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althaiareads · 4 days ago

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“Okay, fine,” she picks her drink up and steps back from the bar, “I’ll find a way.”

Yes she will, and I, for one, am very excited to see how she will force them to face their feelings.

“Hangman,” Maverick says, a hint of a smirk on his lips, “take a seat.”

Sooo, "are your intentions with my baby girl honorable?"

“She’s not just your baby sister Bradley, and that’s not Hangman. That’s Jake and Y/N, and it looks to me like they might be in love.”

Awww, that's so cute. I really enjoyed this. I will always jump at the opportunity of seeing Jake flustered, and this hit the spot so well.

baby sister ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: hangman has a serious crush on you, it might even be love, but it's a little complicated seeing as rooster is your older brother

notes: yes, i finally watched top gun (i'm stubborn, okay), and yes, i am obsessed! i'm not too sure how i feel about this, but it's my first one so please be kind! i also tried writing it by kind of switching pov's, so sorry if its weird / confusing! but as always, i love feedback so please, please let me know what you think x

warnings: swearing, very minor physical altercation with a creepy guy, boner joke, switching pov's (kind of), protective older brother, and likely some very inaccurate us navy details

word count: 7493

- One Year Ago -

The old bar smells exactly as you remember it; wood polish, worn leather, stale beer, and a hint of ocean air. It’s a lot cleaner than it used to be – the soles of your shoes aren’t sticking to the floor – and you assume that’s thanks to the new owner. It isn’t as busy as you would expect for Friday at 4PM, which you’re somewhat thankful for as you easily find a spare barstool beside the vacant pool table.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a polite smile.

“Just a water, please.”

He retrieves a bottle from the fridge below the bar while you check your pockets for cash, pulling out a few dollars and handing it to him in exchange for the water. He smiles again before turning around to serve patrons on the other side of the bar, and you start drawing shapes in the condensation of the bottle while you wait.

“This seat taken?” someone asks, appearing beside you.

Startled, you turn quickly to find a pair of green eyes much closer than expected. You’d have to be stupid not to immediately notice that this guy is gorgeous, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he knows it too.

“Not yet,” you reply with a tight-lipped smile.

He sits himself on the stool and signals the bartender, ordering a schooner of pale ale draught before pulling a few notes out of his back pocket. He isn’t in uniform, but you can tell by the way he holds himself that he’s an officer.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, “are you visiting?”

You nod before taking a large sip of water, your eyes constantly watching the new patrons that enter through the main door. You know better than to flirt with a lieutenant (guessing by his age), your mother always told you to stay away from military men.

“Have you been to North Island before?” he asks, seemingly unphased by your lack of enthusiasm for conversation.

“Yeah, a few times.”

“Military family?”

“Sort of,” you reply.

“Okay, let me guess,” he leans both elbows on the bar and looks at you, unleashing the full power of his pretty green eyes, “your dad was military, gone for months at a time with little to no contact, which left your mom to raise you all on her own. You would hear her crying at night and watch her struggle every day, but then when your dad got home, he was the hero; forget about all her hard work. Eventually, your mom got sick of being alone and began to resent him, so they grew apart and the next thing you know, dad moves out with his new girlfriend and mum tells you every single day never to date a man in the military.”

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips, because damn this man is pretty, and you simply can’t find it in yourself to ignore him.

“Close,” you say, “but it was her first husband who was military, and he died in action. My father was a banker, safe but boring, and it didn’t work out. But you are right about one thing; mom has always told me not to date a man in the military.”

“Oh,” he takes a long sip of his beer, stalling as he tries to think of something to say that isn’t totally insensitive.

“Not that I always listen to what she says,” you add with a smirk, making him choke on his mouthful of beer.

He looks back at you, shocked but still smiling, “Are you flirting with me?”

Your turn sideways on the stool to face him, opening your mouth to reply when a familiar sight walking toward you catches your attention. You stop and smile, looking straight past the man sitting beside you.

“Hey Baby,” Bradley says with a grin.

“Hey,” you jump off the stool, “how are you?”

“Woah, hey,” the green-eyed man stands too, a slight frown between his brows, "Rooster, c’mon man. You’re going to have to find yourself another girl; let’s not make this a competition too.”

Bradley’s brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you have to roll your lips to keep from giggling.

“Oh, here we go,” one of the men who walked in with Bradley chuckles, and you think you can remember meeting him the last time you visited.

“A competition?” Bradley repeats, his tone mildly threatening.

“Wait,” the man glances between you and Bradley, “are you two dating?”

Bradley scoffs, “Absolutely not.”

“Then why did you call her baby?”

“It’s her nickname, genius,” the same man as before says, and you suddenly remember Bradley introducing him to you last summer. You never did find out his real name, but they call him Payback.

The green-eyed man turns to you in shock, “Like, your call sign?”

You shake your head, “I don’t fly.”

“She wishes,” Bradley says as he slings an arm around your shoulders. “Hangman, this is Baby, as in my baby sister.”

The poor man chokes so hard on his beer, you’re surprised it doesn’t spray out his nose. He coughs and splutters, holding a hand on his chest while the rest of Bradley’s friends laugh from around the pool table. Bradley chuckles too, seemingly satisfied with the damage he’s caused, before turning to give you a proper hug.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Not terrible, but I swear my bag was the last to come out on the carousel.”

He releases you from his hold and orders two beers from the bartender, handing you one soon as its poured. “You remember my friends, don’t you?” he asks as he turns to face the game of pool, “Payback and Fanboy, and that’s Bob; I don’t think you met him last summer.”

You smile and give an awkward wave, not bothering to walk around and shake everyone’s hands in the middle of a game.

“Dude,” Fanboy says to Hangman, who is now standing on the opposite side of the pool table, “I can’t believe you were hitting on Rooster’s little sister.”

“Hey,” Hangman frowns, “she was hitting on me back.”

Bradley’s head whips toward you, his eyes wide, “You what?”

“Oh, calm down Braddy,” you say, “I can look after myself.”

Payback snickers, “Braddy?”

“Aw, Braddy,” Fanboy coos.

Bradley shoots you a glare as you slip out from under his arm to find a seat, grinning sheepishly at your brother as his friends continue to mock your nickname for him. After half an hour and two pool games – these guys are freakishly good – another two lieutenants join the group, introducing themselves as Coyote and Phoenix.

“So,” Phoenix says as she sits on the stool beside you, “what brings you to North Island, aside from missing your big brother?”

Even though Bradley’s back is to you as he takes a shot, you know he’s rolling his eyes.

“Well, I usually try and visit more than once a year, but he’s hardly been on the ground in the past twelve months,” you say, “then Uncle Pete called me a few weeks ago and said he was going on a trip with Penny. So, he asked if I could come babysit Braddy for a while.”

“Aw,” she giggles, “Braddy needs a babysitter?”

Bradley flicks your arm as he walks past, circling the pool table to find the best angle, “Would you stop telling people embarrassing shit about me.”

You shrug, “How was I supposed to know that you were pretending to be cool?”

The rest of the group laugh as Bradley completely botches his shot, sinking the white ball.

“I’m sorry, Rooster, but I definitely like her better,” Hangman says with a smirk.

You roll your lips as you look over at the lieutenant, appreciating how tight his t-shirt is as he bends forward over the pool table to take his shot.

Bradley points at him, “You better cut it out, she is off limits.”

- Present -

You decided to move to San Diego about two weeks after flying in last summer, and it had nothing to do with the beach day you went on with Bradley and his friends, where Jake tackled you in the surf, all shirtless and wet and muscly. Bradley was beyond excited to have his little sister closer to him, he even helped get you a desk job in the operations department. It wasn’t anything close to what he was doing, protecting the country and all that, but you’re liking it way better than your old job. Which again, has nothing to do with the fact that you get to take lunch breaks with a certain lieutenant. Your brother is there too, but you don’t fancy staring at him, you’ve seen enough of him over the years.

“Are you going to eat or stare?” Natasha asks, nudging your side with her elbow.

The mouthful of pasta that had been balancing on your fork falls off and plops back into your bowl. You turn to her, your eyebrows furrowed, “Huh?”

“My God, you’re practically drooling.”

“Is the pasta good?” Jake asks, clearly having overheard and misunderstood your conversation, “I knew I should have chosen that; the sloppy joes are too sloppy.”

He leans across the table and takes your fork, stabbing it into a few pieces of pasta before popping it in his mouth. Your heart thuds in your chest as you watch his lips wrap around the utensil that was previously in your mouth, and you want to be ashamed of yourself for allowing something so frivolous to get you so excited, but you simply can’t help it. With your brother the constant cock-block always hanging around, sharing a fork is the closest you’ve gotten to Jake in the year that you’ve been here.

“Mm,” he groans, “that is good.”

“You can have it,” you push the bowl toward him, “I’m not that hungry.”

“Yeah, and you just contaminated her fork,” Bradley says, smacking Jake’s shoulder.

“I don’t think she minds,” Natasha pipes in.

Oblivious, Jake looks up with a huge mouthful of pasta making his cheeks puff out, and somehow, he still looks adorable. You shoot a subtle glare at Natasha from the corner of your eye before picking up the apple from your tray and biting into it.

“So,” you turn your attention to your brother, “The Hard Deck after work?”

He nods, “Yep, I’ve got a year of free beers to win.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, “It’s cute that you think you have a chance of winning in a pool comp against me.”

“Or me,” Jake adds.

Bradley snorts, “Please, you’ve been so off your game lately, and Phoenix” – he turns to look at her – “is good, but not as good as me.”

“You are so full of yourself, do you know that?” Natasha says, her eyes narrowed at Bradley.

You quickly tune out as they launch into a petty argument about who is better at pool and who is going to win The Hard Deck’s billiards tournament, having heard it almost a hundred times over the past month. It’s an eight-week competition, every Thursday night, and this is only the fifth week but you’re pretty sure you’re going to kill your brother if he doesn’t stop bragging about being undefeated so far. Then again, he hasn’t yet had to play against half of the dagger squad, arguably the best pool players on North Island.

“Alright, we better go,” Bradley says, nudging Jake again.

Jake scrapes the last of the pasta from the bowl into his mouth before standing from his chair and leaning across the table toward you. “Thanks Baby,” he says with a wink, “I owe you one.” He drops the empty bowl on your tray and slides your tray across the table, stacking it on top of his.

When he straightens up, both trays in his hands, Bradley is glaring. “Watch it, Seresin.”

“What? I was just thanking her,” Jake says innocently, “don’t get your panties in a knot.”

You roll your eyes and stand up from your chair, “See you guys later, then?”

Jake can’t help himself, and he turns toward you wearing his most charming grin, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Dude!” Bradley exclaims, smacking him in the shoulder.

Natasha sighs, despite the amused smirk on her lips, “Come on you two, fight about it later.”

You roll your lips to keep from giggling, because you know that will only irritate Bradley more, but you’re pretty sure your cherry red cheeks are about to give something away. Before your brother can notice the way Jake’s words have affected you, you turn on your heel and head back toward your office, anticipation bubbling in your stomach for tonight.

- Jake -

Maverick ended today’s training half an hour early, dismissing everyone but Rooster since he still had sixty-two push ups to do after betting that he could catch Phoenix and Bob before Mav could. He was wrong, but Jake admires the cockiness.

The rest of the squad have already made their way to the locker rooms, eager to shower and change and get to The Hard Deck for a well-earned drink. There’s no current mission for the dagger squad, no impending doom, so that on top of the excitement for the billiards comp has everyone in the highest of spirits. Everyone but Jake, of course.

He’s the last to enter the locker room, dragging his feet and slowly unzipping his flight suit as he weaves through the rest of the boys toward his locker. He isn’t sad by any means, just frustrated, because it seems that the longer you live in San Diego, the more protective your brother gets. His rule about you being off limits isn’t easing any time soon, and neither is Jake’s crush.

“What’s the matter with you?” Coyote asks, shoving his flight suit into his locker right beside Jake’s.

“Hm?” Jake looks up from his feet, “Oh, nothing, just distracted.”

Payback peers around from the other side of Coyote’s locker, his lips curled into a smirk, “So, how’s that hideously inappropriate and all-consuming crush on Rooster’s little sister going?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s great,” Jake says sarcastically, “I should be ready to kill myself any day now.”

The rest of the boys dissolve into laughter, each pausing in various stages of undress to giggle about Jake’s unfortunate situation. Everyone but Rooster and Phoenix know at this point, having easily figured it out by the way Jake can’t seem to focus anytime you’re in the same room, and thankfully, none of them plan on outing his little secret anytime soon. Jake likes to think it’s because they’re afraid that Rooster might shoot the messenger, and while that might be a small part of it, he knows it’s really because they feel sorry for him. The first girl who Hangman actually wants something real with, and it’s the little sister of Bradley Bradshaw.

However, Jake is surprised that Phoenix hasn’t yet figured it out, but grateful nonetheless, since she’s way too close to you to have that kind of ammunition under her belt. There have been a few times where he thought she might be onto him, little glances at you whenever he gets too flirty and subtle comments that could have underlying meanings, but she hasn’t confronted him about it yet, so he assumes she’s just as clueless as Rooster is.

“Come on, Hangman,” Fanboy says from the opposite row of lockers, “it can’t be that bad.”

“You want to bet?” Jake asks, glancing over his shoulder. “I got half a bar at lunch today because I used the same fork as her.”

The laughter, having died down for a moment, picks up again with renewed vigour. Even Bob, who is usually quiet and refuses to comment when the boys start teasing Jake about his crush, is giggling into his open locker, shoulders shaking.

“Oh, man,” Coyote says between fits of laughter, “you’re down bad.”

“What’s so funny?” Rooster asks, standing in front of the door as it swings shut behind him.

The laughter quickly subsides and everyone turns to hide their faces in their lockers, all but Jake who is left staring at Rooster’s quizzical frown.

“Coyote was just saying that he nearly soiled himself today when Mav pulled that cobra manoeuvre in front of him,” Jake lies, at which Coyote shoots him a glare.

Rooster chuckles, “Oh, really? I didn’t catch that.”

“Too busy running your mouth, Rooster,” Fanboy chimes in.

“Yeah, how’s your stomach after those two-hundred push ups?” Payback asks as he walks toward Rooster with an evil grin, reeling his fist back to strike his friend in the abdomen.

Rooster evades the attack, eyes wide, “Don’t even think about it, my abs are on fire right now.”

Jake relaxes as casual conversation picks back up; Rooster seemingly fooled by his lie as he jokes around with the rest of the squad. They all strip out of their flight suits and shower before changing into civilian clothes, packing their gear into their lockers, and heading out the door. Those who aren’t headed to The Hard Deck bid their goodbyes, while those eager for a beer begin making their way to the bar.

“Should we wait for the girls?” Jake asks as they walk toward Rooster’s car.

“Well, at least one of us has to,” Bob replies, glancing around the group of six.

Rooster tosses his keys in the air and catches them again in the palm of his hand, “Fight it out amongst yourselves boys.”

“It’s fine, I’ll wait for them,” Jake offers quickly.

Fanboy has to stifle his laughter behind his hand, pretending to rub his nose.

“That’s unlike you to be so obliging, Hangman,” Coyote says, his narrowed eyes telling Jake that he’s still bitter about being thrown under the bus earlier.

“I actually think I left my watch in my locker, so I have to run back anyway,” Jake lies again.

“Easy done,” Rooster, oblivious as ever, says, “climb on in fellas, I’m thirsty.”

The rest of the group all move toward Rooster’s car and pile in, while Jake turns his back and pulls out his phone to text Phoenix, asking her to wait for him if the two of you exit the locker room before he’s done ‘looking for his watch’.

More and more of late, Jake has been doing things that are ‘unlike him’ in order to gain more time with you away from your brother, the ever-present cock-block. It isn’t often that he has the chance, and he knows his behaviour is becoming noticeable, but until Rooster confronts him for trying to spend time with you, he’s going to keep trying.

He runs in and out of the locker room, simply to keep up the lie, before fishing his watch out of his pocket and strapping it to his wrist as he walks back toward the car park. He could recognise you from a mile away, all perfect and effortless, leaning casually against Phoenix’s car and twirling a stray piece of hair as Phoenix talks to you. The closer he gets, the more he can see that whatever Phoenix is saying is intense, and it’s making you nervous. Your hair twirling is less idle and more anxious as Phoenix stresses her words with her hands, looking exasperated.

A part of him wants to sneak up and try to catch the conversation, but before he can think too hard about how he could become stealthier, Phoenix spots him. “Come on Bagman, hurry it up!” she calls across the lot.

You glance over your shoulder, locking eyes with him and he simply cannot stop the grin that takes over his lips. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Trace,” he says, though his eyes never leave yours.

Phoenix scoffs, “What’s your obsession with panties today?”

When he comes within a few feet of you, he frowns and turns his attention to Phoenix, “What?”

“First Rooster at lunch and now me,” she says. “Are you not getting laid or something?”

The way her eyes drift over to you as she speaks, a smirk threatening to curl her lip, has Jake’s heart racing. Does she know? How could she know?

He clears his throat and wills himself to seem unaffected by her taunt, but whatever smart-lipped quip that he would usually respond with refuses to pop into his head. He panics, sweat prickling the back of his neck. Phoenix turns her attention away from you and back to him, her playful smile slowly fading as the silence stretches and he struggles to retort. If she didn’t know before, she definitely knows now.

“Oh, leave him alone, Nat,” your voice breaks the tension, “we all know Hangman has no trouble with the ladies.”

Phoenix shakes her head, as if needing the physical queue to stop her own spiralling thoughts. “So he tells us,” she says, grabbing the handle on the driver’s side door, “but I’m yet to witness his skills in action.”

She casts Jake one last dubious glance before opening the door and taking her seat behind the wheel. You turn to him then, your gaze holding him captive as you ask, “Do you want shotgun?”

He shakes his head, swallowing on his dry throat, “You take it, I’m good in the back.”

- You -

Jake looks like he’s seen a ghost as he stares out the window of the car, watching the Naval Air Station pass by as Natasha drives toward the exit gates. You can’t help glancing at him in the rear view mirror every few seconds, only able to see a portion of his side profile with the angle of the mirror, but it’s still enough to know that he doesn’t look normal.

As a matter of fact, Natasha looks a little odd too, as if she’s trying to silently solve a math problem in her head. Her eyes are narrowed, her brows furrowed, and her hands are holding the steering wheel tightly at ten and two. She too keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, whether looking at Jake or simply checking the traffic, you can’t tell, but her shoulders stay tense and her lips pressed firmly together.

“So,” you say, swivelling in your chair to properly look at Jake, “how was flight school?”

His face breaks into a soft smile and your pulse triples its speed, your heart thundering in your chest as you stare into his pretty green eyes. “I graduated flight school a while ago, darlin’,” he says.

You love when he uses a pet name other than your nickname, because ‘baby’ just doesn’t have the same ring when its something your whole family uses.

“I know, but I heard Maverick over the comms say that he was going to send the lot of you back to flight school.”

Jake chuckles, “You were listening on the comms?”

You shrug, “Sometimes I listen in, just to be nosey.”

You really only do it so you can enjoy Jake’s voice throughout the day, because something about Jake in that cockpit doing what he does best gets you incredibly hot and bothered. What can you say? You’re a masochist.

“Well, I better start watching my language,” he says, “or I can just tell Mav that you’ve been listening in.”

Your eyes widen, “You wouldn’t do that.”

His smile turns into a smirk, “You sure about that?”

All you want to do is crawl into the back seat and crush your lips against his. He looks good enough to eat right now, fresh from a shower, his damp hair a little spikier than usual, and his green eyes sparkling with mischief and something else you can’t quite place.

“Speaking of Mav,” Natasha pipes in, “he said he was going to stop by the bar tonight.”

Great, not only a brother but a cock-blocking uncle too. Well, uncle figure.

“Oh, fun,” you say, trying not to sound so sarcastic, but Natasha isn’t stupid. She catches your displeased tone and shoots you a knowing look, her lips now curled into a smug smile. At least she seems to have figured out her math problem.

A minute later, Natasha pulls the car into the gravel parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. She finds a park right next to Rooster’s car, and the three of you climb out in silence. You can hear the jukebox playing from outside as you approach the main door, Natasha in the lead and typing a message on her phone while you and Jake follow closely behind.

“Nervous?” you ask him, referring to the pool comp.

He chuckles, “Only because you’ll be watching, darlin’.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, their wings making you sick with nerves as they flutter violently. You want to reply, but your brain is complete mush as you stare back at his gorgeous grin, so all you can do is playfully roll your eyes and bump your shoulder against his.

The three of you enter the bar and make a beeline for the familiar faces seated at the booth closest to the pool table. The cues and balls are nowhere to be found, and there’s a sign written in black marker laying on the green felt that reads ‘POOL COMP IN SESSION, DO NOT TOUCH’.

Before you can reach your brother and the rest of the squad, Natasha grabs your hand and tugs you toward the bar. “Want a drink?” she asks, moving too quickly for Jake to follow.

You glance over your shoulder and watch him watch you with a confused frown as he takes a seat at the booth with the rest of the group. Natasha pulls you a decent way away from the squad, finding an open space at the bar and leaning against it, but she doesn’t flag down Penny or Jimmy.

“I think Seresin likes you,” she says, her voice low and eyes wide.

Your stomach does a somersault, “What?”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out, but” – she smacks her hands on the bar emphatically – “he really likes you.”

“Is that why you were so tense before?”

“Yes, because I-”

“Hey ladies,” Penny interrupts, an easy smile on her lips, “what are we drinking tonight?”

“Hey Penny,” you muster your best I’m Totally Not Freaking Out Right Now smile, “two schooners of the pale ale, please.”

She nods once and fills two schooner glasses, sliding them across the bar and taking the cash from Natasha’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks Penny,” Natasha says, before taking a big gulp from her glass.

You tip your own drink to your lips and drain half of it, plonking it back down and wiping the foam from the tip of your nose before turning back to your friend. “You were saying?”

“Before, when he came up to us in the parking lot,” she explains, “I made some stupid joke about him not getting laid and I looked at you, because duh, but so did he.”

You frown, “And?”

“And he looked totally panicked.”

“Maybe he was just embarrassed.”

She rolls her eyes, “That wasn’t embarrassment, he looked like I’d just outed his biggest secret, and he didn’t even comeback with some stupid, sarcastic comment.”

You sigh, “Nat, I love you, but I think you’ve gone insane. Jake doesn’t see me as anything more than Bradley’s baby sister, he’s probably just fried from work and couldn’t think of anything on the spot.”

“You’re never going to believe me, are you?”

You shrug, “Probably not.”

“Okay, fine,” she picks her drink up and steps back from the bar, “I’ll find a way.”

She starts walking back toward the booth where the rest of the squad are, and you quickly pick up your own half-empty schooner before following her with an amused smile on your lips. Natasha is anything if not determined.

- Jake -

Jake releases the breath he’s been holding from the moment Phoenix dragged you away from the group, toward the bar. He can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous, his sweaty palms pressed against his jean-clad thighs as he watches the two of you approach the booth. He has no idea what Phoenix just told you, and he has no idea if Phoenix really knows what he thinks she knows, but his nerves are firing on every cylinder regardless.

“This seat taken?” you ask him as Phoenix takes the spare spot beside Bob.

He shakes his head, “All yours, darlin’.”

“Careful, Hangman,” Fanboy chuckles, “don’t want Rooster hearing that.”

Jake rolls his eyes, forcing his demeanour to appear relaxed, “Rooster’s all talk.”

“That so?” Rooster asks, stepping up to the booth with a tray of beers.

Laughter rumbles through the group.

“I guess we’ll find out later tonight,” Phoenix chimes in, “you two are versing each other in the second game.” She slides the schedule for tonight’s games across the table toward Jake, pointing at the names beneath ‘Game #2’.

“I guess we will,” Jake says, plastering on his cockiest smirk.

Rooster rolls his eyes before turning to find a spare chair, since both sides of the booth are very full. On one side, Coyote, Bob, and Phoenix are sitting side by side, and on the other is Payback, Fanboy, Jake, and you pressed firmly against Jake’s side. He doesn’t mind, of course, because your leg is warm against his, and with his arm slung over the back of the booth, you fit almost perfectly against his side. In fact, he’s surprised Rooster hasn’t said anything yet.

After two rounds of beer and a lot of banter, it’s time for Jake and Rooster to compete. Penny calls them over to the table and sets it up, handing each of them a cue before rattling off the rules as she did before the first game. They flip a coin and Rooster calls heads, but tails lands face-up and Jake gets to break.

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he lines his cue up with the white ball, a small voice at the back of his head demanding he look cool since you were a mere three feet away, watching. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that this is an easy game, before releasing his shot and sending the balls scattering.

The game begins smoothly, each of the lieutenants lining their shots up with precision and hitting the balls with calculated force. They each sink a few, and at about halfway through, the game is tightly tied.

“Come on, Seresin,” Rooster mutters as Jake bends over for his next shot, “what does it take to make you crack?”

Like the idiot he is, Jake lets his eyes wander away from the white ball and across the green felt until they find you, still sitting at the booth on the opposite side of the pool table. Without thinking, his back hand jabs the cue forward, but without his full focus, it knocks the white ball on a short and wobbly path toward nothing in particular.

The spectators give a sad ‘ooh’ as Jake sighs, and Rooster smirks, “Now who’s all talk?”

Jake only shakes his head and moves away from the table. Since the white ball hadn’t made it all that far, Rooster positions himself almost exactly where Jake had been, bending over the table a little further and aiming his cue at the white ball. He focuses for a moment, scanning the constellation of balls across the felt before he glances up and notices you. From where he’s positioned, he is looking directly at you, exactly as Jake had been when he fumbled his shot.

Rooster’s smirk drops and his gaze moves slowly toward Jake, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the cue tightens. Jake’s heart crawls up into his throat, his palms sweating as he stares back at Rooster. Did he just figure it out?

Rooster takes the shot and sinks two balls before repositioning himself and sinking another one. His next shot puts the white ball in an awkward spot for Jake, and he fumbles again. He’s lost all focus, unable to see anything but your gorgeous face or your brother’s murderous one.

After ten more minutes, the game is over and Penny is announcing Rooster as the winner. Jake isn’t knocked out of the competition, but he doesn’t have to play again tonight, which he is more than grateful for.

“Alright, Rooster,” Penny says, “you’ve got five minutes and then it’s you and Fitz.”

Jake finishes his beer before quickly excusing himself to the men’s room, avoiding eye contact with every member of the squad as he hurries through the bar. Once in the safe confines of a bathroom stall, he covers his face with both of his hands and sighs, loudly.

After everything – all the stolen glances and subtle flirting, every excuse to see you or talk to you – did Rooster really just figure it out in the middle of a stupid pool game?

“This is ridiculous,” Jake mutters to himself as he rubs his hands down his face.

He’s never felt this way about anyone before and he has no idea how to deal with it. The nerves are different than what he’s used to, it’s not like before a mission when he can channel his anxiousness into anticipation and put all his focus into being an expert pilot. Because he knows his jet inside out, and he knows the cockpit like the back of his hand, but this? It’s all different. He doesn’t know what this feeling is because he’s only ever felt this strongly about one thing before; flying. But right now he’s pretty sure he would spend the rest of his life on the ground if it meant the rest of his life would be spent with you.

He stays in the stall for another few minutes, making sure Rooster’s second game of pool is well and truly underway by the time he exits the bathroom. The door to the men’s room has hardly swung shut behind him when Phoenix appears in front of him, startling him.

“Far out, can’t a guy catch a break?” he gasps.

“Were you in there crying about your defeat or just hiding from Rooster?” she asks, her expression deadpan.

He frowns, feigning confusion, “What? Why would I be hiding from Rooster?”

“Because you’re in love with his baby sister.”

The panic he had managed to subdue mere minutes ago returns with a vengeance, coursing through his veins like a thousand volts of electricity. He scrambles for a defence, words, anything. “W-Wha- Phoenix, I- you don’t-”

“Save it,” she interrupts him, rolling her eyes, “I’m not going to interrogate you or try to talk you into making a move.”

His tangled mind struggles to follow along, “Why would you-”

“He is,” she says, pointing at their captain who is sitting alone at the end of the bar.

Jake’s stomach flips, “He is what?”

“Going to talk to you.”

She grabs his wrist, the strength of her grip surprising him even though he knows she’s just as strong as he is. She drags him toward the bar where Maverick is sitting, sipping his beer and watching the pool competition with keen eyes.

“Evening, Captain,” Jake says, and he knows the moment it leaves his lips that he’s being unusually formal.

Phoenix rolls her eyes again, dramatically. “All yours, Mav,” she says, before turning on her heel and returning to the booth with the rest of the squad.

“Hangman,” Maverick says, a hint of a smirk on his lips, “take a seat.”

Jake swallows hard as he sits on the barstool beside his captain.

“You know,” Mav continues, “you haven’t addressed me as captain in a very long time.”

“Well,” Jake says, “it's never too late to make a good impression.”

Maverick chuckles quietly before tipping the last of his beer to his lips. When he puts the glass back down on the bar, Penny takes it, offering Jake a small, almost sympathetic smile as she does.

Mav turns on his stool to face Jake, “I’ve noticed you’ve been acting a little different lately. Want to talk about it?”

Jake clears his throat, “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Cap- uh, Mav.”

“You sure about that?” Maverick asks as he looks away from Jake, casting his gaze across the bar toward the booth where the dagger squad are seated. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve been acting strangely ever since Y/N moved here.”

Hearing your name is the closest thing to a prayer in Jake’s ears, because he is so used to hearing your nickname, that hearing your real name feels reverent.

He sighs, admitting defeat, “Who told you?”

Mav chuckles again, “Technically, Phoenix did, but no one had to tell me. I might be old, but I’m not stupid, and I’ve lived long enough to recognise the way you look at her.”

Jake frowns, “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I was kind of enjoying the way you’ve been sucking up to Rooster,” Mav replies sheepishly, “letting him be team leader in all the mission simulations, buying him beers every weekend, and letting him win at pool of course.”

Jake can feel his cheeks burning, “I didn’t let him win, Mav, I just can’t focus when she’s around.”

Maverick claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder, leaning on him slightly as stands up. “Then stop being so scared of her big brother and do something about it, before someone else does.”

He nods toward the squad again before stepping back and walking behind Jake, around the bar toward the pool table. Jake’s eyes follow his captain as he circles the bar, stopping to watch the game of pool on the opposite side of the table to where the dagger squad are seated. When Jake’s eyes pass over the intense game between Rooster and Fitz, his breath catches in his throat.

- You -

You had gotten up to go to the bathroom when this man cornered you, stopping you on your way and trapping you against a wall on the other side of the booth. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him around work, but you can’t be sure, because the only person you do recognise in the sea of naval uniforms on base is Jake. This man is not Jake, and that is one of the main reasons why you can’t be bothered to listen to a single thing he is saying.

“Do you think you’ll stay in San Diego for long?”

You look up at him, pressing your shoulder blades into the wall in an attempt to create more distance between you and him. “Um, probably,” you reply.

You glance quickly over your shoulder, for once wishing that your police dog of a brother would do what he does best and scare this man away, but he’s too focused on his pool competition.

“That’s great,” the man leans even closer, his breath wreaking of alcohol, “maybe we can get together sometime, alone.”

You press your lips into a tight smile, neither wanting to accept nor reject the man’s proposal in the current, vulnerable position in which he has you trapped. When he opens his mouth to speak again, a cheer erupts behind you and Penny announces Rooster as the overall champion of the night. You clap your hands and smile at your brother as he does a few dramatic bows.

You turn back to the man with your excuse for escape on the tip of your tongue, “I better go-”

“We should get some fresh air,” he says, grabbing one of your wrists in a vice grip.

Panic washes over you, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of your neck as he tugs on your arm. You stumble forward and glance over your shoulder, hoping that someone has noticed, but he chose the perfect time. The rest of the squad have rushed to the pool table, taking the cues from Penny to set up their own game while other pub patrons congratulate Rooster on his win.

Just as the man reaches the doors leading onto the beach, Rooster’s eyes find you. His grin vanishes and he quickly tries to step away from the crowd surrounding him, but Maverick appears at his side with a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. What the fuck?!

You watch Maverick say something to Rooster, who’s eyes then dart away from you and toward something across the bar, but before you can follow his gaze, the man tugs you out the door. The cool night air bites at your bear arms as you stumble down the wooden steps onto the sand.

“Much better,” the man says, finally releasing you.

You turn sharply to run back into the bar, but you only make it two steps before coming face to chest with someone else. You know who it is even before you look up to find a very concerned pair of pretty green eyes.

“Jake,” you breathe, your body relaxing as he wraps an arm around you.

The man steps toward you again, “Hey, what the-”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Jake exclaims. “Who the fuck do you even think you are dragging a girl out of the bar when she clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

“I don’t recall hearing her saying no,” the man argues, puffing out his chest.

“Because you didn’t give her a fucking chance,” Jake spits.

He takes half a step forward, guiding you behind his body as the man grounds himself as if getting ready to throw a punch. Your stomach sinks and the lump in your throat doubles in size at the thought of Jake getting hurt for you. Just as you think the man is about to wind his arm back, his scowl shifts to something behind you and his jaw goes slack. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Javy and Reuben step out of the bar and your heart aches with fondness.

Without so much as another word, the man shoots Jake one last look before turning and walking away. Javy and Reuben chuckle to each other before stepping back inside the bar, leaving you and Jake alone on the sand.

“Hey,” he turns to face you, “are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you drop your gaze to your shoes, “sorry about that.”

He hooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, “Don’t be silly, that was not your fault and nothing to be sorry about.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, drowning out the music from the bar and the sound of waves crashing. All you can feel is Jake, close and comforting, and staring down at you as if he might want to kiss you too.

“Well,” you step toward him, as close as you can get without pressing your body against his, “then I’m sorry about what might happen to you after I do this.”

You curl your fingers into the material at the collar of his shirt and pull him forward, stretching up onto your toes to meet his lips with yours. He’s startled at first, but quickly responds, his hands grabbing your hips and pulling your body against his. He tastes like beer and spearmint gum, his lips soft as that move with yours, fitting together in the most perfect way. As you take a quick breath, his tongue slides past your lips and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss.

You wrap your arms around his neck to hold yourself up, and just as his hands begin sliding down your hips, you’re both startled by a loud wolf whistle. You both turn toward the bar and see Mickey with his head out the window and a stupidly wide grin plastered across his face. The rest of the squad are all pressed against the glass, almost completely fogging it up as they cheer and wave.

“Oh, God,” Jake sighs, “Rooster is going to kill me.”

You can’t help but giggle, “Don’t worry, Hangman, I’ll protect you this time.”

Inside the bar, your brother turns to Maverick, having to look away as you pull Jake into another kiss. “You’re seriously okay with this?” he asks, “You’re okay with Hangman sticking his tongue down the throat of my baby sister?”

Maverick chuckles, “She’s not just your baby sister Bradley, and that’s not Hangman. That’s Jake and Y/N, and it looks to me like they might be in love.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and pretends to gag, deciding to ignore the scene on the beach and return his attention to the pool table. He knows deep down that Maverick is right, so he silently gives his blessing while starting a list in his head of what he will and will not allow the two of you to do in front of him.

END.

#Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin fluff #geminiwritten

1K notes · View notes

althaiareads · 4 days ago

Text

You pinch the hem of the shirt and rub the fabric between your fingers. “There’s a hard stain near the bottom, but I can’t tell what it is.”

“Well, Mr. Right Now, maybe you should watch what you say. Because one day, you’re going to fall in love. And it’s not going to be pretty. You’ll fall so hard and fast, you’ll forget your own name—and that’ll be karma for all the one-night stands and broken hearts you’ve left behind.”

Ooh girl, foreshadowing???

“Pull it together, cowboy,” she says. “Don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your mystery girl.”

I've always loved how perceptive Phoenix is, she read him like a book. Good for her.

Just like he is. Right now. With a woman who’s perfectly attractive, even if she doesn’t look, smell, or sound like you. But hey, that’s a good thing, right?

Oh, he's down bad, isn't he? What's that song from The 1975? The smell of your hair // Reminds me of her feet // So don't wait outside my hotel room // Just wait till I give you a sign. I just know it, that's the soundtrack going through his head rn.

“Well, maybe I need her!” Jake blurts.

OH HE SAID IT OUT LOUD! NO TAKE BACKS!!!!!!

“I—I think I love you,” he mutters, voice low—wrecked.

I might have screamed. HE SAID IT. I just- dude. I don't even know what to say.

“Let’s just—” You hesitate, your hand twitching like you might reach for him, but you stop yourself. “Let’s forget this happened, okay? Start fresh. Set some boundaries, take a little space. And eventually you’ll see that whatever you think you’re feeling is just… fondness. Platonic.”

NOOOOO, GIRLLLLL. But like, I get her. There's a lot to consider: 1. she probably doesn't want to ruin what they have, their friendship comes first. 2. they live together (and work together), if things went wrong, it would be awkwaaard and 3. i think she doesn't want to believe it, because she may have felt something or him at some point and forced herself to bury it so deep as to not get hurt by his womanizer ways, she could not have stand that, and it's so sad to me, because he is being so earnest about it.

“Jake…” you whisper, breathless.

Oh, fuck no. Dudeeeeeeeee. Justin, quick, do something evil so I can hate you and not feel incredibly bad for you in this moment.

“I swear to God, Jake Seresin,” you mumble into him, “if you break my heart, I’ll rip yours out and feed it to piranhas.” His laugh vibrates through his chest. “Noted.” Then his voice softens, dropping to a whisper. “I’m not going to break your heart.”

I am melting, that is so beautiful!

WHAT A RIDE! Dude, the parallels between her realisation and his??? Chef's kiss! It was the most satisfying conclusion to the story. I loved it, I genuinely have no words. So so so good!!!

dirty laundry (two) ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

see PART ONE for the first half of this fic + author's notes, warnings, etc...

word count: 22046 (section two, 11909)

Jake doesn’t see you when you get home from lunch with Natasha—he’s already at Lana’s place. Or maybe it’s Lila? He’s not sure. He just knows it started with an L.

After washing two loads of your laundry—moving one from the dryer to your bed and the other into the dryer—he got a text from Lola saying she got off work early. So, naturally, he was on his way there within minutes.

Four rounds later—and one very close call where he almost said your name instead of Lily’s—he showered in her cramped little bathroom, got dressed, and drove home. Feeling a thousand times better than when he left. Thoroughly satisfied. And only a tiny bit guilty about what he’d done to himself earlier… while staring at your lingerie like a fucking perv.

That is, until he walks through the door and sees you—pantless again—bent over the kitchen counter in nothing but an oversized shirt, Chinese takeout menu in hand.

But not just any shirt. No. His shirt.

His.

“Oh, hey.” You straighten immediately, tugging the hem of the shirt down over your ass. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d be home yet. Want Chinese? I’ll go put some pants on.”

Before he can even blink, you’re gone—down the hall and into your bedroom.

You return a moment later in a loose pair of sleep shorts, smiling down at your phone like some idiot in love.

And something about that makes Jake want to roll his eyes.

“How was lunch?” he asks, picking up the takeout menu like he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s getting.

“Good,” you reply, eyes still glued to your screen. “Had fun.”

He nods even though you’re not looking and drops the menu back on the bench. “I’ll get the—”

“Beef and broccoli,” you interrupt, glancing up with a smirk. “And kung pao chicken. Side of steamed rice, vegetarian spring rolls. Extra soy sauce packets, two fortune cookies, and a Diet Coke.”

Jake’s heart leaps in his chest, skipping into an uneven rhythm as he just stares at you—brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. A mix of awe and confusion flickers across his face because… how do you know that? How do you know him that well?

Sure, it’s just a takeout order. But still. You knew. Without hesitation.

And there you are, standing in his shirt—his fucking shirt—looking like the most gorgeous woman on the planet, and God, he’s about to lose his damn mind.

He clears his throat, letting out what he hopes passes as an easy chuckle. “You’re good.”

You pretend to dramatically flip your hair off your shoulder. “I know. Now go pick a movie. I’ll order.”

He hesitates for a beat, watching as you grab the menu and start dialling the restaurant’s number into your phone. Then he shakes his head and moves into the living room, dropping into his usual spot on the couch.

An hour later, after scrolling through every single streaming app the squad collectively pays for, Jake finally settles on an old action movie you both know he’s seen a hundred times. But you also both know it’s his unspoken comfort film, and—thankfully—you don’t say anything. You just keep eating your Chinese food, eyes flicking between the TV and your relentlessly buzzing phone.

“That Justin?” Jake asks through a mouthful of beef.

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry. I can turn the vibration off if it’s annoying.”

Jake shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He swallows, watching as several more messages pop up in quick succession. “Wow. Guy’s not just a double-texter—he’s a quadruple-texter.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. Some women like communication. In fact, I’d argue that most do.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles. “You gonna like it when he’s banging on your door at two a.m. like a creepy stalker?”

You frown. “How does texting a few times in a row immediately equal stalking?”

“Because he’s clearly obsessed with you,” Jake says with a shrug. “And after one date? Kinda a red flag. I’d expect that level of energy after six months—maybe—not one night.”

You narrow your eyes. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

Jake laughs, low and quiet, eyes dropping to his bowl of beef and broccoli. “No pussy is that good.”

You snort—loudly. The sound is abrupt and completely unladylike, but Jake can’t help the way his eyes flick up to the giddy smile on your lips, the light blush creeping into your cheeks.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you say, eyes sparkling with amusement.

What he wouldn’t give to know...

“Guess I won’t,” he mutters, shovelling another forkful of food into his mouth.

After a beat, you glance back over at him. “How was your day, anyway?”

He freezes mid-chew, eyes widening as heat crawls up the back of his neck.

“It—uh—it was good. Yeah. Fine. Why?”

You shrug. “Just wondering. Thanks for doing my laundry, by the way.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”

“Except I think this is your shirt,” you add, glancing down at yourself.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It is. Sorry. Must’ve mixed some stuff up.”

“All good,” you say, light and casual—seemingly oblivious to the guilt scrawled across his face. “It’s comfy.”

He gives you a tight smile, eyes snapping back down to spear another floret of broccoli.

“Except I think you need to give it a hot wash,” you add.

His eyes flick back up, cheeks already burning. “Why?”

You pinch the hem of the shirt and rub the fabric between your fingers. “There’s a hard stain near the bottom, but I can’t tell what it is.”

Jake’s breath catches, lungs going tight.

You glance back up at him. “Did you spill maple syrup on it or something?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, heart pounding. “Yep. Maple syrup. This morning. Sorry.”

You frown, clearly dubious. “It’s fine. Not my shirt, remember? Besides, a hot wash will get that right out.”

He nods, shifting the bowl in his lap and praying to whatever god might listen to please, please reroute his blood flow. “Noted. Hot wash.”

You nod slowly, giving him a suspicious look before finally turning back to your dinner.

Once you’ve both finished dinner, Jake takes the dishes into the kitchen and washes up, glancing at the movie over his shoulder as it plays. When it ends, you grab the remote and declare that it’s your turn to pick the next film.

By the time he returns to the couch, you’re curled up right in the middle of it, leaving just a sliver of space on either side.

Which is fine. Totally and completely fine.

He grabs a blanket from the basket in the corner and drops down beside you, draping it over both your legs.

“Thanks,” you say with a soft smile. “Didn’t know you knew how to be sweet.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. He’s not sure what he could say to that. Because, yeah. Jake didn’t know he could be sweet either.

Eventually, you settle on some spy-romance-thriller and toss the remote onto the coffee table before nestling in. You adjust the blanket and fluff the pillows until you’re perfectly comfortable. Jake watches, a little fascinated, and doesn’t even realise he’s staring until you shoot him a look.

“What?”

He blinks. “Nothing, sorry. Daydreaming.”

“Was your date that good you’re still thinking about her?” you ask with a soft laugh.

He frowns. “Date?”

“Sorry,” you amend. “Your hookup. Because I know, I know—Jake Seresin doesn’t date.”

“Exactly,” he says, giving you a little wink.

You pause, lifting a brow. “So... was it good?”

“What?”

You roll your eyes. “Your hookup. Jesus, where is your head at tonight?”

Still stuck on your dirty laundry, apparently.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. It was fine. Did the job.”

You scoff. “Did the job?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. That’s all I wanted. Bit of fun.”

You nod slowly, eyes narrowing like you’re trying to read his mind.

“You know,” he adds, “not every woman is out there hunting for Mr. Right. Some are more than happy with a Mr. Right Now. It’s easy. Fun. And you don’t have to worry about texting them the next day.”

Your brows shoot up. “Is that a dig at me?”

He chuckles quietly, glancing toward the forgotten movie. “Maybe.”

“Wow,” you say slowly, dry and sarcastic. “Well, Mr. Right Now, maybe you should watch what you say. Because one day, you’re going to fall in love. And it’s not going to be pretty. You’ll fall so hard and fast, you’ll forget your own name—and that’ll be karma for all the one-night stands and broken hearts you’ve left behind.”

He turns his head toward you, his expression flat even as the corner of his mouth twitches. “That so?”

You nod, firm. “Yep.”

“When that day comes, I’ll let you know,” he says, laughing quietly. “And I’ll apologise for being a dick. Maybe even take back what I said about your creepy stalker boyfriend. But don’t come crying to me when you find him breathing on your window in the middle of the night.”

Your eyes go wide, lips parting in disbelief, but the amusement still shines through. “Dude!”

He laughs again as you sit up, fully turning toward him.

“What?”

You gape at him, scandalised. Then you reach out and smack him on the shoulder—hard.

“Ow!” he barks, half laughing, half offended. “The hell was that for?”

“For being a dick!”

You go to hit him again, but Jake catches your wrist mid-air. “Uh-uh,” he grins. “Not happening twice.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, immediately swinging your other hand at him.

He catches that one too—easily—and in the same breath, he moves. Forward and up.

Shoving you onto your back like it’s nothing. Effortless.

Then he’s above you, pinning both your wrists above your head. The blanket is tangled somewhere beneath you, one of your knees brushing the outside of his thigh—and he’s close. Too close.

Every part of him is closer than you’ve ever been. His face hovers over yours, his chest inches from your breasts, his hips nearly aligned with yours. If he moved—just a fraction—he could press his half-hard dick right into the apex of your thighs.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Eyes frantic. Searching his face like you might find some kind of answer for whatever just snapped and turned the air to static.

His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm. Certain. Unshakable. His gaze flicks between your mouth and your eyes like he can’t decide which is more dangerous.

“Still wanna hit me?” he murmurs, voice low, something dark and teasing threading through it.

You swallow. “Maybe.”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“So are you,” you breathe.

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Just heat and tension and the sound of your combined breathing, louder than it should be.

Then—

“Truce,” you say, voice hoarse as you shift your wrists beneath his hands.

Jake hesitates. He wants to stay. Wants to press in, drag that single moment out until it breaks. But he knows. He knows he’s close to the edge, and if he goes any further, he might never come back from it.

So he lets go and sits back slowly, pulse hammering in his throat. “Truce,” he echoes.

You both move until you're upright again. Comfortable, but not really. Not anymore. There’s more distance between you now, but it doesn’t help.

Jake doesn’t reach for the blanket that you’ve stolen. He’s not cold anymore. In fact, he’s thinking about opening a window. Or the balcony door.

Maybe he should just do that—open the door and walk straight off the balcony.

Because now, his cock is throbbing—hard and heavy between his legs, hidden only by the way his knee is bent with one foot on the couch. It's aching. Begging.

For friction. For relief. For you.

The ninety-minute movie feels a hell of a lot longer than that in the stifling lounge room. Jake's raging hard-on barely lets up, and even when it does, you shift or sigh or stretch your neck in a way that makes it start aching again.

By the time the credits roll, Jake is dying to get to bed. He needs to go somewhere—anywhere—that you’re not. Away from your scent, your smile, your soft little laughs. God. He needs space.

“Alright,” you sigh, pushing up off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

He nods. “Good idea.”

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Not until you’re gone and he can hide his ridiculous boner.

“Oh,” you call back, halfway down the hall. “I’ll drive myself to base tomorrow.”

He frowns. “Why?”

You always carpool. Same apartment, same squad, same shift. It just makes sense.

“Justin’s coming over tomorrow night, and I don’t want to be late,” you reply. “And, no offence, but I can’t really rely on you to not be kept back.”

He gives you a flat look. “Rude. But whatever.”

You flash him a bright, cheesy smile before quickly ducking into your room. If it weren’t for the blush still clinging to your cheeks, he might think you’d already forgotten about what happened earlier.

But no. Your face is still very red.

And that leaves Jake feeling just a little bit smug as he takes himself—and his tragically horny dick—off to bed.

He barely sleeps all night. He tosses and turns, punching his pillow like that might stop his brain from looping thoughts of you. But every time he shuts his eyes—there you are. Smiling. Laughing. Dancing in the kitchen. Climbing out of your jet with a grin bright enough to eclipse the sun.

