mhmm,” You hum again, becoming more malleable under his touch with each second that passes.

“Just me. Now, open up,” He murmurs, using his hands to spread you open for him. “There we go, mira qué preciosa.” 

“Quino, mi amor,” You sigh, letting one of your hands drop to card through his silky hair.

The picture you two paint right now is as sensual as it is explicit. Your head thrown back against the couch, legs spread beneath the coffee table to accommodate Joaquin and his touch.

All you can think about is what it would feel like for his mouth to finally be on you. At that  thought, your brow furrows…several moments have passed and you’re still without him. You squirm against him expectantly.

He huffs a laugh, breath warm against where you need him most. “You gonna tell me what you’re wanting?”

“Joaquin,” You murmur, beginning to grow frustrated by his teasing.

“You know how much I love to hear it.” He pauses, lips hovering just inches away from your sensitive skin, his eyes dark with desire. “You’re mine, querida. You know you are.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, his possessiveness only making you ache for him more.

“Touch me, Joaquin. This isn’t very relaxing, I thought I was promised that,” You challenge, tilting your hips up further to try and close the gap yourself. The words come out sharp, but there's a flicker of need in your voice that betrays the frustration of not getting what you want.

“Alright, querida, you got me there. Stay still for me,” He commands, his own blood now burning with desire. 

He starts a slow dance of laying sweet, alternating kisses on the delicate skin of your thighs. You know that he’s done teasing by the focused trail he’s leaving, the way his hands grip you and hold you open more firmly. And then his mouth is on you, tongue flicking gently against your clit. 

Heat pools in your belly, liquid and inescapable. You rest more heavily against the couch as you press up into Joaquin’s mouth, needy and mindless with want. There’s nothing like being at his mercy– he knows all of your spots, the speed and pressure you need to tip over the edge into ecstasy. He always takes care of you, never making you feel less than adored. 

He hums into your pussy, his nose brushing at your clit as his tongue dips lower to lap at your slick with more firmness. The taste nearly drives him into a frenzy, desperate to make you cum again and again for that concentrated taste of you. But he reminds himself that this is for you. This is to melt away your anxieties, to replace all the worry in your brain and body with nothing but pleasure and security.

Even as he increases his intensity, it's still steady with the intent to savor you. You continue to tremble against him, hips falling into a rhythm to match the pace of his tongue. He lingers when he feels your breath catch more sharply or when you whimper, reveling in how responsive you are to his touch.

“Mas, Quino, please,” You plead, your fingers gripping his hair more firmly.

He groans, eyes fluttering at the mix of pleasure and pain he gets from you tugging at his locs. “You sure?” 

He wandyou to be sure because he would be happy to lay here between your legs and serve you for the rest of the night. For the rest of his life if you let him, and god he hopes you’ll let him. 

“Yes. Please. Please, Joaquin.”

“Tranquila, baby, I’ve got you. Just relax, hmm? Let me make you cum on my tongue,” He coaxes softly and at the same time so slowly, he presses a single finger inside of you. 

“God, yes,” You groan, planting one of your feet flat on the ground so that you can buck against him. 

Even with just one of his fingers you feel so full, made to take him and him alone in any way that he’ll give it.

Joaquin’s mouth grows more insistent, and he leans back to get you wetter, spitting on your clit before his tongue glides through your folds. “Yeah? Like that?”

“Mhmm,” You whimper, your chest starting to rise and fall frantically.  

“Hips down, honey, let me do all the work. Let me take care of you, okay?”

“But, I need more,” You whine impatiently, hips not stilling. 

“I’ll give it to you. Anything you want, anything you need, I’ll give to you,” He promises, pressing in another finger.

The delicious stretch winds you, the smooth movement of your hips stuttering as you succumb to him feeding your body what it needs. He stops all the teasing, stripping himself of the patience he’d built up so that he can ravage you the way you need. 

He’s as starved as you in the way he eats you out, messy and rushed, his fingers hooking to press incessantly at the sensitive spot inside you, making your legs clench around his head. You and Joaquin worked together seamlessly, the sound of his fingers inside you growing wetter and wetter as he winds you tighter and tighter.