You’re stuck in his head. Lodged deep. Making his heart race and his blood flow in one, completely unhelpful, direction.

He wakes up rock hard at 1:27. Then 2:13. Then 3:45. And finally, at 4:36, he gives up entirely. He throws the blankets off, pulls on his gym clothes, and heads to base in the dark.

If he’s going to suffer, he might as well look good doing it.

Thirty minutes of bench, an hour of cardio, and fifteen furious pull-ups later, he still can’t stop picturing the way your tongue caught between your teeth when you giggled at him last night. Or the way your body squirmed beneath him—hips wriggling, wrists twisting—but you were so easy to hold down.

So easy to keep.

God. The things he could do with you pinned beneath him.

By the time Jake finally makes it to the hangar, his whole body is sore, his brain is fried, and he's teetering on the edge of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“Dude,” Javy says as he steps up beside him. “You look awful. Like you haven’t slept in three days. Are you sick?”

Jake shakes his head. “‘M fine. Jus’ tired.”

“Oh wow,” Natasha says, a grin creeping across her lips as she steps in front of them. “He’s regressed to single syllables.”

Javy chuckles. “And he’s slurring. Should we take him to the hospital?”

Jake clears his throat. “I am fine. Alright? Just leave it alone.”

Neither of their knowing smirks falter.

“Well,” Natasha says, eyeing him, her head tilting just slightly. “Judging by that reaction, I’d say you either drank an entire bottle of tequila to yourself last night or... you got rejected by a woman.”

Jake visibly flinches. His green eyes snap to her face, jaw tightening.

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god. It’s the second one.”

“I didn’t—” he starts, but Javy cuts in with a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my God. This is historic,” he announces. “A woman said no to Jake Seresin and he hasn’t recovered.”

Jake turns toward him, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “Nobody got rejected, okay?!”

Natasha scoffs. “So you just happened to get no sleep, show up looking like a kicked puppy, and flinch like that when I mention rejection?”

Javy leans in, eyes comically wide. “And you liked her, didn’t you? That’s the twist. She actually meant something.”

Jake scowls, jaw working. He doesn’t meet either of their eyes.

Natasha whistles under her breath. “Well, shit.”

Javy beams. “This is a world first, ladies and gentlemen. Someone alert the Pentagon. Get a medal minted.”

“I hate both of you,” Jake mutters.

Natasha grins. “You’ll feel better after a flight. Or at least distracted.”

Javy shrugs. “Unless this mystery woman is on base too. Then you’re screwed. Emotionally and professionally.”

Jake doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. He just stares down the tarmac like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him whole.

Because yeah. The mystery woman—the one who’s messing with his head and making his pulse do weird shit—she’s on base. In fact, she’s walking across the flight line right now.

It isn’t long before Maverick arrives, rounding up the squad and announcing—with a shit-eating grin—that it’s ‘obstacle course day’. Which earns a hearty chorus of groans. But not from Jake, because this? He can do this. It’s work. It’s exercise. It’s a well-needed distraction.

Maverick starts by instructing the squad to jog the quarter-mile stretch from the hangar to the training field as a light warm-up—boots crunching on gravel, the sun barely up over the bay. Jake keeps his eyes forward, jaw tight. He can hear you somewhere behind him, chatting—somewhat breathlessly—with Natasha, but he doesn't dare look. He can’t. Not if he wants to stay focused.

Once you all reach the field, Maverick starts barking about how the conditioning course will be run. Then he tells everyone to lose their flight suits and warm up properly.

“Valkyrie!” he shouts after a few jumping jacks. “Quit talking. Focus up.”

You clamp your mouth shut and give Natasha a subtle sidelong glance. Jake’s not stupid—he knows that means you’ll finish telling her whatever you were saying later. Probably something about Justin.

After a thirty-minute warm-up, everyone gets ready to start. The shit-talking begins, and the sun slowly rises, bathing the training field in warm orange light.

Jake is ready—so ready. His gaze is narrowed, his limbs loose, and he’s excited to do something other than jerk off and think about you, goddamnit. He’s excited to do something he’s good at. To show off a little. Because this obstacle course? He eats this shit for breakfast.

Or at least, he used to.

Rope climb, monkey bars, vertical walls, balance beams—he’s usually halfway through his second lap by the time everyone else finishes one. But today?

Today, he misses the jump onto the cargo net.

He slips on the damn rope wall.

He lands wrong coming off the balance beam and has to catch himself with a sharp hiss through his teeth.

“Jesus, Hangman,” Mav calls out from the sidelines, brows raised. “You drunk?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He just resets and pushes off again, heart hammering harder than it should be. His palms are slick and his jaw aches from how tightly he’s clenching it. He feels like one big bruise, and he knows he’s going to feel this shit for the next two weeks.

Reuben jogs past and claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Careful, man. You keep biffing it like this and they’re going to revoke your golden boy status.”

Jake forces a laugh through his teeth, but it’s tight. Shaky.

He’s fine. He just didn’t sleep. He just... pushed too hard at the gym. He just—

His eyes flick sideways.

You’re across the course, waiting your turn, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your neck. You’re smiling at something Bradley said, adjusting your gloves as you watch the others ahead of you.

You’re not even looking at him.

With a light shake of his head, Jake turns his gaze ahead and—

Misses the next rung on the monkey bars.

“God dammit,” he mutters under his breath, dropping to the ground.

Javy stops nearby, eyebrows raised. “Dude. What is going on with you today?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even have words for the pressure building behind his ribs—like a grenade with the pin pulled halfway out. Everything’s too loud. Too hot. Too much. You’re everywhere. In his head. Under his skin. Burned into his eyes.

He’s not flustered. He doesn’t get flustered.

He’s just... distracted. Yeah. That’s all.

He grits his teeth and tries again. Then gets halfway before slipping—again. His hand slams into the rung too late, and he stumbles forward, barely catching himself before eating shit in front of everyone.

“Focus up, Hangman!” Mav barks. “You’re better than this!”

Jake bites the inside of his cheek until it stings. His lungs burn. His arms feel like they’re made of lead.

Across the course, Natasha slows, watching him quietly. Her brow creases just slightly.

Her sharp eyes follow his line of sight and easily catch the way his gaze flicks toward you—quick, but not quick enough.

Her head tilts.

“Interesting,” she mutters to herself.

She picks up her pace and moves through the course with practiced ease, quickly joining Jake where he’s crumpled beneath the monkey bars.

“Pull it together, cowboy,” she says. “Don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your mystery girl.”

Jake’s stomach drops.

What the fuck?

His wide eyes meet hers, brown and sparkling with mischief.

“What did you just say?” he asks, voice hoarse.

She grins wickedly. “Nothing, Bagman. Now get up before Mav sees you slacking off again.”

His heart beats faster than it should. Too fast. Too heavy.

How does she know? She can’t know.

There’s nothing to know.

You’re just his roommate. A friend. A pain in the ass. That’s all.

He just needs to sort his head out.

He just needs to stop thinking about your body under his. Your laugh in his ears. Your wrists in his hands.

With a quiet growl, Jake pushes himself up and resets. Then he lurches forward, fingers grasping for the bar—but he misses. By half an inch.

The day couldn’t be over fast enough. Everyone is breathless and sweaty by the time Maverick dismisses the squad, but no one is as battered and bruised as Jake. He feels like he’s been thrown out of a moving truck—and run over for good measure. Everything hurts.

“Hey,” you say quietly, almost carefully, as you approach him. “You alright?”

You’ve got your bag over your shoulder and your sunglasses perched on your head. Ready to leave base. To go home and wait for Justin to come over.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “just tired today. That’s all.”

You nod slowly, the corner of your lips twitching. “You—uh, you took quite the beating out there.”

He can’t help but smile at you and the way you’re trying so hard not to laugh at his shitty day. “I know. Thought I’d let someone else get best time for once.”

You arch a brow. “Really? You decided to let the whole squad make better time than you?”

He chuckles softly, letting his head fall back. “The whole squad beat me? Well, shit, baby, I guess I gotta step up my game next time.”

He freezes, and you do too, both of you just staring at each other as that little pet name hangs between you like a held breath.

He clears his throat. “Uh... I mean, y’know, gotta bring my A-game next time.”

You nod slowly, letting out a soft, uncertain laugh. “Yeah. You better. Or Mav might kick you off the squad.”

Silence hangs, thick and heavy. Jake wants to say something—make a joke or a snarky remark—but his voice is caught somewhere deep in his chest.

“Seresin,” Javy interrupts, clapping a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You almost done, or...?”

He steps up beside the two of you, eyes darting back and forth as his brow knits. He's not stupid. He can clearly sense that there's something painfully awkward hanging in the air.

You raise your brows and take an unsteady step back. “I was just going to say, let me know if you’re home for dinner. I’m making nachos, but I always make way too—”

“Won’t be,” Jake cuts in. “Mav asked me to stay back. Again. Paperwork.”

“Oh,” you frown, just slightly. “Must’ve missed that. All good. See you later.” Then you turn to Javy and flash him wide smile. “Bye, Coyote.”

He gives you a lazy salute. “See ya, Val.”

You turn on your heel and walk away, leaving Jake standing there slack-jawed and utterly defeated.

Javy clears his throat, the grin on his lips turning wicked. “So...?”

Jake’s eyes snap to him. “What?”

Javy raises his brows. “Mav didn’t ask you to stay back.”

“I know,” Jake says, turning back to try and remember what he was filling out a maintenance log for. “She’s got a guy coming over, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad, but I figured she’d be happier if I wasn’t there.”

Javy nods slowly, looking entirely unconvinced. “Right. Okay. So, you were being a good roommate?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a split second of silence where Javy steps even closer, invading Jake’s space as he leans against the wall and tips his head forward. “Want to talk about it?”

Jake doesn’t even look up. “Talk about what?”

Javy shrugs. “Don’t know. Got anything you want to talk about?”

“No,” Jake snaps.

“Alright,” Javy says, pushing off the wall. “You just keep jerking off to your roommate until you die of dehydration. See what I care.”

Jake’s eyes go wide. He chokes on nothing—just air. When he finally turns around, Javy is already gone, striding across the hangar the same way you did. But he’s got a noticeable pep in his step, clearly fucking thrilled with himself for figuring this one out.

After a brief, mostly internal meltdown in the locker room, Jake packs up his gear and heads off base. He sits in his car for twenty minutes, scrolling through texts from a few women he’d messaged earlier, and thankfully, one of them tells him to get his gorgeous ass over to her place right now—no questions asked. So he does exactly that.

The drive is only ten minutes, but it rattles his nerves. Not because he’s worried about this woman—no, that would be ridiculous. He’s worried about you. Or more precisely, what Natasha and Javy think they know about you.

Which is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because there’s nothing there.

You’re just his roommate. His ridiculously good-looking, maddeningly sexy, impossibly charming roommate. Two months of living together and sure, some weird feelings have popped up. Strange, shallow stuff. Surface-level. All about your ass, your tits, and whatever else Jake usually notices.

But that’s it. That’s all there is.

He hasn’t noticed the soft melody beneath your laugh. Or the way your lips twitch when you bite back a snarky comment. Or how your tongue drags slowly over your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought.

He hasn’t noticed any of it.

And this guy—Justin? Jake couldn’t care less about who you’re with. That’s your business, not his. He’s just glad you’re getting some.

Just like he is. Right now. With a woman who’s perfectly attractive, even if she doesn’t look, smell, or sound like you. But hey, that’s a good thing, right?

“Baby, c’mere,” Sienna—Jake thinks—croons, reaching across the couch. “Why you sittin’ so far away, hm?”

He shifts closer to the red-headed woman, trying hard not to breathe in the candy-cane scent of whatever glittery body lotion she uses. He remembers that it was overwhelming last time, but this time it’s just making him feel downright sick.

“You really come over here just to watch a movie?” she asks, eyes flicking between Jake’s face and the TV.

His green eyes are glued to the screen. Not because it’s interesting—it’s really not—but because it’s the same spy-romance-thriller you picked last night, and he wants to know if it was actually any good. Since he missed most of it trying to focus on hiding his raging boner.

“Come on,” Sabrina—maybe—sighs, trailing a manicured nail down the line of his jaw. “I got all pretty for you.”

Jake’s eyes flick toward her, lips twitching into a tight smile. She’s not ugly—far from it—but maybe she’s just not his type. Or maybe he doesn’t have a type anymore. Because despite the fact that they both know exactly what he came here for, he can’t seem to want it.

And what’s worse? He can’t get hard. At all.

“Sorry,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Just—uh, just trying to get work out of my head. You know?”

She nods slowly. “Okay, baby. Well... what if I get us a bottle of wine? Take the edge off.”

Before he can respond, she’s already off the couch and sauntering toward the kitchen. Jake doesn’t care. Honestly, he’s just relieved to get a breath of air that doesn’t reek of unicorn-scented body lotion.

He’s been here nearly two hours. They started making out the second he walked in the door, but it didn’t him take long to realise that absolutely nothing was stirring in his pants. So he’d asked for a minute to decompress, maybe watch something first. Hit reset.

But truthfully? He doesn’t want to get to it. Which is absurd, considering the weekend he just had—fighting off boners left, right, and centre.

“Red or white, baby?” Serena—possibly—calls from the kitchen.

Jake opens his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzes first. Lighting up with your goofy caller ID photo—a close-up of you in your flight helmet, blurry and ridiculous, pulling a face way too close to his camera lens.

His lips twitch as he swipes the green button.

“Hey?”

“Jake,” you say, breathless.

His stomach drops. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Jakey!” Selena—or whatever—calls again. “Red or—?”

“I don’t care!” Jake snaps. “Either’s fine.” Then he lowers his voice, speaking softly into the phone. “Sorry. I’m here. What’s up?”

“A-Are you still on base or...?”

“No, I’m—um, I’m at a friend’s place,” he says quickly. “But that doesn’t matter. You sound stressed. What’s going on?”

“Oh.” You hesitate, voice suddenly too high, clearly realising what you’ve interrupted. “No, it’s fine. I didn’t know you were... with someone.”

“It’s fine. Don’t apologise,” he says, already standing. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, honestly—”

“Tell me.”

“Seriously, dude,” you sigh. “I’m fine. It’s just—the power went out, but I’m pretty sure it’s only our apartment. So I guess that means it’s... I don’t know. A fuse? The circuit thing? I figured you’d know. But really—it’s fine. I’ll call building maintenance.”

“No, no,” Jake says, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch. “I’ll come home, I can—”

“Jake,” you cut him off. “Don’t. Please don’t. Have your fun, I’ll figure it out.”

He pauses, brow furrowed, suddenly remembering why he came to Sierra’s place. “Wait. Where’s Justin?”

“Oh, he’s not coming over. Got caught up at work or something.”

“Right,” he mutters, peering toward the kitchen. “Just—just stay put. I’ll be home soon.”

“No. Please,” you say, and there’s something strained in your voice. Something off. “Don’t bail on your hookup just for me. I’ll call Phoenix or Rooster, see if either of them knows what to do. Okay?”

His heart is pounding now, hard and fast, making it impossible to think. But he knows better than to argue. He knows better than to ditch a hookup for you. Because he knows what that would mean.

“Okay,” he sighs. “But call me if you need me to come home. I won’t be late.”

“I will. I promise,” you say, voice softer now. “Now go get some. Lord knows you need the ego boost after today.”

He chuckles, closing his eyes and picturing the smile on your face. The one that makes him feel like he’s seventeen again. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Bagman.”

Then you hang up, leaving Jake alone with the dial tone and a weird, hollow ache blooming in his chest.

“Everything okay?” Sasha asks, brows drawn.

Jake frowns, staring down at the phone in his hands. His stomach churns, chest tightens. He can’t breathe. His tongue feels heavy, and his voice is lodged somewhere in his throat.

“Jakey?” she presses. “You don’t look good.”

“Gotta go,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“You what?”

“I—I have to go. My roommate, she—”

“Your cousin?” Sydney interrupts.

“No,” Jake’s frown deepens. “My roommate.”

Simone frowns. “Yes, your roommate who’s also your cousin. The one you—”

“She’s not my fucking cousin!” he snaps, louder than he means.

Sandy startles, eyes narrowing. “You said she was—”

“She’s my roommate,” he says, voice firm. “Just my roommate. Actually, no—she’s my friend, and part of my squad.”

Samantha raises an eyebrow. “Your squad?”

“Yes. Squad.” Jake runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Because I’m a naval aviator. Which you’d know if either of us bothered remembering anything about each other.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know you’re in the Navy. So what if I forget what you do?” Then she props a hand on her hip. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“I just—” He takes a deep breath. “I—I need to go home, okay?”

“What? Why? Because of your roommate?”

“Yes. Because of her.” He slides his arms into his jacket. “The power went out and she needs help.”

“The power went out?” Samara echoes, incredulous. “And you have to go home, or what? She’ll die?”

Jake frowns. “No, she won’t—I mean, it’s not life or death, but—”

“Seriously,” Summer cuts in, “what the fuck is your problem tonight?”

“My problem?” Jake narrows his eyes. “My problem is that I can’t just ignore my roommate when she needs me.”

Sadie arches a perfectly plucked brow. “She doesn’t need you, Jake. She’s a grown woman.”

“Well, maybe I need her!” Jake blurts.

The words scorch his tongue, slam into his chest, and steal the air from his lungs. His breath catches—shaky, shallow. Every nerve ending feels raw, exposed—like frayed wires sparking and crackling, desperate for ground. If anyone else touches him now, he might short-circuit. Blow apart.

He needs you. Only you. You’re the only safe harbor, the only grounding wire strong enough to steady this storm raging inside him. The only one who can reach in, hold on, and fix what’s broken.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Shit. I—uh, I gotta go.”

He grabs his keys off the coffee table and shrugs his jacket on properly. He barely looks at the woman staring at him in utter disbelief—just nods and turns toward the door. “Thanks, uh… Sabrina? Samara?”

Then he’s gone. Out the door, down the stairs, across the street, and into his car.

The second he slams the driver’s side door closed, the silence wraps around him like a vice. It’s too quiet, too sharp. His pulse is too loud. And the second the engine turns over, he’s spiralling.

I need her?

He says it again—in his head—and it lands like a punch to the ribs. A silent admission, a whisper amongst whirling thoughts.

Fuck. He grips the wheel tighter.

I need her.

He’s known you for years. Years. Since before flight school. Since that first day at the Academy when you smiled at him like you already knew he was trouble. He remembered that smile for weeks. Thought about it during PT. Laughed about it in the mess hall when his bunkmates gave him shit for getting flustered.

But you barely looked at him again. Not until North Island.

And even then, he didn’t realise what was happening. Not when you moved in. Not when you started stealing his socks or fake-kissing his cheek to get rid of the girls who wouldn’t leave the next morning. Not when you started saving him—over and over again—with a raised eyebrow and a sharp little smile, acting like his wife, or cousin, or federal agent.

He should’ve known.

He did know. Somewhere deep down, his body knew before his head did. That’s why no one else ever stuck. Why no other woman ever made it past two nights. He kept telling himself it was just about sex. That the feelings he had were just surface level—just instinct. Biology. Whatever.

But the truth is, no one ever stood a chance. Not when your laugh still echoes in his head days after he hears it. Not when the soft sound of your footsteps across the apartment floor is more familiar to him than his own breathing. Not when you’re the first person he wants to see when something good happens. Or something bad.

Jesus.

He runs a hand through his hair, breath catching. His throat’s tight. His chest aches.

All this time. All this pretending. And he still didn’t see it.

He’s not in control. He never was.

He’s in love with you.

And suddenly it’s not even a question of what if.

He wishes it were.

But it’s just fact. Solid and terrifying. A truth that makes his heart race and his hands shake.

He presses harder on the gas. He just needs to get home.

To you.

He drives like he has nothing to lose—even though right now, he knows he has everything to lose. He’s headlong and reckless, speeding, weaving through traffic, taking corners too fast. Pulling moves that could easily earn him a suspension or, worse, a formal reprimand from the Navy.

But he doesn’t care. Because fourteen minutes later, he’s outside your building, practically falling out of his car and hurrying through the lobby like a lunatic.

He jabs at the elevator buttons, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the carriage crawls upward. When it finally opens on your floor, he squeezes out and bolts down the hallway, fumbling with his keys like his hands forgot how to work.

His head is spinning. His fingers are numb. He can barely breathe, let alone think straight—and less than a foot from the door, the keys slip from his grasp.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching down to pick them up.

Then—

Laughter. Your laughter.

Light and soft, threaded with that hidden melody that’s burrowed into the deepest parts of his memory.

He freezes, eyes flicking to the sliver of light glowing beneath the door. Power. The power’s back on.

Another muffled laugh, and his stomach drops so hard and fast he’s surprised it doesn’t fall out of his ass.

Maybe it’s just Phoenix? Or Rooster? You did say you were going to call—

“Justin,” you giggle, from somewhere inside, “stop it, I’m trying not to spill it.”

All the blood drains from Jake’s face. He just stands there, pale and slack-jawed, staring at the door like it just punched him in the chest.

His fingers twitch, trying to remember how to move. His whole body feels heavy. Numb. Weighted down by the brutal whiplash of emotional discovery and the gut-punch of reality.

He’s not even sure he has the nerve to walk in.

But after a long moment—too long—he takes a breath, deep and unsteady, and slides the key into the lock.

He pushes the door open and steps inside, kicking his boots off as his eyes land on you in the living room. You’re holding a glass of wine in one hand, and the other is resting—way too high—on Justin’s leg.

Jake isn’t sure what he expected Justin to be like, but whatever it was, this isn’t it. The guy is tall—maybe taller than Jake—with dark hair, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. Pale, but not scrawny. Broad shoulders. Thick legs. He looks like a lumberjack—minus the flannel. Practically Jake’s polar opposite. He doesn’t look like he belongs in San Diego, and he definitely doesn’t look like he belongs beside you.

“Jake?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Hi,” he mutters, eyes still locked on Justin.

“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while.”

He shrugs. “Came to fix the power. But I can see that’s no longer an issue.” His eyes narrow. “Thought Justin wasn’t coming over.”

Justin shifts uncomfortably, easing his hand away from your leg.

“Oh,” you say, standing up. “Right. Sorry. Jake, this is Justin. Justin—Jake.”

“Hangman,” Jake says flatly.

You frown. “That’s his callsign.”

“That’s right,” Justin says, offering a polite chuckle. “You’re a fighter pilot too.”

“Naval aviator,” Jake replies, enunciating each word.

You shoot him a look—eyes wide, brow furrowed. Like, what the fuck?

“Right, yeah,” Justin says quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

You take a long sip of your wine before clearing your throat. “Justin was stuck at work, but after I called, like, the whole squad, he was my last hope. He came right over and found the circuit breaker on his way up.”

“Great,” Jake mutters, tone dry. “He’s a double-texter and he knows where the circuit breakers are.”

Your eyes go wide. “Jake. What the fuck?”

“What?” he asks, shrugging like he’s not being a complete dick. “Not saying I’m not grateful. Just takes some balls, showing up after being—what? Plan Z?”

“Jake!”

“Okay,” Justin says quietly, pushing up from the couch. “I’m just gonna go.”

You turn to him. “No, no. Don’t. He’s just being—”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Jake says, already swinging it open.

You whip back toward him. “Jake. Stop.”

“It’s fine,” Justin mutters. “I’m going. You two can… sort this out.”

Jake watches your jaw clench, your eyes slashing toward him in a lethal glare. But he can’t bring himself to stop.

“Justin, I’m so sorry,” you sigh.

Jake’s eye twitches when your hand wraps around Justin’s arm, rubbing up and down like you’re trying to soothe him. The sight alone sparks something hot and bitter behind his sternum.

He steps aside as you both move toward the door, still holding it open like he’s doing everyone a favour.

“It’s alright,” Justin says softly, crooking a finger beneath your chin. “Call me, yeah?”

“I will,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, gorgeous.”

You sigh, stepping back—and that’s all the cue Jake needs. He lets the door slam shut in Justin’s face, a solid final barrier between the two of you.

Relief floods through him—but it’s short-lived. Because before he can even blink, you turn on him, gaze fixed and deadly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you spit, eyes narrowed and brows tightly drawn. “Justin was being perfectly polite. He came over here and did us a favour. Then you walk in all rude and territorial—you might as well have just pissed on me!”

Jake chokes on his own breath, coughing softly as he lifts a hand to his chest. “I—”

“Like, seriously!” you go on, throwing your hands up. “You’ve been acting weird the past few days for God knows what reason, and you’re letting it affect you at work. Then you ditch a hookup—which is not very Hangman of you—just to come home and act like a dick?” You pause, wide eyes trained on him. “Do you know how hard it was to convince Justin that there’s nothing going on between you and me? And now what’s he going to think?”

Jake can feel his heart beating in his throat. Loud, heavy, fast. His stomach—if it’s even still in his body—feels like it’s been turned inside out. He can barely breathe, barely think.

“B-Between us?” he stammers out—the only fragment of your rant that seemed to stick.

You roll your eyes, propping your hands on your hips. “Yes, Jake. I live with a young, attractive, single man... of course Justin is going to think there’s something more going on. It’s the same with you and your hookups. But I’m not going to lie to him and tell him you’re my fucking cousin. Because I like him.”

Those last three words feel like a punch to Jake’s gut, winding him.

“You like him?” he asks, voice quiet—strained.

“Yes,” you say, firm—despite blinking a little too fast, which Jake knows is your tell. “And you’re not allowed to have a problem with that. I mean...” You let out a sigh, shoulders sagging as you step closer to him. “What is going on with you? You—You look sick. Are you okay?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Because no, he’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since that night he walked through the door and heard you with someone else. His stomach is in knots, his chest feels too tight, and his skin is buzzing like his nerves are misfiring. He’s pale, yeah, because all the blood is either in his head or his heart and both of them are screaming.

He’s exhausted. Not from the day, but from pretending. From biting his tongue and keeping his distance and playing the roommate, the friend, the flirt with no feelings who knows better than to touch what he can’t have.

His pulse thunders in his ears. His throat aches with everything he hasn’t said. His hands are curled into fists at his sides because if he doesn’t hold something back, he’s going to break.

He looks at you—really looks—and it just… hits him. Hard. Like gravity, or fate, or something heavy and persistent that just won’t let go.

“I—I think I love you,” he mutters, voice low—wrecked.

You startle, eyes growing even wider as you stumble back a step. “What?”

He clears his throat, wishing his heart would stop beating so damn fast. “I’m in love with you.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow hard, eyes glossing over. You take a hesitant step back, like you need the distance just to stop yourself from falling into him.

He wishes you’d let yourself.

“Jake...” you whisper, “y-you’re not in love with me. You can’t be.”

Another punch to the gut. This time harder, lower.

“Why?”

“Because,” you say, eyes flicking toward the floor as you shake your head. “You’re you. Jake. Hangman. You—You’re in love with what you can’t have. The idea of me, maybe. But you’re not in love with me.”

Jake feels like his ribs are splitting—cracking wide open to expose his trembling, bleeding heart. Nothing protecting it as you reach in and rip it apart.

“Why—Why would you say that?” he asks, voice soft, breathing ragged.

“Because I know you!” you say, probably a little louder than intended. “And the woman you fall in love with—really fall in love with—is going to be so special. She’s going to be sexy and funny, and shine so brightly that you forget about all the others, but...” You take a shaky breath. “I’m not that girl, Jake.”

He wants to scream. He wants to run. He wants to reach out to you and tell you—show you—that there’s no one else on this earth that could possibly be that girl.

It’s you. It’s always been you. It always will be you.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, a single tear falling down your cheek. “I just—I think we both need some space, don’t you?”

Jake can’t respond. Can’t say anything. His voice is stuck beneath the lump in his throat, and if he tries to dislodge it, he might just fall apart.

“I—I know it’s probably been a little confusing because we’ve gotten so close,” you continue, swiping at the tears on your cheeks. “And that’s my fault, I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve made sure we kept boundaries and stayed out of each other’s way, but I—I don’t know. I like being close with you, Jake. Being your friend.”

Friend. Ugh.

“And I know you love me,” you add, stepping forward again. “Because I love you too. The same way I love the whole squad.”

At this point, Jake’s not even sure if you’re trying to make things better or worse.

Jake isn’t sure what to say—he’s not even sure he can say anything. You’re staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, and it takes everything in him not to break. He sees the tremble in your hands, the slight quiver of your bottom lip. And so he does what he knows he has to do.

He agrees.

“Okay.”

You step forward again, a shaky smile flickering on your lips as your fingers curl gently around his wrist. “Thank you. And—And I’m sorry. I know this is confusing, I just... I don’t want to lose you. You’re one of my closest friends.”

Jake presses his lips into a thin line, holding his breath like that might hold everything else in place.

For a moment, neither of you move. Then slowly, your hand falls away.

Jake searches your face, green eyes scanning like they’re trying to catch a flicker of something—anything—that might tell him you don’t mean it. That you’re lying. That you feel it too.

But all he finds is sadness, and tears, and a wall where there used to be warmth.

He ducks his head, steps aside, and walks quickly toward his room. The door slams shut behind him, and he slumps against it, head thudding back against the wood.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throat tight, eyes burning.

You might be confused. You might even be scared. But Jake’s not.

He’s knows he’s in love with you.

- You -

Two. Weeks.

It’s been fourteen fucking days since Jake Seresin told you he’s in love with you.

How are you even supposed to function after a confession like that? How are you expected to keep breathing, keep moving, keep waking up every day just to see his face? At home and at work. Because the universe is some cruel sadist.

Or maybe you’re just a masochist.

After all, you were the one who agreed to move in together.

But he didn’t mean it, right?

He was just caught up in the moment, confused by proximity or friendship—or simply feeling something for the first time in his life. Jake Seresin doesn’t do emotion, so of course he’s going to be confused when he starts caring about someone other than himself. He’s never had a close female friend—not like this. He’s just… not thinking straight.

But you? You can’t stop thinking. About him. His face. His stupid smile. The way he says your name, and the shape his lips make when he does.

About how gorgeous he is—not in the over-the-top way, with his hair done just right, clean-shaven, mess dress pressed to perfection—but in the quiet way. When he’s in sweats and nothing else, his skin warm, hair a mess, lying on the couch like some off-duty Greek Adonis. He doesn’t even know he’s beautiful in those moments. And those are the moments you can’t stop thinking about.

You can’t get his eyes out of your head. His smile that crooks a little higher on one side, just for you. The way he smells like cedarwood and jet fuel. The way his warmth finds the deepest parts of you whenever he gets just a little too close.

You’ve always known he’s good-looking, since the very first day you met him. That’s not news. What is news is the way your stomach flips whenever someone even mentions his name. How your skin heats up when you remember the look on his face right before he said it—I’m in love with you. The rawness in his voice. The way it felt so real.

And maybe the worst part is, you don’t know if you regret what you said… or if you’re just terrified that you meant it. That you pushed him away not because you didn’t feel it, but because you did—so much it scared you.

Because two weeks ago, you were doing just fine repressing every unusually warm feeling you had about Jake. Everything that wasn’t totally platonic. But now, it feels like there’s a crack in the floodgates—and you’re one rainstorm away from drowning in everything you’ve tried so hard not to feel.

“Japanese or Mexican?” Justin asks, phone held up to his nose as he scrolls through the food delivery app.

How is it down to Japanese or Mexican? They’re not even close. No one in the history of the world has ever been torn between sushi and tacos. It just doesn't make sense.

“I don’t mind,” you mutter. “Not really hungry.”

He sighs, dark eyes flicking toward you. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been distant all week. I’m surprised I finally got you to come around.”

You’ve only seen Justin once since the incident—just long enough to apologise and swear, honestly, that there’s nothing going on between you and Jake. After that, your replies slowed, you stopped checking your phone for his name, and a small, quiet part of you hoped he’d just... give up.

“Yeah, sorry. Work is just—”

“Work?” he cuts in, raising a brow.

You nod. “Work.”

“Right,” he mutters, glancing back down at his phone. “Let’s do Japanese.”

God. You’re not even hungry—and raw fish and seaweed sounds borderline offensive right now.

An hour later, your untouched dinner is still on the coffee table while Justin chuckles at some formulaic comedy—the canned laughter pressing into your skull like static. You’re sitting close, but it feels wrong. Like the space between you and him is closing in, pressing down on your chest. His thigh brushes yours and you force yourself not to flinch, pasting on a polite smile even though your skin is already crawling.

It’s not that he’s doing anything overtly wrong—he’s being perfectly nice, charming in that clean-cut, eager-to-please way. But every laugh feels too loud, every compliment a little too rehearsed. You nod, you smile, you even let him tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and instantly wish he hadn’t. It doesn’t make you warm. It doesn’t make you flutter. It just makes you want to lean away.

Because the truth is, he’s not Jake.

And now you finally know what that’s supposed to feel like—real connection, real tension, real... something.

“How is he?” Justin asks suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

“Jake,” he says, frowning. “You just said he’d hate this movie.”

You did?

“I did?”

He nods. “Yeah. I asked if you wanted to change it and you said, ‘Jake would’ve turned it off ten minutes ago’.”

Shit.

“Right,” you mumble, shaking your head. “Sorry. He’s okay. I think. I don’t really know. We haven’t talked in… a while.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “He’s been distant. We’ve been giving each other space.”

Justin smiles, a little too easily. “That’s good. You need boundaries, right? Living together and working together—it’s a lot.”

You hum, noncommittal, eyes glued to your untouched plate of sushi.

You used to know exactly where Jake’s boundaries were. Now all you can see are the ones you put up—and how much it’s starting to hurt having them there.

After Justin clears the takeout containers and pours you a glass of wine, he nestles even closer on the couch. The lame movie is drawing to a close—you can tell—but he makes no move to grab the remote. Instead, he leans in, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling your body to his.

Your stomach twists, and that familiar ache wells at the back of your throat—but right now, you’re not sure if it’s tears or nausea. Or both.

You swallow hard and take a shallow, shaky breath before turning toward him. You’re not stupid—you know what he wants. So you force yourself to try.

Your breath catches as his lips brush yours—tentative at first, then deeper, more insistent. You slide your hands up his chest, to his shoulders, fingers digging in as you try to relax your rigid posture. To lean in to him.

He shifts your bodies until you’re lying back, trying desperately to forget the knot twisting inside of you. His hands find your wrists, gently moving them above your head and pinning them against the couch armrest. Your heart races, but not with desire—with memory.

Suddenly, it’s not Justin’s hands you feel.

It’s Jake’s—rough, familiar, impossible to forget. Wrapped around your wrists, pinning you down with ease.

Your mind flashes back to that night. The tension, the heat, the rawness. His eyes blazing, chest heaving. The way his breath ghosted over your damp lips, sparking fire right between your legs.

You moan involuntarily, but it’s not Justin’s name on your lips.

“Jake...” you whisper, breathless.

The body above you freezes. Then pulls back.

Justin just stares, wide-eyed, brows drawn tight. “What the fuck?”

“I—” you try, but the words catch in your throat.

He sits back, scooting as far away from you as the couch allows.

“Justin—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Just don’t, alright? I knew it.”

You frown. “Knew what?”

“I fucking knew there was something going on between the two of you.”

You shake your head. “There isn’t—”

“Don’t give me bullshit,” he says. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t even have to meet the guy to know. Just the way you spoke about him. The way you talked about him—it was non-fucking-stop. Do you know you talked more about Jake than yourself on our first date?”

Your eyes go wide, realisation thrumming hard through your veins.

Fuck.

It really has always been Jake. From the very first moment you met him—the way you refused to acknowledge him, convinced yourself he was just some pretty boy you wanted nothing to do with.

Then again at flight school. He was impossible to ignore. Always creeping into your thoughts and dreams, weaving himself deeper than you ever meant to let him.

TOPGUN. North Island. Moving in together. All of it, some cruel, subconscious prank you’ve been playing on yourself—just waiting for the moment you’d finally wake up and realise he’s not just Jake. Not just Hangman. Not to you.

To you, he’s everything.

Why else did you enjoy getting rid of his hookups so much? Why else did you even do it—if not to placate that deep, gnawing jealousy clawing at the corners of your mind?

A sharp ache blooms in your chest, and the tears come fast, unbidden—slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. You’re not sure if it’s heartbreak or relief—or both. You’re crying for the truth you refused to see, for the walls you built, for the fear that maybe you’ve left it too late.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I—I have to go.”

Before Justin can respond, you’re already on your feet, grabbing your things with trembling hands. You don’t look back as you step out the door, stumbling down the front steps and across the street.

You don’t care how it looks. You just need to get out of here.

You need to go home.

You need Jake.

The drive home is sketchy at best. You can barely see through your tears, and your chest is so tight you can’t take a proper breath. But somehow, you make it.

You park, climb out of the car, cross the street, and stumble through the lobby. You mash the elevator button like the extra pressure might make it come faster. It doesn’t.

When the doors finally open, you squeeze in—then out again, rushing down the hall with your keys already in hand. You fumble at the lock, find the right one, shove it in and force the door open, practically falling inside.

It’s dark. Quiet.

You pause to kick off your shoes, wiping at your face and blinking hard at the still, empty apartment.

Jake didn’t tell you he was going out. Then again, he hasn’t really told you anything lately—not since he told you he’s in love with you.

But you know he hasn’t been going out. You know he hasn’t seen anyone else since then. Hasn’t really spoken to anyone, either. Even Javy asked if you knew what was going on with him. You’d just shrugged and mumbled something about him avoiding you too.

Your throat tightens as you step farther in.

“Jake?” you call softly, your voice wobbly—uncertain.

There’s no response.

With a soft sigh, you shed your jacket and lay it on the kitchen bench. Then you pad quietly toward the hall. At the very end, beneath Jake’s bedroom door, is a faint sliver of light. He’s home.

You move as quietly as you can, tears still slipping down your cheeks, hands trembling at your sides. It doesn’t take long to reach his door—but you don’t knock. Instead, you let your forehead rest against the wood with a soft thud.

“Jake,” you whisper, barely audible.

If he’s watching something or has his headphones in, he wouldn’t hear you.

You clear your throat, lift your head and—thunk—let it fall again.

“Jake,” you say, a little louder.

There’s a shuffle. Then silence. A pause. Two distinct footsteps and—

The door yanks open and you go with it, falling forward.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake breathes, arms wrapping around you as you crash into his chest.

“Nope,” you murmur, sniffling. “Just me.”

He exhales—something like a half-laugh, half-sigh—as he steadies you in his arms. You don’t even try to hold yourself up—just sink into him, your cheek pressed to the firm warmth of his chest, his heartbeat thrumming hard beneath your ear.

“Are—are you okay?” he asks, voice tight with concern. “Did something happen?”

You draw a deep, shaky breath and slowly begin to take your weight back, bracing one hand on his shoulder as you pull upright.

“I—I just—” Your voice breaks as more tears roll down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, his voice low as he takes your hand, his expression softening. “It’s okay. I’m here. Whatever it is—we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

He draws you further into the room, nudging the door closed behind you. Then he sits on the edge of the bed with a heavy breath and tugs gently on your hand to guide you down beside him.

But you don’t move. You can’t. Not yet.

It’s ridiculous, but... you don’t want your first time on Jake’s bed to be like this. Sobbing. Falling apart. If you’re ever in this bed, you want it to be because he put you there—and because you didn’t want to leave. Crying? Maybe… but from overstimulation, not emotional collapse.

“What happened?” he asks again, more carefully this time. “Did—did Justin—?”

“No,” you say quickly.

You step back just enough to face him, standing in front of where he sits at the foot of the bed. Then you tip your head back, trying to breathe, trying to collect yourself. You sniffle. Wipe your cheeks. Blink a few times. And finally, finally, you meet his eyes again.

“I—um, I think I broke up with him,” you say quietly. “If there was even anything to break up. Honestly, we’d barely been going out.”

Jake nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Right. So... he didn’t take it well?”

You let out a soft, watery laugh—half-snort, thanks to your stuffed-up nose. “No idea. I left before he could say anything.”

“Oh.” Jake frowns. “Then why—”

“You know,” you interrupt, eyes drifting around his room, “I don’t think I’ve been in here more than once.”

His brow lifts. “Really?”

“Yep. When we first moved in. But it’s different now. It’s very... you.”

Jake huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

You nod, your gaze snagging on the worn, pale cowboy hat hooked over the bedpost. “Yeah. I like it.”

Silence stretches between you. Heavy and charged. This is the longest you’ve been in the same room in two weeks— and the air between you is thick with everything left unsaid.

Finally, Jake clears his throat. “So... are you okay?”

You meet his eyes. “I think so.”

He nods once. “Good. With all the crying, I thought—”

“I love you,” you blurt.

His entire body stills. The words hang in the space between you like something fragile and flammable. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You swallow hard. “I—I’m in love with you. That’s what I meant.”

He just stares. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, stunned into silence. You can practically see the static behind his eyes.

You wait—heart in your throat, lungs burning. You can see it in his face. You know he loves you too. You just hope you’re not too late. That you haven’t wrecked this—haven’t ruined what it was, or what it could’ve been.

Finally, he blinks and drags in a breath. “You... you’re in love with me?”

You nod. “Yeah. With you.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like the words won’t come. Like his brain can’t catch up.

You let out another shaky laugh, wiping fresh tears from your cheeks. “Yeah. That’s why I was crying.”

His voice is hoarse. “Because... of me?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say quickly. “I’m just... overwhelmed. I mean, you try realising you’re in love with your roommate—”

“I did,” he cuts in, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t let me finish.”

He doesn’t argue.

“You try realising you’re in love with your roommate—who also happens to be a certified man whore with a dating history that reads like an anthology series. Every damn episode worse than the last.”

Jake presses his lips together, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Man whore?” he echoes, raising a brow.

You give him a flat look. “Don’t even try to defend yourself. I’ve witnessed the carnage firsthand.” Then your breath hitches. “Why do you think I’m so scared?”

His smile fades. “Scared?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice cracking as another tear slips free.

He stands up and steps forward without hesitation, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you tight against him. Your head finds its place beneath his chin, your cheek warm against his chest, the fabric of his shirt growing damp with tears.

“I swear to God, Jake Seresin,” you mumble into him, “if you break my heart, I’ll rip yours out and feed it to piranhas.”

His laugh vibrates through his chest. “Noted.” Then his voice softens, dropping to a whisper. “I’m not going to break your heart.”

Your chest tightens, overwhelmed by something fierce and fragile all at once. Love rises slowly, heavy and aching, filling every corner of you—for this man, this maddening, breathtaking man who has become everything you never expected.

You stay wrapped in him, suspended in that quiet moment of calm and certainty, until finally Jake pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. One hand finds yours, the other cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his with gentle intent.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, his eyes impossibly soft.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Good.” He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead—so careful, so reverent it nearly undoes you all over again.

When he pulls back, he lingers just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His hand still cradles your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek like you might vanish if he stops touching you.

“We can take it slow,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with restraint. “Whatever you want.”

But you can see it in his eyes—that barely-contained hunger. The way his gaze keeps dropping to your lips, the tension strumming between your bodies like a live wire.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. He doesn’t even have time to react before you place your hands on his chest and give him a gentle push. He stumbles back a step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops onto it with a startled huff.

“I want to save a horse,” you say.

He blinks up at you, confused. “What?”

You reach for the cowboy hat perched on his bedpost, fingers curling around the worn brim. Then, with deliberate slowness, you step between his knees and place the hat on his head, tilting it just right.

“Save a horse,” you repeat, your voice dropping as you lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Ride a cowboy.”

You barely finish the sentence before Jake grabs your hips and pulls you into his lap.

Your knees hit the mattress on either side of his thighs. The cowboy hat slips slightly askew on his head, but you grab the brim and straighten it with a grin, settling in with your hips flush against his.

“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes dragging slowly down your face, your neck, the curve of your chest like he’s cataloguing every inch for later. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lean in close, lips brushing his. “You wish.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s all tongue and teeth and breathless sounds caught between gasps. You grind down without shame, feeling the thick press of him beneath you, hard and eager and very much not trying to play it cool. One of his hands slides under your shirt—fingertips rough and greedy—while the other fists in your hair, holding you there like he can’t risk you pulling away.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, bucking up beneath you, chasing the friction like a man possessed. “You keep that up, and I’m gonna—”

“What?” you pant, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “Lose that legendary control of yours?”

His breath stutters. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

He’s gasping now, eyes dark, lips swollen from kissing, and you can feel the desperation clawing at him. Every muscle in his body is tense beneath yours, like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

You rock your hips again, deliberately filthy, and his head falls back with a curse.

“Baby,” he growls, voice wrecked, “we’re gonna open a whole goddamn rescue ranch with the amount of horses you’re about to save.”

You let out a breathless, wicked laugh and drag your mouth along his jaw, down his throat. “Then I guess we’d better start tonight.”

And if the next hour alone is anything to go by, this ranch is going to need a whole lot of fencing.

END.

#Jake Seresin #Jake Seresing angst #Jake Seresin fluff #geminiwritten

905 notes · View notes

althaiareads · 4 days ago

Text

“If my husband went to jail,” the woman goes on, “I’d be lost. Don’t know if I’d even stick around. But honestly, you’re lucky you’ve got a cousin like Jakey looking after you.”

Omg he's an absolute asshole, lmaoooo, of course he uses her as a sob story to gain himself some points when flirting.

No, he’s volunteering at the animal shelter today.

LMAOOO SHE IS SO FUNNY. DUDE, I LOVE HER

“Oh, and sweetheart?” you add, just as she yanks the door open. “You might want to get tested.”

I REITERATE, SHE IS SO FUCKING FUNNY

“Yeah? Want me to come? Bet I could give her a better play-by-play than you could.” “Shut up, Seresin,” you mutter, but he can still hear the smile in your voice. “I’ve listened to you every second bloody night for the past two months. Call it payback.”

Have I said before that I absolutely love her? Because I do. It is 100% deserved, even if i feel kind of bad for his dick, lmao. And look, it worked? All she needed to do was get laid for him to actually do some work around the house, idk, double win.

This was such a fun read! I love the dynamic between the two of them; the teasing and the banter are so fun to read. You had me laughing out loud multiple times while I was reading it. It was also SO FUCKING HOT! Loved getting to see Jake's POV. His coming home when she had that dude in her bedroom was… oof, imma be thinking bout that for a very long time. Also, Jake getting bricked from little things about her is actually kinda cute JAJFHAJS. The mental battle of "wait, am I jealous? can i even be jealous?" and all the conflict going through both of their heads was deliciouuuuuus!!!

dirty laundry (one) ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

notes: i know it's long but i promise it's fun!!! it's so juicy, i had so much fun, i couldn't stop (clearly)! i'd like to formally apologise to all jake girls (and jake himself, because damn, he gets put through it)... please, please, please let me know what you think! i absolutely love hearing all your thoughts! also, tumblr wouldn't let me post it all at once, so there's two sections...

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader can drive, a little angst, jake is a bit of a perv and a massive f*ckboy, italics, country music, and VERY HORNY with smut-ish? (masturbation, sex through the wall?) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!! (please let me know if i've missed anything)

word count: 22046 (section one, 10136)

your callsign is valkyrie

You first met Jake Seresin at the Academy. He was fresh-faced, full of himself, and grinning like the sky belonged to him. Gorgeous—but he knew it. And there was absolutely no part of you that wanted anything to do with him.

The second time you met him was at flight school. He was a little less fresh, a little more cocky, and somehow—even more gorgeous. Because life clearly wasn’t unfair enough already. This time, he was harder to ignore. But still, you managed.

The third time you crossed paths was in the TOPGUN program. And by then, Jake Seresin had become the single cockiest man you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. He was loud, smug, aggravating—and, annoyingly, still so goddamn hot. Almost impossible to ignore. So you bit your tongue, played nice, and kept your reactions locked down. By the end of the program, your disdain had softened into something closer to... indifference.

His abs, though? Those you could—objectively—appreciate.

You figured that’d be the last of him. But then you got tapped for a special detachment on North Island and—of course—there he was. Grinning like you were old friends. Because according to him? You were. So you humoured it at first, and then somewhere along the way, it actually started to feel true—not just with him, but with the whole squad.

After the mission, the choice to stay on as a full-time, elite unit wasn’t really a choice at all. It was a hell yes.

Once the reassignment came through and you were officially under Maverick’s command, you figured it was time to get out of the barracks. Find a place off-base. Something with a kitchen, a door that locked, and—ideally—no bunk beds. Somewhere you could finally feel like a functioning adult.

“Are you sure about this?” Natasha asks, hiking the box in her arms a little higher.

You lean yours against the wall and wrestle with your keys. “Yeah,” you huff, “why wouldn’t I be?”

You finally get the door unlocked—only for it to stop a few inches in, blocked by something heavy.

Natasha raises a brow. “Because you’re moving in with—”

“Jake fucking Seresin,” you shout through the gap. “Move your shit before I break it!”

There’s rustling from inside, then footsteps.

“Not my middle name,” comes the reply, that smug grin practically audible. “But since you asked so nicely…”

You let the door fall shut again. There’s a thud, some shuffling, and then it swings open.

“Phoenix,” Jake greets with a nod, before turning to you. “Roomie.”

You roll your eyes and shove the box into his chest. “There’s more stuff in the van. I helped you yesterday, you help me today. Get moving, Bagman.”

He doesn’t even get a word in before you brush past him and make a beeline for the kitchen.

Natasha trails in behind you, laughing under her breath as she sets her box down by the half-assembled sofa. She watches with amusement as Jake—very obediently—carries the box toward your bedroom.

“Maybe I should be more worried about Hangman,” she mutters, brows raised.

That was exactly two months ago. And since then, you’ve learned a lot about Jake Seresin.

The first thing you learned was that he’s a morning person—because of course he is. Always up at ungodly hours, ready for a run or a workout, bouncing around the kitchen like a five-year-old on a sugar high. You’re convinced he wears his gym clothes to bed.

The second thing you learned was that he hates horror movies, and can’t even handle the fake, ketchup-level blood in the older ones. A week after you moved in, he walked in on you and Natasha watching the latest Scream. He screamed louder than the film, then disappeared into his room, convinced Ghostface was stalking the apartment for a full week.

Halloween is still months away, but you know Nat’s already planning to dress up as Ghostface just to scare the shit out of him.

The third thing you learned—and this one you kind of already knew—is that Jake Seresin has a wildly active sex life. His hamper? Overflowing with dirty laundry. You now know more than you ever wanted to about his… extracurricular activities.

And unfortunately for you, it didn’t take Jake long to realise just how useful having you around could be.

The first time it happened, you were innocently making coffee, minding your own business in the kitchen, sipping fresh brew from your favourite mug.

“Um, who the fuck are you?”

You startle and whip around from staring out the window above the sink, watching lazy waves lap at the shore of Coronado Beach.

There’s a woman standing at the edge of the kitchen. Her hair’s a mess, her clothes are askew, and she’s looking at you like you’re a big, fat bug splattered across her windshield.

“Uh—I’m the… roommate,” you say hesitantly.

You knew Jake had someone over last night, but when you heard him get up for his usual morning run, you assumed he’d kicked her out on the way.

You also have no idea what Jake has told this woman—or any of them, really—about you. Or if she even knows he has a roommate. Because last night, you stayed holed up in your room with noise-cancelling headphones, watching reruns of your favourite nineties sitcom.

“Oh—” the woman says, her frown softening into realisation. “Oh, I’m sorry. Jakey did tell me about you. I’m just really out of it this morning.”

You nod slowly, holding your coffee cup up to your chin like some kind of shield.

“You’re totally not what I expected,” she says, running a judging eye over your fluffy robe. “But Jakey told me what you’re going through, and can I just say? You’re so strong.”

You blink once, steadying your expression so you don’t blow Jake’s story—though you have no idea what it even is.

“If my husband went to jail,” the woman goes on, “I’d be lost. Don’t know if I’d even stick around. But honestly, you’re lucky you’ve got a cousin like Jakey looking after you.”

Cousin? Jakey? Husband?

You clear your throat, struggling to keep a straight face. “Right,” you mutter. “My husband.”

She nods, plastering on a fake smile over smudged lipstick.

“And my cousin,” you add dryly, taking a long sip of hot coffee. “Thank God for my cousin.”

An awkward silence stretches between you, neither of you quite sure what to do next. Maybe you’re supposed to break down in tears over your jailed husband, or gush about how kind and generous your cousin is.

But then she clears her throat and straightens her misbuttoned blouse. “Anyway, is Jake… around?”

You shake your head. “No, he’s volunteering at the animal shelter today. Won’t be back until late.”

You don’t know how she misses the sarcasm dripping from your voice.

“Aw,” she coos, “he’s such a dream. God, I’m going to miss him so much.”

You press your lips together, biting back a sardonic laugh clawing its way up your throat.

“Well,” she sighs wistfully, “tell him I said bye, and that last night was the best night of my life.”

You nod, the smile on your lips painfully forced.

Then she turns, picks up her heels from where they were kicked off by the door, and glances back to give you one last sympathetic smile. “Oh, and good luck with your husband. Jakey said he’s up for review for conjugal visits, so… fingers crossed!”

Then she was out the door, and you were frozen in place—part shocked, part amused, and fully questioning all of your life choices.

So that’s how it started. That’s how you became Jake Seresin’s unofficial bouncer. His getaway car. His get-out-of-jail-free card whenever one of his many conquests overstays their welcome.

Sometimes you’re his cousin with a tragic backstory that makes Jake look like a hero. Other times you’re his sister who just can’t keep out of trouble, so big brother Jakey had to step up. One time, you were even an at-risk youth, fresh out of rehab—thanks, of course, to Saint Jake and his endless patience.

Mostly, though, you just feel like an underpaid housekeeper. Always taking out the trash, doing his dirty laundry, and making sure he doesn’t get himself hung out to dry. If he hadn’t somehow wormed his way into your heart, you’d probably tell him to suck it up and deal with his own poor life choices. But unfortunately, you’ve come to care for the smug womaniser—and you have to admit, sometimes it is kind of fun to put on a little show.

There’s a soft knock on your bedroom door. So soft you’re not even sure it was real—until it comes again.

You sigh, drag yourself out of bed, and rub at your tired eyes as you swing the door open, already knowing exactly who’s on the other side.

“What do you want?”

Jake stands there in all his glory—tight gym clothes, a day’s worth of stubble, and a backwards cap that is so infuriatingly hot you want to knock it clean off his head.

“Need you to get rid of her,” he says, flashing you a soft smile.

One upside to this whole arrangement is that Jake is almost too nice to you now. He knows he owes you—big time—and you’re not ashamed to admit you’re enjoying it. These days, he pretty much does anything you ask.

“What’s her name?” you ask, folding your arms—only just realising you’re wearing a very thin shirt with no bra.

He’s realised it too—and that you’re not wearing any pants—his sparkly green eyes trailing slowly over your body like they have every right to.

“Uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I—I don’t know.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That tracks. Do you want to see her again?”

He shakes his head, almost violently. “No way. She was a talker. Basically narrated the whole thing.”

You snort. “Okay, good. I’ll tell her I’m your wife or something.”

You step back, holding the door like you’re ready to shut it. But he doesn’t move. He stays right there in the doorway, a hand braced on either side, that hungry look still in his eyes.

“Do you want to be my wife?” he asks, lips curling into a cocky grin.

“Fuck no,” you say, voice laced with laughter. “Now get out of my room and stop looking at me like that before I slap you.”

His eyes stop roaming your body and lock onto yours—still hot, still shameless.

“Go to the gym,” you say flatly. “I saw the empty cookie box in the bin.”

His brows shoot up, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips. “Wow. That’s rude.”

You roll your eyes and swing the door shut. He steps back just in time for it to click closed, and then you turn and collapse face-first onto your bed with a groan.

You’d be a big, fat liar if you said living with Jake Seresin wasn’t absolute torture sometimes. Especially when he looks at you like that. But you have dignity. Self-respect. Pride. You’re not about to debase yourself and sleep with your hot roommate just because he looks—and sounds—like he could fuck you stupid.

Which, unfortunately, is something you sorely need. It’s been way too long since you’ve been fucked in any capacity, and living with a Greek god is doing an absolute number on you.

After wrapping yourself in your favourite fluffy robe and collecting the empty dishes from your bedside table—the ones you were too scared to return to the kitchen last night—you step out of your room. Jake is gone, but you can hear the shower running in the main bathroom. His bathroom.

You busy yourself making fresh coffee and fixing a plate of toast, humming the annoyingly catchy theme song from the show you binge-watched last night. You’re about to head to the living room when Jake’s latest guest rounds the corner.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “I didn’t know Jake had a roommate.”

You smile, but it isn’t friendly. “He doesn’t.”

She frowns. “Oh. I mean, he said—”

“I’m his wife.”

Her eyes widen, jaw twitching like she’s trying to decide whether to cry, scream, or vomit.

Silence hangs thick in the air—buzzing with the kind of awkwardness you’ve come to enjoy during these little charades.

Then you sigh, long and theatrical, tilting your head to stare off into space. “I’m not mad. Not really. Jake is… well, Jake. He’s got a kind heart and terrible boundaries. He just loves making everyone feel special.” You pause, giving her a deliberate once-over. “And I’m sure last night was very… meaningful.”

She makes a garbled sound that might be an apology, but you cut in before she can gather a full thought.

“I’d offer you breakfast,” you say, sipping your coffee, “but I think it’s best if you leave before I change my mind and start throwing things.”

She scurries to the front door, grabbing her shoes so fast one heel smacks the wall.

“Oh, and sweetheart?” you add, just as she yanks the door open. “You might want to get tested.”

The door slams shut behind her, and you let a slow, satisfied smirk stretch across your lips as you take another sip of coffee.

By the time you’ve finished your breakfast, showered, and changed into fresh clothes, Jake finally strolls in—flushed, sweat-damp, and glowing that obnoxious post-hookup high. He looks like sin and satisfaction wrapped in gym clothes, radiating the smug confidence of a man who ruins lives for fun.

“She gone?” he asks, not even looking at you as he heads straight for the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Scared her off. If you do hear from her again, it won’t be pretty.”

He chuckles, low and unbothered. “Don’t have to worry about that. Already blocked her number.”

“Such a gentleman,” you mutter, digging through the key bowl by the front door.

He cracks the cap on a blue sports drink and downs half of it in one go, watching you from the corner of his eye as you gather your keys, wallet, and sunglasses.

“Where you going?” he asks, a little breathless from the chug.

“The same magical place I go every Sunday,” you say flatly. “The grocery store.”

“Oh.” He caps the bottle and sets it on the counter. “Can I come? I need stuff too.”

You sigh. “Dude, I hate when you come. You’re so indecisive.”

He doesn’t answer—just jogs down the hall toward his room. You hear his door creak open, the spray of deodorant, and the rustle of clothes.

“Too bad,” he says as he reappears, pulling on a hoodie. “I’m coming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out the door, not bothering to hold it for him as he hurries to follow.

The grocery store is only ten minutes away, but Jake still manages to test every ounce of your patience on the way. He flicks through the radio like he’s searching for a signal from God, adjusts the AC a dozen times, and plays with the window like a bored kid stuck in traffic on the way to Grandma’s house.

By the time you pull into the parking lot, your jaw aches from how hard you’ve been clenching it—white-knuckling your temper like a babysitter who’s one tantrum away from driving into a tree.

Then, as you try to ease the car into a spot while an elderly couple inches a trolley across your path, Jake is still at it—humming off-key to whatever’s on the radio, fiddling with the window, and letting the AC blast straight into your eyeballs like some sort of cryogenic torture.

“Stop!” you snap, slamming your foot on the brake and smacking your hand onto Jake’s thigh.

The car jerks to a halt, halfway into the spot. Your fingers tighten on his leg, feeling the muscle twitch beneath your palm—taut and warm under the thin fabric of his gym shorts.

Jake’s breath catches. His eyes drop to your hand.

“Would you please just fucking stop?” you grit out.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move.

You inhale deeply, then slowly release your grip on his leg. You dial down the AC and the radio, look around to make sure the elderly couple is out of the way, and then ease the car into the spot.

Only once you’ve shifted into park does Jake stir. He presses one hand to his leg where yours had been while the other slowly unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Sorry,” you mutter, unbuckling yours. “You’re just such a pain in the ass sometimes.”

You glance up—and find his dark green eyes already locked on you. He doesn’t look annoyed. Or smug. Or hurt. Honestly, you don’t know what the hell that look is, because you’ve never seen it before. Not from him.

His fingers curl into the fabric of his shorts as he takes a slow, uneven breath.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, voice low. “Didn’t mean to annoy you.”

Then he opens the door and practically falls out of the car.

“Okay...” you mutter, climbing out on the other side of the car.

When you glance over the bonnet, he’s already gone—halfway across the parking lot, pulling a trolley out of the bay and guiding it toward the store’s front entrance.

You frown, noticing how close he’s holding onto the cart while waiting for you to catch up.

“We can get a cart when we get inside,” you say, not missing how tightly he’s gripping the handle.

He shrugs, trying to look casual but it’s too forced. “I want this one.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to the bent wheel at the front of the trolley. “It’s got a janky wheel.”

“Don’t care,” he says, turning toward the doors. “Still want this one.”

He walks through the automatic doors, clutching the trolley like it’s a lifeline as he steers it toward the produce section just inside.

You shake your head and follow, pulling your phone out to check the grocery list you made this morning.

“Okay,” you say, reaching for the cart and holding out your phone. “Here’s the list.”

“No,” he says quickly, knuckles turning white on the trolley handle. “I’ll push the cart.”

You frown. “Dude, you hate pushing the cart. You literally whine every—”

Then it clicks.

The way he fell out of the car. The rush to grab a trolley. How he’s clutching it like a shield.

“Oh my God,” you giggle, smacking a hand over your mouth. “Jake, are you hard—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing. But the bright blush spreading across his cheeks betrays him.

You can’t help the laughter spilling from your lips, muffled by your palm as Jake pushes you aside to avoid other customers.

“Would you stop?” he hisses, turning his cap the right way around to hide his red face.

“I—I’m sorry,” you say between giggles. “I didn’t—I mean, I barely touched you.”

“It wasn’t you,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “I was thinking about last night, and—”

You cut him off with another burst of laughter, drawing a few odd glances from passersby.

“It’s really not that funny,” he growls, folding the brim of his hat. “You’re being childish.”

His words barely register. You’re too amused picturing Jake popping a boner after you grabbed his leg and told him off. You knew the man had some kinks, but you hadn’t pegged him as the submissive type. Or maybe it's the humiliation that gets him.

You bite your lip, narrowing your eyes. “Still hard?”

His eyes go wide. “What the fuck?”

You try to shrug, but the grin tugging at your lips gives you away. “Just asking. Trying to figure out which kink applies—”

“Stop,” he mutters. “Just fucking stop, please. I’m begging you.”

You arch a brow. “Begging?”

He tips his head back and groans, which only sets you off laughing again.

It takes a few minutes for you to catch your breath, wiping tears from your eyes as your grin finally starts to fade.

With a soft sigh, you lift your phone and open the grocery list again.

“Still want to push the cart?” you ask with a small smirk.

He simply nods, pushing it forward despite not knowing what’s first on the list.

“Hm,” you hum, “maybe it’s the humiliation.”

“What?” he asks over his shoulder.

You lift your brows, feigning innocence. “I said horseradish. We need horseradish.”

He frowns. “What the fuck is a horseradish?”

You’re not entirely sure yourself, but you can’t admit that. So you roll your eyes like he’s asked something stupid and start walking toward the radishes, silently hoping you can figure out a dinner idea this week that actually uses horseradish.

After a few minutes of browsing produce and arguing over which apple is the best, Jake seems to have remedied his little situation. And to your surprise, he doesn’t try to pass off the cart. Instead, he leans his forearms on the handle and follows you around like a well-behaved puppy—occasionally offering advice on what you’re picking, but quickly shutting up the second you tell him to.

“Do not put that in there,” you warn, waving a bunch of spring onions at him.

He frowns, holding up a misshapen tomato. “What? They all taste the same.”

You scoff. “They absolutely do not. Put that down. Pick the nice, plump, red ones.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “You like ‘em plump?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Seresin. I like them plump. Now focus up—we’ve been here almost ten minutes and we’re still in produce.”

He chuckles softly, then turns back to the tomatoes, setting down the ugly one and squeezing each perfectly round, red fruit, searching for the right one.

You bite back a smile, because for all his whining, he’s still doing exactly what you asked. And damn, if the way he’s manhandling those tomatoes isn’t giving you ideas... ones that have no place in a grocery store. Or in public, for that matter.

“Excuse me, dear,” a woman says, gesturing to the mound of bell peppers you’re standing in front of.

“Oh, sorry.” You step closer to Jake, instinctively wrapping an arm around his waist to edge him away so the woman can have her pick.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she says with a soft smile, her grey eyes flicking between you and Jake. “You two make a gorgeous couple, I must say.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, words catching in your throat as you try to pull away from him. But he’s faster, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against his side.

“Why thank you, ma’am,” he says, turning that Southern drawl up to eleven. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

The woman smiles again before picking out two bell peppers, giving you both a nod, and turning to walk away.

You pull away from Jake, wrinkling your nose. “Don’t know what you’d do, huh?”

He chuckles, twisting the top of the tomato bag.

“Probably have to deal with your own bad choices and crappy one-night stands,” you mutter, shooting him a pointed look that says, Yeah. You’d be hopeless without me.

Then you turn on your heel, grab a sack of potatoes, and drop them into the trolley as Jake meets you at the end of the aisle.

For the next half hour, you stroll up and down the aisles, checking your list and tossing things into the cart. Jake mostly stays quiet, only occasionally arguing that name-brand cereal is always better and that all milk tastes the same, so why not just pick the one on sale?

You start wondering if he really needed to come along—he hasn’t added much more than a few protein bars to the trolley—but regardless, you’re enjoying the company. Besides, you hate pushing the cart, so it’s nice to have him helping you out for once. God knows you do more than your fair share of helping him out.

“Oh no,” he mutters suddenly, ducking closer to the trolley and angling himself behind you.

You glance at him, brow furrowed. “What? What’s wrong?”

“That girl from last week,” he says, voice low.

You blink. “Which one?”

His eyes flick nervously toward the end of the aisle. “You know, the one with the red lipstick and the high-pitched laugh.”

You cast your gaze over your shoulder, trying not to seem conspicuous as you squint. Then you spot her—laughing way too loud with her headphones in, clearly on an obnoxious phone call that the whole grocery store is hearing.

“Oh,” you mutter. “That one. It took me like two days to get that lipstick off your shirt.”

Jake freezes, turning slowly to look at you with a curious frown. “Wait. You did that? I thought it just—”

“Came off in the wash?” you ask, snorting. “Yeah, sure pal. Same as those grease stains on your white shirt.”

He blinks—confused or surprised, you’re not sure. All you know is that his nightmare of a one-night stand is heading this way, her shrill voice getting louder.

“Just trust me, okay?” you mutter quickly.

Then you reach up, grab the back of his neck, and pull him toward you until his face is buried against your shoulder, his hat shielding him. You giggle softly and wrap your other arm around his waist, pulling your bodies flush as you listen for the click of her heels against the vinyl floor.

The clicking gets closer, louder, then slows to a stop. She clears her throat, but you don’t move.

“Baby,” you whisper, your breath hitching as Jake’s lips brush the curve of your neck. “Come on, you can wait ‘til we get home.”

There’s a breath. A moment. You wonder if this woman really has the gall to interrupt a couple in public, but then—

The clicking resumes, her voice slowly fading as she walks away.

“There,” you say, clearing your throat as you shove Jake off you. “And for the record, you’d be hopeless without me.”

You quickly turn back to the shelves, willing your body to calm down as heat floods your face. But you definitely don’t miss his reaction—pupils blown wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed, breath coming quick and shallow.

Nor do you miss the way he holds the cart close again, just like when you first arrived—pressing his body against it as he follows silently behind you, blushing like hell.

A tiny smirk curls across your lips.

Maybe it’s an exhibitionist thing...

After another half hour of perusing the aisles and creatively avoiding the red-lipped woman, you finally head for the checkouts. It doesn’t take long for the woman behind the counter to scan your groceries—but in even less time, Jake manages to ask for her number.

She hesitates, eyeing you curiously while you pack the bags into the cart. Jake puts on the full show, flashing a panty-melting grin and swiping his card with all the country charm he can muster.

But you can see it in her eyes—she’s trying to figure out who the hell you are. And why you’re grocery shopping with this man if you’re not together.

With a sigh, you turn to him, deciding—for some unfathomable reason—to help. As if Jake Seresin needs any help getting a woman’s number.

“Come on, dude,” you say, cutting off one of his tired pickup lines. “My girlfriend’s coming over soon and I told her we’d go somewhere nice for lunch.”

Jake looks at you, head tilting slightly—then you see it click. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Your girlfriend. Because you’re gay.” He turns back to the cashier with a winning smile. “Sorry—my housemate’s getting impatient. So... about that number?”

That’s all it takes.

The cashier giggles, flips her ponytail off her shoulder, grabs a pen, and scribbles her number on the back of the receipt.

You roll your eyes and turn away, pushing the cart toward the doors without waiting for him. But he catches up quickly in the carpark, falling into step beside you with that annoyingly gorgeous grin stretched across his face.

“Thanks for that,” he says. “Didn’t realise why she was being weird.”

You scoff. “Seriously? What did you think she was wondering about two people our age buying groceries together?”

He shrugs, taking the trolley from you while you dig around in your pocket for your car key. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t think of you like that, so I didn’t think anyone else would.”

You snort, stopping at the boot. “Right. I’m just a sexless goblin to you because I’m immune to your absurd charm and annoyingly perfect face.”

You pop the boot, stepping back as it lifts, and Jake positions the trolley to start unloading the groceries.

“You think I have a perfect face?” he teases, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You shoot him a dry look. “You know you do, Seresin. You don’t need me to validate your ego.”

He laughs, lifting two heavy bags into the boot. “Wouldn’t kill you to say it every once in a while.”

“Oh yeah?” Your voice drips sarcasm. “Well, it wouldn’t kill you to thank me for being not just an incredible roommate but a phenomenal wing-woman once in a while. Hm?”

Jake tosses in the last bag, chuckling softly. Then he moves the trolley aside and—without warning—wraps you up in his arms. Your body stiffens, eyes wide, but he doesn’t let go. He just hugs you tightly, cheek pressing to the top of your head.

“Thank you,” he says dramatically, “for being the best roommate in the world. And the greatest wing-woman a guy like me could ever hope for.”

Then he presses a kiss to your hair.

You let out a disgusted groan, flailing your arms until he lets go. Then you shoot him a withering look, sticking your tongue out like a child as you slam the boot shut and stomp around to the driver’s side door.

While he returns the cart to one of the bays, you take a moment to yourself, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to remind yourself who you’re dealing with here—Jake fucking Seresin. Cocky, a womanizer, your roommate, and a total pain in the ass.

He absolutely shouldn’t be making you feel all warm and gooey inside. No way. His smile, his scent, the way his strong arms wrapped around you—that’s just… wrong. Definitely not something that should make your brain start asking dumb questions like, What if he did see you like that? Like one of those girls he actually wants.

Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.

As if you’d ever want that to happen. Nope. No thanks. No way.

- Jake -

It’s been a long day for both of you—but longer for Jake.

After the usual run of flying, training, and debriefing, Maverick made him stay back to fill out maintenance logs as punishment for ‘clogging up the radio’. In Jake’s defence, you and Natasha were baiting him. But Mav didn’t care who started it—he just cared who was still talking when he keyed his mic.

So Jake ended up stuck in the hangar office for two extra hours, sorting paperwork with one of the grumpiest plane captains on base, regretting every single word he’d said.

At least it’s Friday. Two days off, two nights to himself—and, with any luck, some half-decent sex.

When he finally walks through the apartment door, he can hear your shower running. Great. Now he has to wait if he wants hot water.

With a heavy sigh, he unzips his flight suit and starts trudging toward his room at the end of the hall. Yours is just before it—on the right—door wide open as usual. He can hear the soft sound of your humming, light and off-key, which probably means your ensuite door is open too.

“Nope,” he mutters to himself, eyes fixed ahead as he strides past. “Don’t even think about it.”

Because Jake Seresin does not think about you like that. He can’t. Not seriously.

Sure, he flirts. Of course he flirts. He flirts with everyone. It’s easy. It’s harmless.

But you? You’re different.

You’re his housemate. His teammate. One of his closest friends in this whole damn place. Thinking about you—really thinking about you—is a fast track to disaster.

And yet… it’s always crawling at the edges of his mind. Quiet temptation. Soft and persistent, like a whisper he pretends not to hear.

The way your skin would look, slick with water. How that sweet little hum might sound if he had you pressed to the wall, mouth on your neck, hands on your hips. How easy it would be to step in behind you. Slide his fingers down your spine. Sink his teeth into your bare shoulder as you let out a soft whimper—

No. Hell no.

He slams his bedroom door behind him like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

Because the hardest part—pun intended—is that Jake likes living with you. He might even say he loves it. You make things easy. Fun. Comfortable. Like home. Which is exactly why he can’t screw this up. Not by fantasising about you. And definitely not by acting on it.

If he ever let himself go there—let himself think about what it would be like to touch you, to have you—he knows he’d fuck it all up. And he can’t afford to do that. He can’t let his inner-caveman win just because you’re ridiculously hot.

Because this isn’t about feelings. Oh, no. Jake Seresin doesn’t do feelings. This is about him being human—a man, no less—and you being sexy as hell without even realising it.

So he doesn't let himself. He won’t lethimself.

That’s why he keeps his bed full. Women in and out. Just enough heat and chaos to distract him. Just enough friction to keep the thought of you out of his head. So he doesn’t think about your lips. Or the way your body moves. Or the little smirk you get when you know you’ve outsmarted him.

He’s got it under control. Totally. Completely.

Except then you’re there—always there. Smelling like cinnamon and vanilla, wearing those stupidly oversized shirts with no fucking bra. Hard nipples and bare legs. And Jake is just about losing the plot because God, your waist would fit so perfectly in his hands. Your body beneath his as he—

“Jake!”

Your voice cuts through the fog like a gunshot.

He jerks, eyes snapping open, heart hammering. Then he looks down at the very obvious problem tenting the front of his flight suit.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I need to get laid.”

Granted, it’s only been five nights since his last overnight guest. But five nights with just his hand—or worse, humping his pillow like a desperate virgin? Yeah. He’s not doing great.

“Jake!” you call again, louder this time.

He takes a deep breath and reaches into his flight suit, adjusting his now painfully hard dick into the band of his underwear before swinging his bedroom door open.

“What?” he shouts, stomping toward your room.

“I left my towel in the dryer,” you call through the apartment. “Can you grab it for me? I’m all wet.”

He stops just short of your door, eyes shutting tight as he tries not to picture that. You. All wet. Jesus.

“Sure,” he mutters, though he knows you probably can’t hear him.

He spins toward the laundry closet across the hall, yanks open the dryer, and pulls out a fluffy towel that smells just like you—vanilla, cinnamon, whatever intoxicating shampoo you use—and holds it away from his face so he doesn’t sniff it like a psycho.

“Are—are you covered?” he asks as he steps into your room.

“What? You’re not going to try and sneak a peek?” you tease, all playful and smug—and fuck if it doesn’t go straight to his cock.

You’re joking. You’re always joking. Because you love to tease him. But whether it’s on purpose or not, it still makes his dick twitch. Every damn time.

“‘M not the type to steal glances, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I prefer a good, long look.”

It’s just instinct. Flirting is wired into his system, hard-coded somewhere deep in his bones. He doesn’t mean to say half the shit he says—it just falls out of his mouth before his brain even has a chance to weigh in.

“Gross,” you mutter. “Just hurry up, I’m fucking freezing. My nipples could cut glass.”

He goes still. Muscles tight. Jaw clenched.

Cut glass.

Jesus Christ.

His eyes snap shut, but it’s no use. The image is already there—sharp, vivid, obscene—and his cock, already fucking leaking, throbs against his belly.

“Hello?” you call, completely oblivious.

“Yeah,” Jake croaks. “I—I’m coming. Just gimme a fucking second.”

“So’s Christmas,” you grumble.

He sucks in another deep breath, then moves through your room and nudges the ensuite door open—squinting like that’ll save him.

It doesn’t.

You’re standing behind fogged glass, barely blurred—one arm across your chest, the other between your thighs, wet hair clinging to your skin, and steam curling around you in lazy spirals. You look like a damn goddess. A naked, pissed-off goddess who could break him with a single look.

“Dude!” you hiss. “Don’t fucking look!”

His eyes snap open as he jerks his head the other way, blindly stepping toward you with the towel outstretched.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Not sure what else I’m supposed to fucking do.”

You sigh. “Just throw the towel, moron.”

He tosses it, hoping it clears the shower screen.

“Thanks,” you say, followed by the sound of rustling fabric. “Now get the fuck out.”

He clears his throat. “Gladly.”

Then he’s gone—back down the hall, back into his room. Slamming the door shut behind him like that’ll do anything to stop the visions in his head or the aching in his cock.

After a quick wank—very quick, given what he just saw—and a cold shower, Jake grabs his phone and texts the woman he’s been talking to for the past forty-eight hours. She’s been sending him nudes since last night, so with any luck, she’ll be keen to meet up tonight.

He’s already in the kitchen, rummaging through leftovers in the fridge, when you emerge from your room—and it takes everything in him not to do a double-take.

Your hair’s done, your lips are glossy, your dark blue jeans look painted on, and the top you’re wearing is doing downright criminal things for your tits. You’ve got a leather jacket draped over one arm and your purse slung over the opposite shoulder.

Jake frowns, keeping his gaze locked on the container of satay noodles in his hands. “Going somewhere?”

“Got a date,” you reply, voice smug.

He glances up, raising his brows. “A date?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Not surprised,” he says coolly, turning toward the microwave. “You just haven’t had one since we moved in.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, tossing your purse onto the kitchen bench to slip on your jacket. “I just haven’t been bothered. But… a girl’s got needs, you know? It’s been long enough.”

Needs. Jesus Christ. What he wouldn’t give to help with those.

If it weren’t for the fact that you also worked together, Jake might actually be tempted to suggest a roommates-with-benefits kind of deal. But he knows if that ever went south, it wouldn’t just screw up your living situation—it’d screw up your careers. Ones you’ve both worked your asses off to achieve.

He chuckles softly, eyes drifting toward you as you reapply lip gloss using your phone camera. “Do I need to borrow your noise-cancelling headphones?”

You shrug, that teasing smirk tugging at your mouth. “Maybe. I’ll let you know how dinner goes.”

Then you tuck the gloss away, sling your purse back over your shoulder, and turn toward the door.

“Don’t wait up,” you say with a wink.

He raises a brow. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Did you just give me the green light to commit a felony?”

He rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

You poke your tongue out, give him a little wave, and let the door swing shut behind you.

The second the latch clicks, Jake sighs and steps back from the counter, staring down—again—at the bulge in his pants.

God, he hopes he can get laid tonight. Otherwise, he might actually explode.

It’s late when Jake gets home. The whole apartment block is eerily quiet as he walks through the lobby, rides the lift up, and strolls down the hall toward your apartment door.

You haven’t texted him all night—not that it matters. The date was either too good for you to touch your phone or so bad you don’t want to talk about it. Either way, Jake doesn’t care.

Because right now, he feels good.

He’s loose-limbed, freshly fucked, and riding the kind of high that only comes from a solid round—or three—of no-strings-attached sex. His head’s clearer. Body lighter. And that itchy, restless frustration he’s been living with? Gone.

Hell, he might even sleep in tomorrow. Skip the gym. Make a big breakfast and tease you about your lousy date—which is what he’s assuming, obviously. Because surely, you would have warned him if—

A pitchy moan cuts through the apartment the second he steps inside. High. Breathless. Undeniably female.

He freezes. One boot off, the other still halfway on.

Another cry echoes. “Fuck—right there—don’t stop.”

The door clicks shut quietly behind him, but Jake still doesn’t move.

Then he hears it.

Smack. Skin on skin. A moan that breaks into a whimper. The creak of bedsprings. The wet, unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving together—fast. Rough.

“Harder,” you gasp, desperate.

Jesus Christ.

His brain short-circuits.

That’s you. In your bedroom. Getting absolutely railed. Loudly. Shamelessly. Obscenely.

He’s never heard you like that before—never heard anyone like that before. It's graphic. Filthy. Fucking hot.

Jake actually blushes. His face burning like some virginal freshman stumbling into the wrong dorm.

He should leave. Go out. Do anything but stand there like a depraved freak. But he can’t move.

Then—another moan. Longer. Higher. And something crashes into the wall. Headboard? Elbow? Doesn’t matter. What matters is the sound you make when it happens, a breathy, cracked little “Ja—ah—”

Wait. Jake?

His whole body jerks.

But then you laugh, low and wrecked. “Justin,” you pant. “D-Don’t let me cum yet.”

Not Jake. Just his idiot brain, short-circuiting under pressure.

Still, he swears all the blood in his body does a violent U-turn, hurtling south at breakneck speed. Because that voice, that pitch, that tone—

It’s everything he’s not allowed to think about.

And now? He can’t stop.

He kicks off his second boot, face hot, dick already hard again—and this time it’s worse. Because he’s not just turned on. He’s unravelling. He’s losing it. Caught somewhere between protective and pissed off and—

He’s not jealous. Of course not. That’d be insane.

He’s just... horny. Again.

Because all that post-orgasm clarity he walked in with?

Gone. Instantly. Obliterated.

And now all he can hear is you—moaning, begging, falling apart—and all he can think about is what it would be like to be the one making you sound like that.

Jake stumbles down the hall like a man possessed, yanks open his bedroom door, and kicks it shut behind him. He flicks on the light, grabs the first pair of sweatpants he sees, and starts tearing through drawers like a lunatic.

Headphones. He needs headphones. Where the fuck are his headphones?

They’re always in the top drawer. Always. Except tonight, of course. Tonight they’re nowhere to be found. Maybe he left them in his car, or at the gym. Maybe they’re buried in his gear bag or lost somewhere at work. Wherever they are, it doesn’t matter—because right now, he’s completely, helplessly, fucked.

Your voice floats through the apartment—soft and wrecked. “Oh, my God—yes, yes, right there—”

Jake groans, scrubbing both hands over his face before falling face first onto the bed. He drags a pillow over his head like it’s going to do anything, like it’s going to stop the sounds seeping through the walls.

It doesn’t.

Your moans crawl straight into his ears, into his bloodstream, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He presses his hips into the mattress, jaw tight, pulse pounding in his throat. It’s subconscious at first—barely even movement. Just friction. Pressure. Desperation.

Then you cry out again, all high and needy, and Jake grinds down without thinking. Just once. Just enough to feel it. His breath catches. His body lights up like a fuse. Because in his head, it’s all you. Under him. Around him. Crying out his name.

No. No, no, no—fuck, stop it.

He flips onto his back, trying to will the image away—but it’s already there. Burned into his brain. Your face, tipped back in pleasure. Your mouth slack, panting. Your thighs spread wide. Hands clawing at his back. Body arching into his.

He groans again, eyes squeezed shut, fisting the sheets as his hips jerk up into nothing.

And then—

A low grunt. Rough. Male. Clipped and stuttering. Followed by a choked-off, breathless curse.

Justin.

Jake’s whole body locks up.

Everything goes still.

Heat drains from his face, shame slamming into his chest like a sucker punch.

Because what the fuck is he doing?

He’s lying here, hard and sweating and grinding against his own goddamn mattress, getting off to the sound of you fucking someone else.

His friend. His roommate. His teammate.

Jake shoves himself upright, rage and humiliation sizzling through his veins like lightning. His body is still aching—still primed—but now it just feels gross. Wrong. So fucking wrong.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll wipe the whole moment away.

But it won’t.

Because the sound of you—wrecked, undone, beautiful—is still echoing in his skull. And for the first time in a long time, Jake Seresin feels like a goddamn mess.

Eventually—after what feels like an eternity—the noises stop.

Jake lies in bed feeling like a snapped powerline—buzzing with a dangerous current he can’t shake, muscles locked. nerves frayed. He hears your shower running, your voices—low and indistinct—then, at last, silence.

Sleep comes in useless fragments. Every time he drifts off, it’s only to be jolted awake by echoes of your voice. Whimpers. Moans. Soft sighs that somehow twist themselves into his name.

Each time his eyes snap open, his stomach turns. He needs his memory scrubbed clean, wiped of every sound, every image—because the longer it lingers, the more vividly he sees you. Blissed out. Fucked stupid. Completely undone in a way he’s never seen before.

God. Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe moving in together wasn’t the smartest idea he’s ever had.

Sure, it’s benefited him just fine for the past few months, but he hadn’t expected this side of things. He hadn’t considered what it might feel like to lie in bed, separated by a single thin wall, listening to you have pornographic sex with strangers. If he’d known that was part of the deal, maybe he would’ve thought twice.

How hypocritical.

By five a.m., he gives up. He rolls out of bed, changes into his gym clothes, and storms out the door—scowling at Justin’s shoes still sitting neatly beside yours.

He spends two solid hours at the gym, working his body until his muscles shake and his vision blurs. His headphones—found buried in his damn gym bag—stay on the whole time, music turned up loud in a pathetic attempt to drown out the sounds still ricocheting around in his skull.

Your moans are stuck in his head like an old favourite song, one he can’t stop humming even though it’s starting to make him go insane.

He sees a few familiar faces and stops for conversation, pretending everything is normal. Easy. Like he didn’t spend last night rutting against his sheets, imagining things he shouldn’t be imagining. Because seriously—what kind of freak fantasises about their friend getting railed by another guy?

At seven, he leaves the gym and stops for coffee halfway home. Then he sits in his car for thirty whole minutes, sipping it slowly while scrolling through his contacts like a man on a mission. Every female name gets a second glance—because he’s desperate. For a distraction. A good fuck. Anything to clear his head and kill this goddamn erection.

When he finally decides to head upstairs, he finds himself praying that you’re not home. Or if you are, that you’re alone. Because the idea of running into you—or worse, him—makes his skin itch.

Normally, he’d love a bit of banter over breakfast. But not today. Today, all he wants is to jerk off until he’s raw and numb and no longer at risk of letting something stupid slip out of his mouth.

He’s halfway down the hall toward your apartment door when he hears music. Loud music, accompanied by slightly off-key singing and jumbled lyrics. And the only reason he knows the lyrics are wrong is because this is one of his favourite songs.

A country song, no less. One you’ve sworn to hate every time he dares to play his music out loud.

He presses his lips together and quietly pulls out his keys, doing his best to stay silent as he cracks the door open.

And there you are.

In the middle of the kitchen, using a spatula as a microphone and swaying your hips like it’s the best morning of your life. You’re wearing one of those absurdly sexy oversized shirts, and he can’t even tell if you’ve got shorts on—or panties, for that matter.

Your hair’s a mess, there’s makeup smudged beneath your eyes, and your head is tipped back as you belt out the chorus with full, reckless confidence. Wrong notes, wrong lyrics, right attitude.

Jake’s heart lurches into his throat, beating way too fast.

You look so happy. Not just content or satisfied, but happy. Radiant. It’s the same expression you wore the first time you flew a jet—he remembers, he was there—and at TOPGUN graduation, grinning like you could take on the world. God, he’s never forgotten that smile. It’s too damn pretty to forget.

He swallows hard, trying to dislodge the weird lump in his throat, and shakes his head before pushing the door open all the way.

You don’t notice at first. You’ve turned your back to him, flipping a pancake at the stove, your head bobbing along to the music like you physically can’t keep still.

Jake clears his throat. “Didn’t think you’d be able to walk today, let alone put on a concert.”

You jump, whirling around with wide eyes and wielding the spatula like a weapon.

“Jesus Christ, dude! What the fuck?”

Dude. Sometimes Jake wonders if you’ve actually forgotten his name. Even his callsign would be better.

“I didn’t sneak in,” he says—only a partial lie. You would’ve heard him if it weren’t for the music. “Not my fault you’re off in your own world.”

You roll your eyes and grab your phone off the counter, turning the music down until it’s just background noise.

Jake lifts a brow. “So, Justin fucked you into having good music taste, huh?”

Your eyes go wide, heat crawling up your neck. “How do you know his name?”

Jake just gives you a flat look, folding his arms over his chest while he waits for you to figure it out.

“Oh—” you gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth, but you’re still grinning.

“Yeah,” Jake mutters, turning toward the living room. “Oh is right.”

He walks around the couch before flopping down into the cushions and pulling out his phone.

“Hungry?” you call out.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes glued to his phone as he types a few quick responses to the women he messaged earlier.

A few minutes later, you appear in front of him holding out a plate stacked with two pancakes, a heap of blueberries, banana slices, Greek yogurt, and a drizzle of dark maple syrup.

“Pancakes are made with ricotta,” you say. “And it’s that organic syrup you like. So don’t bitch about carbs or refined sugar.”

He blinks, looking up at you with wide green eyes, wondering why the hell he deserves this. How the hell he deserves you. As a friend, of course. A roommate.

You nudge the plate closer. “Come on, dude. I haven’t got all day.”

He takes it, clearing his throat—again. “Uh, thanks.”

You smile and turn away—and he can’t help it. He ducks his head, eyes dragging down your legs, trying to see if there’s anything under that damn shirt.

“I’m hanging out with Nat today,” you call from the kitchen. “She wants the full recap on last night.”

Jake snorts. “Yeah? Want me to come? Bet I could give her a better play-by-play than you could.”

“Shut up, Seresin,” you mutter, but he can still hear the smile in your voice. “I’ve listened to you every second bloody night for the past two months. Call it payback.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes the first bite of pancake, summoning every ounce of self-control he has not to moan. Because holy shit, these are good.

“Yeah?” he calls. “Well, I know for a fact none of my sleepovers have ever been that loud.”

You appear again, almost startling him as you set a mug of coffee on the table in front of him.

“Well, maybe,” you say, eyes narrowed, “you should do better. Then your sleepovers might be a little louder. A little more... enthusiastic.”

Then you turn and stroll back into the kitchen.

Jake shuts his eyes, breathing slow and deep through his nose.

Do not get hard. Do not get hard. Do not—

He’ll be fine.

As soon as you’re out of the apartment and he can jerk off in peace.

Half an hour later, you’re showered and dressed, standing by the door, sliding sunglasses onto your head. Jake is in the kitchen, elbow-deep in warm water and suds, cleaning up after your breakfast concert—something he volunteered for, of course. A small price to pay for borderline orgasmic pancakes.

“I’ve got a heap of laundry to do before tomorrow. Can you make sure the machine’s free when I get back?” you ask, one foot already out the door, brows raised.

Jake glances over. “Want me to start it? I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’ll be here all day anyway.”

Your brows lift even higher. “Oh? No Sunday sex appointment?”

“Not ‘til tonight,” he grins.

You roll your eyes, a playful smirk curling your lips. “Okay. That’d be great, actually. You know where my hamper is?”

He nods again, and you flash a wide smile before slipping out the door, calling an airy “Thanks, bye” over your shoulder.

After washing, drying, and putting away the dishes, Jake wipes down the kitchen, vacuums the floor, then moves on to the laundry. He retrieves your hamper from your room, trying not to let his eyes wander too much—but even after all the times he’s been in here, it feels different now. Like the walls are holding onto something he wasn’t meant to know. Something raw. Something private. Something that would make the devil himself blush.

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move out of your room, taking the hamper with him to the laundry closet. He swings the doors open wide and pours your laundry into the plastic basket sitting atop the machine. Then he shifts the basket to the small bench on the left, opens the washer door, double-checks that it’s empty, and starts sorting through your dirty laundry.

He doesn’t want to be a creep—he really doesn’t—but some things just can’t go in the wash together. So he tries. He spots your work clothes and sets them aside, knowing they need a hotter wash—grease and all that. Then he picks up a bra and remembers you mentioning something about an undergarment bag...

With a clipped sigh, he drops the bra and rummages through the cupboard beneath the bench, quickly finding the spotted mesh bag he’s seen you use before. Whether you use it all the time, he isn’t sure, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

Working quickly now, he slips your bras into the bag and sets aside anything he’s unsure about mixing with the rest. And then—

Something catches his eye. Nestled between a pair of blue jeans and the top you wore last night lies a delicate matching set of lingerie—deep burgundy lace, silky and soft-looking, way too pretty and intimate for him to be seeing.

His breath hitches. His pulse spikes. He tells himself to shove the thought aside—it’s just laundry. Stop being a creep. It’s just laundry.

But he can’t stop picturing it—your skin wrapped in that delicate fabric, your most intimate places covered by just a whisper of lace and silk. God. He can’t fucking stop.

His sweatpants start to swell at the crotch, growing until there’s a prominent tent between him and the bench where that lingerie lies. Taunting. Teasing him.

Jesus. It probably still smells like you. He could almost—

No. Stop. Stop right now.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

He shifts his weight, eyes locked on the burgundy lace. His fingers twitch, itching to touch, but he clenches them into fists at his sides, clinging to what little control he still has left.

His breath turns shallow, uneven. Each inhale sharper than the last. His head spins as blood rushes south—away from reason. Away from restraint.

His mind races, painting every inch of you in that fucking lingerie. How the lace would hug your curves, how soft and warm you’d be beneath it. Your scent. The slope of your hips. The arch of your back. How wet you’d be... just for him.

He can't take it anymore.

With a strangled grunt, his hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers trembling as they close around his hot, swollen length—already leaking into the grey fabric.

His hips twitch, breath catching, eyes squeezed shut. All he can see is you. That lace. The sounds you made last night. He strokes harder, faster—every thrust frantic, sloppy, desperate. He’s too far gone, lost to the hunger clawing its way through him.

It doesn’t take long. He’s too worked up. Too far gone.

He steps closer to the bench, bracing himself with one hand, his other still working beneath his sweats. His head drops forward, and—

His fingers graze the lace. Just barely. The faintest touch.

But it’s enough.

His whole body seizes—hot and tight—and he cums with a gasp, clutching the edge of the bench as pleasure crashes over him. His hips stutter, grinding through it, riding the wave until he’s shaking.

When he opens his eyes, his hand is slick and his sweatpants are soaked through, a dark stain spreading across the front of them. His shirt isn’t spared either—there’s a damp patch blooming near the hem.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathless.

He wipes his hand on his pants and forces himself to finish sorting your laundry, tossing the lingerie into the garment bag like it might burn him if he holds it too long. Then, without looking down, he strips out of his ruined clothes and shoves them into the machine.

He tosses in two detergent pods, taps a few buttons, and hits start—watching the drum begin to spin like that alone might be enough to wash away what just happened.

Then he heads for the shower, grabbing his phone on the way—because if he has any chance of pulling himself together before you get home, he’s going to need more than just his hand.

PART TWO

#Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin fluff #Jake Seresin smut #geminiwritten

833 notes · View notes

althaiareads · 5 days ago

Text

OMGGGGG THIS WAS SO GOOOD???!?!?!?!?!?

Situadhionships are my guilty pleasure, they suck in real life but they give me LIFE in fiction. Dude, this was so well written, I loved that it was Joaquin's POV, it is so interesting to get to see everything from his eyes, it gives it a special touch.

Them sharing the floor while having a whole bed was so funny, lmao, and so telling of their relationship as partners or whatever they are. The little glimpses of jealousy!Joaquin with Agent Asshole were so good! No idea if she was actually flirting with him or if it was just Joaquin blowing everything out of proportion, but still, so so so good!

That action scene was also so well-written; I had my heart in my throat the whole time, wondering how it was going to end. I absolutely adored the implicit trust they have in each other; they may not have been talking, but Joaquin knew to be her backup even so. The verdict? They are in love, your honor, "this changes nothing" my ass.

This is already getting long, so I'll just say one more thing: that smut was delicious. The desperation, the need, while still being so lovely and careful? 10/10 no notes.

No idea if you are planning on writing a continuation for this, but if you do, please let me know. Again, this was so incredible!!!!!! I had the time of my life reading it!!!!!

no promise of tomorrow | joaquin torres

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

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

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

wc: 15.1k

gif credit: @optional

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

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

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

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

CIA Agent Matteo Locke.

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

That honor was all yours it seems.

He’s brooding.

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

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

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

All because of a stupid decision.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he eventually had enough, Joaquin needed more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So the room fell quiet. Too quiet.

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

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

Joaquin felt like such a coward.

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

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

“Iago’s not coming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joaquin should’ve taken you more seriously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you let out a small chuckle.

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

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

“Joaquin—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you doing,” he whispers.

You shush him. “Go to sleep, Torres.”

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

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

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

Holy—

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

He should move. Create space.

But he hesitates.

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

Joaquin’s eyes snap open.

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

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

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

A selfish hero.

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

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

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

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

And it’s undoing him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He misses you.

Not the sex—you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” he deadpans.

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

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

Neither of you move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Just focused.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none of that matters right now.

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

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

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

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

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

Joaquin feels you tap his arm once—ready?

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

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

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

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

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

Back and forth. Back and forth.

One of them turns in his direction.

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

You give a single nod in return, eyes sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alpha post, status report.”

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

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

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

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

“Bravo post, check in.”

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

“Bravo, do you copy?”

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

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

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

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

The footsteps stop.

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

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

“Copy that, Bravo.”

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

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

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

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

His eyes flick to you. Smart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t answer with words.

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

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

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

You both duck back into the shadows.

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

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

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

Too late.

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

You jump forward and drop.

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whipping around, Joaquin searches for you.

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

Silence.

It’s heavy and shallow.

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

“I’m fine,” you reply, chest heaving.

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

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

You both freeze.

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

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

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

“Nobody move.” Her voice is calm.