“C’mon, querida, damelo. I can feel you. Let go,” He encourages tenderly in direct opposition of the urgency of his mouth and fingers.

It's all you need to fall over the edge, tumbling and tumbling more deeply into a pool of pleasure. Joaquin doesn’t stop, extending your high. Your hand knots further into his hair, and you pivot up against his tongue, taking all you need from him. Once he’s rung every drop from your body he withdraws his fingers, placing one last adoring kiss to your clit. 

With grace, he maneuvers from between your legs and comes to sit beside you, gathering you in his arms. “How was that? Feeling relaxed?”

“Mhmm, very relaxed,” You lean into him gratefully, feeling floaty.

He drops a kiss on your temple. He strokes your back with slow, comforting motions, a gentle reminder that even after all this, he’s there to hold you—body and soul. “Good, mi amor. Tienes hambre?”

The faint smell of his cologne clings to you as you lean into him, feeling his heartbeat under your fingertips.  “Mhmm.”

“Is mhmm all you can manage right now?” He teases.

“Mhmm.”

He laughs with his entire body, shaking the both of you. “Let me get up to get you something alright? Don’t say mhmm.”

“Alright,” You agree through a laugh.

He kisses you one last time before hopping up, heading towards the kitchen.

“Joaquin?”

He looks at you over his shoulder, raising a brow at you playfully, “Mhmm?”

“I love you.”

His face softens, grin goofy and adoring. “Te amo.”

—

“See? I told you you could, mi amor. Don’t doubt my girl or my methods,” He cups your cheek to kiss you breathless before producing the bouquet of flowers he hid behind his back. “I’m so proud of you.”

Your smile is childlike and giddy as you take the flowers from him. Leaning in once more you softly brush your mouth against his. You’re grateful for his presence, his support, his unwavering belief in you. “Gracias, Joaquin. No pude hacerlo sin ti.”

“¿Ah, sí? I’m the secret sauce, baby?” He teases lowly, crowding you against the wall despite being in a S.H.I.E.L.D testing facility.  

You feel your skin start to warm, butterflies breezing through your tummy. 

“You still feel warm, querida.” His voice dips, low and knowing. “Did I work you too hard?”

“You’re the worst.”

“And somehow the best. I can do it all.”

You roll your eyes playfully, pushing him back so that you can start down the hall. 

“We absolutely can’t work together in the field if you’re going to be so brazen,” You muse, studying the perfect bouquet in your hands. 

“Aw, cmon, I thought it would be fun. Let me change your mind,” He calls after you.

“You’ll have to work harder than you did last night to change my mind.”

His grin widens. “Challenge accepted.”

to join the joaquin torres taglist you must be 18+!

That’s where Steven finds you.

He lingers a few paces away at first, watching the way you worry at your fingers, shifting your weight as you lean toward the door. You look unsure, hesitant—and he recognizes the feeling instantly.

He clears his throat softly as he approaches, the sound almost swallowed by the rain. “Forgot your umbrella, yeah?” His voice is careful, like he’s afraid to intrude.

You glance back, caught off guard by the warmth in his tone. “Left it at home,” you admit, smiling faintly. “I could’ve sworn the forecast said only a drizzle.”

Steven huffs a small laugh, one that curls at the corners of his mouth before he can stop it. “They never get it right, do they? Can’t trust a meteorologist here.”

“They all need to be tested again,” you say through a laugh. 

He shifts, glancing from you to the storm and back again. His fingers tap restlessly against the strap of his bag before he blurts, “I, uh— I’ve got mine. If you don’t mind sharing, that is. I can walk you home. Not far, is it?”

Your first instinct is to say he doesn’t have to, that you can manage on your own—but something in his face stops you. There’s a shy hope there, a nervous kind of courage.

“That’s really kind,” you say instead. “If you’re sure.”

He nods quickly, eyes shining with eagerness. “Yeah, of course. I mean—yeah.”