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

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

Neither of you answer her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You crash into the floor in a tangled heap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joaquin, go!” you scream.

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

But then—

A clattering behind him. A muffled grunt.

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

She’s getting away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been like this the entire ride over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s barely surviving you.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have a problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t forgiveness or peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Joaquin swallows it.

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

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

This is familiar. This he can do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make no move to push him off either.

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

You won’t talk. Not tonight.

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

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

#Joaquin Torres #Joaquin Torres angst #Joaquin Torres smut #love-chx #favs

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althaiareads · 5 days ago

Text

You were with Jesse. You were in Jackson. You were safe. You were healing.

That is the way it was supposed to be, and for my sake, I am pretending that was the way it was. A beautiful life in Jackson and a big happy family with shared custody of the baby.

what if | tlou jesse

summary: what if jesse survived seattle

pairing: tlou!jesse x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: au where jesse lives. cohesive in the world of first burn. swearing, arguing, just two people tryna recover!!! kissing, blood, gunshot wounds, scarring and mentions of child birth ft zombie the horse

a/n: it was gonna happen eventually 🙂‍↕️ not proofread! (also the fic i accidentally deleted half the work bc i forgot to press save)

taglist: @beelee-cotton @lostbee20 @pupupwa @ilovetoomanymen @derangeddementor3 @keseqna @blackravena @cxcilla @hsangel64 @tillywasneverhere @peachyxlynch @toesucker59 @antlcrqueen @lorenaloveslewis @purplewzrld - this one’s for u babes x

Jackson Hole, Wyoming, was beautiful. The mountains thawed beneath the snowfall, the musical notes of the morning song sung by nature that had returned to its rightful place. The landscape emphasised under the low, golden sun. Whoever had the privileged to stumble upon Jackson for the first time, Jesse was covetous.

His glorification of Jackson, could have been down to three factors. One: he was high. His pain tolerance was low for being shot in the face and narrowly evading death, meant that he deserved a fat joint. A, you survived! gift to himself. Two: played into the first one. Jesse had survived a bullet to the face. Abby Anderson had pulled the trigger first, and due to her slight hesitation, he would only have to stare at the ugly scar from having the flesh of his cheek blown off. And three: he had never been so grateful to see the walls of his home in the years he had spent building a name for himself there.

Fuck Seattle. He’d have to ask Ellie about that girl that tattooed her, so he could have that sentence permanently inked where Abby had shot him.

And then, there was you.

Sat atop of the Appaloosa with its minor cravings for flesh, another new wound to add to your growing list since escaping to Seattle. A horse-sized bite mark in the soft flesh between your thumb and index finger. It tied in with the broken nose, grazed chin and torn up ankle. An ode to your experience in Seattle that conquered your confidence.

Jesse was proud of you. He had quickly gotten over the distress of your betrayal in the form of a goodbye note and an early morning exit before the townspeople rose from their slumber. His heart soared, stomach ravaged by moths when he saw you, smeared in your own blood and teeth grit to withstand the pain. Because, Jesse loved you. He couldn’t see past it, so he decided to live through it.

Despite your flawed position in Seattle, you were determined to the core. When Abby shot Jesse, he watched you take the feet from underneath the muscular brute — although you didn’t come out of it unscathed. In fact, Abby Anderson almost obliterated you, black and blue from her searing hot rage, it took the four of you to beat her enough to escape her.

Your actions explained everything to Jesse.

He stared at you from his higher position on the stallion he picked for his trip to Seattle. Blossomed in bruises, Jesse thought you may have looked like a painting that he’d take time to really look at. Beautiful and worth every stolen glance so he could soak you in. You wore tiredness in your face, lips downturned as you were lost in your own plagued thoughts. Seattle would change you; it had already happened.

The gates to home opened after Tommy Miller explained the case to the guards up top. His hands shaken slightly because once the gates revealed the Jackson you all knew; Tommy would have to spend the rest of his days grovelling to his wife.

Tucked in his back pocket, a dazzling necklace that would be later tossed to the side in a blazing argument. Tommy Miller wasn’t a mind reader, but he was quick to read the room after that.

You all parted ways as if it were the casualness of patrol. Tommy to see Maria, you and Jesse to melt into his mattress for some well-earned rest and Ellie and Dina? He wasn’t sure. But, Dina was pregnant. With his kid — that he was sure of.

He was going to be a father.

The most important role that steamrolled every other dependency Jackson looked to him for. Jesse would spend his leadership days being the best father he could be. Because, he had gotten a second chance at life on the basis of luck. He would never let himself fail his kid.

As you trudged back to Jesse’s place, he pondered on the idea of breaking the news to you. If it weren’t for the poor patch-up work on his wounded cheek, he might’ve told you as you sunk into his mattress face down with a deep sigh. It’d be easier to tell the back of your head. Then, he wouldn’t have to see the fondness of your relationship with him die in your eyes. Talk about betrayal? He may have trumped you in that department.

No. He hadn’t cheated. Jesse wouldn’t have dreamt of it. You were perfection incarnate. Did he and Dina have one last tangle between the sheets prior to his advances on you? Yes. He could remember snippets of the night vividly after downing some homemade moonshine.

You both fell asleep quicker than a click of your fingers. Limbs tangled, foreheads touched as you inhaled each others breaths to ensure you were both breathing after the near-death experiences in Seattle. It chased you down in your dreams, turning it into a vivid nightmare, so real that both of you would jump awake through the night, sweat clung to the filthy clothes you fell asleep in.

Unable to maintain a sleep cycle longer than forty-five minutes, you had been up first. Stripped of the clothes on your back, head pressed against the tiles as the warm water from Jesse’s shower trickled over you. You scrubbed, and then scrubbed some more, vicious and desperate in your actions for the desire to peel the layer of skin off that withstood the Seattle rampage.

Wrapped in a towel, you made it back to the bedroom, surprised to see Jesse sat upright in bed.

“You’re bleeding.” You mentioned when you saw the long trail of blood that seeped from his gunshot wound onto his bare pectoral muscles.

“I’ll live.” Jesse teased a joke. Because, he almost didn’t.

Selflessly, you rid yourself of the towel wrapped around your midriff, tossing it to Jesse as the bitterness of the night pinched your skin. Jesse caught it with ease, his throat bobbed at the sight of the lesions scattered across your naked skin. He watched as the skin beneath your ribs tucked as you inhaled, shuddered in pain from a broken rib after Abby Anderson cleared a swift kick to them after she threw you against the floor.

He pressed the towel to his opened wound, his free arm reached out in the gap between you. Gently, you took his hand and he guided you back into the bed, legs straddled either side of his hips whilst he pressed your chest to his. A moment spared again to feel the rise and fall of your chests in unison; to remind yourselves that you were alive.

Jesse never wanted you out of his sight again.

Nothing had terrified him more. The emptiness in your side of the bed, the duvet you stole through the night tossed over him but no warmth came from it. He couldn’t lose you — he almost did — but he feared the news of Dina’s pregnancy would resurface that coldness that came with your sudden absence if you pushed away.

The blood had dried as you enveloped yourselves, Jesse took the towel away, his hand reached for your head to force you to meet eyes with him. You both searched for the comfort in each other, but, Jesse had to tell you. Scathe your heart in the darkness because he couldn’t handle seeing it in the daytime.

“Dina is pregnant.”

It was quieter than he expected. As if you were a scarce mouse he was trying to coax out from its hiding place.

And then you laughed. Brows drawn together, Jesse tracked the crinkle beside your eyes, he thought you might’ve finally cracked. Gone insane. Laughter lines prominent as you leant your head back and it — strangely — was contagious, Jesse joining you nervously in a soft chuckle in confusion.

“Oh, I knew.” You repeated what he had said to you after chastising you about leaving Jackson without a hint of a verbal goodbye. You traced his jawline, “I’ve known for a while now.”

Jesse croaked, “You have?”

And you nodded, “Yes.”

“And, you’re OK with it?”

“Sure, it’s a little awkward.” You shrugged, “But, it could be worse. You could’ve died. Being a father to Dina’s baby isn’t the end of the world. I mean—We are already living in it.”

“I love you.” Jesse whispered against your lips, palms pressed to your back to bring you in even closer as if it was humanely possible. You kissed back, careful of his gunshot wound when you caressed his face. He added, “So fucking much.”

He said it frequently every moment after that. Your relationship pieced back together like pieces of pottery — Kintsugi — where dusts of gold emphasised what was once broken. Even in the most strained of situations, tensions high as you lashed out at Jesse over his history with Dina. It would bound to happen, a ticking time-bomb after the trauma ensued; and Jesse was a sitting duck.

You had changed. Everyone who went to Seattle had changed. You wore the anger on your sleeve, finger pointed at Jesse whilst accusatory rumours flew from your mouth.

“It just doesn’t make sense.” You had said. Feathers ruffled after a bad day. Your face twisted with spite, “You two obviously slept together after we got together.”

He spoke your name like a promise.

“I love you. So fucking much. I wouldn’t ever do that to you.”

His words slathered in honesty and it caught you off guard every time.

It took some time, a hot shower and warm food that Jesse left on the counter for you to coax you back out of the shell you had scurried into when the blind rage had been smothered in Jesse’s professed love. You had changed since Seattle — most of it for the worst — as you wore your scars as humbling medals earned. In turn, you had eventually learned that you were able to put your best foot forward and be the first to cut through the wall you had haphazardly built between you and Jesse.

You never knew when death would come to claim; you had almost seen it with Jesse.

“‘M sorry.” You mumbled, abashed by your sudden outburst. Fork stabbed into the tender meat Jesse had plated up. He always sat with you to eat — even after an argument. You stared up to see his wound pronounced in the candlelight, a gentle reminder that he was just as mortal as you, “I was out of order. I love you.”

Which translated to: Please don’t leave me.

Jesse then invited you on his lap, one large palm to your thigh and the other on your lower back. Lips to your shoulder, he mumbled, “You have to trust me.”

Because he didn’t trust you. Not since Seattle.

And, then you tried. You tried your best efforts to swallow the hardest pill that Jesse hadn’t besmirched the relationship that had tethered you together. Because he hadn’t. It was evident in the protruding swell of Dina’s stomach, by calculations, two months off when the bud began to bloom for the likes of your relationship. You maintained a healthy friendship with Dina, helping where needed in the run up to the birth. The extensive night reads of the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book, dog-eared on pages that would be of use to either Dina or Jesse pre and post birth.

You had been sanding down wood — in the barn — for a spare cot at Jesse’s house. Zombie whinnying at your back in an attempt to break loose from the prison that was his stable. As punishment for the hefty bite mark on your hand, you hadn’t offered an extra apple as usual; and this enraged the horse more.

“This is called the consequences to your actions, Zombie.” You chirped and sliced at the wooden plank before you, “You haven’t learned your lesson as you went to bite me again. I saw it when you hesitated.”

When you went to argue back to the horses chortle, Jesse had skidded against the flooring, kicking up the hay as his frame slammed into the barn door. The loud thud tied in with the quick pace of a body startled you backward, immediate visions of the night spent in Seattle in the warehouse where you had been cleverly stalked like prey.

Ankle throbbed beneath you, vision white in panic, hands clamped on either side of your face and you came close to striking them down with the equipment in your hand.

It was Jesse.

It was Jesse. You were in Jackson. You were safe. You were healing.

“It’s time.” Jesse was frazzled in panic. He repeated, “It’s time. She’s in labour.”

You blinked, “Shit. OK…What are you doing here?” It was happening. The baby was coming. When Jesse gawped, you ushered, “Jesse—Shouldn’t you be with Dina? At the medical unit? Just as rehearsed?”

Jesse nodded rapidly, “I was on my way. I just—I just had to stop and tell you that I love you. So fucking much.” He pressed a firm kiss to your lips that lasted longer than needed for a man on his way to the birth of his first child. When he pulled away — immediate in his sprint — Jesse called back, “Don’t wait up for me!”

You spent that night perfecting the cot.

A week had passed since Dina had given birth to JJ — undecided on whose last name he would be taking. Jesse had been in and out of his home to gather fresh clothes and meals that you had prepped each morning for the newfound parents so they sustained enough energy through the sleep deprivation and new hurdles to navigate when it came to a newborn.

You hadn’t pressed on your visitation rights as the girlfriend of the father. It was a little murky for you, and it felt right to provide the space needed for Jesse to adapt to the new way of life. Still, you were a little excited when you were granted access to seeing the tiny bundle of joy.

Then, on Dina’s request, Jesse had trudged in, eyes heavy from the night duty of changing diapers and burping — spit up still on his shoulder — and tugged you, along with the fresh batch of food made, to Dina and Ellie’s house. You had mumbled a handful of objections, right up until Jesse brushed past you and returned gently bouncing his son who was small enough to fit in both his palms.

The newborn squirmed, movements slow as he began to stir from being taken away from the scent of his mother who was soundly asleep in bed. Only to immediately settle when the recognition of his father’s scent kicked in. Jesse watched in adoration, lips pressed to JJ’s forehead.

“He has my scar, don’t you think?” Jesse quipped — the birthmark on JJ’s cheek evident.

“It’s uncanny.” You brushed the birthmark with your fingertip. He was perfect. Everything was perfect. Jesse was so in love with you, evidently more with how you tended to JJ, without a second thought; immediate in your instincts to hush him as he roused with a fuss.

Jesse bounced him until he was sound asleep, “That skin-to-skin advice you gave me really helped. I think he’s obsessed with me.”

“Oh, I can tell.” You validated the hidden insecurity that played on Jesse’s words with confidence in his fathering skills.

Jesse could’ve sworn he was in nirvana.

“Would you like to hold him?” He blurted out.

You stared up at him. A smirk on your face that cemented the knowledge that Jesse was pushing the boat out in your direction, just for his own pleasure. A future, maybe, for you both. Something shaped similar, because you both deserved serenity at the end of the pathway.

You’d have a conversation about your approach on kids another time.

For that moment, you indulged in Jesse’s request and took JJ into your arms, swaddled in cloth gifted from Maria and Tommy Miller from their days as parents to a newborn. You sat for comfort and balance — your ankle still able to give out at any moment — gently rocking JJ in your arms as you settled into a comfortable position. Jesse followed suit, his arm laid against the headrest of the couch behind your head; his body magnetised to your side as he doted on his son.

When JJ grasped onto your finger that dwarfed his five tiny fingers, Jesse almost went into a frenzy.

He was overjoyed to have survived Seattle.

His lips found your temple in a sweet kiss before he spoke, “I love you. So fucking much.”

You were with Jesse. You were in Jackson. You were safe. You were healing.

#Jesse TLOU #Jesse fluff

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althaiareads · 5 days ago

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There's something so sweet about the soft intimacy and this hit every check. It was so lovely, seeing little glimpses of their lives together, so short and so sweet. I loved it.

welcome home (Bob Floyd x Reader)

SUMMARY ››››› Bob comes home to you and reflects on your relationship.

PAIRING ››››› Bob Floyd x F!Reader

WORD COUNT ››››› 1,107

WARNINGS ››››› Bob in himself is a warning for cuteness, allusions to sex but nothing specific

A/N ››››› A little drabble that popped into my head. I hope you think it's as cute as I do. Dividers from firefly-graphics.

He'd never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.

It was the same thought that crossed his mind the first time he ever saw her.

He remembers the way her face lit up as she listened to her friend's story, smiling along at the quips and jokes. He even remembers the simple sundress she wore, and not just because it was the same one he saw each time he passed by the mannequins in the women's section of Target that summer.

She was so effortlessly beautiful it was breathtaking.

He couldn't believe his luck when she'd come up alone to the bar to order drinks for her friends. And when she gave him that brilliant smile after he told the woman behind the bar to help her first because he didn't mind waiting, he had to adjust his glasses because it just didn't feel right that she could be looking at him like that. But she was. She even thanked him and called him a gentleman, asking a few polite questions before taking her drinks and disappearing off to her friends.

Although to say she disappeared made it seem as if Bob lost sight of her after that. As if he didn't make sure to check on her whereabouts ever ten minutes, catching her eye a few times over the course of the night.

Because she was staring at him too.

She's wearing that same sundress now as she lays with her legs draped over the arm of his chair, her head lolled against the back.

He's late. Hours later than he told her he'd be, and even though it's not his fault and he tried to keep her updated, he feels guilty as he watches her chest rise and fall in sleep. He wonders how long she tried to stay up for him even though she has work early tomorrow. Deep in his heart, he knows it was too long.

She's always waited for him longer than she should have had to. From the three days it took him to work up the nerve to call him after she pressed the wrinkled cocktail napkin with her number into his hand to the five hours of radio silence she faced after his first mission when they were together.

She didn't yell at him when he walked through the door to the bar, sticky from the heat, ragged from travel, and harried from dealing with a broken down car and dead cell phone. Instead she parted from their group of friends and threw her arms around him, "Everyone else was back," she'd mumbled into his neck. He understood, wrapping his arms tight around her despite how gross and worn he felt and refusing to let go.

It's easy to lift her up into his arms.

She's already in prime scooping position, and after the demands of this mission and the amount of g-force he's had to operate under-- the weight is nothing.

He takes the stairs slowly so as not to jostle her awake, remembering instead the first time he picked her up like this.

She had been so shocked at his strength, squealing out a surprised "Bob!" as he lifted her up from the beach and headed towards the water. And then the shock had melted from her face as she threw her head back laughing. "I forgot you're in the Navy," she giggled, grinning up at him before realizing where he was taking her.

"No--No, Bob, don't you dare!" she threatened but then she was air born, tossed out to sea with a screaming laugh as Bob smiled at her.

He doesn't toss her into bed though. Instead he manages to lean down and pull back the covers before depositing her into the sheets. It's then that she finally starts to stir, a soft murmur of noise as she blinks awake, looking up at him.

"You're back," she greets softly, lifting up a hand to his cheek, thumb ghosting over his cheekbone.

"Mhm," he nods, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead before straightening back up and moving to his side of the bed. He sits on the edge to undo the laces of his boots, eager to slip into bed beside her.

He feels the bed move behind him, her body flipping to face him. "You should have woken me up."

"I did," he says with a soft smile over his shoulder before yanking off a boot. She snorts, shaking her head.

"This doesn't count." A yawn interrupts her as Bob pulls off his uniform shirt and it's not until he's undoing his pants that she speaks again. "I wanted to give you a special welcome home." Her voice is distant and tired, and when Bob turns back to face her, her eyes are fluttering closed and then shooting awake.

"Tomorrow," he promises, leaning over to press another kiss to her face as she nods sleepily.

"Tomorrow," she agrees.

Bob rises from the bed, moving to the adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth and wash some of the feel of travel from his face. When he enters the room again, she's sitting up and attempting to undo the zipper on the back of her dress.

He doesn't ask if she needs help. Instead, he crosses the room and takes the zipper in his hands, so that her own arms fall down to her sides. "Thanks," she murmurs, and he hums a response, coaxing the zipper down and exposing the bare expanse of her back.

The first time he undressed her it was with shaking hands. Even though he knew what he was doing--he'd been with a few girls before despite the guys in his squadron's disbelief--he couldn't help but be nervous. It felt as if he was on the edge of something that night, and he knew that what came next would either push him over or destroy him where he stood.

She'd been calm and steady as she always was, looking over her shoulder with a knowing smile as she told him, "You have to pull it down for the dress to come off." It had been just what he needed.

By the time he was on the other side of the bed, slipping underneath the covers, she had tugged on one of his old t-shirts and laid back down, waiting for him.

This time she didn't have to wait long. He wasted no time in coming close and pulling her into his arms, allowing her to snuggle in against him. "I'm glad you're home," she whispered, reaching up to thread a hand through his.

He squeezed her hand. "Me too."

#Bob Floyd #Bob Floyd fluff #joaquinwhorres

571 notes · View notes

althaiareads · 6 days ago

Text

This was so good!!!!!!!! Ugh, the angst of it all was so incredibly delicious. I really enjoyed the little flashbacks to understand where everything was coming from. Her relationship with Tony and the grief that she was feeling were all so real and raw, and it made me feel for her and understand all of her fears. And then you have the whole thing with Joaquin, her leaving the city and not feeling deserving of his love is... holy shit, so so good. And then after everything, them making up in the gala and giving it closure with that scrumptious smut????? 10/10 no notes.

welcome home | joaquin torres

summary: drifting from state to state looking for a place in the world after the death of tony, you find yourself back on new york ground when bucky starts the new avengers. coming back to cement your dad’s legacy, you promise yourself you’ll be out of the city before anyone even knows you’re there. but circumstances lead you right to joaquin, and you’re forced to face your hurt ex-boyfriend, having no choice but to confront everything you left behind.

warnings: mdni. porn with so much plot. reverse situationship!joaquin universe from my page bc in this specific fic, she’s the one with the commitment issues lol. super angsty, stark!reader really struggling to come to terms with the new avengers and the loss of tony, drunk idiots in love, brief jealousy. angst w/ happy ending! everyone say thank u @sortagaysortahigh for beta'ing tehehe. smut warnings: oral fem!receiving, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie

wc: 11.8k

“Yeah, no, I got it. Mom—” you wince as you pull the heavy suitcase from the trunk of the taxi. The loud slam makes you cringe, and you readjust the phone tucked between your shoulder and ear. “Yes. I will.” Eyes shut in frustration, you bite back a groan. “Okay. Alright. Love you, too. Tell Morgan I love her. Bye— Okay—Bye, mom!”

The call ends hastily, and you shove the device into your back pocket with a huge sigh. You look back for a moment, just in time to catch the taxi peeling off the curb without a second glance back. Its tires skirt against the road in a way that makes you frown.

City noise is all around—cars honking, loud blurred chatter, whistling of a nearby subway—it all works together to fill your veins with a deep sense of dread. People move around you, hurried and impersonal, because that’s how New York City is. Always has been. It’s every man for themselves and despite your roots, you fail to find any sense of nostalgia about being back.

Looking upward, you squint. The building is so tall, the sun shines directly behind it, casting a harsh halo around its edges that forces you to shield your eyes. It’s sleek. Shiner. You wonder if the renovations were for security or style. Or maybe it was simply to erase everything that came before.

The New Avengers HQ.

Your old home.

You shift uncomfortably, eyes dragging up the length of glass and steel. It’s nothing like you remember, and a weight settles tight on your chest at the idea of what the compound used to be. Your hands shake a bit at the idea of stepping into those doors and not hearing the quiet hum of JARVIS. You won’t smell any motor oil and peppermint gum wafting from your dad’s workshop, and there’s no more lab where you can play hide and seek from Bruce.

Now you’re just a trespasser. A stranger walking into a monument trying too hard to forget what it’s trying to replace.

Your suitcase handle sticks to the palm of your hand as you tug it over the cracked sidewalk, and nausea floods your stomach. Is it the nerves or the city? Maybe it’s just the reality of being back at a place you promised yourself you’d never step back to. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

You’re only back here for your dad. You’ll be out before you know it.

The whirling of the elevator only increases your nausea, and you force your eyes closed to take a deep breath. Ignoring the way the space smelled so sterile and how you weren’t allowed to press the button up to the 50th floor on your own after sharing all your biometrics in the lobby, you remind yourself to exhale.

You’ve been gone a long time, but it’s nowhere near enough.

“Come on, let’s talk about this!” Exasperation is bleeding through Joaquin’s words, and you try not to feel so overwhelmed by the way he’s crowding behind you. Crossing the small room, you toss an armful of clothes into the open suitcase on your bed.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You huff, not looking back at him as you make another trip to empty your drawers.

“That’s bull!” Joaquin shouts. “You’re running,” he accuses.

The words make you stop. Standing at your open dresser with your back to him, your body freezes, hand gripping the socks in your hand tightly. “I’m not running,” your voice is low, forced out between grit teeth. “I’m leaving.”

Joaquin doesn’t take kindly to your words. “What, without even saying goodbye?” he snaps. “Without giving me a chance to— to talk to you? To convince you to stay?” He stutters over his words in his fit of anger. They fly from his lips and land as harsh blows against your back, making your shoulders tense.

Your eyes shift around the drawer, trying to focus on anything but the man’s words.

But they land anyways, lodging into your lungs like splinters. Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, and you hate the way your eyes get misty. Letting out a shaky breath, you finally admit, “I can’t stay.”

You hear a scoff, and you know him well enough to know how he looks now, standing in the middle of your room with his hands on his hips as his eyes bore into the back of your head. You refuse to meet his gaze.

“Do I even matter to you?”

Ding.

Elevator doors slide open softly, revealing a long, unfamiliar hallway. It’s gray and soulless, sending a chill through you.

For a moment you’re unmoving, hesitation begins to creep in with the understanding of what’s awaiting for you at the end of this path. But then you swallow it. Straightening your shoulders, you tuck the memory away like everything else you’ve suppressed the past year.

One foot before the other as you force yourself to move forward. You ignore how the sound of the elevator closing sends a spike of heat through you. There’s no going back now.

Conference Room A.

The smooth, polished door stares back at you and time starts to slow. The hum of the overhead fluorescents fade away, and nothing but the sound of your own shallow breathing fills the space. You can hear it clearly, every inhale and exhale. Each one accompanied by a tightening in your chest. Everything blurs around you, tunnel visioning onto the gold door handle underneath your shaky fingertips.

Your fingers grasp it, and the cool metal causes all of your senses to rush back to you in an exhale. No more running.

With one breath, you push the door open.

A voice immediately cuts through the room. “Stark.”

Sam rises from his seat at the end of the table, a look of relief on his face. “Hey,” his tone is soft. “Thanks for coming.”

You stand by the door, lips pressed into a thin line. Any other time you would’ve appreciated Sam’s hospitality. But not now. Not here. Instead, your eyes are trained on the man sitting across from him.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t bother standing. He doesn’t smile or greet you, he just looks. His expression is unreadable, and the only movement from his end is the metal of his fingers tapping against the armrest of the chair.

“I like what you’ve done to the place.” Your voice is cold, all directed at Bucky. “It’s cozy.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably from your peripherals, a cautious look on his face as he observes the both of you.

Bucky’s gaze doesn’t waver, but you see the way his eyes soften. The tapping stops. It makes you feel worse than you already do, and your jaw clenches in anger at his sympathy. “It’s different,” he admits to you, no malice or anger in his voice. Just calm.

“‘Different’?” you echo lightly, a bitter laugh escaping you. It’s obviously anything but humorous. Is that all he has to say? Against your will, your lips start to tremble, but you keep your eyes sharp as you glare daggers at the Super Soldier.

His eyes close, and you watch as Bucky takes a deep breath. “Come on, kid, just sit—”

“This was my dad’s legacy.” Your words sharp as knives, anger flaring in your chest. “His life’s work. It’s not yours to take; you have no right.” Your voice breaks, a mixture of disbelief and raw hurt. But you keep your eyes on him. “Bucky, this was my home.”

You see the way his eyes flicker, a brief hesitation, but the weight of the moment pins you in place and the air becomes too thick to breathe.

You thought you were prepared for this. A week of contemplation, running through every possible scenario before getting on a six hour flight, where you tried to ground yourself. Hold your head high, demand the respect your father deserves, stand firm no matter what—they ran like mantras in your head as you got closer and closer to the city.

But now, standing here in the room that you once knew like the back of your hand, you realize that you’re out of your depth. You don’t fully understand what you’re defending, or if you even can. The careful armor you’ve built over the past year is starting to crack under the weight of everything—the loss, the betrayal, the growing distance between you and what was once yours.

You feel like a kid. That was what you were the last time you stood on these very floors and now you’re just stuck. Everyone is moving on and you can’t.

The anger in your eyes soften, and not for the first time, tears brim unbidden. All you can do is look at Bucky, the man who knows more than most about loss, and whisper, “How could you do this?”

Voice gruff and thick with emotion, all Bucky can offer you was the truth. “You weren’t here.” He paused, voice thick with grief. “Someone had to.”

Your footsteps pound against the hallway floor as you push out of the conference room with a bit too much force, the door slamming shut behind you before you can think about it.

“Hey! Wait,” Sam’s voice calls behind you, his pace quickening to reach you. “Kid, slow down.”

You don’t stop. Hardly sparing him a glance over your shoulder, you bite out a hasty, “I shouldn’t have come back.” Your pace increases when the elevators come into your line of vision. “And I’m not a kid!”

Jamming your finger against the stupid, state-of-the-art screen, you select the ground floor. Childishly, you grumbled about how dumb the invention was, seeking the satisfaction of being able to repeatedly press an actual button to relieve some of the tension you’re feeling.

Arms crossed over your chest, your foot taps impatiently, ears keenly listening to the whirling of the incoming elevator. It’s not moving fast enough.

A gentle hand places itself on your shoulder, and you can’t help the way your whole body sags at his touch. A huge sigh expels from you, arms dropping in defeat when you finally turn to face your old anchor—the person that you had reached out when you needed a lifeline most.

Looking up at Sam, all you can do is shake your head. With a shrug, you admit, “I don’t know what to do.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Sam just looks at you, the same way he did when you showed up at his doorstep three years ago—eyes full of quiet understanding, a patience that made you feel like, maybe, he could pull you out of this. Maybe things weren’t entirely lost. “Just being here is enough.”

You can’t help the sarcastic scoff. Words like that are usually just an empty platitude, but unlike everyone else, you know Sam means it. It’s earnest in the most obnoxious way, and you can’t help but shake your head with a small laugh. It evaporates as quickly as it came, and you’re left with nothing to do but frown. “That didn’t go well.”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, wincing. “No, it really didn’t, huh?”

He’s so cavalier about it, it makes you laugh.

Thirty minutes of conversation had gotten the three of you nowhere. After your initial confrontation with Bucky, he had pleaded for you to take a seat, and you did. But the back and forth got you nowhere. There were so many forks in the road, and all three of you wanted to go in different directions. Where two people agreed, the third didn’t. That dynamic just shifted around for the entire span of the conversation before you stood and declared that this was all for nothing.

There was no resolution.

“Bucky isn’t trying to hurt you. There’s a reason he called you here.” Sam’s voice lacks any humor now as he looks down at you intensely.

Unable to handle it, your eyes flash away. “I know.” Nibbling on your lip, you tact on with reluctance, “It doesn't make it suck any less.”

The elevator doors ding, and you shake yourself out of Sam’s grasp. Walking in, all you can do is offer the man a timid smile, “It was good to see you, Sam.”

As the doors start to slide close, you press your back against the cool gold wall. Looking down, you close your eyes for a second to breathe, but then a loud thump has your eyes snapping back up.

Arm caught between the doors of the elevators, Sam can barely peek his head in as he grunts to push his way in. The small lift beeps in resistance, but Sam just shouts over it. “Wait, just wait—” A loud slam as he shoves it open. Breathing heavily, he looks at you. “Come over for dinner tonight.”

The hesitation must be evident on your face, because Sam continues. “For old times sake. Who knows the next time you’ll be back in town, right?”

Your stomach twists at the idea. Though you appreciate Sam sensing your distraught and you can see why he’s under the impression it’s due to you wanting to leave New York so soon, he’s wrong in that being the reason you don’t want to come over.

It’s not about food. It’s not about stepping back into the life you left behind.

It’s because you know he will be there.

Though you’d never admit it to anyone, you had kept tabs on Joaquin. Just enough to know that he’s moved in with Sam. You’ve skirted around his name the entire time you’ve been back and you haven’t said it out loud since you left.

But then you look at Sam, and your resolve crumbles. “Yeah. Okay.”

His smile is soft, pointing at you with a fake stern look. “Seven. Don’t be late.”

You nod, lightly chuckling as he steps out of the elevator. “Alright, seven.”

The doors start to close, and he doesn’t stop them this time. Hands in his pockets, Sam just gives you the same steady look he always has, one that says ‘I’m here if you need me.’

As the elevator descends your left alone to your thoughts once more, and your heart pounds. Though it’s wildly different from when you were ascending. This time, your mind is adrift from what it initially set out to accomplish here. Instead, a sense of longing floods you at the thought of what’s ahead.

Seeing Joaquin again.

Sam did not tell Joaquin you were coming. That much was abundantly clear.

You shuffle awkwardly in the kitchen entryway, watching as Joaquin and Sam navigate the warmly lit kitchen flawlessly. The modest home is warm in a way that feels almost offensive, a well-loved and lived in abode that you haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing in a long time. The soft light reminds you of everything you’ve missed and left behind.

The scent of garlic and roasted vegetables wafts gently in the air, mingling with the soft hum of jazz from the corner speaker in the living room. The dining table is modestly set, three sets of plates and utensils set out for your trio.

Everything about the scene is, objectively, perfect. It’s a quiet, unbothered ambience that can only exist in a home that’s built over time.

But tension cuts through the air like an unspoken wound—pulsing and impossible to ignore.

You can see it in the way Joaquin moves.

His shoulders are tight, movements sharp and deliberate as he chops up the vegetables. He doesn’t glance in your direction, doesn’t say a word as he lifts the pan and scrapes its contents onto a serving plate. You watch with a careful eye as his jaw ticks, mouth pressed into a line that hasn’t softened since you said hello.

The initial shock on his face was comedic, but it soon settled into the unrelenting frown that you’re observing now. It makes you shift uncomfortably.

Joaquin and Sam don’t speak, moving around each other with muscle memory. Utensils passed, adjusting the stoves, reaching into drawers without ever needing to ask the other person—it’s an obvious rhythm between them that’s practiced and familiar. Like family.

“Here,” Sam ushers, snapping your focus away from Joaquin. A wooden spoon is presented to you, a piece of pasta sauced to perfection sitting there waiting for your critique. “Oh my God,” you cover your mouth as you chew, the vibrant flavors doing wonders for your palette. “Sam, this is, like, the best thing you’ve ever made.” You can’t help but laugh.

It’s been too long since you’ve had a home cooked meal, and it spreads a warmth through you that you know is from more than just the hot dish.

Sam’s grin is wide as he walks back to the stove, dropping the wooden spoon onto the counter. He punches Joaquin’s arm, shoving him as he says, “Man, I knew it.” Sam casts a glance back to you. “It’s Joaquin’s recipe.”

“Oh.” It’s all you can offer.

You glance at Joaquin through your lashes, but he still isn’t looking at you.

All he does is shrug, eyes trained on the pan as he stirs something with mechanical focus. The sharpness of his jaw hasn’t softened one bit, and when you squint, you swear it looks even more clenched than before.

A tightness squeezes your chest. The Joaquin you knew loved compliments. He used to cook for you all the time.

But now he gives you nothing. Not a snide joke. Not even a smile.

The silence expands between the two of you as Sam brushes by you to fiddle with the already perfect table placement. Everything is incredible, but it’s not, because Joaquin won’t even look at you.

It’s not as if you could blame him, but it’s hard to swallow the palpable tension. Your eyes have a hard time breaking away from him as you take your seat, slowly. Hands folded in your lap, you force your gaze to the table until Joaquin eventually sits, too, dropping into the chair across from you like it’s a chore.

Joaquin is looking to his left, gaze distant as your eyes trace his side profile. He’s avoiding you, that much is obvious, and he doesn’t back down even as Sam starts filling everyone’s plates with various food items.

It’s not until Sam takes his seat, raising his glass of wine with a small smile and the phrase, “To tonight,” that Joaquin finally looks your way.

Through the fog of the wine and raised glasses, you catch Joaquin’s eyes. It lands like a punch in the gut. Delivered without a smile, Joaquin looks at you with guarded eyes. Your throat tightens as you wash it down with a sip of your wine, and you try not to let the blood rush to your head when you notice Joaquin doesn’t take a sip of his.

He simply puts the glass down.

Conversation stumbles forward, mostly thanks to Sam’s effort. His voice weaves through names and stories and jokes. You try to stay present, you really do. But your eyes keep drifting across the table.

Joaquin doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t add anything. He eats.

You chime in once or twice, just to be polite, but Joaquin doesn’t feel the need to shoulder that same burden. It’s so unlike him. He doesn’t bother to lean back in his chair and add his own two cents, doesn’t crack jokes, he just eats.

A rock settles at the pit of your stomach at his unusual behavior, clearly at the expense of your existence in his home. Despite the compliments to the chef who won’t even spare you a glance, all you can do is push your pasta around the plate, your appetite lost.

Forty minutes pass before Sam leans back with a sigh. “You two are killin’ me.” He says it with an airy tone, but there’s a clear edge beneath it. You know Sam knows what happened; it was an unspoken knowledge that lingered all night. Guess Sam had enough of it. He glances at Joaquin with a chastising look.

You purse your lips, trying to offer a, “No, this dinner is nice.” A not so subtle glance at Joaquin’s eye roll makes you shrink back on yourself. “Really, it’s...perfect.”

Sam looks between you and Joaquin, taking the time to watch your respective expressions before he lets out a laugh, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, well, I’m g’nna clean up. You two sit in…whatever this is.”

Blinking, you quickly rise in your seat. “Oh, no, let me help—”

“No,” Sam’s raised hand has you sitting back down. He grabs all the plates as he says, “This is me time. You stay here.”

It’s not exactly an elusive play. He’s leaving you here alone on purpose, with Joaquin.

Your stomach flips, looking over at him. The silence stretches for a long time, the only sound is the background noise of water running over dishes and Sam’s quiet singing.

The chair creaks under your weight as you lean back with a sigh. You get why he’s so angry. Really, you do. You had ended things so abruptly, left him behind and disappeared without any closure. You hadn’t reached out in the entire year you had been gone and you’re not sure if he even knew where you went. Now, you’re sitting here, across from him, as if no time had passed at all.

It was cruel.

But God. Seeing Joaquin again is like pressing down on a bruise you thought had long faded, and it aches. The things that you thought you had buried under the pretense of false acceptance are resurfacing and he can’t even look at you.

You know you shouldn’t say it. It’s throwing a match on top of an already burning building with the hopes it won’t add to the fire, but your voice betrays you, slipping out before you can stop it. Quiet and fragile, you admit to him, “I missed you.”

The words hang in between you, over the table as it mixes with the soft jazz. Finding the courage, you look at Joaquin. And for once tonight, his eyes are already on you.

It’s a different look than the one he’s sprouted all night. You can see it—the shock on his face, expression frozen in a stunned expression of turned down brows and parted lips. It’s like he’s wondering if the words you spoke come with a truth he can count on or if he wants you to take it back, swallowing them to spare him.

Joaquin settles on the latter.

He blinks once. Twice. Then his jaw tightens, and you suppress a sigh at the familiarity. Joaquin shifts in his seat, the muscles in his arms tensing as he crosses them over his chest. The dog tags he wears underneath this soft cotton shirt clink when he leans forward with careful precision. “You don’t get to say that.”

There’s no warmth in his eyes, words delivered with a sort of intensity that’s unfamiliar on Joaquin. Alien. He’s always been sunshine strapped up in combat boots, a sort of steady and kind that’s rare to find in this world. But this Joaquin? With his still, simmering anger that glowers over you, it’s not the Joaquin you remember.

And you only have yourself to blame.

Your heart sinks. You know you hurt him, but you didn’t expect it to be so deep. Afterall, you had only worked with him and Sam for two years.

“Torres!” Sam shouts over the open gym. “Get over here.”

The punching bag swings to a slow stop, the unfamiliar man steadying it with one hand before glancing over his shoulder.

Then he turns, fully, and your breath catches in your throat like he’d landed a right hook on your chest.

Tight black compression shirt hugs him a bit too well, accentuating lines of lean muscle underneath. His skin glistens faintly with sweat, droplets clinging to the edge of his jaw and temple in a way that has you swallowing, mouth suddenly dry.

His damp hair is tousled from training, and you can’t help but watch as he wipes his forehead with a small towel before cleaning his palms and offering it to you.

With a grin so wide and easy, you almost forgot how violently the bag had been swinging just moments ago. He has a boyish charm, one that you can’t help but admire. Approaching with a bounce in his step, your cheeks warm when his expression brightens at the sight of you.

“Meet Stark,” Sam introduces. The name feels strange spoken out loud after the year of isolation and seclusion with your stepmom and Morgan. You haven’t been called that in a while; there was no reason to say it out loud in the vast farms of Georgia, especially without Tony around. In some ways, the name doesn’t even feel like yours anymore.

Maybe that’s why you reached out to Sam—to start regaining something that felt so far gone.

“Hey, I’m Joaquin.” He pauses for a half second. “Sorry, uh, sweaty.” He wipes his hands on his shorts with a sheepish smile before re-extending. “I’m Joaquin, Joaquin Torres.”

Maybe this is the change you need.

You blink as Joaquin leans back slowly, arms still crossed. His movement is stiff, restrained, like he’s holding something back. When you don’t reply, he lets out a deep huff through his nose before sharply proposing, “You don’t get to disappear for a year and then come back like it was nothing.”

The lump in your throat builds all too quickly, and you hate yourself for getting choked up before you even really get a chance to talk to him. Caught between the instinct to apologize and defend yourself, all you can do is gape at him as Joaquin stares at you like a ghost that’s come back to haunt him.

Finding your tongue, you concede. “I didn’t…” You sigh. “I wasn’t planning on coming back.”

He nods slowly, though he’s not truly contemplating anything. “Convenient.” It’s a sour response.

“Me leaving had nothing to do with you.” Each word is emphasized with passion as you agonize over his behavior. It’s driven with the hopes that he’ll understand where you’re coming from.

“That much was very clear, thank you,” Joaquin scoffs, arms dropping from his chest alongside his defense. His anger was showing, and you couldn’t help the way it ignites yours.

“It wasn't about you, Joaquin!” You can’t help yourself from going down the defensive route, snapping at him.

His flinch is almost imperceivable—almost. It twists something ugly in your gut, and you immediately bite your tongue, regretting your tone.

But you can’t take it back.

You should’ve been more patient with him, you know that. You were the one that hurt him and called it quits, and Joaquin deserves more grace than this, but you’re tired. The wear of the day has already sunken into your bones, and seeing him like this—cold and distant—it was hurting you more than you thought it would. Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The worst part of you was growing resentment towards him for not getting it.

“I left because I had to.” Your voice is more even now, and you end it with a hand running down your face. “I couldn’t breathe here, Joaquin.”

He doesn’t accept your answer, head shaking as he bites back, “You could’ve at least called.”

“And said what?” you ask, voice shaky. “That I couldn’t handle it? That being on the team didn’t fix whatever damage I thought it would, so I ran?” Your hands are clenched tightly under the table, nails pressing little crescents into your palm. “I couldn’t explain myself to you.” Your throat bobs, the words coming out with raggedness.

You take a deep breath to center yourself. Looking up at him, you profess, “You were the only good thing about this place, Joaquin.”

For a moment he stops, and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. But then he blinks, and his mask slips back into place as he pushes his chair back to stand. “You could’ve fooled me.”

Back in New York for all of twelve hours and already you’ve had two catastrophic conversations.

Sitting cross legged in the middle of your hotel bed freshly showered, you sway your phone between your pointer finger and thumb. With your free hand cupping your cheek, you stare blankly at the wall, lost in thought.

Where are you supposed to go from here? Should you even stay in New York any longer than you already have? How did your dad do this? The thoughts plague you as you recount the two worst reunions you’ve ever been a part of rerun through your mind. One is haunting you more than the other, and it’s not the hundred and seven year old Winter Soldier.

A vibration from your phone makes the thoughts dissipate for a brief second, and you flip over the screen to see an incoming text.

Sam: I’m glad you came by.

For the first time since you left Sam and Joaquin’s place, a smile finds itself on your face.

Bzzt.

Sam: Today was rough. But remember that you don’t need to carry it alone. Goodnight, kid.

You exhale slowly through your nose, keeping your chat open with Sam long after you’ve already finished reading its content. There’s something about the way he signs it off—a gentle reminder that despite all wounds and unspoken words, Sam will show up for you no matter what.

Falling backwards, your head lands on the mattress with a soft thump. You let yourself close your eyes for just a moment. It’s clear that you can’t solve everything tonight, and probably not even tomorrow, but if at least one thing can be salvaged, then maybe this trip back wouldn’t have been for nothing.

If you can’t make things right with Joaquin, you can at least try with Bucky.

You raise your phone over your face, ready to message him, but then you pause. A missed notification—one sent around the middle of dinner when you were too busy trying not to fall apart—stares back at you.

Bucky: Just consider it. That’s all anyone’s asking.

The sigh you let out is shaky, a heavy cloak of anxiety falling over you that’s impossible to ignore. His message was in reference to one of the better proposals of the conversation you had, one that had the three of you the closest to unified agreement, until you had disputed it under the premise that it’s shallow.

A gala fundraiser.

Both teams gathered in the same room.

You had scoffed at the idea, it just felt so performative, too polished to mean anything real. The thought of stuffing yourself into an all-too expensive dress and drowning yourself in champagne just to schmooze a couple of politicians felt dirty. It was a poor attempt at bonding, perhaps merging the two teams together all whilst saving face with the public.

But maybe…maybe not all of it had to be bad.

You remember how your dad used to do the same thing. Lavish parties, black-tie events, charity galas. If there was one thing Tony knew how to do, it was to use optics to his advantage. Somewhere in the mess of lights and velvet rope, you suppose that good things did come of it. Afterall, why host so many in his lifetime if they didn’t?

People paid attention. Resources moved. Alliances formed.

Staring at Bucky’s message, you start to concede to the idea that maybe he was right. Sam, too. Thumb hovering over the keyboard, you start to hold your breath subconsciously.

You: Fine. Let’s do it.

The message delivers, and you breathe out.

One crisis at a time.

You extended your stay by an additional week, barely enough time for some lady named Valentina to scrap the event together. All you had to do was drop by your favorite luxury boutique to pick up the smooth, silk dress you adorn now. Your heels clack against the marble floors, bright yellow chandelier lights shining down on your form.

Despite the short notice, even you can admit, the event was…grand. Beautiful, even.

The slit in your dress has the fabric exposing your thigh with every step as you make your way through the crowd, and you offer half-indulgent smiles at anyone who looks your way.

It was crowded, so packed, that you wouldn’t even be able to tell that it was a half-assed thrown together event given the attendance.

Not that you had anything to compare it to. You never really got to attend any of these events when Tony was around. Too young, he had said, shushing your protests about how you were well into your late teen years.

Your fingers drift along the edge of a pearly white-linen tablecloth, tracing the embroidery idly. It was one of the several snack-and-booze tables lining the wall, stocked with elegant charcuterie boards and crystal decanters. Waiters whizzed by you with trays of appetizers and drinks, weaving between the guests with their gloved fingers and polite smiles.

Your dad used to always tell you that events like this were “just business, not parties.” They’re meant for public relations and banned you from attending.

It never stopped you.

You and…God, some kid whose face you can’t even remember now. Something P, maybe? Flashes of brown (or was it blonde…?) is fuzzy in your mind, but just before you can focus on it, the memory evaporates.

Whoever it was, you remember sneaking down the service stairs and ducking behind the long buffet tables in the midst of the events with them. You’d steal a bottle of whatever alcohol you could get your hands on and chug as fast as you could. Whispering jokes and tampering down your laugh; the thrill of not wanting to get caught flushed you as you kept an ear out for Tony’s voice across the room.

But there’s none of that now. Nowhere to hide, no one to hide from.

Instead, you’re center stage. The forced sip of your drink leaves a bitter taste in your mouth as you look around the room at all of the people who you have to interact with. The legacy you have to live up tonight is a responsibility not lost on you. You stand straight, the way that your step-mom had taught you to do on the rare occasions your whole family would be on camera.

Chin up, posture perfect.

But you don’t notice anyone's eyes on you except one, the same ones that have been burning at your side profile since you stepped foot in the door.

Joaquin.

You watch him from your peripheral like you have all night. He’s half in conversation with someone from the Air Force, and it’s clear to you that he’s only pretending to pay attention to the man. It stirs something like molten lava in the pit of your stomach.

During the past few days, you haven’t been back to his house, but you have reached out. Your phone burns against your chest, tucked so carefully underneath your bra. The amount of unanswered text messages from Joaquin leaves an imprint of embarrassment against your neckline.

“Forgive me,” a voice cuts in smoothly from your left. “But is there a reason the most beautiful woman in the room is standing all by herself?”

Reflexively your eyes begin to roll as you slowly turn, but you force it into suppression as you take in the man standing too-close beside you. His sharp navy suit is too fitted, and charm and confidence oozes out its seams. You let your gaze rake over his features with polite interest.

“Senator William,” you smoothly recognize. The flashcards Bucky forced you to go through two nights ago over sushi with him may have been more handy than you thought. You owe Bucky an apology for all the childish nicknames you called him that night, something about not being a sixteen year old studying for the SATs and ‘who even uses paper anymore, grandpa.’ You don’t really remember the exact details.

“Rhode Island. You’re serving on the Intelligence Committee.” Youngest senator to date, you recall, but you don’t let him know that you know that.

His smile grows wider. “Wow, consider me flattered. I didn’t think the elusive Stark would recognize a simple committee member from the East Coast when she’s been spending her time on the West.”

Your brows raise, the ingenuine mask you’ve been wearing all night slipping. “How did you know I was in California?”

The young politician brings a glass to his lips, face coy as he takes a sip. “Oh, well. Let’s just say brilliance doesn’t go unnoticed, even if she is several state lines away.”

The two of you face forward, you watch some burly Russian man named Alexei entertain a crowd as a moment of silence envelopes between you and the politician. For the first time tonight, you suspect that you won’t have to drag your feet through the mud to finish this conversation. As you take a sip of your own drink, you let a small, real smile slip through. “Brilliance, huh?”

All he does is shoot you a wink from the corner of his eye.

The orchestra is muffled background noise as you float through the dimmed room. The door is half-cracked behind you, and the weight was familiar as you pushed past it minutes prior. It’s changed since you were last here. The table with the huge crater from holding Thor’s hammer that one night was gone and the tech surrounding you was new.

You grimace.

You don’t like it.

Making your way to the lounging area, tucked just beyond the main space, you reminisce. Something heroic once happened here that never quite left.

Your heels click softly as you approach the bar. It’s smaller than the old one, or maybe everything just felt bigger when you were younger, sneaking down from upstairs to watch your dad share drinks with his second family. Trailing your finger along the black countertop, you lift it with the half-expectation that you’d find dust, something to signify the passed time. But there’s nothing. Not a single speck.

Tony would’ve liked that.

You rub your fingers anyways, before reaching over to grab a bottle of tequila from behind the counter. Oh, if Happy could see you now. Glancing toward the space where old couches used to crowd the floor, you roll your eyes at the empty space before taking a seat just there, on the cool tiles with your gown pooling around you.

Just when you pop the cork, edge of the bottle pressed to your lips, a voice cuts in interruption, “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

His voice comes from the doorway, steady and controlled, but it might as well have been a thunderclap. You don’t look, you don’t have to. You know it’s Joaquin.

You resume, taking a large swing before pulling the bottle down. The liquor burns your throat going down, and you examine the bottle as a poor attempt at distraction. You let the silence drag, just to see if he’ll fill it first. He doesn’t.

“You’ve been ignoring my texts.”

Footsteps echo through the room as Joaquin takes steps toward you. They’re unhurried, and you try to ignore the way your heart starts hammering in your chest. Instead of looking at him, your eyes are focused on the bottle, watching the clear liquid slosh around as if it truly held your attention.

His shadow casts over you as he crosses the light near the bar before stopping a few feet from where you sit on the floor. His dress shoes are dark and scuffed at the tips, worn from use, not fashion. Joaquin’s presence is dominating, but not demanding, unlike everyone else at the party. Patiently, he waits. Still, you don’t look at him.

“For six days, yeah.” His voice is quiet. “You ignored me for a year.”

You wince. He had a point. His truth hangs in the air as you pick at the pooled fabric of your dress. “That’s not—”

“Fair?” he finishes for you, kneeling down with one hand braced against his knee. He just sits there. “Maybe not. But it’s true.”

You turn your head slightly, catching his profile. He looks so beautiful that you feel a familiar ache in your chest take place. His suit is a deep, rich shade of black—charcoal at the edges, like ash soaked in ink. It clings to him in a way that flatters, but doesn’t beg for attention. Not overly pressed, but still pristine. It looks good on him. It looks real.

You can tell he’s worn this before. He probably didn’t even consider wearing anything else.

Eyes trailing upward, you watch the open collar of his dress shirt that reveals the slope of his neck. His tie is loosened, and his Adam’s apple bobs under your gaze. Despite the elegance of his look, there’s something unpolished about him. A curl hangs over Joaquin’s forehead, and your fingers twitch, resisting the urge to push it back.

Joaquin relents with a sigh. He shifts, sitting down besides you before grabbing the bottle from your hand, taking a large gulp. He finishes with a hiss, wetting his lips before offering it back to you.

You take it wordlessly, fingers brushing his for a second too long, before downing a shot of your own.

It’s quiet again, but not in the heavy, suffocating way it was before. This silence is much smoother, though its edges are worn.

You both stare at each other, not in scrutinization or judgement. You’re both just…looking. Somehow, the intensity of all his other looks don’t exist here. The way his eyes observe your features is simply soft, and you know your inspection of him is the same.

You’re the first one to look away, staring ahead at nothing in particular. After a few moments, Joaquin does the same. The liquor is passed back and forth between the two of you, and after some time, you find that your knees start to touch. If he notices, Joaquin does a great job at hiding it.

Time passes, alarmingly fast, as the two of you settle into a muffled dynamic all too similar to the one you had a year ago, as if the twelve months of radio silence hadn’t bled out between you. Wounds hidden beneath the surface stayed as just that in this moment, just out of view.

You’re the first one to break the silence, shattering the ambiance with the heavy confession, “Life always has a way of catching up to you. No matter how far you run.”

Joaquin lets out a small chuckle, though it’s more like air being exhaled than anything. He takes the nearly empty bottle from your hand and takes another drink. “Yeah.” Joaquin turns to look at you with a joking smile, “Sometimes it catches up even when you aren’t the one running.”

Your eyes flicker over to him, corners of your mouth twitching upward. Not quite a smile, but it's clear you're entertained nonetheless. “What, you’ve been too busy flying?”

His reaction is more than you expect, as he throws his head back in a loud laughter. Warmth spreads through your chest, and only now do you truly realize how much you’ve missed that sound. When Joaquin looks back at you, he’s shaking his head. “No. No, that was a bad joke.”

You can’t help the way a wide smile graces your own face, too enriched by his laughter to hide it. Pointing at him, you disagree, “No, that was hilarious.” He shakes his head fervently in disagreement. “You laughed!” you rebut, the camaraderie between the two of you delighting you more than it should.

“I can’t give you that one,” he doubles down, his white teeth bearing at you. “That was lame, no, you can do better.” Joaquin takes another sip before offering the last of the bottle to you.

Movements come slow as you gently take the bottle from him. You’re almost certain your skin is glowing, flush blooming underneath your cheeks and heat curling at the tips of your ears. You know it’s not from the tequila, but you’re going to blame it anyways.

It isn’t the alcohol, though.

No. It’s the way Joaquin looks at you, finally. The way his smile is wide and unrestrained, and the way you both fell into a rhythm so effortlessly again.

Your laugh lingers in your chest long after it’s left your lips, light and bright, and something you haven’t heard from yourself in so long. It was giddiness, the kind that comes from feeling safe, shared with the person who knows all versions of you and hasn’t flinched.

Taking the final swing, you grin. “You’re just mad I’m funnier than you.”

The next words from Joaquin are quieter than your laughter was earlier, and you hear his sense of contemplation as he says, “Yeah, you always have been, huh?”

And there it was.

The thing that neither of you had said out loud until now. It’s been pulsing beneath every silence, shared look, and drink passed between trembling fingers. Against your fear, the shift isn’t loud or dramatic.

It’s just there, and it felt…okay.

You keep your eyes on Joaquin’s, and you can’t help but notice how the dim lights around you seem to shine in his pools of warm brown in a way that makes them glow. Now that it’s out in the air, it blooms between the two of you, settling on your still touching knees.

It’s heady as it curls around your shoulders, intoxicating in a way that the tequila could never accomplish.

Joaquin looks at you in a way that makes you flustered and your cheeks begin to heat. It might be your mind playing tricks on you, hopeful for something that isn’t real, but it almost seems like a sense of longing.

But then Joaquin’s gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly. It was so quick you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t already watching him like he hung the moon. Suddenly, the quiet wasn’t hiding anything anymore, and instead felt heavy.

The dim room lit only by the blues and purples from the New York skyline cast a shadow on Joaquin’s face that has you leaning closer to look at him more clearly. Your lips part, though you’re not sure what you want to say, only sucking in a surprised breath when Joaquin starts to lean in, too.

“Guess Senator Williams wasn’t the best conversationalist, huh?” He murmurs it against your lips, and you feel the breath of each word escaping him. His tone is laced with something that you can’t put your finger on, something like jealousy. “Since you ran all the way up here.” It’s barely spoken, his mouth so close to yours you can count the seconds between restraint and surrender.

His eyes are half-lidded, locked on your lips like he’s already decided how this ends.

You would be more concerned if the words weren’t so soft, the bite of them swallowed by the way he’s looking at you now, like you’ve already said yes to his plans.

Normally you would just laugh. A year ago you would’ve teased him back, but now you’re stuck with your breath caught halfway in your throat. Just when you’re ready to reply, Joaquin leans in and it vanishes along with the space between the two of you.

His lips are desperate against yours, pressing against yours with so much pressure you lean back from the weight of it. They’re warm and soft, tinged with the taste of tequila and the signature scent of Joaquin.

It has you whimpering before you realize what you’re doing. You kiss him back with just as much passion, hands coming up to settle on the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer.

Joaquin responds with equal enthusiasm, and you hear the clattering of the tequila bottle somewhere in the room, before both palms of his hands come up to grip your waist. They don’t last there long, as he travels one hand up the curve of your back, pressing you to him, whilst the other finds itself on your open thigh, pushing the slit to expose the skin.

The movement is fluid and rehearsed, the many times you’ve done this before coming back like practiced memory, as Joaquin urges you backwards by pressing his body against yours. The hand on your back comes up to grip the back of your neck, his lips never leaving yours as he guides you down gently.

He nips your bottom lip before licking it gently, a silent request, and you pant in response, giving him the access he craves. His tongue glides into your mouth under the false pretense of exploration.

Joaquin knows every part of you, and this is no exception.

When it becomes too much to bear, you break away, breathing heavily as a warmth floods your body. It’s been long, too long since you’ve had him like this and your skin was buzzing from pure electricity. From the kiss alone, you could already feel a wet spot forming on your panties, and you’re thankful for the excessive amount of fabric from your dress covering you.

Joaquin doesn’t seem to share the same gratitude. His palm pushes the slit open, and you try not to moan at the feeling of his rough, warm hands caressing the plush of your thigh. But you didn’t have many options. It was either focus on his incessant massages or the way his hot, wet kisses travel down the slope of your neck. He’s unrelenting in both areas, like a starved man who’s just found salvation.

You part your lips, ready to say something, when all of a sudden Joaquin bites down on the junction of your throat. The moan you let out is involuntary, and your grip on his suit only grows tighter as he sucks on the wound, giving small licks in apology. His touch trails down to your collarbones, kissing at exposed skin before you lose all contact with him.

He leans back, lifting his body off of you in a way that has you protesting. But Joaquin pays your whines no mind. He simply pushes you back down to the floor before sliding down your body. Before you realize what’s happening, the fabric of your dress is bunched against your stomach as Joaquin nudges his way between your legs.

“Joaquin—” you gasp, but his name dies on your tongue as quickly as you let it out when you feel him place a big kiss against your inner thigh.

The sound of him groaning cuts off any thoughts you have, and you hear him murmur against your skin, “I’ve missed this so much, baby.”

The confession sends spikes of heat straight to your stomach, and you feel the way your panties stick to your cunt, only growing stickier with time.

Several dozen kisses trailing all along both of your thighs as Joaquin alternates, his hands massaging the outer areas he can reach. Squirming under his touch, you start to grow impatient with his teasing when all of a sudden Joaquin licks a broad strip over the seam of your panties, tongue pressing the fabric against your pussy.

The touch startles you, and you let out a surprised gasp in response. But just as before, he pays you no mind. Instead, Joaquin grabs the thin lace with one finger, twisting it before pulling it taut to outline the curves of your cunt. “All this for me, baby?” It’s arrogant, and you can hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him.

Before you can snap at him, he offers another lick over your cunt, over the underwear once more, and the pressure does just enough to have you groaning.

You hiss his name, an obvious beg for more, and much to your annoyance you feel Joaquin smirk against your skin. He presses a kiss to your clit, over the fabric again, before finally pulling it to the side.

You thank whatever Gods are looking out for you above when Joaquin delves in without further insisting. Using his same hand that’s holding your panties aside, Joaquin parts your folds for unrestricted access. His tongue skillfully slides from your hole to your clit, lapping up the mess you’ve been making with a ferocity that has your chest heaving.

He’s greedy with it, catching all of your slick as it spills out of you, groaning against your pussy in desperation. “Taste so good, baby. So, so good,” he moans.

Your hands slide down to tug at Joaquin’s curls. They’re soft under your grip, and the groan he lets out vibrates straight through you, shooting sparks along your spine. Even with the newfound pressure, Joaquin doesn’t relent, if anything, it’s pushed him even further. His tongue flicks in concentrated, deliberate motions over your clit, then drags lower until he reaches your entrance. He prods at it, forcing his tongue in, slow and possessive before repeating the motions over and over again.

With every movement against your hole, which tightens over and over around nothing, his nose nudges your clit. The rhythm he’s built has you threateningly close to the edge, and you’re panting.

Thighs shaking where they bracket his head, Joaquin’s grip tightens around your hips when you start to squirm, pinning you down. Growling into you, his tongue fucks you deeper as if he’s telling you to be still and take it.

“Fuck— Joaquin—” You gasp, voice coming out shaky as the grip in his hair tightens.

He hums in approval, eyes flicking up to you from beneath heavy lashes. It’s a raw and reverent look, his eyes impossibly dark, irises nearly swallowed by his pupils. The heavy gaze is all it takes for you to come undone, throwing your head back against the marble with a loud moan.

Your release is a full body experience—sharp, hot, and all-consuming. The air in your lung seizes as your thighs tremble around him, muscles going tight as broken moans rip from your throat.

Joaquin doesn’t stop. Not even a little.

He groans into your cunt like he’s the one coming undone, keeping you pinned to the floor as you ride out your high into this mouth. His tongue continues to lap through your slick with lazy drags, savoring every wave that pulses through you. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he mumbles into you.

You’re still catching your breath when he pulls away, chest rising and falling as you greedily inhale. Before you can get your bearings, Joaquin grabs you, pulling you into his lap. Boneless and wrecked, you had no choice to follow.

He maneuvers you over his lap, forcing your legs apart to straddle him. You slump against him, and Joaquin presses a gentle kiss to the side of your neck that has you whimpering. “You okay, baby?” It’s tender, much softer than his actions moments prior, and all you can do is nod against him.

“Yeah?” he smiles against your neck. His hands drag up and down your back, leaving a fiery trail in their wake.

Despite your orgasm, there’s still an undeniable throb between your legs, a need that hasn’t been satisfied. It simmers in your lower belly as you press yourself closer to him, your body instinctively chasing more. Joaquin feels it too, you know by the way his hands tighten around your back, how his breath starts to stutter when your hips grind down against his thick, hard length, straining beneath his pants.

Joaquin’s palms move to your waist, gripping tightly, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, he lifts you effortlessly off his lap to stand. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, holding on as he pivots the two of you. Your arms wrap around his neck as your lips find his again. Your slick covers the bottom half of his face, but neither of you care, as teeth and tongue clash with one another. Saliva and your juices combine as the two of you share a heated, passionate kiss.

Unable to focus on anything other than his lips, you miss the way that Joaquin is sliding you down his waist, controlled and effortless, until he presses his achingly hard cock against your wet pussy. The response you offer is your teeth coming down on his bottom lip, moan slipping from your mouth to his as he grinds against you.

Everything narrows down to just the heat radiating between you both, every inch of contact only creating a deeper ache.

When your back presses against a cold, hard surface, you open your eyes to find yourself pressed against the bar. The height catches you off guard, reaching your mid back in a way that would normally send a sharp sting through your muscles.

But this isn’t a usual circumstance.

Instead of pain, a rush of anticipation floods through you.

Your breath hitches as Joaquin’s hands move with urgent purpose. His fingers sink into the fabric of your dress, and the tearing sound is loud and thrilling. The silk easily gives way beneath his strong grip before he makes his way to unclasp the one thing preventing him unmoored access to your chest. Your phone clatters to the floor alongside your bra, but all you can focus on is the way he’s making you feel.

You feel exposed, vulnerable like this, but the way Joaquin cradles you reminds you that you’re safe.

Joaquin’s hands are quick to find your chest, thumbs brushing lightly over the skin before he starts to knead gently. He leans in, pressing his lips to your collarbone before following a slow, hot path down the swell of your tits. With one hand wrapped around your left breast, his fingers pinch lightly at your hardened nipple. A soft moan slips past your lips and your body arches into the palm of his hands, shivering when his mouth closes around your right nipple, giving it a firm but gentle suck.

You can feel yourself trembling against him, skin tingling from the sensation. Your fingers thread themselves into his hair again, addicted to the vague feeling of control despite surrendering yourself to all of his will.

He alternates between the two, pressing wet kisses between the valley of them as he switches sides, always holding one nub in his mouth, teeth gently scraping before pulling off with a pop.

A shudder wracks through you, pleasure crashing over and over like a tidal wave that you can’t fight. Every nerve ending was on fire, and all you can do is cling to Joaquin, whimpers and whines leaving you as he continues to play with your tits.

His voice cuts through the haze, low and steady as he states, “I got you, baby,” against one of your nipples. The promise in his tone soothes you the slightest bit, and his hand leaves your body to quickly undo his belt. The sound of his pants hitting the floor is muffled by the pounding in your ears, your shaking body waiting for him as adrenaline rushes through you.

The subtle shift in fabric has you squirming when Joaquin bunches your dress further up with one hand. His knuckles brush against your thigh as he works to free himself.

Then—

Gasp.

He guides the head of his cock through your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, teasing movements as he drags it against your clit. The moan that he lets out is guttural, as Joaquin drops his head against your chest. His curls tickle your chin, but you’re not focused on that, instead, both hands come up to his shoulders to steady yourself.

Your toes are tingling, already curling as you patiently wait for him, lubing himself up with your slick. Breath catching, you can’t stop yourself from lifting your hips, chasing the delicious friction.

Joaquin groans under his breath, “So wet for me.” But it’s low, and not directed for you to hear, almost as if the thought plagues him so deeply he had no choice but to speak it aloud.

Then he’s pushing in, unhurried, so thick and perfect as he does deeper and deeper into you. The familiar burn is welcomed, and your mouth parts, letting out shallow pants. With every inch, he clings himself to you, fingers digging into your thighs and waist. His breath is ragged, and you know you’re there with him.

“Fuck—” he shakily lets out, pressing his forehead to yours. “I missed how well you take me, look at that, baby.”

But you don’t look, can’t, all you can do is feel him, filling you to the brim as his hip meets yours. So you offer a complacent nod, moaning his name as your nerves spark. Every part of you burns where he touches, and just feeling him wasn’t enough.

“Joaquin, I need you to move— I can’t—” you’re already babbling, just from him pressing himself into you, hips rocking as if he can’t stay still, but holding himself back from pounding into you.

“I know, pretty girl, I know,” he shushes your complaints with a sloppy kiss, all breathless with need. His hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there like he can’t bear the thought of letting you go, even if it's just for a second.

Finally giving in, Joaquin pulls his hips back, just enough for you to miss his warmth before driving into you again. It’s slow and deep, forcing you to feel every inch of him.

The noise that leaves your lips is absolutely wrecked, the overstimulation from your previous orgasm making you feel so deeply. You throw your head back against the palm of his hands, and Joaquin’s grip is firm and steady.

He sets a pace that’s demanding, but consistent, each thrust sending sharp sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. Aching and needy, you clench around him, nails moving to drag down his back as a way of grounding yourself in the heat and weight of him. The bar counter digs into your back, despite Joaquin supporting your body, but it’s a sweet kind of pain.

The pressure coils low in your belly again, quickly rebuilding from the wreckage of your last orgasm, coupled with the fact that you missed him. He knows your body better than his own, and Joaquin is liberal with the way he moves.

He can feel it, the way you clench more tightly around him than you have been, and he falters, just barely. The way he grits his teeth lets you know that he’s close, too.

“Joaquin—” you gasp, burying your face in his neck, voice cracking from the force of it. “I’m g’nna—”

“I know. Let me hear you, baby.”

It’s when his finger comes down to rub your clit with small, deep pressure sending you over the edge. When it hits, everything inside you tightens as snaps, and you come with a cry against his muffled shoulder. When your blunt teeth bite down on his trap muscles to ground yourself, Joaquin lets out a loud hiss, and he comes undone alongside you.

Your bodies writhe against him, and Joaquin follows as he moves his hips back and forth in a way that has you both chasing after your highs. He’s shaking just as much as you are, and you can’t imagine the way his biceps are burning from holding you up all this time. It’s hot and you feel full, your pussy fluttering around him as you come down.

You groan as Joaquin pulls himself out, adjusting your panties to cover your leaking cunt. His fingers trail over you in what you can only describe as appreciation. Shallow breaths come from both of you, your chest still pressed to his body as you slowly still.

Joaquin holds you close, one arm wrapped fully around your back, the other smoothing down the side of your body in grounding strokes.

For a while, neither of you speak. Not until you let out a displeased sound, back arching off of the bar counter.

He lets out a small laugh, picking you up and off the counter. Your legs wrap around his waist as he supports your weight, and you press an appreciative kiss to his lips.

His forehead is damp with sweat, but you don’t mind. Something like hesitation is laced in his voice as he asks, “Are you okay?”

The innuendo isn’t lost on you. And as you twirl your fingers in the hairs on the back of his head, you feel yourself smiling, soft and genuine. “Yeah. I am.”

After you and Joaquin had gotten dressed, still basking in the glow of sex, you had rejoined the fundraiser just as it was dwindling down. It had entirely slipped your mind, too wrapped up in the daze of being in Joaquin’s arms again, and you followed the sound of the music back to the main room.

Your hair was a bit mussed, your lipstick was all but a stain and Joaquin’s suit was a bit more wrinkled than presentable for these types of events, but you didn’t think it was too obvious.

Not until you had walked downstairs before Joaquin, just to be met with Bucky staring up at you. His face was blank of any real emotion, but you caught the slight quirk of his lip and a knowing narrowing of his eye. The transparent look had you halting in your steps, hand to your chest to settle down your hammering heart.

Joaquin tumbling down the stairs moments after you only had Bucky’s eyes rolling, and he threw the two of you a dismissive wave before turning around to rejoin the crowd.

You thought you had escaped the worst of it, turning to Joaquin with a coy smile, only to look back at the bottom of the stairs to come face to face with Sam.

He stood there, champagne in hand, brows arched so high they looked like they were trying to escape his forehead. His mouth had parted like he was going to say something but then he just closed it again, looking between the two of you before mumbling something under his breath and walking away.

The chuckle Joaquin let out had you turning around and punching him in the chest. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole, and there he was, laughing.

Placing his hands in his pocket, Joaquin had taken a step down so that he was one notch above you. Despite your embarrassment, he had leaned forward and brushed his lip against the shell of your ear. “Not so subtle, huh?”

You ignored his jab, shoving him away from you as you hissed, “Fix your tie.”

Now, three days later, you find yourself with Joaquin again. Sunglasses obstruct your vision, and you lean back in the metal chair with one leg crossed over the other. Your favorite coffee sat in front of you alongside a half eaten meal. The air smells like warm bread and honeysuckle, and the din of the city hums around you.

Joaquin is forkfuls away from finishing his own plate, his own sunglasses left forgotten on the table the second the two of you had taken a seat. His hair is still damp from his morning shower, and he’s dressed in one of your favorite shirts on him.

“I’m just saying,” he insists, fork and knife swinging in the air as he dramatically explains, “Those things go against human nature, they’re unnatural.”

“Is this because we watched that documentary on the Nature Channel, like, forever ago?” you deadpan.

“They eat their own limbs because they know they grow back!” He protests.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Really smiling. The kind that tugs at your chest because it feels so easy, the kind that you hadn’t realized you’ve been missing.

There’s something so special about it—New York in the late morning, bleeding into early afternoons, the feeling of sun on your shoulders and someone who knows how to make you laugh without trying so hard. For the first time in a long time, it felt right.

“You’ve been quiet,” Joaquin says, eyes on his plate as he finishes his food. You watch as he pauses after taking a final bite, avoiding your eyes. “Everything okay?”

You glance down at your coffee, watching as the rosetta foam art swirls at the surface. “Just…thinking, I guess.”

“Oh.” The word is quiet.

Joaquin leans back slightly in his chair, the ease in his posture tightening up a bit, like he’s bracing for impact. You see a flicker of worry in his eyes, and your heart aches.

“Thinking about heading back?” he asks, voice light in a way that feels forced. He tries to make it sound like it doesn’t matter, but it does. You hear it in the way his throat bobs when he swallows. “West Coast’s probably missing you.”

Your eyes soften at the way his confidence has been replaced with that familiar wall that he throws up when he thinks he’s about to lose something. The way he won’t quite meet your eyes now, pretending to fidget with the napkin in his lap.

For all his bravado and cheeky comebacks, Joaquin was still the boy who met all those years ago.

Leaning forward, you nudge your foot against his beneath the table. “Hm,” you hum gently. “I was actually thinking of giving the East Coast another try.”

Joaquin’s head snaps up so fast you think he might get whiplash. Eyes wide, he blinks at you before a grin, wide and unfiltered and so unexplainably boyish, spreads across his face.

It hits you like the sunlight on your shoulders, bright and warm.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You can’t help the way your lips curve, taking a sip of your coffee as you play it cool. “Yeah.”

And for the first time since Tony’s death, the city doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming anymore.

eeek lmk what u think ! <3

#Joaquin Torres #Joaquin Torres angst #Joaquin Torres fluff #Joaquin Torres smut #love-chx

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althaiareads · 6 days ago

Text

“You still love me?” It had your chest aching. His casualness caught you off guard, nonplussed by such nonchalance over a confession you had assumed was buried six feet beneath dirt; decayed and soon forgotten.

Me? Crying? Whaaaat? No, of course not

It was only Jesse and you. Privileged to survive together, and that is the only thing that mattered to you. Because, once your hands were washed clean from the death of the W.L.F. members who took Joel Miller’s life, your life had to continue; and you decided you needed Jesse to be apart of that.

Oh, girl, if only you knew.

But this makes it sadder because she was imagining a life together and now that's never going to happen and NO JESSE DON'T RUN TOWARDS THAT DOOOR!

On a high from adrenaline, the bullet in your shoulder proved to be a pain lessened by the sight of Jesse drained of colour. His hair began to saturate with his thick blood, your fingertips stroked through the strands, spit dropped from your mouth onto his flannel, as your body shuddered out a sob.

first burn | tlou jesse pt. 4

pt. 1 pt. 2 and pt. 3

summary: seattle is at boiling point and the revenge you sought after strikes you at your core

pairing: tlou!jesse x fem!reader

word count: 5.9k

content: angry jesse, arguing, tension between jesse and reader. kissing, tlou gore, blood and self loathing to its finest. dialogue taken directly from the game cause FUCK what jesse said in the finale. reader dgaf about abby during THAT moment iykyk. character death 🙂‍↕️ guns and pure heartbreak sprinkled with survivors guilt

a/n: here we go fellas!! the last instalment of first burn. thank u for reading and supporting, ur feedback on each chap is so appreciated!! love u forever jesse lemme do a fix it fic for u <3 also, just to add, reader is not incapable or stupid by any means but seattle is WILD and the team just don’t have time for that

“I don’t think killing them will bring the peace Ellie thinks it will.”

Jesse’s words played on thick, a scratched recorded in your mind as boots pummelled into the muddy sludge, your ankle pulsating with pain with every determined stride you took. You followed close behind Jesse and Dina, the female cradled into his chest and she went in and out of consciousness.

The events that had occurred were not the restoration of peace you had glorified on the back of Zombie on your way to Seattle. Severely humbled, you were taught that sheer confidence on a daydreamed scenario, did not equate to the capability you needed to even survive a day in the city. Nose broken, you knew it would leave a scar, to remind you that your decision was wholeheartedly based on naivety and this was your sudden karma.

Joel Miller was still dead. And, he would remain in the ground, swallowed by nature even after you left Seattle. The Miller brother, rough around the edges but a warmth to those that grew close to him, wouldn’t resurrect you to shower you in gratitude for your selflessness. No. As you thought about it, you would presume it would be the opposite; because you had been selfish.

Head pounded from exhaustion, you hated the way your stomach churned at the thought. The end goal was to do right by Joel Miller, but, you hadn’t. In fact, not a single Wolf suffered at your hands for his death.

Jesse glanced over his shoulder at you to ensure you had remained close in the marathon back to the theatre. Your eyes met for a brief moment, a raw emotion flickered across your face: you were scared. Eyes tracked back in front of him, you huffed out a breath, throat scorched from the excessive running and lack of water amidst the chaos. You were close, you knew by the buildings even in the darkened night, heavy clouds weighed above to signal a change in severe weather.

You rounded the corner and there it was, your base. Jesse slowed down and ordered you to open the door so he could slip Dina in with ease. Adhering to his instruction, you grunted at the weight of the theatre door, Jesse and Dina concealed; you followed a close second.

“Here.” You went to drag a chaise lounge, your muscles weak, and Jesse pushed past you to place Dina down gently. You stared at her, paled and soaked in her own sweat, blood and vomit smeared across her face. She looked as if she could die and that panicked you, “Jesse—”

“—Sit the fuck down and stay quiet.” Jesse bit and you flinched. He gently tapped at Dina’s face which reawakened her into the reality of the searing pain in her knee. Jesse was quick to press his forearm against her chest as she sat up, “Alright, this is going to hurt.” He rummaged in his backpack and Dina panted with a whine.

“No. It already fucking hurts.” Her hand reached out for yours and you hesitantly stepped from behind Jesse who ushered you with annoyance. Dina stared down at her leg as Jesse fumbled with supplies, “Jesse, I can’t die. You can’t let me die—”

“—Yeah, I know.”

“No. You don’t.” She began to cry.

You felt helpless. Her head swayed as Jesse continued to explain that he couldn’t pull the arrow out without tearing an artery. He’d have to push it. They bickered and you stood, silent as told, throat clenched with nausea at the sight of Dina’s open wound.

“Dina, shut up.” Jesse snapped and Dina fell silent in her protests, her clammy hand squeezed yours. Jesse took a breath, “I’ve got you, Dina. Alright? I’ve got you.” He began to pour at the arrow in her knee with alcohol and Dina threw her head back in hot pain. “Here. Have some of this. It’s going to help. Have some.”

You stared at Dina when she gritted her teeth. You wondered if it was an appropriate time for her to tell him she was growing his child in her womb. It would be a little unorthodox, but high levels of stress made your mind askew.

“I said no.” She spat.

OK. So, she wouldn’t tell him.

Your hand braced against hers as if you were entered into an arm wrestle, your body bent at the waist to offer some support as Jesse forced the arrow through her leg. She let out a wail that sent goosebumps up your arm, her body slumped as she fell unconscious, her breathing laboured. You felt her pulse for a moment. Still alive.

Kneeling down next to Jesse, you watched his hands make quick work to unravel the gauze. There had been many times he had returned home, wounds a plenty from his patrol and you would tend to them with warm kisses and tender touch. It was something you had become good at, because you always wanted to be there for Jesse in the rarity of his weakened moments.

Your fingertips went to grab the gauze from Jesse, allow him to take a break. In turn, he pulled away sharply, haphazardly wrapping it around Dina’s bleeding leg.

“Barricade the entries.” Jesse muttered to you. His words hit a wall in front of your face and his patience grew thin, your name liked venom on the tip of his tongue. “I said, go barricade the doors.”

It took almost two hours as you limped around all possible entries into the theatre, once Dina was dabbed with a damp cloth to take her temperature down, Jesse joined efforts with you, taking the larger furniture that you struggled to push and doing the job himself.

You were walking — limping — on eggshells around him. Jesse hadn’t been a male that expressed a need to make you nervous in his presence, but, the way he stormed around the room made you wince; worried that one flicker of a match and he would blow up in your face. Your hands wrung as you watched him pace back and forth with heavy items, a grunt escaped his lips as the sofa dropped against the cabinets to create a barricade. Hands brushed against each other, he turned to look at you.

You felt small. Pinned under his bitter gaze.

His finger pointed to your ankle, “Let me take a look.” You looked down at the mess of your ankle and shook your head which made Jesse sigh. You were always so fucking stubborn. “Please.”

It wasn’t hard to give into Jesse. You loved him. Backside against the tabletop, Jesse knelt at your feet, his hand delicately taking your busted ankle into his grasp to inspect it. Perhaps, you thought, he was looking for a bite mark so he had a reason to shoot you in the head.

He was angry after all.

“Why did you lie to me?” There it was. The burning question you were waiting for. His tone was monotonous as he prodded at your wound.

You flinched, “I would call it an evasion of truth. I didn’t specifically relay to you that I wasn’t going to Seattle.” You paused as he met your eyes, “So, if we are going by technicalities—”

“—Do you have to do that?”

“What?”

Jesse pulled more gauze out.

“A sarcastic retort.” He mumbled, “You’re being dismissive of the situation.”

He was right. You blew hot air through your lips, “I—Sure. I thought you knew how I felt about the outcome of the Council vote. Part of me expected you to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I was always going to go.”

“Oh, I knew.” Jesse paused and let out a soft chuckle — a slip up on his act.

“You knew?” You tried to calculate how many times you had been blatantly obvious about your intentions with Seattle before you left. “Then. . . Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because. I believed that you loved me enough to not lie about entering a war-torn city on horseback with three weeks worth of one-to-one combat.” He felt himself become angered in bringing up what hurt him the most, “You should’ve waited. I would’ve come. You knew that.”

Actually, you didn’t. That part shocked you.

You blinked, “Jesse. You were adamant on your stance that the Council voted to stay put in Jackson.” Ankle smeared in agony as Jesse continued to wrap it up, “How the fuck would I have known you would go against your own word?”

Immediately, you regretted what you had threw back at him. His fingers stopped tending to your ankle, his posture straightened as his lips pulled into a thin line. Even when crouched before you, it felt as if Jesse towered over you with his face thunderous.

Your heart stammered. The formidable fear that you were losing him struck you down the middle. The conversation was sprung upon you, and after escaping death by a fraction, your brain hadn’t been in the function to comprehend the emotional maturity it required to mend the fractures of your relationship.

You were losing Jesse before your very eyes.

“I had to say that, so you wouldn’t go do something rash. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt, or worse in Seattle.” Jesse felt himself become emotional at the forefront, “And yet, you still fucking did it. You’re still hurt, because you chose to leave, and that responsibility weighs heavy on my shoulders. You know why? Because, it’s evident that my love was not enough for you to stay. This is now my problem.”

“Jesse. I do love you.”

“Then why did you leave?” He raised his voice, “A fucking note to say goodbye. What kind of boyfriend am I, if I can’t even protect you?”

“Did it ever cross your mind that I don’t need you to protect me, Jesse? I’m capable of looking after myself.” You crossed your arms defensively before Jesse took a moment to stand, a patronising laugh escaped his lips and you frowned, “What is suddenly funny?”

He pointed to your grazed chin and broken nose, “Look at your capability.” He then dropped his finger to your busted ankle, “It’s gotten you far in your little escapade to Seattle.”

An insult forming on your tongue, Jesse was saved by the pounding of a fist against the door closest to your bodies. Immediately, Jesse put himself between you and the door, his gun dropped from his shoulder and aimed in front of him with ease.

“Jesse, Dina—!” And your name followed.

“What’s the name of your horse?” Jesse kept the gun aimed even in the obvious state that Ellie Williams was on the other side.

Ellie called, “Shimmer. I’m alone.” There was a pause, “Open the fucking door!”

Jesse dropped his aim and took a couple of strides to the door, shoving the sofa propped up against cabinets to allow himself to open the door for Ellie. She stumbled in, eyes wild, slick with mud — and by the looks of it, not her own blood. She was frantic in her movements, scanning the area to locate the one person that was above the rest.

“Where is she?”

“Dina?” You asked stupidly and Ellie threw you a look, “She’s OK. She’s in the Dressing Room—”

Jesse interjected, “—Where were you?” Ellie ignored his query and shoved past you toward the location of Dina, “Ellie!”

After Ellie had disappeared to tend to Dina, you had slumped against your own rucksack on the floor. Uncomfortable, but it would suffice. Your nose had it’s own pulse, alongside your ankle as you attempted to slip into an unconscious state. Irritated, you turned onto your side, shoulder cracking in the process as your eyes narrowed to Jesse, who had fallen asleep sitting up — gun propped up against his shoulder.

He would be enraged, but there wasn’t an appropriate requirement to shake him from his slumber. Instead, you pushed off of the floor, your backpack dragged alongside you as you dropped next to his sleeping frame. Your own gun laid next to your thigh, you took it upon yourself to override Jesse’s night watch for his own sanity. You were aware of the motive behind the whole group’s presence in Seattle, and as a qualified leader, you knew Jesse would be first pick when it came down to Ellie’s choice of person.

You would help where you could.

The sun began to rise, a red sky warned before it darkened to grey, the swell of the clouds burst and rainfall came heavy. Your own eyes began to drop from your own lack of sleep, just as Jesse began to stir next to you.

He groaned, neck rolled from falling asleep with his chin tucked into his chest. Eyes bleary, he blinked the sleep away, head shifting in a panic before his stare settled on you.

You offered him a shy smile, testing the waters. His frown grew where his patience lacked, and he stood with an immediate cause. His chest puffed, “Don’t ever do that again for me. If I fall asleep, wake me up for my watch.”

“Yes, sir.” You saluted him mockingly and he stalked off to find Ellie in the Dressing Room.

Without a turn to sleep, you threw yourself into distractions. Busied with drying off Ellie’s weapons for her next rendezvous with Joel’s killers, you sat hunched on the floor where Jesse had left you, scrubbing at bullets whilst you muttered under your breath about the tedious task. You were silently demoted and it began to frustrate you. Ellie and Jesse spoke amongst themselves just far enough out of reach of your hearing abilities, hushed tones as they mapped out logical moves; something you wouldn’t be apart of.

You were capable to a degree. However, the past twenty-four hours had shred the confidence that Ellie — let alone Jesse — had in you. There were no second chances, but you were determined to prove yourself in little actions such as becoming Ellie’s drying rack for her weapons.

As you placed another bullet down, alarmed at the sheer volume that Ellie had on her person, Jesse slumped down next to you. His shoulder bumped yours as you dropped the damp rag in your hand. You were busy — or, acting as if you were — so your eyes didn’t trail up to look at his face. You had no right to be mad at him, you were the one who left everything behind on a lie whilst the sun met the horizon.

Busying himself by mirroring you, Jesse stood his gun between his legs and began to polish the sides. From your peripheral, you could see he wasn’t really cleaning his gun from the minor flaws such as splattered mud. If your conversation hours prior hadn’t escalated, you might’ve thrown a sarcastic remark his way, a laugh shared to follow. You had been in this situation before, after an argument, Jesse would find closeness with you and perform a mundane task to grab your attention.

If Jesse didn’t have the words to cut the chord on the tension, he’d act out until resolved enough to talk.

He feigned a spit against the rag, and you let yourself stare with petulance. Jesse paused his motions to look back at you with an innocence, his head turned to look behind him before returning his eyes back to you.

“Stop it.” You warned.

“Stop what, exactly?” He queried, “I’m just cleaning my gun.”

You scoffed, “You’re pretending.” Palms against the floor, you leant your weight into your arms, “If you want to talk to me, Jesse, you can just say that instead of pretending to spit in a rag to clean the mud off of your gun. Which — by the way — hasn’t budged since you started.”

“Hm.” Jesse tucked the cloth into his pocket, “Ellie and I will be heading out soon to find Tommy.”

“OK. I’ll get ready—”

“—That wasn’t an invitation. You’re staying here with Dina.” He gestured with his head to the resting girl, “You’d be one hell of a liability. With or without a ruined ankle.”

His remark scathed you, “You don’t have to be so mean.”

“OK.” Jesse agreed, a small smirk noticeable on his face, “I love you. And I want you safe. So, please stay within the confines of the theatre with Dina.”

Jesse stood as Ellie threw a nod to signal their departure. He slung his gun back round his shoulder, “Unfortunately, for me. Yes. You’re not off the hook, but I’d be a liar — just like you — to say I didn’t love you anymore.” A lopsided smile exchanged the smirk, “You made a mistake. Everyone makes them.”

“Here.” Unsure of how to follow his confessional up, you slipped one of the only remaining food packs into Jesse’s hand which he took willingly. “Break a leg food. Or—Or be safe food. Whatever one works in the moment.”

Jesse flipped the pack in his hand, “Did you steal this from Patrol?”

“OK. Now you’re beginning to split hairs for the sake of splitting—”

Jesse cut you off. Large palm to the back of your head, he pulled you in and pressed a firm kiss to your lips. You let your hands clasp his forearms before you slipped them around his neck, bending backwards slightly so he could chase your lips.

His warmth consumed you whole. Your chest pressed against his, hearts threaded back together after being so carelessly torn apart, suddenly the dying world around you seized to exist. It was only Jesse and you. Privileged to survive together, and that is the only thing that mattered to you. Because, once your hands were washed clean from the death of the W.L.F. members who took Joel Miller’s life, your life had to continue; and you decided you needed Jesse to be apart of that.

Once pulled back, Jesse pressed his forehead against yours. His eyes shut for a moment to digest that he may be saying goodbye. Seattle had slowly unfolded to be a bigger situation than any of you could have anticipated, and leaving the walls of your base meant that you may never return.

You were a little shocked by Jesse to say the least. One eye peeled open, you had to make sure that he wasn’t kissing you out of spite.

Fingertips traced every feature on his face, as if you were memorising it all for the final time.

“I love you too, Jesse.” You whispered and with that, Jesse pulled away, the jaws of emptiness snapped around your ankles and dragged you away from him. Arms wrapped around your own torso, you watched Jesse and Ellie slip out of the theatre into the war in Seattle.

The silence was overwhelming, your head turned to see Dina return to the couch to prop her wounded leg up. An unspoken wedge had formed between the pair of you, even when you clutched at her hand as the arrow was pushed through the flesh of her leg. The looming shadow of the conversation you needed to have with her, peering at you from every corner of your dreams. She was pregnant with Jesse’s baby. It should have been the least of your worries considering the circumstances that had unfolded; but it still clawed at your mind all the same.

You sat at the edge of the couch. Hands neatly placed into your lap as you stared out into the emptiness of the room. Dina watched you for a moment, amusement crossed her features until you met her gaze — suddenly your odd behaviour wasn’t particularly funny anymore.

She spoke your name, “What’s wrong?”

Part of her knew. Where you lacked in intelligence to survival, you made up for in piecing things together. You had been attentive to Dina since your arrival in the theatre, but she could notice the distance, the barricaded wall put before your words. Eyes empty, a frown on your face when you handed the ginger biscuit before framing yourself with a faux smile.

It was only a matter of time before the question cropped up. You were straight to the point throughout your blossoming friendship, Dina knew you wouldn’t beat around the bush to salvage her feelings.

You sighed to her question. A stomachache from nerves from trying to approach the subject with the right tone.

“Dina—” You started, a look thrown her way that made her chest constrict, “You’re pregnant with Jesse’s baby. Aren’t you?”

She nodded. She couldn’t lie.

“Can you give specifics of how far along you are?” Oh. Dina thought. You were prodding at a dead carcass. You squeezed one eye shut, “I’ll try stay calm, you know.”

Dina smoothed the hairs at her forehead, “We weren’t together, when you two became a thing. If that’s what you’re getting at. I—I don’t know how far long I am, but, it’ll be further than when you and Jesse started seeing each other.”

“Right.” You nodded, not wholly convinced.

Dina repeated your name, her hand reached for yours for sincerity, “Jesse was—is crazy about you. The moment you entered Jackson, we all knew our situation was over because he looked at you as if you hung the stars before ever fucking speaking to you.” She laughed at the memory, “I remember he practiced what he was going to say to you on Ellie, of all fucking people.”

“That would’ve been a sight.” You laughed with Dina momentarily, it quick to die on your tongue, “I’m sorry. For accusing you.”

“Hey. I would too.” Dina said, “You were pretty nice about it.”

“I should learn not to be.” You joked a little. The fleeting moment of normalcy struck your core and your face dropped the act. Satisfied with the outcome, you chose not to linger, “I’m just going to check on Zombie. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten one of us whilst we slept.”

You didn’t wait for Dina’s answer. Leaving her to rest, you got up from the couch and strolled to the room where Zombie had been kept. He had grown irritated, hooves stomping at the carpeted floor, head shaking in disdain as you neared him with one of the last apples from your rationed pack from Jackson.

Palm flat out with the apple shown as a prize for Zombie, the Appaloosa huffed before taking the fruit from your hand; turning his back on you to eat it alone.

“You know, just because you can’t see me, doesn’t mean I can’t see you, Zombie.” You patted his stomach and he turned away again, earning a chuckle from your lips, “Zombie. It is not my fault you’re cooped up in here like a caged animal. . . In fact, it is my fault, but we’ll be out of here soon.”

Zombie whinnied and you nodded, “Trust me. I want to be out of Seattle, just as much as you.”

Spending a couple of hours in Zombie’s presence — surprisingly — finding him calming as you managed to scoop up the horseshit and throw it out the door, unnoticed. The hay was becoming limited, but there was enough to see him through another night. And, it felt as though things were coming to a head in Seattle, so you had confidence you would all be returning to Jackson by the next morning.

Water collected from the rainfall, you poured it into a spare bucket you had found for Zombie, disbelieving that you were retracing your days work from Jackson in a theatre in Seattle whilst the patrol members went on their trails.

“This is such fucking bullshit.” You had grown angry as you slammed the pale of water down for the horse. Your hands thrown out in frustration, “I should be out there, don’t you think? I might’ve been a major help finding Tommy.”

Zombie snorted.

“Traitor.” Just as you crossed your arms, the thunder cracked and muffled banging came from the doors where you had left Dina. You sprung into action, swearing when you rolled over your bad ankle as you ran to meet Dina who had begun limping toward to the door, “Woah—Do you know who it is?”

“It’s them.” You felt goosebumps rise and Dina continued, “Our group.”

Quicker together, you managed to lean against the sofa long enough so Dina could let the group in. Hit with the sideways rainfall, you turned your face to the side to prevent being hit directly in the face. Jesse and Tommy Miller filtered through, soaked to the bone and faces stoic, Jesse quick to press his forearm to the sofa you wobbled to keep upright. The question on your tongue, where the fuck is Ellie? died when the very person trudged in, her soul miles away as she stared blankly upon entry.

Jesse met your curiosity over Ellie’s behaviour with a shake of his head. Wet tendrils dangled in front of his face, but you knew his eyes were telling you not to poke the bear.

Dina followed Ellie into the Dressing Room and you were left with Jesse and Tommy who peeled their wet clothes from their bodies, immediately jumping into speaking of tactics against the stage, whilst you organised their weapons for drying.

Once handling a couple of rounds, you took a break, head titled from the seats as you watched the backs of Tommy Miller and Jesse pointing at the map they had sprawled out. Boots kicked off of the chair in front, you made it down to them where they were quick to quieten down in your presence.

That irked you.

“Don’t stop just because I’m here.” You insisted, face warmed under Tommy Miller’s watchful eye.

He looked like he was trying to recognise you.

His fingers snapped together, “You’re that girl banned from Patrol.” Fucking perfect. Tommy nodded to his revelation as Jesse’s shoulders began to shake with humour, “Yeah. The late one. How’d you end up gettin’ here?”

“She came by herself.” Jesse spoke for you, a hand massaged your shoulder, “A valiant knight with little experience.”

You swatted at his hand, “I have experience. I just got unlucky.”

“You tell yourself that.” Jesse tugged your earlobe in subtle affection, Tommy crossed his arms watching in amusement. Jesse added, “We’re going home.”

As the reply of excitement left your mouth, Ellie opened the doors from the stage, her face paled but her emotions collected. She looked to the three of you before catching the map at Tommy and Jesse’s elbows. She knelt down, before swinging her legs over the edge of the stage, a decent bruise noticeable across her cheek.

Without further questioning, Tommy and Jesse launched into talking shop with Ellie.

“Hey—” Tommy halted their plans, “They got what they deserved.” You were none the wiser but able to piece things together as Ellie responded, Tommy quick to reply about her quip on — presumably — Abby Anderson’s survival, “Yeah. . . Is that OK?”

All eyes went to Ellie.

She sighed, “It’s going to have to be.”

That was the confirmation Tommy Miller was heeding. Ellie Williams, albeit plagued by the obsession of Abby Anderson’s desired death, would settle for retiring to Jackson, Wyoming. This granted the passage for the four of you to retrieve your belongings and escape the jaws of Seattle unscathed further by the war that settled in it’s belly.

Without Ellie’s reinforcement of the plan. You had feared you may have been stuck in time until the deed was done.

“What you should be worried about is what Maria’s gonna do to you when we get home.” Jesse rubbed at your back, insinuating that Tommy Miller was in for a rough welcoming from his wife.

Tommy straightened, “We’ve been through worse. However, I was passing through some ritzy section of town. Came across this necklace.” He elaborated, “Sparkles a lot. I think it’s real gold.”

“You think it’s real gold?” You asked.