When he opens the umbrella, it’s a little crooked, one rib bent from some past mishap. He steps close enough that your shoulders brush, and the two of you step out into the storm.

For a moment, it feels like you’re suspended in your own small world—just the two of you beneath the thin canopy, rain against the fabric, your breaths mingling in the damp, cool air.

The walk begins in silence. London hums around you—cars hissing through puddles, the steady percussion of rain on rooftops. Every few steps, Steven tilts the umbrella slightly more toward you, his sleeve darkening where the drops find him.

“Hey, you’re getting soaked,” you murmur, glancing at his shoulder. 

He shakes his head quickly. “It’s no worries, I’ve been through worse, trust me. Once the ceiling leaked in my flat—woke up to rain coming straight through the light fixture. Nearly fried me alive, that did.”

You laugh, soft and unexpected. “That sounds like something out of a cartoon.”

He grins at the sound of your laughter, like it’s something rare he’s been lucky enough to stumble upon. He wants to bottle it, keep it safe for just his ears to listen to.  “Yeah, well, suppose that makes me the punchline.”

You glance over at him—his curls damp at the edges, the faintest smile still tugging at his lips—and something inside you flutters. You’ve always thought Steven was handsome, always thought that whoever got to come home to him was highly favored. You look away quickly before he can catch your steady gaze.

A quieter street leads you home, lamps casting gold across the slick pavement. The city noise fades to a hush, replaced by the rhythm of your footsteps and the faint sound of your hearts keeping time.

“So,” you start, a little shyly, “do you walk all of our coworkers home in the rain, or am I special?”

He nearly stumbles at that, eyes wide. “Oh no. I mean, not that you’re not special, or— you are, obviously, I just—” He stops himself, sighing in a way that almost hints at frustration. “I don’t usually do this, no.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth. You nudge his shoulder with your own, “Guess I’m lucky then.”

He looks down at his feet, pink creeping into his ears. “Yeah. Guess we both are.”

The umbrella dips as you step over a puddle, and your hand grazes his—just the briefest touch, but it sends a shiver through you both. He freezes for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking to yours, and the air between you feels suddenly fragile, electric.

“Thanks for walking me,” you murmur. Its all you brain can come up with, what with the way your fingers tingle from the accidental touch. 

He swallows, voice low. “Anytime.”

The way he says it—so soft but so certain—makes your chest tighten. You want to believe he means it. You think maybe he does.

By the time you reach your building, the rain has nearly thinned to a mist. The edges of the umbrella drips steadily onto the stone steps, and the light above the door casts everything in a soft, golden glow.

Steven lowers the umbrella, shaking off the water. “Well,” he says, shifting his weight, “mission accomplished.”

You smile, pulling your hood down in salute. “Yes, you’ve gotten me safely home. Not a drop of rain on me. Thank you, Steven.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Was nice, actually. The walk, I mean. Bit of company never hurt, right?”

You study him for a moment—the damp curls plastered to his forehead, the faint flush in his cheeks, the nervous way he can’t quite meet your eyes. There’s something disarming about him and his nerves, something that makes your own heartbeat trip.

You take a half step closer. “I’ll always mention it. Means a lot to me.”

Before he can respond, you lean in and kiss his cheek. It’s light, quick, and leaves a burning warmth on his rain-chilled skin.

He blinks, startled, flustered— satisfied. “Oh, right. Um— goodnight then.”

You can’t help the small giggle that escapes you as he fumbles with the umbrella, starting to walk away in the wrong direction. He’s a few steps down the street when you call after him.

“Wait, Steven!”

He turns, half-collapsed umbrella in hand, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, voice gentle but sure. “I got some leftover tomato soup and I make an excellent grilled cheese.  It’s nothing fancy, but…”

He stares at you for a moment then blinks once, twice. “You— you mean, come in? Me in your flat? For dinner? ”

You smile encouragingly, tilting your head. “Yeah. If you’d like.”

Something in him softens then. He nods, a shy smile breaking through. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’d really like.”

You hold the door open for him, the smell of warmth and home spilling out into the night. And as he steps inside—shoulder brushing yours, raindrops still caught in his hair—you realize all the uncertainty and flutters melt away. Steven stepping into your space feels right as you close the door behind him.

“So, tea?”

“Tea would be just about as lovely as you,” he breathed. 

Yes, Steven being here, eyes glowing, smile wide feels exactly right.

let me know if you'd like to be on my moonknight taglist!

You hesitate at the door, fingers tightening around the bundled napkin in your hands. The few slices of cinnamon bread, soft in the middle, a little messy are still warm. You’d made it mostly to keep your hands busy—mostly—but you’d wrapped up a few pieces just for him. You weren’t sure he’d still be here but then again, you kind of were.

Classic overworking Joel. You’ve noticed that about him.

You finally work up the courage to knock lightly. There’s a grunt from inside, then the sound of a chair creaking back and the door opens a second later.

Joel stands there looking more tired than usual—glasses slipping low on his nose, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stubble heavier than it was this morning. His eyes flicker over you, then to the bundle in your hand.

“I figured you were still working,” you say, trying not to sound as shy as you feel. “Brought you something.”

His brows lift, and he steps aside to let you in. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says gruffly, but you hear the softness, the gratitude underneath.

Inside, it smells like sawdust, ink, and faintly like coffee that’s long gone cold. Blueprints are scattered across the desk, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He sets your offering down, peeking under the napkin. The barest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, if you can call it that.

“Cinnamon?” he asks, already pulling off a piece with calloused fingers.

You nod. “It’s still warm.”

“Damn good,” he mumbles around a bite, which makes you laugh as your cheeks warm from his subtle praise.

He gestures for you to sit, pulling out the second chair he clearly doesn’t use. You settle in, watching him as he leans back over the plans. The lamp catches the edge of his glasses, a soft glow reflecting in his eyes as he squints.

“You ever think about getting new ones?” you ask, teasing gently.

“Every damn day,” he mutters, smirking. “Hard to come by.”

You lean closer, glancing down at the blueprint. “What’s this one?”

“New housing draft,” he says, voice low. “Tommy’s idea. Wants more space for the kids comin’ in.”

He’s still squinting, so you reach over—fingers brushing his as you adjust the page, turning it toward the light. He doesn’t pull away. Your hands lingers on his just a moment too long, the warmth of his skin unexpected and grounding before you pull away.

“You’ve got the measurements off here,” you say gently, tapping a pencil against the paper. “By like half an inch.”

Joel sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Knew somethin’ felt off.”

“You need sleep.”

“Don’t got time for that.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Then at least let someone help you. You’re not invincible Joel and people like having you around.”

He’s quiet for a second, watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to decide something. Like he’s torn.

The truth is, this tension’s been there for a while—months, maybe. Laced between long looks over shared meals, brushing shoulders on patrol, the way his voice dipped when he said your name. Neither of you have said anything. You weren’t sure what it was, or if he’d ever let himself want it. But now, in the warmth of this quiet room, it feels like there’s no more pretending. Whatever this is can’t be denied.

“Don’t usually get help,” he murmurs. “Not used to it.”

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light even as your chest tightens, “you’re allowed to. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Another silence settles between you, heavier this time. Your knee brushes his under the desk. Like before, he doesn’t move away.

His eyes stay trained on your face as he asks softly, “You always this kind to people stayin’ late?”

You tilt your head at him. “Only the ones who wear glasses and forget to eat.”

That earns you a rare, real smile. It’s a slow one, warm and a little sad— like he’s thinking about those he lost who used to be kind to him. His hand lifts tentatively, thumb brushing against your cheek.

You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you at once. But when his mouth meets yours, it’s not soft. It’s starved.

It’s the taste of Joel with a whisper of cinnamon.

The kiss is rough and deep, months of restraint unraveling at once. His hands cup your cheeks, teeth scraping your bottom lip. You whimper into him and that’s all it takes—he’s pulling you up out of the chair and onto the desk like you weigh nothing.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he mutters between kisses, voice wrecked. “Thinkin’ about how you’d taste… how you’d sound.”