Tommy nodded, “It’s real gold.” Jesse was quick to ask to see it and Tommy pushed himself off of the stage, hand to his lower back, “I know what real gold looks like.”

“If it’s legit, can we say it’s from all of us?”

“Ha!” Tommy teased, “You find your own damn bribes.”

He stalked off up to the back of the theatre, leaving you alone with Jesse and Ellie.

Jesse took a moment before he turned his attention to Ellie, “How are you doing?” He asked and Ellie was quick to retaliate with a falsified answer. Jesse side-eyed you, “Ellie.”

She looked to her feet, a tick of silence, “Thanks for coming back for me.”

“My friends problems are my problem.” Jesse shrugged at Ellie, his hand smoothed against your hip to tug you into his side. His lips pressed to your temple before he nudged your side to look up at him. Ellie grunted in disgust when he pulled you in for a tender kiss. Unspoken promises of love that would continue on your return to Jackson. Things would be OK.

“You’re such a sap.” Ellie mocked.

“Alright. How about, my friends can’t get out of their own damn way.” Jesse teased and pinched your hip, “That includes you.” Followed up with your name for a direct call out.

Ellie let herself laugh softly, “That’s better.”

The moment was peaceful. Your return home was on the precipice, too engulfed in the agony to leave Seattle behind to add to the two friend’s conversation.

As tactile as he could be, Jesse rubbed at your neck, the moment of bliss soon disrupted by a cluttered noise toward the direction that Tommy had exited in. Hand dropped from your neck, all three bodies turned to the noise before a muffled grunt — no mistaking it to be Tommy’s — sent alarm bells through you. Ellie jumped down from the stage, muttering a ‘Shit’ in passing as she yanked her gun from her holster.

Unable to sit by and allow them to see the commotion through, you copied Ellie and Jesse’s movements. Your gun tucked into the waistband, haphazardly pulled, safety clicked off as you followed them closely up the aisle and to the doors that concealed Tommy.

Both Jesse and Ellie swung the wooden doors open with ease, you were just a hair away from Jesse as he held out his gun to shoot the threat. A gunshot rang through the air, and your feet tripped over the sudden slump of his body. You hissed as your cheek burnt across the carpet, eyes scrunched as you looked back to check on Jesse — he was never one to trip with such precision in his every move.

Blood poured from the exposed bullet wound, Jesse laid dead and within seconds you scrambled to him, your hands shaking at his broad shoulders. Ellie called out his name in the softest tone you had managed to hear through the ringing of your ears.

"Stand up!" A female voice ordered when the tears began to blind your vision, hands to Jesse's face, nail beds painted in his blood. "Hands in the air, or I shoot this one too!"

Tommy Miller laid flat against the floor, his dignity clutching on by a thread in his weakened position against Abby Anderson. You remained knelt with Jesse's body, your fingers pressed to his neck pleading for a pick up on a pulse.

In response to your disobedience, Abby shot at you and a perfect hit embedded into your shoulder, your vision white from the hot searing pain. Ellie yelled for your protection when you let out a wail from the unprecedented agony Abby had inflicted on you.

The outside noise drowned out.

Abby seemingly decided to spare you.

Now, it was just you and Jesse. The last of the strength you could muster, you had half pulled him onto your lap, his head lolled and you wretched. The wound on his cheek gaped and exposed flesh beneath the skin surface, your fingers avoided tracing across it.

Every decision made by you had a Butterfly Effect that gifted people with death. From what you had presumed, your three strikes had earned Joel Miller a death sentence. And now, as Jesse stilled, eyes glazed over, the fourth — and unexpected — strike scraped across you.

Jesse came on horseback to Seattle with the intention of bring his friends back, bringing you back to Jackson wrapped up in his safety. Now, as he laid deceased upon your lap, eyes wide to the atrocities, Jesse would never return to his position in Jackson and his last moments consumed by fear that his promise wasn’t followed through.

Stomach churned with devastation and guilt, you leant your forehead against Jesse’s and immediately recoiled. You couldn’t feel him anymore. Slowly, as his own blood pooled beneath him, Jesse was becoming a shell of who he once was and the one person amidst the blistering chaos that was brought by the Virus, that could make you feel something again.

Your head rolled back, unable to catch a breath, hands slick with the blood of your boyfriend, you let your eyelids close — unable to process the commotion happening within the room. For, nothing else mattered, your brain rewired from the fixation of avenging a man named Joel Miller, to assuring that Jesse’s body was retrieved and taken back to his home, Jackson, Wyoming, to receive the upmost respect of a burial and a headstone that read of his leadership qualities, and the type of person that made falling in love easier than falling asleep.

Finding the energy to peel your eyelids open, you took one deep breath before the butt of a gun was brutally smacked against your temple; body slumped next to Jesse’s, your clothes saturated in his blood, your hand still laid onto his body.

You would find the capability to somehow survive this attack. For Jesse; you would return home to Jackson.

#Jesse TLOU #Jesse angst #First Burn #Jesse series

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althaiareads · 6 days ago

Text

Silent moments were beginning to be filled with repentance. You carried the guilt in your ribs. A pain that struck the softness between your ribcage when you inhaled to pin a reminder that you betrayed Jesse to salvage your own inner demons painted in your own failure that led you to believe that you had ultimately caused Joel Miller's death.

No, because I get her. She was being led by the guilt and the pain she felt for her "responsibility" in Joel's death so, of course finding out that no matter what she chose to do, he would still have end up dead is a huge punch in the gut. It messes with that sense of confidence that was leading her. Of course she is now realizing how way out of her depth she is.

And omg, angry Jesseeeeeeeeee, please don't be mad at her, she was just doing what she thought she had to dooo.

Also, also, I love the way she has her suspicions about Ellie's "condition" even if she has no idea what it is, lmao.

This was such a well written chapter. It was like watching the episode through your eyes, really an amazing job.

first burn | tlou jesse pt. 3

pt. 1 pt. 2 ft don’t be tardy

summary: reunited with dina and ellie, you proceed in seattle to find joel’s killers

pairing: tlou!jesse x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k

content: awkward tension between reader and dina (not hateful), mentions of pregnancy, vomiting, the usual tlou gore, a lot of dialogue which I’ve cut, blood, reader cannot catch a break and gets a bit fucked up, and the cold shoulder from a certain somebody

a/n: how do we all feel after the finale? i would say i’m still in stage denial over jesse 🙂‍↕️ again: inaccuracies etc etc i have a lot of brain fog, try do my research to stay true to the storyline but yeesh sometimes i just do my own thing. i rushed the end cause omg get to the point

taglist: @beelee-cotton @lostbee20 @pupupwa @ilovetoomanymen @derangeddementor3 @keseqna @blackravena @cxcilla @hsangel64 - tysm for reading! also @tillywasneverhere surprise ITS TODAY

You had learnt the names of the tight-knit group that enforced the torture on Joel Miller and pinned down Ellie Williams to make her watch her father figure in his final moments. Ellie had spent the last of her energy explaining each one from both her and Dina's memory, even when warped in a high stress situation.

You had listened intently, splitting a bag of dried fruit as if it were dessert with Ellie — Dina politely declined with the colour drained from her face. In all honesty, you felt a little helpless at sea, you were being kept afloat just by the skin of your teeth but you were starting to think you were beyond out of your own depth. Ellie had been clearly cherrypicking her details and it struck that perhaps you had entered something you didn't fully comprehend.

The next morning, it weighed on your chest whilst you readied your bag, Ellie taking the time to inspect the building amenities in daylight. Dina had been sat fiddling with the radio, enough static to make your head split, as she mapped out potential W.L.F. locations through triangulations; a talent that was beyond your assistance.

Beaded with sweat, Dina looked as if she were keeping vomit at bay whilst you sat a few feet away against a pillar, mindlessly rolling your head back and forth. If you hadn't had stumbled into their conversation, Dina was the shining example of a human intentionally hiding an infected bite from the rest of her team members.

You dusted off your trousers when you stood and decided to not punish her further, mumbling that you would be tending to Zombie if he hadn't eaten through the interior of the building to escape — the muffled wretch from Dina not going amiss when you left the room.

Astounded that Zombie remained in the same spot you had left him, grazing on the hay you had packed whilst he laid on the hard floor to relax. His movements halted, ear flicked backward to listen to the sudden movement before he stood to the grand height of himself.

"It's just me." Even after Jesse and you had spent overtime to tame the Appaloosa, there were fleeting moments of dread that he would drag you by the ankle with his teeth. Taking a step closer, Zombie let out a disgruntled huff, "Yeah—I know. We're getting out of here soon. I thought Shimmer would've been here to keep you company, I'm sorry."

Hard pat to his stomach, you began to stare absentmindedly. Jesse's words at the forefront of your mind, when he explained that the revenge Ellie sought out for Joel's killers wouldn't bring the peace she thought it would. There was no sudden change of heart, it was a complex situation, however, you were starting to think Jesse had something of an intellectual thought there.

But, that wasn't correct. Ellie had slipped up on that.

They wanted Joel dead. That was the catch you had missed when you packed up your life in Jackson, Wyoming and abandoned Jesse in the sheets of your shared bed. The outcome still remained the same. The meat of the information about what the W.L.F. had against Joel Miller, had been cut out by Ellie, but you still wanted to pick them of; they took a community member from your ranks.

"Hey." Ellie called from behind you, the niggling thought of taking Zombie back to Jackson diminished. Ellie added, "Dina has found our chance. . . Zombie stays here.”

Located down a stretch of buildings swarmed with W.L.F soldiers, the night sky had been your only blanket of discreetness as the three of you minimised yourselves the best you could under the rotating searchlight that brandished an obnoxious ray of white light across the landscape.

Ellie and Dina weaved through the terrain with the skills picked up on whilst drafted on Patrol. You — on the other hand — were a bit clunky, feet tripped over untied laces, chin scraped against the wet concrete and your mouth forming a string of apologies as Ellie yanked you up with a couple of insults clipping you round the ear.

It was hard to concentrate. You hadn't been on many patrol routes where imminent threat was prominent. Part of you harboured the knowledge that as he was in a leadership role, Jesse had organised your patrol routes to be the mundane, simpler ones because he knew you weren't as skilled of a fighter amongst the rest of the patrolmen. Without experience, you were rendering to be a deadweight on Ellie and Dina's limbs.

You would try your best. For Joel.

With a little help, all three of you managed to enter the desired building from Dina's triangulations without being picked up from the soldiers patrolling the area. You dropped to your backside, the palm of your hand pressed against the graze on your chin as your eyes squeezed shut to suppress the throb.

Dina bent at the waist and brought up stomach acid, the yellow bile hitting the edge of your boots.

"You should eat." You managed a whisper.

A wipe to her mouth, Dina swallowed, "I'm not hungry."

Your baby is. Is what you wanted to say out of irritancy and retaliation. Although, only knowing snippets of information, you'd like to think yourself more mature than stooping to a level of pettiness.

Hand rummaged through the contents of your bag, you plucked a ginger biscuit that you had salvaged from a building whilst Dina and Ellie tracked through the worn streets of Seattle ahead of you. From what you had scoured in a pregnancy book one night out of pure curiosity, you had recalled seeing that ginger biscuits helped with sickness levels throughout pregnancy, and more importantly the first trimester — if your calculations were right.

You extended your hand to Dina who looked ominously at the biscuit pinched between your fingers.

"It helps with sickness." You noted, not missing the shot of panic in Dina's face. You gestured for her to take it before settling back against the wall. A softened smile on your face when Dina headed your advice and nibbled at the biscuit.

Ellie came into view, her gaze locked onto the biscuit in Dina’s hand, “Where’d you get that?”

“No sign of infected then?” Dina retaliated and stuffed the biscuit into her jacket pocket.

Ellie shrugged, “Haunted, but empty.” She crouched and pulled at her earlobe as Dina followed it up with a lighthearted joke, “Look, I’m not saying there won’t be infected somewhere in there. In fact, there’s no fucking way this entire place is empty.”

“But, not a horde. Right?” You needed reassurance before you entered the belly of the building.

“We’re not underground, and the Wolves are right next door with their vehicles and lights. A horde isn’t going to ignore that shit.” You felt the drop in your shoulders in relief from the tension they were holding. Zoned out as Dina went into the probability of a few stragglers that could be easily swept out with their experience. Her serious tone caught your attention back, “Hey. If it gets bad, and we have to make a choice between shooting and running. We run.”

“Last resort. Got it.” Ellie agreed, not missing the way Dina’s stare lingered on her, “Oh. So you think no matter what happens, I’m just going to start firing?”

You nodded as Dina verbalised her confirmation of the same.

It was a little awkward. Palpable tension between the two women and you were stuck in the middle. Choosing not to listen into their conversation, you fiddled with your gun and blocked out their voices — something that came easy to you when you didn’t think you should hear it.

“Here we go.” You all stood after a moment more, minimal weaponry as you crept through the door in single file.

You fleshed out in the room, Dina and Ellie close by but a few metres apart from where you were crouched. Ellie shone her torch to the hollow room, all eyes peered from above the pallets as the shape of a human form twitched beneath the shadows and out of sight. The sound of more than a few stragglers piqued your worry that you were outnumbered.

Back against a pallet, your ears rang when you dropped back down from catching a glimpse under torchlight of an infected member, proven to be agile as it dipped from the exposure of Ellie's light. Dread began to pull at your feet, your chest constricted when you watched Dina and Ellie talk quietly amongst themselves adjacent to where you were.

Fingers grappled at the knife unsheathed in your hand, the palm of your hand ached from how hard you grasped the weapon. Whilst the attack on Jackson had left its prominent scars, something felt entirely off centre in the warehouse and you hadn't been prepared for the possibility of coming into contact with alternate infected to the ones you had encountered before.

Dina caught you with a vigorous wave, the pair of them gesticulate to explain the plan with little survival rate. You shook your head and Ellie nodded out of frustration, dismissive to your panic.

You didn't have time to sit and stew.

Ellie made that crystal clear by the grit of her teeth.

Death chapped at your door, Ellie and Dina braced for a quick kiss before their plan unfolded. Grappled by your bicep, Dina hauled you from your position and you almost lost your footing from the sheer force of her pull. Gunshots pierced your ear and you flinched, head ducked and one eye squeezed shut as you felt a hand snatch your ankle and the rug was pulled from underneath you.

Immediately winded, you heaved out a hoarse breath. The bridge of your nose split wide open, hot blood poured into the crevices of your teeth whilst your fingernails clawed at the smooth surface. The infected had you, intelligent in it’s movements, it had basked in the — ironically — lateness of your motion against Ellie’s who was fighting off a pack of them solo. Divided from the group that sought after Ellie, you were uncomplicated to attack.

A scream of your name ripped from Dina’s mouth, the silence swarmed in gunshots and merciful yells. You had managed to link your arms around a column that held the warehouse up, your boot coming into contact with the infected’s jaw but not enough to keep it at bay.

Your flight or fight mode had activated and it was a little blurred between the lines. Death wasn’t an option for you, there was a point to prove to the community of Jackson and more importantly, Jesse — if you ever saw him again. You refused to be reduced to a headstone, name carved into it with shame. There was little experience, but you would fight blindly if it meant you could return to Jackson by the skin of your teeth.

On the other hand, as you flipped from belly to back, the infected that had cleverly picked you out, clambered back on top of you and the closeness made you almost wish for a quick and painless ending. Your mouth pinned shut as you fought against it’s desperation, fingertips brushed the knife you had prematurely slotted back into it’s place against your thigh when Dina had dragged you up. The world was muffled, Ellie had taken a handful of infected down alone, her rage seeping from every orifice of her body, she refused to die before Abby Anderson met her fate.

Channeling the energy that Ellie had, you yanked at your knife, the tip plunged into the infected’s head and it squealed like a pig. You took advantage of the recoil in it’s grasp, flipping yourself over to straddle it before plunging your knife into every exposed, rotten flesh you could find. Vision black, the body beneath you slumped and you had little time to recover before another one caught you in its sights.

A fraction of a hair away, head turned to see the close proximity of the second infected before it hit the column next to you from the force of a bullet lodging into its temple. You got whiplash from how quick you snapped your head round from where the gunshot grazed your ear.

Jesse — your Jesse — came into the remainder of your vision, gun held close, he pulled the trigger with ease and picked off the final stretch of infected that swarmed Ellie like moths to a flame. She laid under a heap, her head upright when Jesse’s silhouette came close and you wondered if he would shoot her there and then. There was no plausible way that Ellie Williams had survived a no bite situation.

His hand stretched out to pull her up and Dina slid onto her knees next to you, hands to your shoulders as she checked you over. The brunette was a distant memory, eyes locked onto Jesse’s frame as he spoke concisely to Ellie about the potential of being bitten.

Waterline brimmed with tears, Jesse becoming nothing but an outline of a person, you shamelessly began to shake, lips pulled into a frown when Dina hugged you tightly.

“I want to go home.” You sobbed.

“I know.” Dina was soft in her tone, a thumb brushed against your shoulder. She spent a moment longer embracing you before she stood up to Ellie’s defence, “She didn’t get bit. She’s OK, they didn’t bite her—Jesse. I swear.”

Hesitant to believe in the impossible, Jesse turned his attention to your crumpled frame on the concrete. Your ankle torn, chest heaving to gather a breath whilst your nose clogged from the blood that had begun to dry up. You looked anything but someone who had confidently packed up in the night to fight alongside Ellie in Seattle.

He was knelt next to you in an instant. His thumb and forefinger pressed at your chin to angle your face upward to inspect the damage on your nose. His touch felt like a bruise, a sore reminder that bloomed in bluish tones that you left him on a lie.

His face close, but you could feel the miles between you. The pinch of his brow gave you an ounce of hope that he still cared deep down as you knew Jesse wasn’t bounding over to you to give you a welcoming kiss. Your mouth eliciting a hiss as he pressed his hand close to your shredded ankle.

“Can you stand?”

You joked. You shouldn’t have. A reference to your easy love.

“I think you might have to drag me.”

Jesse recoiled. His closeness retracted and you felt yourself drown under the cold water he had just thrown over you in his response. You were wrong for the reference, an intimate moment that you had no privilege to speak on anymore. Deserving in the reaction he gifted you, but you weren’t made of stone; your heart struck in a pain you hadn’t felt before.

“We’ve got to go.” Jesse informed as Ellie pulled you from your spot on the ground — not missing his subtle glance from his peripheral to you.

No questions asked, the three of you — shaken but able to heed order — followed Jesse to the exit of the building. Ankle burned with the pressure you were forcing on it, you tried your best to maintain the same pace as the rest of the group as the sound of other people echoed through the area.

There was no time to wallow in self-pity over Jesse’s rejection. Your entitlement was flawed but you pushed it down and kept focussed on the movement of your feet; doing everything and more to not roll over your bad ankle and become a liability in the escape.

Lights shone onto your bodies, alerting the soldiers nearby. Two men came into view, guns held at the ready — a shrill yell coming from your throat — before Jesse managed to hit them both accurately so their bodies dropped into the mud. His hand subconsciously came to your back as he ushered you through the gates behind Ellie and Dina.

“I’ve got you.” He spoke out when you fumbled, his large hand quick to grab your waist to keep you afloat. He repeated, “I’ve got you, c’mon.” He called to the front, “The park, we can lose them in there!”

The darkness of the park would be an advantage. The thick brush a camouflage met with the lack of light that seeped through the planted area. The W.L.F. soldiers were hot on your tail but as soon as the Jackson group passed the threshold into the park, their tracks stopped with quick yells to their team members that they don’t step foot in that territory.

Jesse had already left your side, his gun propped up to wage a war against a handful of soldiers but soon, lowered his weapon in confusion at their reluctance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ellie whispered.

“Great. More infected.” Dina added.

You were exhausted. The idea of an influx of additional infected wasn’t on the cards for you.

Jesse responded, “Maybe. We can’t go back that way—” He looked through you, “Come on.”

Jesse scoped the foliage with his gun raised, Ellie and Dina followed directly behind and you just a little further back. He hadn't looked your way once, putting that down to the high alert you were all on from being chased down into the wooded area by the W.L.F.

Ellie was speaking incoherently to him, but you knew she was pleading her case of the original trio managing to handle the situation albeit a sticky one. As a matter of fact, if Jesse hadn't shown, you were sure Ellie would have succumb to a gruesome death, or turned. You had been astounded she had narrowly missed being bitten from the group of Infected.

"Does it look like I wanna fuckin' talk to you right now?" Jesse's voice snapped you into reality. His venom aimed at Ellie whilst his eyes locked onto you.

Please forgive me. You wavered in your step, mouth pulled into a pitiful frown at how your boyfriend was looking at you. He seemed to be seething from inside out, forehead slick with sweat, you swore you could see the prominent vein in his neck pulse from the adrenaline and pure unadulterated anger.

It would have to suffice for now. There were no amendments to be made in the middle of a Seattle park. The W.L.F. had surrounded the outskirts presumably, and your focus had to maintain on the survival rate of all four of you now. It was a little odd that they hadn't followed you in and taken you for the capture, outnumbered by a handful and enough weapons to pick off what Infected resided within the thick verdure.

As you continued forward with Ellie scolded from the reprimand Jesse had inflicted, you too were scoping the area for signs of Infected, and or, a safe exit concealed from the W.L.F.

"No, no, no!" Another voice made all four of you jump with immediate fright. The contrast of the silence compared to the shrill pleading made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. He continued to plead and you soon calculated that he wasn't fighting a horde of Infected. Nobody pleaded their life from the dead.

The leaves of the bushes nearby glowed amber, all four breaths held from the sight of a gang holding burning wood, eyes all to the man they had tied up, a noose dropped around his neck and tightened.

“I know what Isaac is planning. I can help you.” He pleaded.

Your hand instinctively found Jesse's as you watched the Wolf yanked to where his bare feet couldn't touch the grounds beneath him. A bucket was kicked underneath him for balance, your heart in your mouth, a foreboding scene playing out in front of you. Jesse, too, alarmed by the scene, allowed himself to put his hurt aside, quick to comfort you with a soft squeeze.

His lips went to the curve of your ear, "Don't watch." Even he didn't know what was about to unfold, but he refused to allow you to suffer the nightmares to follow.

Eyes squeezed shut, your nose throbbed from the pressure, blood seeped from your nostril whilst you attempted to block out the outside noise. The muffled begging filtered through into your ears that you had stuffed with your index fingers to reduce the noise tenfold. Unable to resist, you peered an eye open to see the entrails dangling from the Wolf’s stomach to the tips of his feet. Mouth flung open, you looked to Jesse as a whistle cracked through the silence.

The sound of flesh being hit made all four of you look to where the noise landed.

An arrow embedded into Dina’s knee, the blood seeped from her jeans as panic laced through her shuddered breaths. You went to say her name, Jesse quick to clamp a hand round your mouth as he and Ellie began to talk on strategical escapes with minimal casualties within the group.

Ellie was immediate as she pounced into action to deter the group away from your spot, Jesse bundling Dina up into his arms as she threw her head back in agony. Hands met the wet dirt beneath you, you pushed off of it to race after Jesse and Dina. The sight of the deceased male hung in the trees etched into your vision, projectile vomit poured from your throat as you ran.

You wanted nothing more than to go back to Jackson.

#Jesse #Jesse TLOU #Jesse series #Jesse angst #first burn

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althaiareads · 7 days ago

Text

"I've got game..." His sentence trailed off as he turned to look in her direction, finding her standing over Bucky's feet with her hands on her hips.

Yeah, right, I'll believe it when I see it. Staring at her ass is NOT game.

Hovering inches over your stretched out body as the headboard behind you rammed into the wall with the force of each thrust--

She's so right for that, tbh.

I too, would have wild thoughts after witnessing that. The dog tags, the sweat, it's all too much.

"I told you in confidence I'm a flirty drunk."

THE SETUP GAME IS STRONG WITH THESE MEN!! LOVE THAT FOR THEM.

I, too, am a flirty (and horny) drunk.

"Ok, come close," he said, and you took a small step closer to him, causing him to laugh. "Closer."

Remember when I said that I'd believe that Joaquin has game when I saw it? Well consider me convinced.

Bucky mimicked zippering his lips into a smug look, and she rolled her eyes before tugging Joaquin out of the bar by his hand. And he followed. Eyes glued to her ass.

First of all, I love her bluntness, and omg that was so cute!!! I loved it so much. The banter with Bucky, the threats to send him to Wakanda, the mutual pinning, the way they are both so unaware of everything they cause on each other. It is all around so lovely!

gazes (joaquín torres x reader)

SUMMARY ››››› It's become increasingly apparent to Sam and Bucky that you and Joaquin cannot take your eyes off each other. Unfortunately for them, you two have decided to be Professionals and that means keeping your eyes, hands, and lips to yourselves. No matter how difficult it is.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,716

WARNINGS ››››› sexy times implied

A/N ››››› Ok so these headcanons y'all have been sending me are incredible. I read these two back to back and I just had to write something connecting them.

The kid had no tact.

Sam wasn't exactly sure why he expected more from the guy who'd led into his theory that Steve was on the moon by referencing vague internet rumors, but even despite that, he'd assumed Joaquin possessed some sense of subtlety.

Instead he was over at the leg press trying and failing not to stare at Y/N as she bent over at the middle to help Bucky push deeper into the stretch.

"You know she could hit you with a harassment claim for staring at her like that."

Joaquin jumped, the weights dropping suddenly with a loud clang. Across the gym, Bucky laughed as Y/N whipped around to face the two men. "Everything ok?" Her voice sounded genuinely concerned, and Sam couldn't help but smirk as Joaquin turned towards her, giving a little wave.

"Foot slipped," he answered, and she nodded, turning back to Bucky quickly.

"Foot slipped," Sam mocked.

"Dude, you scared the shit out of me."

"If you paid half the amount of attention you give to Y/N to your surroundings, you'd have known I'd been standing here for three minutes."

Joaquin gave a defensive scoff. "I wasn't staring at her--I was just--" he stopped, searching for an excuse, and Sam raised his eyebrows.

When it was clear Joaquin couldn't find a convincing enough lie to end the sentence, Sam shook his head. "You know, if you talk to her, she might actually let you take her out."

"I talk to her," Joaquin protested.

Sam shook his head, uncrossing his arms. "No, I mean talk to her. Chat her up. You've gotta have some game, right?"

"I've got game..." His sentence trailed off as he turned to look in her direction, finding her standing over Bucky's feet with her hands on her hips. "But like, we're co-workers, you know? I don't want to make things awkward around the gym or the compound or anything."

"Joaquin," Sam said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're already making things awkward."

"He's staring at your ass again."

"And you're trying to get out of stretching again," you quipped, moving Bucky's leg closer to his chest. The super soldier tilted his head as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of your accusation.

"Doesn't change the fact that I think you're about to give him a heart attack."

"I highly doubt he's worried in the slightest about my ass. He's probably zoned out."

"He's definitely focused in...on--"

"On my ass," you finished, shaking your head. You might have given Bucky's claim a little more credence if it weren't for the fact that Joaquin Torres had been anything but the consummate professional towards you. He was friendly and upbeat and welcoming, and one of the few genuinely good guys you'd ever had the pleasure of working with.

You'd never caught him staring once, and it's not like the boy was exactly known for subtlety. Last time Bucky had asked him to cover for him so you couldn't come down and teach him the right way to train his body, he'd told you that Bucky had left the compound to get you a thank you gift for all of your hard work. All while staring at the gym door.

The heavy sound of weights falling against each other echoed throughout the gym, and you spun around to face the sound. Sam hovered over Joaquin's shoulder, the latter no longer working the leg press but instead looking as if he'd just received the scare of his life.

Bucky broke into laughter, and you smacked at his leg.

"Everything ok?" you called out, and Joaquin smiled, giving a sheepish little wave at you. "Foot slipped."

"It's a good thing he wasn't at the bench press. You might have killed him."

Your head snapped back to Bucky who was giving you a shit eating grin.

"You're an asshole."

"I'm right."

"Do you think if I ask nicely Wakanda will take you back?"

"So you know I'm right."

You chanced a glance back at Joaquin who was still talking to Sam before turning back around and placing your hands on your hips. "I'm calling Ayo."

You were running early.

Not to any event in particular, but just for the general course of your day. It was rare for you to wake up to your first alarm so completely refreshed, and with a fully awake brain, you found it much easier to navigate the morning. You were able to get dressed without crawling back in bed for a few more minutes, and didn't have to battle with sleepy indecision when choosing what you wanted to eat for breakfast.

One thing after another just continued to roll your way, leading you to the gym much earlier than usual.

And that's where the luck stopped.

Or maybe it didn't stop. But it definitely took a turn. Because while you fully expected someone else to be in the gym already, you hadn't expected just one person to be in the gym. And even if you had, you wouldn't have guessed that that one person would be Joaquin. And if, for some reason, you'd had the foresight to sense that, you definitely never would have pictured him to be running on the treadmill shirtless.

You stopped in your tracks, eyes falling to the bouncing dog tags on his chest and then lower to the well defined abs you'd somehow never seen before.

It felt like you'd seen just about every man in this compound shirtless. At some point, they all seemed to strip in the gym or during one of your group training classes you ran for those who weren't field agents. Bucky was shirtless half the time you worked together. It was so normal, you hardly even blinked an eye anymore. Seeing Sam without a shirt was more rare and quite the sight, but it'd never caught your breath quite like seeing Joaquin. Joaquin, who had never so much as worn a tank top in the gym, Joaquin.

And now here he was, chest bare and heaving, feet pounding rhythmically against the treadmill, hair still messy from his pillow and sweat. Your brain couldn't seem to function correctly, offering you images of the sight before you, only closer. Much closer. Hovering inches over your stretched out body as the headboard behind you rammed into the wall with the force of each thrust--

"Hey," Joaquin greeted, noticing you standing off to the side. You blinked, heat rushing to your face as he turned the treadmill down to a more leisurely pace. "Something wrong with my form?"

It was tempting to lie and offer to "help him fix it." Or to be completely honest and tell him you'd never seen a human form as perfect as his.

But neither of those responses were professional or even appropriate, and you needed this job.

You swallowed, shaking your head. "No, I was just wondering why you were wearing those," you said, gesturing to his dog tags, and allowing your eyes to fall to his chest once more. You followed a bead of sweat as it rolled down his body, heading to the waistband of his shorts. Joaquin reached to touch his tags, causing them to jingle together once more and pull your attention up to him.

"It's hard to let them go," he smiled, ruefully, hitting the button so the belt slowed even more. "I'd say it's a habit, putting them on, but at this point they're just like a part of me."

You nodded, wishing you'd taken this conversation anywhere but to the idea of dog tags and what they stood for. It wasn't so much a mood killer but a guilt inducer because instead of you feeling embarrassed and somber, all you wanted to do was grab them and pull him closer to you.

He must have read the conflict on your face because he gave a crooked smile. "Yeah, sorry, it's kinda morbid."

"No," you shook your head, clearing it of the daydream induced fog. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"No, nah, it's cool," his smile grew into grin, as the belt came to a stop. He leaned his forearms against the console, staring at you as if waiting for you to continue the conversation. Which you were not equipped to do with a smiling and shirtless and sweaty Joaquin Torres right before you.

"Well, thanks for being cool about it," you said with a nod.

My God, something was wrong with you. They were just abs. And sure, maybe the abs belonged to the man who not only found the time to moonlight as a superhero but star in your increasingly dirty dreams of late, but it was just a body party that you'd seen a million times.

But never on Joaquin.

You blamed everything your brain was doing to you on Bucky and all of his stupid comments about Joaquin's supposed fixation on your ass. You wondered what he would say if he could see you now. "And I thought I was half machine. I could practically see your brain short circuiting." or "If that's what you're like when you see him half-naked, how are you ever going to--"

"Yeah, of course," Joaquin said, still smiling, his eyes lifting up over your shoulder as the other door to the gym opened and Sam came in. "Hey," he greeted with a jerk of his chin.

"Hey," Sam said, drawing closer, his eyes on you. You forced a smile on to your own face, and lifted a hand, not trusting anything that was coming out of your mouth.

"You're here early," the other man said, stepping onto the treadmill next to Joaquin's, and putting his water bottle down next to the machine.

Both of them were looking at you now, and it's not like you could handle staying in this gym any longer. "I came down looking for my water bottle. I think I left it here yesterday."

Sam raised his eyebrows glancing around the gym, and Joaquin stepped down off of the machine. "Do you want help looking for it?" he asked, and your whole body seemed to tense up at the idea, your brain transporting you to a future scenario where the two of you wandered around the room, Joaquin next to you or behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him, all the while searching for a water bottle that was sitting on your dresser.

"No." Your voice came out too high, but you tried to play it off, shaking your head. "I've already interrupted your workout enough. It's either by the weights or not in here."

"Alright," he nodded. "If you need any help looking around the compound though, let me know."

"Thanks," you said. And then you gave another stupid wave and beelined it for the weight racks because you had to get out of here.

You made a show of looking next to each section of weights, even bending over to check underneath of them as if it could have been knocked under somewhere. After you felt an appropriate amount of time had passed to be convincing, you straightened up, empty handed. You turned back to Joaquin and Sam, both watching you rather than continuing their workouts as you might have hoped.

"Not here," you called back with a shrug and then left the gym and headed straight up to your shower.

He was nothing if not predictable.

The minute Y/N bent over to check behind the weight rack, his eyes were glued to her. Or perhaps more accurately, the bright teal spandex shorts she wore. As she pulled herself back up from searching for her water bottle and turned to them, Joaquin quickly looked to Sam as if the two had been talking the whole time and then "casually" returned to her.

"Not here!" she said, shrugging and then walking out of the gym, her footsteps quick and purposeful as she left through the door Sam had just entered by.

"So, what'd I interrupt?"

Joaquin looked up at Sam as if remembering he was there. "What?"

"You know, when the two of you were sitting by this machine making eyes at each other? Did you actually say anything to her or….?"

Joaquin shook his head. "No, she just came in and, uh, we chatted for a second, and then…" he trailed off, as if not fully remembering any of the past ten, twenty, however many minutes.

"You just chatted," Sam repeated, the disbelief on his face edging into his voice.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded.

"Anywhere in this chat you finally ask her out?"

"Nah, it didn't feel right."

"It didn't--she was practically taking off the other half of your clothes with her eyes," Sam sputtered, gesturing to Joaquin's shorts.

The kid laughed and shook his head as if Sam didn't know what he was talking about. Joaquin moved to exit the gym as well. "I'll see you later, man," he said, leaving a very exasperated Sam behind.

Bucky Barnes was a motherfucking liar.

"Let's grab a drink on Friday," he said.

"Consider it me making it up to you for being such a pain in your ass," he said.

"I'll buy," he said.

Mothefucker.

This wasn't just you and your favorite co-worker getting a drink. This was a goddamn set up. Because one hour and three mojitos into the night, Sam and Joaquin walked in the front door.

"I fucking hate you," you said, glaring up at his stupid smug face.

"Well, what a surprise, he grinned, as you shook a finger up at him.

"I told you in confidence I'm a flirty drunk."

He snorted, giving you a look out the side of his eyes. "You told me you were a flirty drunk after you sent me several highly inappropriate drunk text messages about what you wanted to do to a certain Lieutenant, who," the self-satisfied smile was back on Bucky's face. "Is making his way over to us right now."

"When I get home, I swear to God, I'm buying you a ticket to Wakanda."

Bucky quirked an eyebrow. "You're not going to do it now?"

"I didn't bring my credit card because you said you were paying," you huffed.

Before Bucky could respond, Sam and Joaquin were next to the two of you, greeting Bucky with hand slaps and one armed hugs. Sam came around and wrapped an arm around you first before sliding into the seat next to Bucky, and Joaquin came forward, giving you a quick hug.

Which was a first.

More than the feeling of his back underneath your palm, or the way he seemed to emanate warmth, you were done in by how absolutely incredible he smelled. But before you could fully identify whether it was his shampoo, a cologne, or just him, he pulled away and took the only other available seat near the group--the one next to you.

"I see you started without us," Sam said, raising his eyebrows at the assortment of glasses that sat before you. Most of them were Bucky's as he downed beers faster than should have been humanly possible.

"Hard drinker, huh Y/N," Joaquin teased, shooting you a smile.

"Pfft," you dismissed. "Only three are mine."

"Three?" Sam asked, leaning forward to better look at you. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour," you said, completely unnecessarily leaning forward too.

Bucky shrugged. "I got the time wrong."

"Guess we better catch up then," Joaquin said, and you sank back into your chair, narrowing your eyes at him in challenge.

"If you can."

They did.

You were outpaced fairly quickly against the two soldiers and one super soldier. The rum-induced fuzziness around the edges of your brain was compounded by having Joaquin so close to you. At some point he'd pulled his chair a bit closer to yours so that he could better hear the conversation, and you don't remember when it happened, but his arm had also slid around the back of your chair. To your relief neither Bucky nor Sam seemed to acknowledge this. In fact, Bucky was positively quiet and normal all things considered. Everything was going better than you could have expected.

Until the music kicked up.

Sam was the first to be dragged onto the dance floor. He was Captain America. Of course he'd been targeted by the stunning girl in the red dress who'd only had to come up and ask "Does Captain America dance?" to succeed in pulling him off to the dance floor.

Bucky was next. Although he wasn't tugged onto the dance floor by his hand the way Sam was. It was the sight of the person in the tight black number that did him in, luring him away to the dance as if drawn by a magnet.

And then it was you and Joaquin, sitting at the bar. Alone. Together.

You looked up from your drink, pushing the straw down into the ice to stir up the clinking sounds, and he took a swig of his beer before putting the bottle back down on the bar.

"Alright, let's dance," he said, nodding with his head towards the crowd, and you let out a disbelieving snort.

"I don't know how to dance. I mean, I can dance," you attempted to clarify, although you had a feeling words were failing you at the moment. "But that's real dancing, and I can't do that."

"I guess you're lucky you have a really good teacher asking you to dance then," Joaquin grinned, holding out a hand. You looked down at his open palm, hesitating only for a second before you slid your hand into his and jumped down from your chair.

He led you out through the moving bodies expertly, dodging couples who were clearly more into the dancing than each other and couples where the complete opposite was true. The small bit of space he found you was closer to the center of the dance floor than you'd usually feel comfortable with, but when he turned towards you with that look on his face, any of your residual anxiety had vanished.

"Ok, come close," he said, and you took a small step closer to him, causing him to laugh. "Closer." He gestured, and you moved forward some more, Joaquin's hands finding their way to your hips and pulling you even closer. His hands rose, one finding its way to your mid-back, pushing your elbow up to rest on his, as the other took your hand and placed it over shoulder.

"This ok?" he asked, eyebrows raised, and you nodded, trying to keep your attention on him, his instructions and his words, and not the way that you could feel just about every part of him from the way he was angled against you. His right side was flush against your left, and his knee pushed between yours.

"Just follow me," he said, his head bent close to yours. Before you could even respond, he started to move, pulling you along with him through the dance. It was smooth and rolling and you'd never seen a guy able to roll his hips like Joaquin. He seemed to know exactly how to guide you, moving his body to push and pull yours along whenever you hesitated or felt lost, coaxing waves and movements out of you that you didn't know you could do. Each success was met with a small word of praise and a brilliant smile, as his hands shifted to hold you closer, and you wrapped your own hand around his neck to better feel and predict his movements.

It felt as if a fog had rolled in over the dancefloor, obstructing all else from view so it was just you and Joaquin, eyes locked to each other as you moved together, occupying the same space.

The song faded into the next one, and Joaquin stopped. You went to move backwards, to give him space and have him move on as many other of the more skilled dancing couples seemed to do, switching partners amongst each other. But he kept you close to him, hand sliding down to your waist.

"Now you can really dance," he teased, his eyes shining as they stared into yours.

"Only with you." It was supposed to be a self-deprecating joke, but it came out too quiet and earnest. Joaquin licked his lips, and your eyes followed the gesture, flickering between his mouth and his eyes.

You don't remember making the decision. You only remember, moving even further into his arms, and pushing yourself up to reach his lips with your own. He bent down to meet you, pulling you even closer and pressing his hard body into yours. His lips moved as slowly and sensually as his hips had, drawing you in and guiding you through a careful rhythm that promised much, much more.

Sam sat with Bucky at the bar. Joaquin and Y/N had disappeared somewhere amongst the dance floor, hidden amongst the crowd.

"You think it worked?" Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"If it didn't we're screwed," Sam shook his head, taking a swig from his drink.

As if on cue, the two emerged from the swaying bodies, hand in hand, sweaty and much happier than they had been when Sam had left them at the bar.

"We're gonna head back to the compound," Joaquin said with practiced casualness.

"Yeah?" Bucky asked, and Sam swore there was mischief literally glinting in his eyes.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded too fast and too many times. "Yeah, Y/N forgot about something there…"

"What'd you forget?" Bucky asked, turning to Y/N with a wolfish smile.

"Nothing. We're going to have sex," Y/N said, flatly, causing Sam to nearly spit out his drink. "And if you say one more word, I know a pilot who will fly you to Wakanda himself. No ticket needed."

Bucky mimicked zippering his lips into a smug look, and she rolled her eyes before tugging Joaquin out of the bar by his hand. And he followed. Eyes glued to her ass.

#Joaquin Torres #Joaquin Torres fluff #joaquinwhorres #i love your username btw #it's so funny lmao

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althaiareads · 7 days ago

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You just made my night, I am so ready to sit down and read through these

joaquin torres recs

first impressions | imagine, fluff | @backtothefanfiction

the aftermath | imagine, flangst | @goosewriting

gazes | one shot, fluff | @joaquinwhorres

pretty boy | drabble, fluff | @queenariesofnarnia

a shared bond | imagine, fluff | @blackbat05

sam felt like locking both you in a room | imagine, fluff | @gay-dorito-dust

chain | drabble, fluff | @quakeismyhero

chasing pavements pt 2 | two shot, fluffy flangst | @mischiefmanaged71

his secret | imagine, fluff | @writingdumpster

those fuckin grey sweats | drabble, smut | @almadelsur

existence | imagine, fluff | @siempre-bucky

soft hearted | one shot, flangst | @fireinmoonshot (tw)

senses | imagine, flangst | @petertingle-yipyip

from shadows to sunshine | imagine, flangst | @wondergotham

in his hands | imagine, smut | @nathanbatemanfucker

forget it | one shot, flangst (more angst) | @sunsburns

my pretty boy | imagine, fluff | @everydaydreamer

that damn kiss | imagine, fluff | @fireinmoonshot

finally home | drabble, fluff | @lives-in-midgard

beyond misconceptions | imagine, flangst | @nathanbatemanfucker

my wife | imagine, fluff | @fireinmoonshot

love that lasts | one shot, flangst | @fireinmoonshot

ven por ti | imagine, flangst | @nathanbatemanfucker

first and last | one shot, flangst | @buckybabybaby

bite his abs | drabble, fluff | @everydaydreamer

hold me, please pt 2 | two shot, flangst (more angst) | @fmnxpl

a breach in reality | imagine, fluff | @nathanbatemanfucker

muerto de hambre | imagine, smut | @nathanbatemanfucker

my girl | imagine, flangst | @everydaydreamer (tw)

loves hearing you call him husband | imagine, fluff, suggestive | @fireinmoonshot

sleep talking | imagine, fluff | @backtothefanfiction

touchy | imagine, fluff | @fireinmoonshot

such an eater | drabble, smut | @jordiemeow

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althaiareads · 7 days ago

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“There’s only one basement, mi corazón.”

Something strange happens in my body when I see proper Spanish pet names in fics. Como que mi corazón, mi corazón de melon, de mi vida, de mi ALMA. Gracias por eso, bella.

“Came by to check on me?” Something like insulation slips between the lines.

Look at them, being all lovey dovey. Love that for them. Can they just kiss alreadyyyy??? Mwah.

- smut warning -

I SCREAMED, YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

“Say my name,” Joaquin demands, but you hear the hidden plea lying within.

Something about the intimacy of her never calling him by his name, only after finally giving in and recognising they are in love with each other after all those years.

Joaquin places his own hand over the one you have over his chest before sitting up straighter. “Mami, I flirted with you every chance I got.”

Ughhh, this was so good. I loved everything about it. The previous friendship, the angst and conflict, the way they have such a genuine care for each other, the way you build everything up to those final scenes. It was all so great, loved it!

heavy | joaquin torres x reader

summary: you’ve worked with joaquin a lot over the years, from the military to his career as the falcon, as his physical therapist. as easy as joaquin was as a patient, it was hard. hard because he was such a shameless flirt, hard because he was so charming—but you’ve always been friends and nothing more. after the events of the red hulk, joaquin finds himself having a harder time recovering than usual despite having you by his side. a slip of the tongue leads to a fight that leaves the both of you tense, but all is forgiven when you find yourselves in an attack and confessions come to a head.

warnings: mdni. porn with a LOT of plot however the story could be a stand alone without the smut so i added a cut before the smut happens (on that note, reader is anatomically fem), barely proofread by me (everybody say thank you @sortagaysortahigh for reading and giving feedback), post!cabnw, inappropriate doctor patient relationship, pre-established friendship, angsty joaquin, mention of previous injury (reader’s and joaquin’s), cursing, grumpy x sunshine if you squint, they’re under attack at some point ahh, slowburn…?, this story is in second and third pov cus its whatever i feel in the moment i fear, “say my name” trope, they fucked before confessing any real feelings mb, oral fem!receiving, p in v, spit as lube, missionary, doggy, ass slapping, light choking fem!receiving, dirty talk, kind of loser!joaquin?, slight overstimulation, creampie

word count: 12.6k

You’ve worked with Joaquin countless times over the years. His medical rap sheet cost you more in printer paper than you could truly afford and your computer lags every time you try to pull his chart up electronically…but it was never something you could truly complain about. Afterall, it was Joaquin. Sweet, shameless flirt Joaquin.

Sometimes it was a quick bounce back, a simple video chat where you outlined instructions for him to follow. “Non-strenuous exercise, Torres,” you’d emphasize hopelessly. You practically watch the words go in one ear and out the other. His eyes clearly averted on another screen, his mouth slightly agape in focus. “Uh-huh. ‘Course, no prob, doc,” before your screen went black.

Other times, it’d take longer than he wanted, weeks before he was out and onto the next wound-awaiting mission. “Slow down, tough guy,” a gentle hand placed atop his, pushing the resistance band back down. All he does is shoot you a lopsided smile, flashing his dimples at you as he asks, “Yeah? You think I’m tough, doc?”

Working with Joaquin was easy, so maybe you were a bit naive after the events of the Red Hulk for believing that it would be the same as before.

“I’m getting kind of tired of seeing your face, Torres,” you step into his hospital room, hands in the pockets of your white coat. “You’re looking a little worse than usual.”

You watch his jaw shift, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. The faint bulge only did so much to hold back his light chuckle. “Hey doc. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, I wish I could say the same.” Your hand comes up to grip his jaw, turning his head to the side so you could take a closer look at the bruising and stitches on his face. Not your area of expertise in the least, but it doesn’t take a medical degree to know it was a rough battle.

“Ah, come on. This? I’ve never felt better.” His dimples deep as he bore what only could be described as a shit-eating grin.

“Mm,” you can only let out a hum of disapproval as you pull the computer station in his room closer to you. The keyboard clacks obnoxiously as you put in your credentials, bypassing any security measure that stands between you and his information. That’s what you get for taking on the Falcon as a patient, you suppose. Friendship be damned—Joaquin was a pain in the ass. You try to ignore his gaze, burning into the side of your face as you work. Without even glancing through your peripherals, you already know what he looks like. Eyes wide, gaze attentive, as he focused all of his attention on you. It made your skin tingle and heart beat faster in a way you didn’t want to think about.

You unconsciously let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when his scans finally popped up. “Alright, let’s see.” You do your best to keep your expression neutral, but you can’t completely stop the small frown that has the corner of your lips turning downward as you scroll through pages and pages of images.

Leaning towards you from his bed, Joaquin tries to peek at the screen. “That bad, huh?”

You pull your lips tight, doing your best to eradicate any sign of displeasure on your face. “Not at all.”

Joaquin casts you a skeptical look.

You let out a puff of air, eyes closing for a moment before pushing the computer away. Hands on the railing of his hospital bed, you admit, “I heard about what happened, and considering the fall you took, I expected worse.” Your tone is gentle, maintaining eye contact, “But…it’s not great, either.”

With his best effort, Joaquin straightens up in the bed. Shifting uncomfortably, he asks, “Alright so what’s that mean for me, then?”

You hesitate, racking your brain for the right words. His look of impatience prompts you to just be honest.

“It means you’re not going to be The Falon for a long time.”

He starts off optimistic, business as usual for Joaquin, but you start to read through him soon enough.

“Torres, stop that,” you hiss, slapping his hand away from the buttons on the treadmill.

“That was lightwork. Come on, ramp up the speed a bit, doc. I can take it,” he insists, clapping his hands together as he tries to exceed the light jog you set for him.

You let out a sigh before gradually slowing his speed down to zero.