You gasp as he spins you gently, pressing your chest down against the desk, your skirt riding up as he moves behind you. “Joel—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, pushing your legs apart with firm hands. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath catches when his fingers slide under the hem of your skirt, their cadence is contradictory: rough and reverent. He grips your panties and drags them down, slow, letting the fabric slide over your thighs and pool at your feet.

You moan—high, shaky—gripping the edge of the desk as cold air brushes your slick heat.

“Fuck me,” he breathes behind you. You hear the crack in his voice, the need. “Look at this… wet for me already.”

You whimper, pressing your forehead to the desk, the coolness grounding you. “Baby, please…”

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, dropping to his knees behind you, glasses still perched on his nose, slightly crooked from how fast he’s moving.

He wastes no time. His hands grip your ass, spreading you wide, and then his mouth is on you—hot and filthy and so fucking needy. His tongue parts your folds, licking your pussy like it’s the fountain of youth, and the obscene wet sounds coming from between your legs have your eyes fluttering back.

You gasp, your breath catching on a moan. “Fucking hell Joel.”

He groans into your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. His glasses fog slightly, the lenses catching faint lamplight as he buries his face deeper, tongue flicking mercilessly over your clit.

“You sound so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he rasps, voice muffled, eyes dark behind the smudge of his lenses. “Don’t hold back, baby, c‘mon let me hear you.”

You whimper, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the desk. “God, Joel—I can’t…it’s too much…”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Keep makin’ those sounds for me.”

His tongue slides down to fuck into you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs tight, perfect circles over your clit.

Your hips jolt from this earth shaking combo, gasps spilling from your lips, your legs threatening to give out. “Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck. Joel.”

“You gonna cum for me?” he mumbles, licking up everything you’ve got for him, beard soaked, glasses slipping further down his nose but staying on. “Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you.”

You moan, back arching as your orgasm slams into you, white-hot and shattering. You moan brokenly, hips grinding against his mouth, every breath catching on the wave of pleasure he rips out of you.

Joel groans and licks you through it, hands gripping tight to your thighs, keeping you open and helpless until you’re trembling and overstimulated.

He stands slowly, eyes wild behind his fogged lenses, his mouth glistening with your essence. His hands find your hips again, steadying you as he presses his chest to your back, kissing your shoulder.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he murmurs into your skin, voice low but a little softer. “You still want that? Still okay?”

You nod fast, breath still stuttering. “Yes. Fuck—yes, Joel—please.”

That’s all he needed.

“Goooood fucking girl,” he growls, reaching between you to unbuckle his belt, letting it fall with a heavy clink. “Gonna fuck you just like this, wanna see everything.”

He slides in deep on the first thrust, his cock thick and perfect, stretching you open until your gasp turns into a desperate moan. His hand curls around your shoulders to ground you as he leans in close.

“Face to face,” he mutters, pulling out slowly and flipping you with careful strength. “Need to see you fall apart.”

He positions you the desk how he wants you, holding your gaze as he slides back inside, and fuck, his glasses—still on, slightly fogged, slightly crooked—make him look devastated and feral all at once.

Every thrust is unhurried and deep, one of his hands raising to cradle your jaw as he fucks into you steady, murmuring filth between kisses:

So tight for me… you were made for this. You feel me? All the way up there, baby? Gonna fill you so deep you’ll still be wet for me tomorrow.

You moan loudly, legs wrapping around his waist, head falling back as the pressure builds quickly again, hot ans dizzying.

“Joel—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he pants, fucking you harder. “Wanna feel you cum around me.”

And when you break again—moaning his name like a prayer—he follows, spilling deep inside you with a sharp growl, holding you tight against him as you both come undone.

He kisses you soft afterward. Forehead to yours. Gentle, steady, real. Like the beginning of something.

He murmurs with a grin, mouth brushing yours with every word, “Next time, I’m bringin’ you dessert.”

> pt. II

lmk if you’d like to be on the joel taglist (must b 18+)