“What, that’s it?” he turns to you with his arms outstretched in mock disbelief. He continues to goad you into letting him do a more difficult exercise, insisting that he can handle it. His words hold little bark, though, as he forces them out in between heavy breathes. You place your hands on his waist, over the trainer you have tightened around his torso and help guide him off the machinery.

He doesn’t put up a fight, and the two of you ignore the droplets of sweat lining his forehead.

“That was good work,” you murmur, scribbling down some notes. Throwing him a bone, you add, “You went a further distance than I thought your body could handle at this point. That's a positive progression.”

When you’re greeted with nothing but silence, you cast a look over in his direction. He leans against the railing that lines the wall, his hands resting on the bar. His chest continues to heave, slower now, but not quite steady. You can’t help the ache in your chest when you catch his somber expression, eyes lost in deep thought.

“I know it’s a lot.”

He doesn’t answer you at first. You start to think that he didn’t hear you, but then you watch as his jaw clenches.

“I know it’s different from the last times we’ve gone through this. Taking longer than you want—”

But just when you think you’ve gotten through to him, he shakes his head and wipes the grim expression of his face, blowing out a puff of air. “What? This?” Joaquin lets out a less than convincing laugh. “No. It’s fine.”

“Torres—”

“No, really.” With a grunt, he pushes himself off the bar and you hold back a grimace, restraining yourself from stepping forward to help him. It would only make things worse right now. “I’m fine,” he continues. He ignores the look on your face as he steps closer, the drawn in eyebrows and your pouting lips that are almost enough for him to forget the dilemmas he’s in. He hates how worried you look.

“I’ll see you next session, doc.” He heads for the door before you can get another word in, but not before looking back and throwing a wink in your direction.

It had been a long day. Someone at work finished the last of your creamer and left the empty carton in the fridge, your patients were especially frustrated and took it out on you, and the bottom of your maxi skirt had gotten caught on some equipment, causing a huge tear.

You’ve just about had it, so you sit in the silence of your car with your eyes closed. It was dark out; you got out of work so late today. You sigh again at yet another reminder of how terrible your day has gone. On any other day, by now, you would’ve been deeply nestled into your bed already, freshly showered and fed. The whine of frustration bubbles past your lips involuntarily.

Peace is had for all of two minutes before your phone buzzes. Naturally, it’s ignored, your lip twitching in irritation and your eyes stay closed in determination. But then your phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

You can’t help but curse as you riffle through your bag, praying it’s just some to-do list reminder.

Notification Center: 5 new messages from Torres

“What the hell?” you whisper to yourself.

Torres: Hi

Torres: Need your help

Torres: Did something bad

Torres: Bring an arm brace.

Torres: Please…😀

“Oh, Christ,” you curse, rolling your eyes so hard you feel a headache start to form. You take five seconds to pity yourself before your pathetic excuse of a car roars to life and you’re down the road, following your maps to the location Joaquin shared.

“Hello?” you call out, stepping into the entryway of Joaquin’s apartment. The spare key he told you about hangs from your hand and you drop it into what looks like the designated key bowl. “Torres?”

Your eyes inadvertently take in the space, curiously peering at his decorations. In front of you sits a blue, worn-in couch that seems to be well-loved, adorned with a bunch of throw blankets that aren’t really cohesive in color.

Spinning around the living room, you find a large TV mounted across from the couch that warranted a small chuckle. Unsurprisingly, it seems to be the fanciest piece of furniture he owns; he’s the biggest sports fan you know. In between the space sits a cute coffee table, an unfinished coffee mug sits on the table alongside a phone charger.

A warmth blooms in your chest at how human it all was. Before you can move on to any pictures or any other space in the home, a loud voice yells, “In here!”

You snap out of your daze, the weight of the arm brace suddenly reminding you why you were even there in the first place. Rushing past his kitchen, you continue until you bypass a few doors. Unsure which room he’s in, you call out his name again.

At the end of the hallway, light spills out as Joaquin opens the door to his bedroom. The look on his face is sheepish, and he gives you a boyish, wide smile. “Thanks for coming by.”

“House calls aren’t really part of my payroll, you know.”

“Well,” his brow rises and face scrunches into a look of false calculation. “I figured if there was any patient you’d break the rules for, it’d be me. I heard I’m your most charming one, after all.”

You greet his wink and tongue click with an eye roll, but before you get the chance to reply, Joaquin finds himself trying to lean against his doorframe. A loud hiss fills the air as his left hand comes up to clutch his right shoulder. An embarrassed look is sent your way. “Maybe, uh, not as charming, um, right now…don’t freak out.”

He sucks in a sharp breath and opens his door further, a silent invitation for you to come in.

You glare at him as you pass the threshold of his room, maintaining eye contact as you shake your head. “You’re actually the worst of my patients, you know that?”

“The worst?” he exclaims in genuine shock. “Wow, okay.” His uninjured arm clutches his heart. “Now I’m wounded in more ways than one—”

You wish you could say you heard the rest of his ramblings, but his words start to trail off as you step into his room. You’re suddenly engulfed by the smell of him and it’s making you…dizzy. The unmade bed, the hoodie draped over the back of his desk chair, the mess on the nightstand, standing there you suddenly realize how intimate it all was. His musky cologne and the scent of fresh laundry invades your senses and you start feeling nervous.

A lump swells in your throat, so you clear it, letting out what you hoped was a subtle cough to shake the feeling.

By the time you regain focus, you realize how uncharacteristically quiet Joaquin’s being behind you. You force yourself to turn his way. That was when you took in the state of him. Standing by the door, his right arm is cradled in his left as he carries a nervous expression.

“Oh, what did you do!” you chastise, all other thoughts billowing away as you rush towards him.

“I was doing some light exercise—” he lets out a yelp of pain when you press against his shoulder and you look up at him with another glare.

“Just a few pushups,” Joaquin’s voice gets higher, already defending his careless actions. “It wasn’t,” he hisses as you adjust him again, “anything I can’t handle.”

You cast him another disparaging look, causing him to shut his mouth.

“Torres, are you trying to make my job harder?” you let out a groan. “You’re only supposed to do only light movements on non-PT days. Definitely no exercise involving your arm or back muscles.”

“No pain, no gain, ‘miright?” his laugh turns into a groan of pain when you harshly press an ice pack onto his shoulder. “Hold this,” you harshly instruct. His hand comes up to grab the cold pack tentatively, all while avoiding eye contact.

“And it’s not funny,” you scowl. “You’re disregarding my advice and look where it’s gotten you.” You guide his arm into the brace. It’s a bit tactless, the way you’re talking to him, but your patience has completely dissipated this late into the day. Maybe tough love is what he needs to hear. “You have to stop pushing yourself like this and just trust me.” Your own frustrations clearly start to bleed through.

A long stretch of silence fills the space between the two of you, but you’re too focused on patching Joaquin up to truly notice. It seems to eat at him, though, because after a few minutes of velcro tearing and your manhandling, he speaks up.

“Could do it before.” It’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

“What?” you ask in exasperation, not truly hearing what he said.

“Last week.”

You pause your movements, waiting for him to continue.

Joaquin’s face scrunches in hesitation, thoughts running amok through his mind as he debates whether or not to keep going. “After physical therapy last week I did fifty. No pain at all,” his brows raise in feign disbelief alongside a humorless chuckle. He purses his lips, turning his face away from you as he whispers, “Couldn’t even get through ten today.”

Your eyes close, God, how insensitive could you be? Taking a step back from him, you take in how upset he looks. His shoulders ripple with tension as the nails of his right hand clenched and dug into his palm before unclenching, a grounding technique he told you about from his military days.

Placing a hand on the bicep on his non-injured side in an action quietly asking him to stop, you try to meet his eyes with a tilted head. “Hey, I mean…progress isn’t always linear, Torres. You can’t always—”

The way he shrugs you off is sudden, he turns his back to you and merely casts a sullen glance at you over his shoulder. With a shake of his head, he begs, “Please, don’t. Don’t start doing that.”

“Look, PT is always really hard. And we talked about it, this time, you’re not going to come back as fast as you did before. You need to give your body more time—”

“How much more time?” his voice rises. “I mean, at the very,” Joaquin starts to stutter and his eyes scrunch in anger, “At the very least I shouldn’t be going backwards.”

“I know…it feels like you’re going backwards,” you carefully place your words, “But you are getting better. It’s only seems hard right now—”

“Yeah, I get that,” he cuts you off, his tone much harsher than you’re used to. “You don’t have to constantly tell me that, I know.”

“Alright, fine.” You can’t help that your tone, too, takes a bit of an icy turn, too. “Then I shouldn’t have to explain to you how active recovery works and if you just tried to be a little more patient—”

“I know that too!” he hisses, “I get that it's supposed to be hard but,” he blows out a breath. “It shouldn’t…it shouldn’t be this damn hard.” Joaquin starts pacing, his right hand running through his unkempt curls. “I’m doing your exercises—”

“But you’re not following the rules,” you defend. “If you actually listened instead of pushing yourself for things you aren’t ready for—”

“Or maybe you just don’t know what the hell you’re doing!” Joaquin shouts as he buries his face into the palm of his right hand before pinching the space above his nose and between his eyes.

The words strike you harder than you expect, and you can’t help the way your mouth parts in surprise. “‘I don’t...?” Your sentence starts off as a quiet whisper, merely repeating the words Joaquin threw in your face, but soon changes to anger as the meaning behind what he says truly sinks in. “I ‘don’t know what the hell I’m doing?’” you sneer.

The sound of your outrage fills the air, and Joaquin snaps his head up. It only takes one look at your face for him to shut his eyes and breathe out through his nose. Wetting his lips, he starts speaking before opening his eyes, “Shit. Wait, I didn’t mean—”

To your mortification, your eyes start to burn. “You know what I do know, Torres,” you cut him off. “I know that you called me here. I know that you called me here and I showed up for you, like I do every single time. I know that it’s hard,” you can’t help the hint of mockery in your voice. “Believe it or not I do get it. The only one here who doesn’t understand is you, because you’re too damn stubborn to admit that you need more time. You’d rather hurt yourself more, just to prove something.” You huff, turning your back to him, “And I’m not just going to stand here, waiting to watch you crash and burn. You can figure it out your damn self, Torres. I’m done.”

The sound of his bedroom door slams behind you and his front door follows in a similar fashion soon after. Chest heaving, you lean against the entrance to his apartment as the adrenaline flees from you. It leaves you with your head in your hands. “Fuck,” you murmur to yourself.

“I shouldn’t have let her leave,” Joaquin continues his ramble to a less than interested Sam.

“Uh-huh,” Sam replies, voice monotone. It was his only contribution to the conversation thus far, his attention more-so occupied on polishing some equipment.

“I didn’t mean what I said. It was something stupid that just slipped out. Heat of the moment, y’know?” Joaquin pauses mid-scrolling, swiveling in his chair to face Sam. “She knows that…right?” he scratches his chin.

A loud sigh and the clink of metal hitting the table makes Joaquin’s ears perk up. He takes in Sam’s tense back and the way he throws his head back in obvious annoyance.

“Man, I don’t know what she knows.” Sam finally puts in his two cents. Chin tilting down, Sam looks up at his friend with a deadpan expression. “You talk. A lot.”

Joaquin’s face scrunches in protest, head jerking back in offense, “I mean—”

“You’ve been talking for half an hour, dude.” Sam retaliates before Joaquin can argue, left hand pointing up at the clock on the wall. “At some point, you went on about, like, Messi leaving Barca and how that was the same as her walking out on you? I don’t,” Sam sighs loudly, “I don’t know.”

“Dude, that was a big deal! And it was a metaphor—”

“Well, she’s not Messi, is she?” Sam places his hands on his hips, face twisted in annoyed disbelief. “And last I checked, you don’t have a billion-dollar contract.” He turns back to the work at hand whilst murmuring, “God knows the government barely pays us to keep this place running,” his hand waves nonchalantly through the air.

“I don’t need a billion dollar contract,” Joaquin huffs, the wheels of his chair squeaking as he turns back around to face his array of monitors. The sound of keys clacking ensues as Joaquin returns to work, but his mind continues to stray elsewhere as he murmurs absentmindedly to himself, “I just need to figure out how to get her to talk to me again.”

“Hope you can figure it out soon ‘cause you got about thirty seconds.” Sam’s response surprises Joaquin, not realizing his mentor had even heard him.

Once the initial shock wears off, Joaquin finds his voice. “Wait, what?”

“Hello?” The sound of someone so sweetly familiar greets him.

Joaquin’s chair swivels again, but the source of his attention is directed not to Sam this time, but to you. “Hey,” Joaquin laughs breathlessly, “Hi. Uh, what are you doing here?”

“We fought, Torres. I didn’t die,” you respond sarcastically.

“Right,” Joaquin laughs obnoxiously. You and Sam share a look. “No, I just, uh, didn’t expect you to see you here…so soon…”

“Well, despite what you might think of my skills, you’re still my patient.”

Joaquin winces.

“You might have been able to skip PT and ghost me for a week, but I can’t let you off the hook for your reassessment.” Your knuckles rap against the iPad you’re holding. “Government orders.”

“That’s today?” Joaquin squirms in his seat, face going pale.

“One every month.” You avert your gaze from his, shuffling on your feet as the interaction grows awkward. “I’ll be in the med bay,” your tone softens. “See you in a bit.”

Joaquin takes a bit too long to respond, shouting after you a beat after you’ve already set to leave. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there!”

You slowly cast a glance over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in confusion before exiting without another word.

“Smooth.” Sam inserts.

“Shut up.”

“Real smooth.”

Joaquin sits quietly on the exam table with his hands clasped between his knees. The crinkly paper tore the second he tried to take a seat and is only now pinned down under the weight of his thighs. Other than the chuckle and head shake from you, the two of you have yet to exchange any real words since he’s walked into the cold, sterile room.

He’s nervous for more reasons than one, and Joaquin can’t tell what’s killing him more: the reassessment or the unknown between the two of you.

Hands rubbing against his thigh, Joaquin lets out a big breath before blurting, “I’m sorry about the last week.”

You look up from the tablet you’ve been scrolling through, but before you can respond, he continues in a rambling tone. “I didn’t mean what I said. It was stupid,” he murmurs.

The sound of your shoes squeak against the linoleum as you approach him, stopping just before his bed. Looking up at you, his eyes are wide, irises swimming with remorse as he admits, “I was just frustrated, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re angry,” you sigh, your tone carrying a tone that indicates you’re admitting this more for Joaquin’s sake than yours—he needs to hear it more than you do. “I get it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No.” You admit, but at the sight of his absolute guilt, his top teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he stares up at you, you can’t help but give him a playful eye roll and smile. “No it doesn’t.”

At the sight of your cold facade cracking, Joaquin’s face slowly emerges into a smile of his own. It’s hopeful on his end, but you don’t shut it down, and that’s all he needs right now.

“Now let’s just see if your shoulder is as apologetic as you are.”

The reminder of what they’re doing there sends a swarm of butterflies through Joaquin’s stomach, but he bears his smile all the same. “Haven’t done anything I’m not ‘spose to.” It’s a lame attempt at appeasing you, but Joaquin considers it a win either way when he catches the tiniest grin slip through on your face.

You remove his brace, humming in approval as you guide Joaquin through simple shoulder exercises to test his healing process.

Joaquin catches your gaze through your lashes. “What?” he asks quietly.

“I’m almost impressed, Torres.”

Before he can respond, a bright red light begins flashing throughout the room. A shrill alarm blaring makes the both of you jump, and Joaquin instinctively stands at the sound, grabbing your arms as the two of you begin looking around.

“What the hell is that?” you question, shouting over the alarm.

The sound of footsteps pound down the hallway, shouts and yells causing a commotion that leaves your head spinning.

“Come on, we gotta go,” is all Joaquin can offer as he drags you out of the med bay. You have no choice but to follow as his grip remains firm. You don’t question his authority as he pushes you in the opposite direction of the stream of people running for the exits.

“Cap!” Joaquin draws Sam’s attention from down the hallway. “What’s going on?”

“Compounds under attack,” Sam barely gets the words out, his speed remaining consistent as he sprints toward the exit. “Stay put, get to the lower levels,” the last of his words fade, barely audible over the sirens.

“Let’s go.” Joaquin urges, though he doesn’t give you much of a choice. Pushing you ahead of him, he cradles your head as he strongarms the crowd. The two of you force your way through, though you’re not quite sure where you’re going. “Turn here,” you hear him shout over the alarm.

You have only a second to adjust to the new setting before Joaquin shouts, “Keep moving!”

The corridor hits a deadend and Joaquin reaches past you to shove the stairwell. The two of you rush downward, the dim, flickering lights making your heart beat faster in your chest. You can’t help the scream that escapes when a loud explosion occurs overhead, the ground shaking below you. For a moment, you lose your balance and you close your eyes to brace for impact. Stumbling, you expect to take a turn for the worse when a steady arm wraps around your waist.

“You okay?” Joaquin’s voice is hushed against your ear, and it grounds you for a moment.

“Yeah.” You quickly nod, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “You?”

Joaquin doesn’t answer, instead, he pushes you forward again. “We’re almost there,” he reassures as you two round the last set of stairs.

The alarm sounds distant now, almost acting like background noise in the cold, concrete basement. The sound of some mysterious liquid dripping in the background is much more prominent. It seems only the two of you are down here, and you made a joke about how everyone’s probably bunkered down in some fancy, state of the art basement and not the humid atrocity the two of you are in, and Joaquin just laughed. “There’s only one basement, mi corazón.”

Now, the two of you share a random wooden crate, leaning on each other in silence.

“It’s been so long.” You break through the silence. “Do you think everything’s okay?”

You can hear the sound of Joaquin’s rhythmic tapping against the wood, and you sit in contemplation as you await his answer.

“I don’t know.” He’s honest. A brief pause later and he continues, “But if Sam’s out there, then it’ll be alright. He always figures it out.”

You let his words settle over you for a bit before the gears in your mind start to turn, leading you down a different pathway. If your lack of response perturbs Joaquin, he doesn’t show it, the tapping continuing in an obscure pattern.

“You…didn’t run out there,” you state, voice laced with hesitation as the words fall through pursed lips. Joaquin’s tapping stops. Again, silence stretches between the two of you and you can hear your blood rushing in your ears. You can’t help but sneak a glance at him through your peripherals, and at the sight of a sharp, clenched jaw and a tense side profile, your lips turn downward into a frown.

He finally exhales through his nose. “No, I didn’t.”

Biting your lip, you tread lightly as you continue. “You always run toward the fight.” Throughout physical therapy, during missions, as the Falcon—all the years you and Joaquin have known each other run through your mind. He’s never been one to walk away.

Joaquin breathes through his nose again, a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Not this time.”

The two of you fall quiet again, only the sound of breathing fills the space. So much time had passed, you were sure that was all Joaquin had to say. It startles you when he starts again.

“Before…” he trails off. Now it was his turn to bite his lower lip in hesitation. Joaquin looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, “You said something about, um, ‘getting it’?”

It takes your brain a second to register what he means, but once you realize he’s referring to your words during the fight, you lag. The question he’s trying to ask leaves you feeling uncomfortable. Deflecting, you joke, “Oh, are you referring to when I was putting you in place?”

Joaquin hangs his head, laughing. “Yeah,” he nods. “When you were putting me in my place.” He turns to look at you, wetting his lips before giving you a close-mouthed, dimple-full smile. God, he’s so pretty, it was intoxicating.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a brief moment and you involuntarily part them. Joaquin’s smile slowly drops, along with his voice as he continues. “It just sounded like you meant something more than just being on the job.”

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, thumping so loud you can hear it in your ears and you’re scared he can, too. He’s unraveling you, bit by bit, and you don’t have the strength to stop him.

“Yeah,” you whisper. You shift away from Joaquin, and for a second he panics, thinking that he’s crossed a line. But then the sound of shuffling fabric fills the room, and Joaquin leans back, giving you space as you pull up the sleeve of your pants.

A soft finger points at your knee. Leaning close again, his eyes close in on a scar—faded, but long and jagged. His eyes lock with yours, and he takes in the way you’ve been watching him.

“Played soccer when I was a kid,” your confession is quiet. “I loved it. And I was good, too.” Your emphasis on the word ‘good’ cracks a hole in Joaquin’s chest. Even though you’re looking at him, he recognizes that somewhere in your eyes, you’re far away, reminiscing on this past version of yourself. “Got a full ride to my dream school to play on their team. Then boom.” You pop your lips. “ Tore my ACL two weeks before graduation.”

Joaquin just watches you, hanging on to every word.

“I tried going to rehab.” You start rolling your pants down again. “But…I was impatient. Stubborn. Wouldn’t listen to anyone.” Joaquin can’t help but wince at how awfully similar your story was starting to sound. You snap out of your dissociative gaze, locking eyes with Joaquin before earnestly confessing, “I never played again.”

He can’t even begin to think of what to say, but even if he did, Joaquin never would have been able to get them past the lump in his throat.

You nod alongside your next statement. “So, yeah. I get it.” There is no malice in your voice, only sincerity.

Joaquin lets your words sit there for a moment. Eventually, all he can do is let out a groan. “I’m such an ass.”

It earns a hearty laugh from you, and the sound was sweet enough that it even manages to grace a smile on his face too. It only lasts a second, though, before Joaquin grows somber again.

“You know, I’ve wanted this for so long.” Joaquin’s hands come up, dragging down his face. “And then I got it. I was The Falcon…for all of five minutes before I screwed it up.” He shakes his head, disappointment in his own actions and failures radiating between the small space between the two of you. “I just thought that if I just pushed harder, worked through it I could…” Joaquin pauses, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know…get back out there and prove that Sam didn’t make a mistake choosing me. That I am The Falcon.” He lets out a breath and when Joaquin looks at you again, his eyes are misty. “But I guess I still have a long way to go, huh?”

Your brows lower in sympathy, hand resting on Joaquin’s bicep. You offer a comforting smile. “Not that long,” you reassure. “You got me here. Last week’s Torres would’ve gone running after Sam in that hallway.”

There’s a pause, and you feel the way it's charged with something heavy and unsaid, like something had just shifted.

“Yeah, well,” Joaquin’s eyes fall to your lips again. “I guess I wasn’t really thinking about Sam at that moment.” Slowly, the two of you inch towards each other. You’re not sure what came over you; it was like a gravitational pull that had the two of you falling into each other. His forehead pressed against yours, Joaquin blinks slowly as he confesses, “In that moment I just… wanted to make sure you were safe.” The words are breathless against your lips.

“Joaquin, I—”

A loud slam echoes through the basement, making the two of you gasp and jolt apart in panic. Shooting up from where you were sitting, Joaquin stands protectively in front of you.

“Torres!” a familiar voice shouts out before calling your name as well. “You guys in here?”

“Oh, my God, Sam,” you let out a sigh of relief, hand clutching your heart.

Joaquin’s back muscles are tense. It takes him clearing his throat and smoothing his hand over his shirt to gain composure, but once it’s found, Joaquin’s face grows serious, taking Sam in. He helps you off the crate before stepping away, as though putting some distance between the two of you would make him think more rationally.

The sound of boots hit the concrete floor as Sam makes his way over. “You guys alright?” he calls out.

“Yeah,” you answer for the both of you, watching as Joaquin steps forward.

“What happened?” his voice is urgent, shrouded with concern.

“Everything’s clear for now,” Sam answers, eyes flickering back to you. “We should get back up there, though. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Silently, you step forward, following Sam’s lead, but not before looking back at Joaquin who can’t quite make eye contact with you right now.

You tie your robe hastily, feet struggling to put on your fluffy slippers as you rush towards the door. The incessant knocking was throwing off your nighttime routine, and you tried not to get grumpy about the fact that you were just about ready to slip into bed to begin your British Bake Off binge but were sorely interrupted.

Peering out of your peephole, you find your annoyance shriveling in your chest. The sight of a disheveled, heavy-breathing Joaquin throws you way more off than the knocking.

Swinging the door open, you hastily question him, “Torres, are you okay?” You reach out, examining for any cuts or blood. He lets you spin him around to check his backside. “Is it your arm again? Your back?”

When you spin him back and look up, you’re greeted with nothing but a barely-contained smirk, his enjoyment clear as day. Rolling your eyes, you let him go with a slight shove.

“No, please,” he raises his hands in surrender. “By all means, please continue.”

You put one arm up against the doorframe, the other landing on your hip. “What do you want?”

Joaquin’s eyes flicker down momentarily, and he tries his hardest not to let the sight of your slightly open robe get to him. His Adam’s apple bobs as he tries his best to regain concentration. Clearing his throat, he states, “I didn’t get to see you after the attack on the compound.”

Once your trio was able to get back up to ground level, you and Sam agreed it would be best if you went to the med bay to help where you can. You assumed Joaquin would be busy debriefing with Sam afterwards, and not knowing the threat level they were facing, you haven't reached out for fear he was working.

“Came by to check on me?” Something like insulation slips between the lines.

“Something like that,” he hums. Joaquin raises his brows, quietly asking to be let in. Reluctantly, you open the door wider, but you don’t exactly move from your doorway.

Stepping towards you, Joaquin leaves you face to face with his chest, his classic scent of cologne and fresh laundry invading your senses. You try not to think about how broad he is as you step aside. His shoulder brushes yours as he passes, and you swear you see a slight mischievous upturn of his lips when you make contact with each other.

He pauses a few steps in. You close the door. Standing behind him, you just watch him. The way he’s surveying your place makes you nervous; his gaze is so intentional, almost as if he’s taking in every detail. Maybe this is how he felt when you were at his place.

There was a dim glow in your apartment, a few lamps here and there that you intentionally turned on to create a quiet ambiance after the afternoon’s rattling events. The candle you lit just mere moments before Joaquin came knocking created dancing shadows along the wall, and though you had no idea he was coming, you couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed at how intimate the setting you had created was.

Joaquin was taking too long to say something, but you refuse to be the first to break the silence, so you continue your observation, watching the rippled chords of his back muscles rise and fall as he takes in slow breaths. The quiet and vanilla scent wafting through the air made your mind start wandering, and you couldn’t help but recall the past times you’ve laid hands on those same muscles—strong and taut under your fingertips. The memory of his skin, sometimes slick with sweat from working out, sends electricity through your body in a way that was inappropriate.

You’ve admired him previously, sure, but you’ve never been so outright perverted in the way you oggle hm. You’re a professional, you remind yourself, only for the thought to be cut short by the reminder of what almost happened hours before.

Skin tingling, you pull your robe tighter around your body, but the friction of the silk makes your breath catch in your throat. The sound was loud in your ears, and you pray he didn’t hear you.

Finally, Joaquin moves. His steps are slow as he moves further into your apartment. You’re not sure why he’s being so quiet, you’ve never known him to be such a way. Stopping at your kitchen counter, he turns to look at you as he runs his curls through his hair. Whether it was nerves or habit, you weren’t sure. Either way, it was distracting.

“I noticed something…earlier,” the last word tacts on to his sentence as though it was an afterthought. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning into your kitchen counter before he crosses his ankles too. The look on his face makes your chest tighten, his jaw clenched as he eyes stay locked with yours. You feel like a fish out of water because this isn’t the Joaquin you’re so used to—shameless, flirty, sweet—all things you could handle, but this? Smoldering, cocky, and all of it so intensively directed at you; you could hardly stand on your own two feet.

You feel stuck in your place for a second, and it takes every fiber of will in your body to push you forward. The sound of your fluffy slippers slide across the wooden floors, and you try not to focus too much on them for fear of the embarrassment drowning you. Joaquin watches you every step of the way, eyes trained on your body in a way that makes you burn.

At first, you make your way to stand before him, but then decide to change course at the last second and place yourself on the back of your couch. Making yourself comfortable on the plush furniture, one leg crosses over the other, and you use your left hand to support your body weight. It might be your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear you can feel Joaquin’s eyes trail up your leg, up to your exposed thigh. Instinctively, your thighs squeeze together.

“What did you notice?” you finally ask, voice sounding awfully loud in the dark room.

His stance is unchanged, only his shift as he averts from your body back to your eyes. Voice considerably lower than before, Joaquin says, “You said my name.”

Confusion washes over you. “What?”

Joaquin pushes himself away from the marble countertop. He takes one calculated step towards you, hands still crossed tight across his pecs. Looking at the floor, Joaquin claims, “I’ve known you for five years.”

Swallowing, you meekly contribute, “That’s a long time.”

Dimples pressing into his cheek as he smirks, looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Oh, for sure,” his voice is raspy and you hate the effect it has on you. Even more mortifying, his tone is mocking. “Back in Kirtland, post-op in Kandahar, even on that trial mission in White Sand,” for every location he takes a step closer to you. “It’s always been just Torres to you.” His voice cracks, and it almost feels like he’s coming undone by the realization. “You’ve never said my real name once.” He sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, as if he was debating the predicament.

Standing in front of you, his hands drop from their previously defensive position and instead land on either side of you, trapping you on the couch. Without thought, the hand you were previously using to support your weight finds itself on his right bicep, gripping for both support and a reckless anticipation. Leaning down, he forces you to look him in the eye as he whispers, “Until today.”

It’s inevitable, the way you shrink under his gaze; you can’t help it, he’s just being so damn intense. But he doesn’t let you. His left index and thumb cups your chin, forcing your gaze back to him. “Why?” he questions.

Words are fleeting and your brain short circuits. You don’t know that you have an answer to his question. Why did you always call him by his last name? Lips agape in thought, you recall the first time you met Joaquin.

The suffocatingly hot base in Kirtland could never leave you even if you tried, the dry air and burning concrete haunted your dreams. It wasn’t a pretty place to be.

You had just finished doing your fourth intake in a row. Rolling through physicals for every soldier on base was going to be the biggest pain in your ass. Sweat was dripping down your temple and you had wiped it away with an angry sigh, internally cursing for subjecting yourself to this role. That was when he walked in. Laughing.

You remembered being so annoyed when you first heard it ring through the air. ‘Who the hell can laugh in these conditions?’ you bitterly thought to yourself.

Then you turned around.

His laughter filled the space and you watched as he threw his head back, shoulders loose with an aura of confidence and carefreeness that you’ve yet to see on the bleak base. Your head roared with the sound of his voice and it felt like the room belonged to just him.

That’s when he turned to face you, his dimples deep and eyes shining, radiating a sort of charm and charisma that had you swallowing for reasons other than your dry mouth from the weather.

“Hey, doc. Heard I’m up next.” There was a remnant of laughter still remaining in his voice. He pulled his helmet off, sweaty curls sticking to his sun kissed skin, and you knew you were fucked.

“Yup. Torres.” Your hand had caught the pen that had started to slip. “Right up here.”

You drew the line then, between you and him, because you knew he would have drowned you otherwise.

But he didn’t need to know that.

- smut warning -

“I never thought about it.” To others, your sutter would’ve given you away, but Joaquin was watching you so closely you’re sure he didn’t even hear you complete your sentence before interjecting.

“You’re lying.” All hints of teasing from his voice are gone as he leans in closer to you.

Your fingers tighten around his bicep, feeling the way it flexes as you dig your nails into his skin. “This is wrong,” you whisper. It’s the last line of defense that you have, and even you can hear how weak your resolve sounds.

“Say my name,” Joaquin demands, but you hear the hidden plea lying within.

“Torres—”

“My actual name.”

You can feel yourself trembling, thighs clenched in suspense. Your nails dig deeper. His hold on your face tightens, but you don’t feel trapped. Heart beating wildly in your chest, you know that once you cross this line with him, there is no going back.

“Joaquin—”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat before his lips slide over yours. Your hand drops from his bicep, instead curling up to the nape of his neck to tug onto his curls. Joaquin’s own hands wrap around you, one circled tightly around your waist, the other curling up your back to hold the nape of your neck.

The kiss is heated, raw passion from both sides as the two of you push back and forth between one another, trying to assert dominance.

Joaquin wins in the end, his canines coming down to bite your lower lip, inadvertently making you gasp. He easily slips his tongue into your mouth and you can feel his cocky smirk. It makes you pull his hair, and he lets out a groan followed by a breathless laugh that goes straight to your core.

His hips press against you and your legs part instinctively. Joaquin wastes no time taking advantage of the access, pulling you closer to him. He’s everywhere. His hands are trailing along your sides, getting knotted in your hair, brushing against your back. Joaquin’s signature scent clings on to you and it makes you unbearably hot, your thin robe suddenly not providing enough ventilation.

Breaking away, you gasp, the burning in your lungs a strong reminder of the necessities of oxygen. Joaquin doesn’t seem to have the same needs though, as his lips begin trailing downward without hesitation. A pause against your neck and a not-so-gentle bite against the puncture of your shoulder causes you to let out a moan, arching into him.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your neck, the word drawn. A silent apology is offered in the way he kisses the wound, tongue poking out to soothe the skin, before continuing on his downward path. One large palm grips at your thigh, massaging the tissue. Each press of his mouth, his touch leaves you aching.

When his kisses move from your shoulder to the center of your chest, you feel Joaquin begin to get down on one knee.

“Wait,” you grasp at his shoulders. Joaquin stops, all movement halting, and he looks up with you with eyes blown wide. His pupils nearly swallow his honey brown irises. “If we do this, everything changes,” your words are airy, carrying a truth that you’ve been too scared to admit.

“Baby, we’re long past that.” You see him pause. “But if you’ve changed your mind, we don’t have to do this.” And you know he’s telling the truth. If you say the word now, this all stops.

A beat passes.

The pressure of your palm hands on Joaquin’s shoulder, pushing him towards the ground. He does a shit job at hiding the enthusiastic smile that breaks out on his face, and he wastes no time in pulling you back into him. His broad, large form forces your legs further apart as he leaves a sequence of kisses from your sternum down to your navel. They’re sloppy, and rushed, as if he couldn’t get enough. You can’t help but throw your head backwards, eyes closing in pleasure.

Your robe falls open with no resistance, and Joaquin kneels before you. His hands rub both of your thighs, a slight grip to them as he sucks in a breath of admiration. Palms round from the side of your thighs to the plump of your ass, where Joaquin greedily squeezes before pulling you forward in one swift motion. You nearly fall off the back of the couch, but he makes sure it doesn’t happen, strong arms bracketing you in.

Meeting you halfway, his face is already buried in the junction where your thigh and cunt meet. He’s so bitey you realize, hissing when he sucks yet another mark on your left inner thigh. No apology to be found from him this time though, as he switches his focus to your right thigh, placing sweet kisses along your skin. You’re so aware of his hands, now placed tightly on your waist, clenching and unclenching as he explores you.

You can’t help but squirm impatiently. He was so close to where you wanted him, you could feel his breath and God if that didn’t make you wet. Oblivious to your predicament, Joaquin just continues to leave marks all over your legs. Your clit begins to throb at the neglect, and you grow frustrated, nails digging into your couch.

“Joaquin…” His name comes out in a sort of a whine.

“Shh,” he blows into your left thigh, “Ten paciéncia, princesa.” (Be patient, princess).

You’re about to complain again when you feel him. His tongue, flat and warm, licking a wide strip from your entrance all the way to your clit. The touch is overwhelming, and you let out a gasp, hand coming forward to grip the curls on the crown of Joaquin’s head. It seems that only motivates him though, as after that initial touch, something snaps.

Joaquin doesn’t hold back, his mouth gently latching onto your clit, tongue flicking the sensitive bud rhythmically. He alternates his attention between there and your hole, his hands moving from your waist to circle around your thighs, palms clenching the inner flesh unyielding, actively preventing you from squirming.

Your legs dangle helplessly over his shoulders, robe sliding down both your arms. The piece of fabric was merely decorative at this point, sprawled out on either side of you, barely held on by your elbows. But, still, the feel of the silk was such a stark contrast to your burning skin that it sent volts of arousal through you. The hand not gripping Joaquin’s hair moves up to grab your right breast, and the fabric dragging along your skin only makes your nipples tighten more.

Hungry in a way that was driving you insane, Joaquin’s lapping at any drop of arousal coming out of you, his head buried so deep in your lap you’re confident that his lungs have to be burning. The bridge of his nose nudges against your bundle of nerves with every lick, providing the slightest bit of pressure but not quite enough. It’s driving you insane.

“Fucking hell, you taste so good, baby.” It’s the only time he’s separated from your cunt since getting on his knees. When he looks up at you, you can’t help the way your hole clenches around nothing. Absolutely debauched, the lower half of his face is covered in your slick, eyes hooded as though he were drunk. They start at your face before dragging down to your chest, where they pin themselves to your hand on your chest. Joaquin can only groan again.

It’s all he offers before delving back in, his tongue exploring you almost expertly, as if he was trying to memorize your anatomy. Suddenly, you feel the rough pads of his thumb circle your clit, and the added sensation has you panting, your own fingers giving your nipples a pinch.

He spreads your leg impossibly wider, arranging himself so that his hand can comfortably fit between your thigh and his head. You feel a thick finger press against your hole before sliding in with ease. It was both of you moaning—you in satisfaction and him in appreciation.

One finger turns to two, Joaquin pushing them in and out, fingers curling inside you. He moves with precision, intention, watching the way you react. Suddenly, your breathing changes, hitching when he hits that spot. Joaquin recognizes it immediately, focusing his fingers on swirling that soft center inside you. Your moans get higher in pitch and your pulsing around his hand.

You’re getting close, your grip on his hair releasing and instead moving back to grip the couch. He can feel it, the way you’re fluttering around him and he watches as you throw your head back.

Just when you’re about to cum, all touch is lost.

“What—” you start, the word tumbling out before you truly even process the loss of sensation.

You whine his name but are instantly silenced by the feeling of his lip on yours as he whispers, “I know, baby, I know.” Too overstimulated to recognize what’s going on, you focus all of your attention on returning his kiss instead of the emptiness inside you.

Joaquin’s hands find themselves on your ass again, but this time, instead of groping the flesh, he tucks them underneath to lift you effortlessly off the couch. His lips never leave yours. Instinctively, your hand comes up and wraps themselves around his neck, a finger twirling the hair at the back of his neck.

Clumsily, he navigates your clashing bodies through your apartment. Your back slams into your photo wall in the hallway leading to your bedroom, but neither of you pay mind to the sound of clattering frames hitting the floor.

“Joaquin,” you break away from the kiss. He hums in response, landing kisses on the corner of your lips and cheeks. “Your shoulder,” you continue, though your eyes close at the feeling of him finding your neck again.

“Doesn’t matter,” he rushes out, desperation lacing his tone. “Doesn’t hurt,” he insists.

It’s all the reassurance you need. You know you should care more, but you simply don’t. You find each other again, his plush lips slotting over yours. The kisses were more teeth than lips now as the two of you pant urgently, barely breathing.

“Which one’s your room,” Joaquin’s words come out in a slur and you quickly answer, “Left, go left.” He pushes you against the wall beside your bedroom, hastily ripping off your robe before lifting you again.

Your back is pressed against the door for a split second before it slams against your bedroom wall. For a split second, you worry about the damage, but then Joaquin’s whimpering and all thoughts leave your head.

The plush comforter is a welcome contrast from the scratchy couch and solid walls as Joaquin lays you down with haste. Climbing over you, you can finally fully appreciate how burly he is, his entire body pressing against yours. But it’s not enough.

It’s unfair, your hazy mind protests. He has too much on. “Take it off,” you fuss, hands pawing at his fitted Air Force tee. Joaquin can’t help but snicker at how bratty you’re being, but compiles wordlessly. Leaning back on his haunches, Joaquin pulls off the material in one swift movement. You chase after him, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch.

Chiseled with moonlight gleaming across his chest from your open curtain, your mouth salivates. You’ve seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, but that was different. All those times before, he wasn’t so available for your perusing and he especially wasn’t looking at you like that.

It wasn’t enough, though.

Your eyes cast themselves downward, growing irate at the sight of the secured belt around his waist, but the sight of the sizable tent in his jeans provided some consolation. Hands latching themselves onto his buckle, you use his steadiness to pull yourself up to him. With your chin tilted upwards, he meets your wordless request halfway, and it distracts him well enough that he can’t feel you unfastening the leather with eager hands.

Pulling back, the belt comes with you with a smooth whoosh, but the two of you hardly care as you toss it onto the ground with a loud thump.

Joaquin isn’t off the hook that easily, though, as your hand refinds purchase on the denim of his jeans, palming him through the material. The slight damp patch at the front makes your head spin. He’s big you realize, even though the thick fabric, and it has you clenching again. Your stomach burns at the thought of him inside you.

Gracelessly, Joaquin settles you back down on the bed and goes to shimmy off the rest of his clothes. He almost faceplants into your tits, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles. He’s still him despite it all and it spreads a sense of reassurance through you.

Any sense of amusement dissipates once he pulls his briefs off, though. His cock stands tall and is practically weeping, the tip leaking beads of precum in a way that makes you bite your lip. Even in the dark, he’s impressive to look at.

Still on his haunches, Joaquin’s right hand gives his length a few pumps and the sight has you entranced.

“Spit on my hand,” he demands. He moves to hunch his body over yours, his skin practically buzzing with energy. Eyes locked with his, you lift up your head. Turning your head to the side, you nuzzle your cheek against the comforting heat of his awaiting palm before parting your mouth, letting it fall, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck, you’re g’nna ruin me,” he pants, voice ragged. Your saliva pools in his palm and Joaquin watches, transfixed at the thin strand of spit between the corner of your mouth and his hand. Unable to help himself, his thumb finds itself wiping it away, but not without dipping itself into the warmth of your mouth along the way. When you bite down on the appendage before giving it a gentle suck, Joaquin hisses, his jaw clenching.

It’s your turn to watch him as he takes the liquid and spreads it all along the stretch of his achingly hard cock. Eyes closed, Joaquin moans in your ear and you spread your legs in response. Still stroking himself, Joaquin leans down to capture your lips in another kiss. His forearm rests besides your head, and your own hand comes up to grab it, holding it as an anchor.

You feel him slip his dick between your legs. The lubrication allows him to easily slide between the folds of pussy, grinding himself against you in a way that has his tip nudging your clit. The friction was enough to make you go delirious and all you can do is moan, lifting your hips up to meet his movements in greed. His other hand goes to constrain you, pushing you back down into the mattress.

The exasperation you feel is short-lived, your complaint turning into a moan as Joaquin pushes his thick head past your hole. It’s a tight fit, the initial breach, despite the amplitude of preparation. Inch by inch, you feel Joaquin press into you slowly. His fist is clenched beside your head and you feel the muscle of his forearm flex as he restrains himself.

Buried to the hilt, Joaquin drops his forehead against yours, breath fanning over your face. Your legs burn, the way they’re stretched so wide to accommodate his figure.

“Give me a sec, baby,” he heaves before rasping, “‘Try’na not to make a fool of myself right now.”

The confession has you pulsing around him, unable to provide any real response when all you could feel was his thick, hard cock embedded deep inside you. But you needed him to move, it was too much, just feeling him pulse inside of you. Despite his hand on your hip, you roll your waist and pleadingly mewl.

“Mierda,” Joaquin hisses, you feel his hand beside your head grip the pillow you lay your head on as he snaps. Any restraint he was holding onto slips away as he hikes your leg over his shoulder and begins pounding into you relentlessly.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I can’t,” Joaquin is just rambling, his words all rushing out garbled as his hips snaps against yours again and again and again. You’re not much better, a puddle of whimpers below him, just holding on as his cock hits your pleasure center over and over and over. You feel tears brimming your eyes and you turn your face into his forearm, a babbling mess.

Joaquin rounds his back as he leans down, but it’s not your face he searches for this time. Instead, his wet lips attach to an achingly hard nipple. If you were a mess before, there were no words to describe you now as your hand fists his curls. You arch into him, forcing more if your tits into his face, to which Joaquin has no complaints.

Salacious sounds fill your room and the air starts to grow humid, not that you or Joaquin notice.

His tongue swirls around your sensitive bud, teeth grazing over it before soothing over it with a flat lick. Joaquin can barely contain himself, saliva slipping past his lips, spreading over your chest. Once he’s satisfied with one side, Joaquin effortlessly slips over to your other nipple. His treatment is the same, but you’re growing more sensitive with each touch. With his cock splitting you open and the intense attention on your chest, you were getting close again.

It was overwhelming, and you can’t help the whine, but Joaquin only shushes you.

“’S okay,” he says in between licks. “Know you can take it,” pinning you down to the mattress.

Detaching, Joaquin begins to bite marks onto your chest, nips here and there, before he unsheathes himself from you completely. A rough slap against your thigh from one of his calloused hands is all the signal you need. Without a word exchanged, you flip onto your front. Your forearms are flat against the pillow, head face down, as you arch your back for him, his hands guiding you the whole way.

You hear Joaquin mutter something behind you, but it’s too quiet for you to hear. Suddenly, a resounding smack fills the air and the force pushes you forward, moaning his name. You feel a hand on each one of your ass cheeks, Joaquin massaging the skin, before they slide up your back. He asserts pressure on your lower back, all the way up to the side of your breasts, and it feels good.

Joaquin’s body follows his hands and you feel his broad, firm body press against his back once he’s done. Both his forearms find themselves bracing either side of your head this time, but before settling Joaquin takes the time to move your hair away from your face. Delicately, he places it over your right shoulder, and you turn your head to look at him. A kiss is placed upon your shoulder, then your jaw, before he places a soft one against your lips.

At the same time, his tip is penetrating you again, and you moan into each others’ mouths. Hips slapping against your ass, your hands grip the pillow below you to brace yourself. His strokes are a stark contrast to his tender acts earlier, persistent in his pursuit of your pleasure, rocking firmly into you.

In this position, your moans are unrestricted, spilling out of you with no control.

Joaquin bites your shoulder, gritting and breathless when he admits, “Needed this.” He slaps your ass. Groaning, “Needed you.”

The words ignite something in you, his words traveling up your spine in a burn. Moaning Joaquin’s name, you interlace your fingers with his beside your head. You needed him just as badly. With his hand in yours, you’re grounded, and it’s all you need to start matching Joaquin halfway. Back arched, you begin to push yourself back onto Joaquin’s cock. You feel his hand clench around your digits.

The two of you work together, finding a fast and messy pace. Every push of his hips forces a gasp from your lips. Your bodies start to grow slick with sweat, but it only motivates you further.

Suddenly, Joaquin releases his grip from your hand, sliding his palm over to the base of your neck.

He doesn’t quite grasp your throat, but the pressure is there, and you swear you couldn’t have gotten any wetter than you already were but somehow you do.he thrusts into you.

Effortlessly, Joaquin lifts the two of you up. With your back to his chest, arched in the air, you have nothing to ground you, so your hand grips Joaquin’s forearm where his hand is choking you. Your other hand reaches back towards him and grip the tense muscle of his thigh. Joaquin continues thrusting into you, pace unwavering despite the change of position.

Your head falls back onto his shoulder and he can feel your moans reverberating against the palm of his hand. The other grips your waist as he continues to slam into you. The new arrangement has the head of his cock pressing into you just right and you feel a familiar fiery sensation start to build.

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Right there, Joaquin, please.” You’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for, but you hardly have any thoughts right now other than how pleasure absolutely consumes you.

“You g’nna cum for me?” You don’t answer instantly, only focused on the way his dick absolutely stuffs you.

Moments later, you’re teetering on the edge. “Yes, yes, yes,” you chant over and over again, mind blankly. Pressure continues to build as Joaquin keeps himself consistent, a lewd noises only spurring you on further.

When Joaquin’s hand squeezes your throat just right, the coil snaps. Bouncing faster on Joaquin, you chase after your high.

“Yeah, just like that baby, cream all over my cock,” Joaquin encourages and it only makes you moan louder. Thighs trembling, your fingers dig into his skin and hold on for dear life. Hot, blooming pleasure travels from your core to the rest of your body and you bite down on your lip to hold back a cry. Waves of pleasure roll through you, muscles tightening in the aftermath.

The way you were clenching so tightly around Joaquin has him whimpering. He was trying, he really, really was, but you were squeezing so damn warm. So damn tight. His brows furrow, mouth parting as he helps you through your orgasm.

“I’m close. Baby, I’m so close,” he groans.

“I’m on birth control,” you rush out hastily. You’re not sure what came over you, cock-drunk, surely, but you just needed him so bad. Every part of him. If he pulled out now, you’d die, you were sure of it.

Joaquin says something in Spanish that you can’t quite hear or understand and before you know it, he has you flipped back around. In the midst of the movement, he’d pull his cock out, but once you were on your back, he thrust himself hip deep into you with no second to spare.

He’s driving his dick into you, your pussy fluttering over him after your orgasm. Joaquin gives you no time to recover as he finds an impalpably quick speed. As if he can’t get enough, Joaquin desperately ruts himself into you, barely able to hold back his cries of pleasure. With your growing overstimulation, you know your voice is matching his all the same.

When you clench around him again, he comes undone. Letting out a string of curses, Joaquin throws his head back as he slams into you, hips snapping into yours so strongly you’re sure you’ll ache tomorrow.

The feeling of his hot, thick cum spurting into you has you clenching again. He fills you so completely and it’s so electrifying, you feel a familiar pressure build in your lower stomach again.

Steadily, Joaquin begins to slow his thrusts, and you feel the way he pushes his cum further into you with each push. When Joaquin finally pulls out, both of you groan at the loss of sensation. Without looking, you can feel your slick mixed with his starting to spill out of you.

“Shit,” he curses, hand coming up to push sweaty curls away from his eyes. Letting out a chuckle, Joaquin leans down and gives you a long kiss.

A wet rag, a cup of cold water, and one Air Force t-shirt hanging over your shoulder later, you and Joaquin are tucked cozily under a blanket that you had him pull out from your closet. Your usual comforter is now on a heap on the floor of your bedroom, and you try not to think about the way it might be permanently stained with unspeakable fluids.

Joaquin’s fingers gently scratch your back, up and down, in a rhythmic fashion as you rest your head on his pecs—your own fingers tracing a pattern on his chest. It’s quiet and dark, save for the glow of the moon and your small TV from across the room.

“I’ve had a crush on you since the first day we met.” Joaquin’s voice cracks at first as he whispers, breaking the silence.

The confession makes your fingers halt. Palm flat against his chest, you use the leverage to push yourself up to look at him.

Blinking lazily, Joaquin’s face is earnest, brows raised as though he’s waiting for you.

“You did?”

“Pft,” Joaquin’s head rolls to the side, “Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

Stuttering, you look at him with wide eyes, “I didn’t. I had no idea.”

Joaquin places his own hand over the one you have over his chest before sitting up straighter. “Mami, I flirted with you every chance I got.”

“You’re Joaquin,” you insist. “You flirt with everyone.”

He looks at you with his lower lip jutted outward, shaking his head. “No…not everyone. Just you.”

You pause. “Huh…” is all you offer before you place your head back down, the two of you settling once more. All Joaquin can do is chuckle as he moves to rub your back. Sleep almost has you in its clutch when Joaquin’s voice breaks you out of your trance.

“Were you watching British Bake Off?”

The smell of coffee is the first thing that greets you before anything else does the next morning. The ache in your body is the second.

Groaning, you make your way towards your kitchen to what you believe to be the prettiest sight you’ve ever witnessed.

Shirtless and tan, hair tousled from sleep and…other activities, Joaquin stands so proudly in your kitchen, it was as though he belonged.

“Good morning, princesa,” a familiar dimpled face turns to you, holding your favorite mug. You take in the marks on his neck when he passes you the cup, and you're grateful for the steam as it provides enough of a cover for your heating face.

You sip your coffee quietly, watching Joaquin from the rim of your mug. He appreciates the attention, which is a surprise to none.

After picking up his own cup, he takes a sip before turning to you with raised brow. “Like what you see?” he asks before flexing his muscles.

“Oh, gag.” You wipe your smile on his face, but it doesn’t deter Joaquin, who can sense your amusement lying beneath.

“Come on, I put in some serious work last night so I know these bad boys have never looked better.”

You just walk past him with a head shake and a slap to the shoulder. “It’s nice to know that even after losing a nightful of sleep in favor of sex, you still have enough energy to outrun a golden retriever.” You slide into your breakfast nook, placing the half empty coffee cup on the table with both hands wrapped around it.

Joaquin slides in next to you, effortlessly. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Your humor fades as you turn to Joaquin. “Okay, what is it?” You try to not let your mind race.

“Remember our fight?” he asks. You only hum in acknowledgement. “You said something that’s kind of been on my mind.” A pit forms in your stomach at his confrontation.

“When you said you couldn’t watch me ‘crash and burn’...” Joaquin pauses, and your heart squeezes in your chest. He holds up his pointer and thumb, the space between them miniscule as he asks, “You were being a little on the nose don’t you think?”

It takes a second for you to process. Once you realize he was only messing with you, you couldn’t stop yourself from slapping his hand away. “Oh my God, you asshole! You scared me!”

Joaquin’s loud laugh fills your kitchen, and his bubbly demeanor makes your armor crack, unable to stop the smile that forms on your face, too.

Continuing to joke, Joaquin states, “I mean, come on. That part was a little cruel, even for you.”

You let out a laugh of disbelief. “You were being a dick to me, I had to say something.” You defend yourself.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nods, face serious. “But you’re still going to have to make it up to me.” His hand comes up to cup the back of your head.

“Well, jeez,” you concede. “I don’t know what I could possibly do to make up for such a big offense.” Your palm rests on his chest, face leaning towards his.

“Oh, I could think of a few things.”

end.

a/n: this is my first ever smut so meep, thank u for reading. lmk what u think! comments and rb's appreciated, mwah mwah mwah

#Joaquin Torres #Joaquin Torres fluff #Joaquin Torres angst #Joaquin Torres smut #love-chx

2K notes · View notes

althaiareads · 8 days ago

Text

“Because I don’t like it when people take what’s mine,” he replies.

Maverick quickly joins you with a pitcher of water and two cups, and a box of tissues. “I’m going to start charging you kids for these therapy sessions,” he sighs.

I love how in every single Top Gun fic, Maverick is the therapist. But also, imagine the amount of tea this man has? He got to hear the two sides of the story hours apart.

I love him for reassuring her. She needed someone to tell her the big bad wolf was not going to get the love of her life.

You feel his lips curl into a smile. “A little less now, but you should keep kissing it better.”

AWWWWWW THEY ARE SO CUTE. They deserve it, after the years of pining, lmao.

He chuckles. “Oh, baby, you better get used to it. You’re going to hear a whole lot more come out of my mouth tonight.”

could be me ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but a few years ago your father threatened to ruin rooster's career if you didn't get over your stupid crush and find an honourable man - so you date assholes to protect rooster, but it's getting harder to stay away from the boy you're in love with (loosely inspired by this song)

notes: okay, i admit defeat!!! i am in love with this man and it is consuming my life! i was so excited to write this, but i rewrote it and rewrote it, and it still doesn't feel right :( i hope it isn't too awful, but i promise i'm going to write something perfect for this boy, because wow, i love him... please let me know what you think! good or bad, i love feedback!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship/s (nothing detailed or major), negative father / daughter relationship, one brief mention of 'offing oneself', very little and most likely incorrect knowledge about the us navy, and some generally poor writing i'm sorry

word count: 10597

“That guy sucks,” Mickey mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle.

The whole squad is jammed into a booth on the beach-side of The Hard Deck bar, their necks craned and eyes fixed on the large blond man towering over their best friend at one of the tall tables beside the jukebox.

“He’s so rude,” Natasha states, “and cold.”

The only one not blatantly staring across the bar is Bradley. He’s too busy picking at the soggy label on his half-drunk beer and sulking. The corners of his mouth have been turned down from the moment you walked through the door with that hulking mass of man muscle by your side.

“Rooster,” Reuben says, nudging his friend’s side and knocking him out of his imaginary pity party.

Bradley glances up, “Hm?”

“Move, I need to get another drink.”

Realising why he had been feeling pressure on his right side, Bradley sighs and slides out of the booth, allowing his friend to shuffle across to freedom.

“Do you want a drink?” Reuben asks.

Bradley shakes his head and slumps back into the booth, returning his attention to the beer bottle’s label.

“Why is she with him?” Mickey asks, his brows furrowed.

“He’s got money,” Bradley replies dryly, “and rank.”

Natasha shoots him a scowl. “Come on, Rooster. Y/N’s not that shallow.”

Bradley scoffs, “You want to bet?”

Her brown eyes glance toward you, watching as your hand grips the thick forearm of the blond boy toy standing over you. She grimaces and shakes her head. “No, not really.”

“Exactly,” Bradley sighs, leaning back in the booth and finally dragging his eyes up to look at his friends. “Her dad has high standards and apparently dating some stupid commander with more bicep than brain and more money than manhood is her idea of being the perfect daughter.”

“You sound jealous,” Jake states, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Bradley snorts a laugh, though there’s no amusement behind it. It’s dry. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Hangman?”

Before Jake can answer the rhetorical question, Mickey pipes up. “Who’s her dad, again?”

Natasha sighs, turning her head to face him. “The admiral,” she replies, “you know, Cyclone’s superior.”

“Shit, that’s right,” Mickey says. “He’s terrifying.”

Reuben returns to the table with wide eyes, gingerly setting four beers on the table before ushering at Bradley to scootch further into the booth. “Oh, my God,” he says as he sits down. “I just asked Y/N if she wanted to join us, and that dude basically growled at me.”

“Gross,” Natasha mutters, before taking a generous swig of her fresh beer.

“I did catch his name, though,” Reuben adds. “Johnny.”

Bradley scoffs, “Johnny.”

The squad spend the better part of the next hour making fun of the man whose arm is draped across your shoulders, all but Bradley. He’s too busy scratching the label off his beer bottle and shoving all thoughts of you and your newest Ken Doll out of his mind.

Across the bar, you pinch the stem of your wine glass between your thumb and forefinger and start moving it in small circles, making the yellowish liquid swirl. You hate white wine, but Johnny doesn’t seem to recall you mentioning that on your date last week. His arm is heavy on your shoulders, compressing your spine and making your neck ache as you try to maintain a decent posture on the uncomfortably high stool. You’ve never liked sitting at the tall bar tables, you prefer a booth.

It takes all your self-control not to gaze across the bar to where you’d rather be. It wasn’t that you hadn’t expected your friends to be in their usual booth at The Hard Deck on a Saturday afternoon, but when Johnny asked you to get drinks with him and meet his friends, you’d still hoped they wouldn’t be here. Especially Bradley.

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since you were ten years old. He was the first boy to ever make your heart skip a beat, and the only one you’ve ever truly fallen in love with. Not that you’ll willingly admit that last part to anyone but your own reflection, and even then, you need a considerable amount of liquid courage to do so.

When your father, the admiral, was assigned to assist in overseeing the TOPGUN programme at MCAS Miramar, he moved your family to San Diego, right next door to the Bradshaws. Your mother and Carole Bradshaw became quick and close friends, and you soon learnt all about Bradley’s late father and the man who had since stepped in to help raise Bradley.

Your father wasn’t subtle about disliking the Bradshaws, or more specifically, Pete Mitchell, but your mother couldn’t have cared less. You spent most of your weekends and summer days with Bradley, since your mothers were practically inseparable, and the same was soon said for the two of you. It didn’t matter that Bradley was a few years older, you simply matchedeach other’s energies. Soulmates, Carole would say.

Years passed and you both grew, but your crush never wavered. You were there the day his mother passed away, and the day he sent his application in to the Naval Academy. You were also there the day he found out that it was Pete who pulled his papers, and if you close your eyes and think back hard enough, you can still hear the screaming and shouting.

It got a little complicated after that. Bradley decided that he was going to study at UVA for the four years before he could reapply to the academy, and despite your heart’s protests, you helped him pack and promised to look after his family’s home while he was gone. Without the honey-eyed boy next door to spend all your time with, you focused on school and growing up. Bradley would call every now and then, mostly to let your mom know that he was doing okay, but he didn’t visit for two whole years.

It was the year you turned eighteenth that everything changed. You were in your front yard, wearing your favourite red bathing suit and trying to water the poor, sunburnt flowers back to life. When Bradley turned the Bronco into his driveway, he nearly drove right through the garage door, slamming the brakes on just in time. His jaw popped open and his eyes almost fell out of his head as he stared at you bopping along to whatever music was playing in your headphones.

It took you more than a minute to notice the car in the driveway next door, but once you did you dropped the hose and ran across the lawn, jumping over the short fence that divided your yards. Bradley didn’t move until you wrenched the driver’s side door open and asked if he was okay, and he certainly was not okay when you wrapped your arms around him and pressed your scantily clad body against his.

After that, he visited a lot more. Every break he could, he would fly across the country to see you, and if he couldn’t come to San Diego, you would fly to him. The two of you gave ‘inseparable’ a whole new meaning. You spoke every day, sent each other letters and packages containing thoughtful presents or silly gifts, and whenever you could, you would video chat for hours on end. There wasn’t a single day that went by that you didn’t feel a tug in your gut toward the boy across the country who you were head over heels in love with.

Eventually, he reapplied and was accepted into the Naval Academy. You were happy for him, of course, but the bubble in which you were living had to pop at some point. It was harder to see him while he was in the academy, and even harder when graduated and got deployed, but the hardest part was not knowing where he was.

One morning, when you were on your way out the door to work, your father stopped you. He told you that Bradley had been accepted into the TOPGUN programme and would be moving back to San Diego for a while, but the look on his face was a stark contrast to the excitement on yours. It was that morning that really burst your bubble. You’d created this imaginary little world where Bradley would eventually come home to you, kiss you, and tell you that it’s always been you, but your father wasn't going to let that happen.

He lectured you for twenty minutes about the fact that Bradley Bradshaw is not good enough for you. He told you that he’s been holding it in for long enough, because your mother had begged him not to interfere with your life and your choices, but he can’t take it anymore. He said that Bradley is a flighty boy from a mixed-up family, raised by a dishonourable man, and he isn’t wealthy or worthy enough for you. He told you to let go of your stupid crush and find an honourable who could make you happy, or else he would ruin Bradley’s career.

Any sane person would have told him to fuck off, but you were too young and too scared, and you loved Bradley too damn much to risk something he’s worked so hard for. So you simply nodded and slipped out the door, spending the next few weeks avoiding your father and mourning the loss of a relationship that never was.

It was about that time that you started dating assholes. You couldn’t live in a world without Bradley, but you had to protect him, so you always had an honourable commander or captain on your arm to distract your father. You stayed close with Bradley, even when he flew off around the world again. When he was called back to TOPGUN for a special detachment, you were over the moon, and everything seemed to fall into place after the uranium mission. The dagger squadron became a permanent unit based on North Island, and you quickly became friends with the whole group.

After years of distance and uncertainty, everything feels good. That is, except for your shitshow of a love life that is getting harder to maintain as you juggle keeping your father happy while also trying to assure your friends that you’re not a clinical masochist who enjoys toxic relationships.

“Babe,” Johnny’s voice knocks you back into reality. “You good?”

You blink a few times, trying to refocus on the man sitting beside you instead of the waves out the window. “Sorry,” you say. “Just daydreaming.”

He chuckles. “What could you possibly have to daydream about when I’m sitting right here.”

Your eyes betray you, casting their gaze across the bar toward your friends, landing on the boy with the golden-brown hair. Johnny sighs, as if exasperated by you. “If you want to go see your little friends so badly, then go.”

You force yourself to shake your head. “Don’t be silly. I’m here with you, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Except squished into that booth beside Bradley, breathing in his scent and feeling his thigh pressed firmly against your own.

Johnny smirks before leaning forward with puckered lips. You try not to seem awkward as you lean forward and give him a kiss, but you can’t help feeling uncomfortable under the hard stares of his friends.

“I’m just going to get another drink,” you say, slipping off the high bar stool. You hurry away from the table before he can point out that you haven’t touched your wine, beelining for the bathrooms.

Once safely in the fluorescent lit lavatory, you plant both hands on the vanity and stare at your red cheeks in the mirror. You’re not sure why, but it’s getting harder being with men like Johnny. It used to be easy to pretend, to flip your hair and bite your lip, and flirt until they believed that you were into them, but lately, all you can think about is Bradley.

His soft hair and tan skin. The way his mouth curls into a smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His broad shoulders, long legs, and the way that every move he makes is so sure. When you close your eyes, all you can see are his honey-brown irises staring back at you, making you blush even when you’re miles apart. It’s like there’s a rope anchored in your gut and the other end is tied to Bradley. It used to be loose and languid, giving and taking as needed, but now its taut. One end of the rope is being wound up, pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. You worry that one day you’re going to wake up unable to breathe without him near you.

“Fuck,” you sigh, smacking your left hand on the vanity. “This is ridiculous.” You look up at your reflection, raising your right hand to point at the mirror. “Pull yourself together.”

You wash your hands and fix your hair before exiting the bathroom. You keep your eyes trained on your destination as you walk toward the bar, finding a vacant space to lean your forearms against the dark wood.

“Hey gorgeous,” Penny says with a soft smile.

“Hey Penny, could I just get the usual, please?”

She laughs lightly. “Of course. I was a bit worried when I saw that commander hand you a white wine.”

You breathe a half-assed laugh through your nose. “He’s still in training.”

She grabs a beer from the fridge behind the bar before turning back to you with a knowing smirk. “Well, I don’t see why you keep fostering these disobedient dogs when you have a perfectly well-trained puppy at home.”

You frown, tilting your head as your mind races to decode the metaphor. Only when she glances over at the booth of your friends and back to you does it click.

Your eyes widen. “Penny!”

She laughs again before adding, “And that is a cute puppy, if I don't say so myself.”

You roll your lips to stop yourself from grinning, because yes, Bradley is an adorable puppy and you would love nothing more than to take him home with you. “Thanks for the beer, Penny,” you say before she turns away to serve another patron.

You take a long swig from the bottle before weaving your way back through the bar to Johnny and his friends. The night wears on, and you try as hard as you can to remember how to pretend but you just can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Bradley every few minutes. You know Johnny is getting annoyed too, you’re just glad that he can discern exactly which one of your friends it is who’s stealing your attention.

"Alright,” Johnny says, pushing off his stool. “Let’s get out of here.”

Your eyes snap back to him and you nod. “I just want to say hi to my friends first.”

“Whatever,” he sighs. “I’m going to take a leak.”

You watch him walk across the bar and wait until the bathroom door closes behind him to roll your eyes. You slip off the stool and quickly squeeze through the groups of people standing between you and your friends, the grin on your face growing the closer you get.

“Hey!” Natasha greets you first, her face lighting up.

Your eyes scan the familiar faces of your friends. “Hi.”

The last to look up at you is Bradley, but the moment his honey-brown eyes meet yours, the corners of his lips start to curl up. You could never get tired of seeing that smile.

Mickey gasps dramatically. “Rooster, is that a smile?”

Reuben snorts a laugh. “I didn’t know your face made that expression.”

“Shut up,” Bradley mutters, flipping his friends the bird from where his hand is resting on the tabletop.

“Anyway,” Natasha says, turning from the boys to you. “How are you?”

You drag your eyes away from Bradley. “I’m good. Sorry I didn’t come over earlier. I was meeting some of Johnny’s friends for the first time and it was a bit awkward.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We’re kind of glad you didn’t bring your new Ken doll over here.”

“Which model is this?” Mickey asks with a cheeky grin.

Reuben chuckles. “Ken on Steroids, comes with his own syringe.”

Laughter rumbles through your friends, and once again you roll and rub your lips together to stop yourself from joining in. You can’t let them know that you intentionally date douchebags, because then there will be more questions than you’re willing to answer and you're already struggling to keep those skeletons inside their closet.

“Very funny,” you sigh, before glancing over your shoulder. “I should go, but I’ll see you guys-”

“Babe!” Johnny hollers across the bar, earning a lot of confused looks. “Hurry up!”

You want to close your eyes and sink into the floor, totally embarrassed and utterly fed up with this stupid, disobedient dog. But when you glance back at your friends and your eyes easily find Bradley’s, you remember why you’re doing it.

You plaster on a smile. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you later.”

You barely hear their goodbyes as you turn and hurry through the bar toward the door. You can’t help your body from recoiling when Johnny wraps an arm around you, but you play it off by pretending to be cold. The walk to his car is silent, as is the first half of the drive, until he takes two wrong turns in a row and you realise that he isn’t driving toward your house.

“Which way are you going?” you ask.

His Cartier bracelet twinkles under the passing streetlights. “What do you mean?”

“My place is back that way.”

He sighs and shifts a little in his seat, reaching out the Cartier arm to place a hand on your thigh. “I thought you could stay at mine tonight.”

“Oh.” Your stomach swirls nauseously. “I’m actually not feeling too well, I think I should-”

“Again?” he snaps.

You take a deep breath, your hand itching to find the door handle. “Yeah, again. I probably need to go to the doctors.”

The car screeches to a halt and your body strains against the seatbelt. “Good idea,” he says. “Why don’t you go right now?”

You frown. “Now?”

He nods at the door, and only then do you realise that your hand is gripping the handle. His face is cast in shadow and streetlight, making him look more menacing than he really is. You know he only acts tough, but you’re still not willing to push it given his significant size advantage over you.

You pop the door open. “Fine.”

You’ve barely got two feet on the asphalt before he hits the gas and takes off again, speeding down the dark street and leaving you behind.

“Fuck.”

You glance around and try to find something familiar. You might have grown up here, but you definitely don’t know the area as well as you should. You know your usual places and the direct routes to and from those places, but right now you’re standing on a street you’re fairly sure you’ve never been on before. It also doesn’t help that it’s dark, because everything is different in the dark.

You pull your phone out and open your maps, using two fingers to twist and turn the map on the screen until you can figure out how far off your usual route Johnny had driven. He lives further from the base and the bar than you do, in some schmancy mansion he inherited from his parents that you hope never to see in person.

“Fuck,” you groan again. The little blue dot showing your location is a good ten miles from either the bar or your house, and you’re definitely not doing a trek like that in the middle of the night.

You flick away the maps app and pull up Uber, your thumb hovering over the location box where you should type your home address and hit enter, but you can’t stop thinking about Bradley. Even the thought of him has an effect on you now, making your insides mushy and your brain foggy. The tug in your gut has you wandering across the street in the general direction that The Hard Deck would be, and you switch from the Uber app to your contacts list. You scroll to the top where your favourites are pinned and tap on Bradley’s name without a second thought.

It only rings once. “Hello?”

“Bradley,” you say, relief washing through you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you guys still at the bar?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “What happened?”

You lean against the nearest streetlight, guilt and anticipation warring inside of you. “You can say no, but I’m kind of lost.”

“Hang on,” he mutters. You can hear shuffling and distant voices, then the squeak of a door and the background noise dies down. “What do you mean you’re lost?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, “but like I said, you can say no-”

“Where are you?” he demands. “I’m coming to get you.”

Your chest aches. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, and then the background noise returns. There’s music and chatter, and you can hear the jingle of keys while Bradley quickly explains himself to the squad.

Then there’s Mickey’s voice, loud and clear. “Go, Prince Charming! Go!”

“Fuck off,” Bradley mutters, and you can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up your throat.

There’s another few seconds of music and chatter before you hear a car door slam, and then it’s so quiet you can hear Bradley’s heavy breathing. “You still there?” he asks.

“Haven’t been kidnapped yet.”

He sighs. “Please don’t joke about that.”

You shift your shoulder against the light pole, trying to ignore the excitement in your stomach. “Don’t worry, they’d bring me back pretty quickly.”

Bradley chuckles dryly. “Not before I found you and killed them.”

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest, feeling swollen and ready to burst. “Why would you kill them?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

Maybe you are a masochist.

“Because I don’t like it when people take what’s mine,” he replies.

Your stomach does a somersault, and you wait for a laugh or a chuckle, but it doesn’t come. Bradley is dead serious right now, and somehow, he's managed to make you horny from ten miles away.

You clear your throat. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It looks like you’re near the old fire station.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker before flicking out of the call screen and tapping on the ‘Find My’ app. Bradley’s contact photo is floating on the map a small distance from your little blue dot, moving closer. You shared your locations with each other a few years ago, mostly because you wanted to see where Bradley was in the world, but it’s come in handy more than a few times. Like right now, for example.

“Thanks for doing this, by the way.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “But you do have to tell me why.”

You frown, still watching his location. “Why what?”

“Why you’re suddenly stranded when I saw you leave with your boyf-” He hesitates and clears his throat. “Your boy toy.”

You sigh and roll your head back, staring up at the dark sky for a moment before looking back down at Bradley’s slowly moving contact photo. “We had a bit of an argument and-”

“And he kicked you out of his car and left you?”

“No, no, he-” Now you hesitate. “Well, yes, technically, but putting it like that sounds bad.”

“Because it is bad!” Bradley exclaims.

You take a deep breath of cold night air before sighing it out. “I know.”

A moment of silence stretches into a couple of minutes, but neither of you hang up the phone. You know it’s for safety, in case the worst were to happen, but you also like to hear Bradley’s soft breathing. As creepy as that might sound. It’s comforting to know that he’s there and he’s on his way. He might even be mad at you for being stupid and dating an asshole, but he could never let his anger get in the way of your safety.

“Are you speeding?” you ask him.

“Um, no?”

You scoff. “Okay, that was convincing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? My best friend stranded in the middle of nowhere at midnight.”

Friend. You roll your eyes. “You’re supposed to make sure you get to her safely.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

You frown. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “Because I know you.”

Your pulse thrums harder, filling your ears and making your breath come and go in quick gasps. You don’t know what to say, because it's true. He knows you, better than you know yourself sometimes, and that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what you’re hiding from him.

“I think I see you,” he says.

Your eyes snap up toward the headlights that appear half a mile down the street. “I think I see you too.”

Your heart beats faster the closer he gets, and you wait until you can clearly recognise the front of the Bronco before hanging up your call. The car rolls to a stop in front of you, and Bradley ducks his head to look at you from the driver’s side. “Need a ride?”

He is fucking breathtaking. All golden-brown tousles and soft eyes, his lips perfectly kissable and his cheeks a little flushed.

“Mom told me not to get in strangers’ cars.”

His face breaks into a grin, and you’re pretty sure your heart stops altogether. “I have candy,” he says.

A giggle bubbles from your lips. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

You pull the door open and fall into the seat, his scent wrapping around you like a blanket. For the first time tonight, you feel safe.

“Hey,” you breathe out, staring at the boy beside you like he hung the moon. You’ve been looking at Bradley this way since you were ten years old, and sometimes you try to hide it, but after the night you’ve had, you can’t find the strength to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “I’m a lot better now.”

The light inside the car is dim and his face is partially obscured by shadow, but you’re pretty sure you can see the colour in his cheeks deepen. You search each other’s eyes for a few too many seconds before he looks away, focusing on the street ahead as the car begins to roll forward.

The drive is silent, but not in the same way it had been with Johnny. This silence is thick with something unsaid, tangible and heavy as it hangs between the two of you. His right hand is resting on the gear stick out of habit, and your fingers itch to slide between his, feel his hot skin against yours in any way possible.

He clears his throat. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

You sigh. “Do I have to?”

He glances at you and shrugs a shoulder. “No, but it might feel good to talk to a friend.”

Friend. You turn your gaze out the windscreen, focusing hard on the road ahead to avoid rolling your eyes. Maybe you should talk to someone about the shit you’re dealing with. It might be self-inflicted shit but at least complaining to someone about it might relieve some of the frustration.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you begin. “After about ten minutes of driving, I noticed that he’d taken a couple of wrong turns, so I asked where he was going, and he said I should spend the night at his house tonight.”

The steering wheel squeaks in Bradley’s tight grip.

“Are you sure you want me to tell you this?”

“Yes,” he replies, using a tone of voice that leaves no room for argument.

“Okay,” you sigh, turning back toward the road before continuing. “I told him that I didn’t feel well and just wanted to go home, but he got a little annoyed because I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks.”

“You haven’t been sick,” Bradley states, brows furrowed.

"Well, not really, but-”

“So, you’ve been lying to him?”

Your stomach twists nervously. “I guess.”

Bradley nods slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Well, anyway,” you continue, “I said that maybe I need to go to see a doctor, so he stopped the car and told me to go right now.”

Silence envelopes you both again. The only indication you have that Bradley actually heard you is the way his knuckles are turning white as he grips the steering wheel. His face is stoic, his eyes fixed on the road but still distant. You know this look, it's the look he gets when he’s stuck in his thoughts.

You don’t want to interrupt him for the fear of being scolded. You know Bradley would never belittle you or tell you that you're stupid because of the decisions you make, but there’s no doubt that he’s mad at you for putting your own safety at risk.

He doesn’t speak until the car stops in the garage beneath his apartment block, and only then do you realise that he hadn’t driven you to your place. He moved here when the dagger squad got their permanent placements on North Island, after finally deciding to sell his family home.

“I’ll sleep on the lounge,” he says, pulling the key from the ignition. “You can have my bed.”

You hate the way your stomach squeezes at the idea of being in his bed. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll take the lounge.”

“No, you won’t.”

Before you can argue, he pops the door and steps out of the car. You quickly fall out of the passenger’s side and hurry after him, almost bumping into his broad back when he stops abruptly at the elevator.

“Bradley,” you sigh, standing at his side. “Please don’t give me the silent treatment.”

“I just spoke to you, didn’t I?”

You huff. “Well, yes, but I don’t like how you’re talking to me.”

He scoffs, his brows shooting up toward his hairline. “Oh! You don’t like how I’m talking to you?”

The elevator doors open and you both step inside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the back wall of the cabin. “I just think it’s funny how you let those men treat you like shit and talk to you like crap, but as soon as I don’t feel like being playful, then you’ve got a problem.”

You frown at him, your breath coming and going much faster than before as anger bubbles in your stomach. You’re not sure what to say, because how can you defend yourself against fact. Silence stretches until the elevator dings and the doors part.

“I’m just not like those other guys, am I?” he says, brushing past you as he steps out of the cabin.

You follow him, doubling his steps to keep up. “No, you’re not like them. You’re better.”

He jams the key into his apartment door and laughs bitterly. “Better but not good enough, right?”

He shoves the door open and stalks inside, leaving you to catch the heavy door for yourself. You follow him in, quickly kicking your shoes off in the hall before stepping into the kitchen after him. He stands on one side of the island, both large hands planted on the countertop. You stop on the opposite side, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Bradley, what the fuck?”

He stares down at the bench. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re with them!” he exclaims, head snapping up. “Why do you deal with that? Why do you choose those guys when you could have anyone you fucking want?”

Your chest aches as your heart starts slowly tearing itself apart. “Bradley, please don’t-”

“You date these assholes that don’t give a fuck about you, but then when you need someone, when you’re scared or alone, you call me.” He pauses, his shoulders rising and falling with laboured breath. “Why?”

You close your eyes, wishing once again that the floor would open up and swallow you whole. But it doesn’t, so you open your eyes to meet his intense honey-brown gaze. “Because I know you’ve got me.”

“No, I don’t,” he snaps. “I thought I did once, but I know now that I never will.”

“Bradley-”

“I’m not mad,” he quickly adds, his features softening slightly. “I could never be mad at you, and I will always be there for you, but I need you to know that it kills me to see you with these guys.”

You want to ask why, because you’re a masochist and you want to hear him say it, but you can’t speak. Your throat is too thick and your emotions too wired. You knew this argument was inevitable, but you hadn’t expected it tonight. Maybe it’s not just yourself that you’ve pushed too far, maybe you’ve pushed the limits of your friendship too.

“I need sleep,” he mutters, dropping his gaze before turning toward the short hallway.

You watch him disappear into his room, feet anchored to the floor despite how hard that rope in your gut is trying to pull you toward him. You’ve never wanted to touch him more in your life, hold him and kiss him and tell him that you’ve only ever loved him, but you can’t. Your father might be busier these days and less of a threat to you, but he’s still a threat to Bradley’s career.

After a couple of minutes, he reemerges in a pair of grey sweats. Only grey sweats. You’ve seen Bradley shirtless more times than you can count, but you’re never ready for effect that it has on you.

“Bed’s all yours,” he says, throwing a pillow and a blanket onto the lounge.

You want to argue. You want to stomp your feet and tell him everything you’ve held back for years, and then you want him to kiss you and take you to bed where the two of you will stay for the next month. But you can’t, and you’re about to burst into tears.

You nod once before shuffling into his bedroom, shutting the door most of the way before turning to face the bed. When you see a pair of boxers and an old shirt laid out for you, the floodgates burst and tears stream down your cheeks despite your efforts to choke them back. Your throat aches and your nose stings, your vision blurred as you slowly peel your clothes off and wrap yourself in the comfort of Bradley’s.

You wonder if Bradley can hear you crying quietly as you crawl into his bed. The apartment isn’t very big, but you’ve done your best to suppress your sniffles as you washed your face in the ensuite bathroom. Your head hits the pillow and his scent overwhelms you, filling you with the most conflicting mix of sadness and horniness. You’ve been in Bradley’s bed plenty of times before, but not often sober and never after he just almost confessed to being in love with you.

Eventually, you fall asleep and have the best sleep you’ve had in years. You wake to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table and startle when you see the time in the top left corner of the screen; it’s almost midday. You hang up on Johnny’s call, only to see ten missed calls from earlier in the morning and a ridiculous number of texts. You roll your eyes and throw the covers back, rushing out the bedroom door and into the lounge room.

Your heart sinks when you see the lounge is empty and the blankets are folded neatly on one end. There are no missed calls or messages on your phone from Bradley, but you can vaguely recall him making plans with the squad earlier in the week to go to the beach today. You go back into the bedroom and change into your own clothes, dropping your borrowed pyjamas in the hamper by the ensuite door before walking back into the main space.

You’re about to leave the apartment when a folded piece of paper on the kitchen island catches your eye. You snatch it and open it up, quickly reading Bradley’s scrawl.

Had to go. Coffee is fresh.

I’m sorry about last night, I overstepped.

You’ve always got me. I love you.

Breath catches in your throat and tears fill your eyes. You thought you’d cried yourself dry last night, but apparently not. It isn’t as if Bradley has never told you that he loves you. He’s said it before deploying and he’s said it to save himself after some particularly snarky jokes, and you’ve said it back, but this feels different. This feels like a confession.

“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You shove the note into your pocket and continue toward the door, making sure it’s locked before it falls closed behind you.

It’s only a ten-minute walk to your place, and you quietly wonder if Bradley intentionally chose an apartment not far from yours. You wait impatiently as the elevator ascends to your floor, slipping through the doors the second they part and half jogging toward your apartment door. Once inside, you shower and pull on some clean clothes before running right back out the door.

Your mind races as you drive to the beach, trying to come up with the right words to say to Bradley. You don’t want to make it awkward, but you know you can’t leave last night unresolved. You would have to act normally in front of the squad, maybe pull him aside and tell him that you’re the one who's sorry. Or perhaps you should act like nothing has happened and text him later tonight.

You bounce back and forth between different ideas the entire drive. The only thing you do know is that you’re not going to take those last three words too seriously. Bradley loves you and he’s told you that before, this note is no different.

You slide your sunnies up your nose and scan the beach, easily spotting Javy’s broad frame and Jake bouncing around like an energetic border collie.

Mickey sees you first as you jog toward them. “Hey!” he calls, waving his arms like a maniac.

“Hey.” You’re a little breathless by the time you reach them, your eyes searching for Bradley amongst the bodies playing volleyball. “Where’s Rooster?”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Mickey chuckles. “He’s not here.”

You frown. “What?”

“Hey!” Natasha jogs up to you, abandoning the game. “Are you okay? Rooster told us you were stranded last night.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You push your sunnies to the top of your head. “It’s a long story but Rooster helped me out. Do you know where he is?”

She cocks her head, confusion written across her face. “He messaged the group chat this morning saying he couldn't come because he had to see Mav.”

“Mav,” you echo. “He’s at Maverick’s?”

Mickey nods. “As far as we know.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly pull it out, letting out a sigh when you see Johnny’s name across the screen. You look back up at your friends. “I’ve got to go see him, so I’ll see you guys later.”

“Everything okay?” Natasha asks.

You nod. “Of course, I just need Bradley.”

You turn and start jogging back toward your car, your legs burning as your feet sink into the soft sand. The drive to Maverick’s isn’t long, but you have to remind yourself several times to slow down and not be stupid. Your stomach sinks when you can’t spot the Bronco parked anywhere nearby, but you still climb the front porch and knock on the door.

Only a few seconds pass before Maverick answers. “Y/N?”

“Hey Mav, I’m sorry to bug you but-”

“Are you okay?” he interrupts, concern painting his face.

“Yeah, why?”

He leans a shoulder against the door frame. “Well, Rooster told me what happened last night and you’re looking a little flustered right now. That Johnny guy isn’t giving you a hard time, is he?”

“Oh, no,” you reply. “I mean, he’s been calling, but I haven’t answered. I was actually just looking for Bra- uh, Rooster.”

Maverick hesitates for a moment, his eyes reading you like you’re an open book with size forty-eight print. Every emotion on your face so easily distinguishable.

“He’s not here,” he finally says. “He left a little while ago. Not sure where he was headed, though,”

You take a deep breath to try and wrangle your nerves. You need to calm the fuck down. “Did he say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“Last night.”

The tiniest of smirks lifts the corner of Mav’s mouth. “He said that asshole you’re dating kicked you out of the car and left you stranded.”

You nod once, brows raised as if asking for more.

“He also said that he might have overstepped a little.”

You lift your hands to your face and groan into them, frustration and anxiety seeping from every pore in your body.

“I’m going to ask again,” Maverick says. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, face still hidden in your hands. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, trying to think of all the consequences that could possibly come from telling Maverick your problems. When you finally pull your hands away, they’re wet with tears.

You sniffle, looking up at the captain. “Yes please.”

He steps aside and ushers you in, offering you drinks and snacks as he guides you through to the back patio. You take a seat in the most comfortable looking wicker chair and catch a whiff of Bradley’s cologne, which only causes more tears to fill your eyes.

Maverick quickly joins you with a pitcher of water and two cups, and a box of tissues. “I’m going to start charging you kids for these therapy sessions,” he sighs.

A wet laugh leaves your lips as you press a few tissues to your face. “Sorry Mav.”

He chuckles. “Don’t be.”

After a minute, you manage to calm down enough to tell Maverick everything, even though he already knows a lot of it. You tell him about the first time you saw Bradley, the first time you realised why you felt a certain way around him, and the first time you had a feeling Bradley might feel the same. You fill in all the gaps about your family that Maverick missed when he was flying in and out on assignments, and you tell him all about the years that he and Bradley didn’t speak. You even tell him about your father, how he never liked Maverick and later threatened you with ruining Bradley’s career.

By the time you finish, you feel so light you could float. You’ve stopped crying, and you realise now that all the weight on your chest had been put there by your father. The same father who hasn’t given you more than a minute of his attention since the day he told you not to go near Bradley Bradshaw.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Maverick sighs at the ground. He has his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands as he stares at the deck beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “My dad is a dick.”

He looks up, frowning. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because he had no reason not to like you, but he did anyway.”

He chuckles. “I’m not a stranger to being disliked, especially by admirals.”

You laugh softly before taking a long swig of water.

“You’re right about him being a dick, though,” he says. “The fact that he ever thought he could tell you who to date is the worst example of parenting I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh again, but it’s more of a snort.

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?” Mav asks. “What about your mum?”

You shrug. “I was scared, and I loved Bradley too damn much to risk anything.”

His lip lifts into a smirk. “Be that as it may, your father has no right to threaten Bradley’s career.”

“What do you mean?”

Maverick chuckles now, elbows still leaning on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “Do you think that I would still be here if one admiral was able to do completely derail someone’s career?”

“Well, no,” you reply.

“Exactly.” He sits back now. “I don’t blame you for believing him, because that isn’t a threat that anyone would take lightly, but you really don’t need to worry. Bradley is a big boy now, he can stick up for himself, and if all else fails, he has a lot of other people on his side.”

You stare down at the empty cup in your hand, processing his words and letting them sink in, letting yourself believe them. “So, you’re saying-”

“You can love Bradley if you want to,” he says. “There might be other consequences for your relationship with your father, but as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve a relationship with his daughter unless he changes his attitude.”

Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs. “Thanks Mav, for everything.”

He nods. “Any time."

“Just one more thing?”

He quirks a brow, waiting for your question.

“What else did Bradley tell you this morning?”

The laugh that escapes his lips startles you, a wide grin stretched across his face as he pushes to stand. “Well, sweetheart, I think you should just go talk to Bradley yourself.”

You roll your eyes and stand too. “Fine.”

You thank Mav again as he walks you out. He gives you a hug and promises not to tell anyone what you’ve told him, but assures you again that whatever happens, Bradley’s career is safe. You walk off his porch feeling a lot lighter than when you had walked in, and when you get in your car, you pull your phone out and type a text to Johnny.

‘Fuck off.’

Then you block his number and drive home. You decide to give Bradley a little space, because you need to school your own thoughts before you go letting the skeletons dance their way out of the closet. You need to figure out how you’re going to explain yourself, and you need to decide if you actually want to risk the friendship and tell him you’re in love with him.

Just because Maverick got all giddy when you told him you were head over heels for Bradley doesn’t mean he’s definitely in love with you. You were hoping Mav might give you a hint, but he was stubborn, focusing on you and your feelings instead of divulging anything about Bradley’s feelings.

You busy yourself for most of the day with random chores and errands. When the sun starts to set, you settle onto your sofa and take your phone out, typing out a text to Bradley that you’ve been workshopping all afternoon.

‘Thanks again for last night. I appreciate you. What are you doing after work tomorrow?’

You put your phone on silent and toss it across the lounge, nerves creeping across every inch of your skin as you sink into the cushions. You’ve never been nervous to talk to Bradley. In fact, he’s the number one recipient of your usual word vomiting, but right now, you feel like you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper wondering if he’ll be there to catch you when you jump. If you jump.

Five days. It’s been five fucking days since you messaged Bradley, and nothing. You’ve only ever gone this long without speaking when he was deployed without access to his phone or reception. To say you were nervous five days ago feels like a joke now. You’ve barely slept, you’ve barely eaten, and you’re pretty sure you’re starting to see things that aren’t there. Had you imagined Bradley this whole time?

“You look tired,” Natasha says the second you open your apartment door.

“Thanks.”

You step aside and allow her to walk in, which she does with a scrunched-up nose. “Do you not have any windows in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you here again?”

She spins on her heel and flashes you a smirk. “To make you feel better, obviously.”

“Doing a bang-up job so far,” you mumble sarcastically.

You move some of the blankets off the lounge to make room for her. You’ve been sleeping there the past few nights, falling in and out of consciousness while the TV plays reruns of old 90s sitcoms. You’re lucky you have the option to work from home, because you're not sure you’d have been able to drag yourself to work at all this week. Instead, you’ve been doing half-assed days at your desk while resisting the urge to put your phone in the blender.

Natasha sits on the lounge while you open your balcony door, letting in the brisk autumn air. “So,” she says, still smirking, “are you ready to feel better?”

You sit down beside her, curling your knees up to your chest. “I feel fine, actually.”

She raises her brows. “You do? Because the last time you missed pool night at The Hard Deck, someone had literally died.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about Wednesday night pool. In fact, you’ve forgotten about everything except Bradley, who has apparently forgotten about you.

“Did Rooster go?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“See,” she says, her smile widening, “you already feel better.”

You roll your eyes. “Again, I’m totally fine, just-”

“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupts you, her expression turning serious. “I’m not here because I think you’re going to off yourself. I know you’re a big girl who can deal with heartbreak when she has to, but the thing is, you don’t have to.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Ugh,” she groans, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you know how painful it is to deal with the two of you when the answer is to all this tension is so simple?”

You wait a beat, letting her have her moment that she has clearly been waiting to have.

“I’m not going to tell you something that I don’t know for sure, but I am going to tell you that Rooster is miserable,” she says. “He’s obviously not sleeping, he’s barely eating, and he hasn't strung more than four words together all week. Now, I know something went down, we all do, but I also know that now you’re both just being stubborn.”

You frown and open your mouth, but she holds a hand up to stop you.

“I’m not done.”

You roll your lips and nod once.

“I know I haven’t known either of you nearly as long as you’ve known each other,” she continues, “but I think I know you both well enough to know that you’re better together than you are apart. Whether or not that means marriage and babies, I don’t care. All I care about is that two of the most important people in the world to me don’t lose each other, because it’s kind of fucking obvious that you two are soulmates… or whatever.” She tacks on that last part with a wave of her hand, clearly becoming uncomfortable with the mushy stuff.

You push your bottom lip into a pout. “Aw, Nat,” you coo. “Bob was wrong, you do have a heart.”

Her brows dip into a scowl. “What did that fucker say about my heart?”

You roll your eyes and ignore her question, leaning across the couch to wrap your arms around her. She hesitates but hugs you back, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Natasha isn’t the most affectionate person, but she knows how to be there for her friends.

“Wait.” You pull back. “It’s Friday, why aren’t you at work?”

“They needed someone to cover a weekend, so Mav gave me today off.”

“Oh,” you nod before falling back into the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “Bradley might be miserable and all, but he’s still avoiding me. I’ve messaged him and called him, but he keeps ignoring me.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. “I thought he might be. He’s been avoiding every conversation where your name comes up.”

You roll your eyes. Not that you blame him. From his point of view, you look like a pretty big idiot. You’ve been best friends for over a decade, flirting nonstop for half of that, and yet you keep dating assholes despite giving him all the signals that you’re actually into him.

“I have a plan,” Natasha says, her lips pulling back into a smirk. “You still have security clearance because of your dad, right?”

Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, you’re following Natasha out the door of your apartment and into the elevator. Your stomach flips nervously as the cabin descends, and you start to gnaw at your bottom on the way to her parked car. You haven’t been on the base in years. In fact, you try to avoid it, because you know that your father is there somewhere.

“Don’t be nervous,” Natasha says, glancing at you from behind her sunglasses.

Your eyes are fixed on the road ahead. “Bit hard not to be.”

You don’t live far from the base, and after barely ten minutes of Natasha’s questionable pep talking, the car rolls up to the main gate of North Island Naval Air Station. You both show your identification cards to the security guard in the booth while other guards inspect her vehicle. The butterflies in your stomach haven’t settled from the moment you stepped out of the shower, and now you’re starting to worry that the banana you managed to eat for breakfast isn’t going to stay down.

Natasha cruises through the familiar base, parking in one of the expansive staff lots before turning to you with an uncharacteristically wide grin. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good, let’s go.”

You force yourself to open the door and plant your feet on the tarmac. Step by step, you make it around the vehicle to where Natasha is impatiently waiting.

“Come on,” she sighs. “We have to get to there before they’re called in for the weekly debrief.”

You take a deep breath and force some confidence into your voice. “Okay, okay. Just a little anxious about doing the one thing I’ve spent a good chunk of my life specifically not doing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, very big deal. Now hurry up!”

Another deep breath has you feeling a little more human, more confident and grounded. You walk beside Natasha with a little more courage, gazing around at the huge buildings and looping roads. You haven’t been on the base in years because of your father. You’ve dated assholes for years because of your father. You’ve hurt the only boy you’ve ever loved because of your father.

Anger starts to bubble in your stomach as Natasha raises her wrist to check her watch. “Can you run?” she asks.

You nod. “Let’s run.”

The two of you break out into a sprint, shoes smacking against the concrete as Natasha leads the way. You don’t recognise much, not that you ever took special notice of the buildings when you visited with your father, but you do spot the Ford Bronco parked in one of the lots along the way.

“This way,” Natasha says.

You both slow to a jog as you approach one of the hangars. Natasha waves to a couple of the officers, greeting them with a vague explanation for her visit while you zone out and gaze up at the huge structure.

Through the hangar and on the other side where there are long stretches of tarmac and a line up of fighter jets, you find a familiar group. You have to squint to see them properly, all appearing in various states of exhaustion and one still on the ground doing push ups while Hondo counts beside him. The golden-brown head of hair makes your heart skip, and you trip on your own feet as you continue to approach the group.

Mickey notices the two of you first. He grins and waves before nodding once and walking up to each of the others, whispering something in their ears. They each give you a smile and a nod before slowly walking away from the boy doing push ups.

Hondo tips his head when you get closer, and winks. “194… 195… 195.”

“What?” Bradley gasps. “You just-”

“Quiet lieutenant,” Hondo snaps. “You’re going to make me lose count.”

Natasha gives you a subtle thumbs up before skipping off in the same direction as the rest of the squad.

Hondo inches away too, raising his voice to continue counting. “197… 198… 199.”

Your heart thunders within your chest, trying it’s hardest to break free as you watch Bradley sink into his final push up.

“200,” you say.

His arms wobble and his knees hit the concrete just in time to stop himself from falling on his face. When he glances up, sweaty and on all fours, you feel like you could faint.

“Hey,” he mutters. “What are you doing here?”

He sits back on his haunches and dusts his hands together, his eyes honey eyes sparkling under the setting sun.

“What do you think I’m doing here, Bradley?”

He glances around, noticing the absence of his squad. “Trespassing?”

You cross your arms and pop your hip. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” He pushes up and rises to his full height. “Last I checked, you were the one with a penchant for self-destructive behaviours.”

You narrow your eyes. “Define such behaviours.”

“Dating assholes for their money and rank.”

Anger sizzles through your veins, heating your skin and making your fists ball. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, before walking past you.

It takes you a moment to catch up, to find your voice and stamp down the angry monster rearing its horns. Bradley has a right to be angry. You expected him to be angry.

“Bradley,” you call after him.

He keeps walking.

“Rooster!”

He keeps walking.

“Bradshaw!”

His steps falter but he doesn’t stop.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw!” you exclaim. “For fuck’s sake!”

He halts and turns on his heel, his eyes stormy beneath furrowed brows. “You have no authority to pull rank. In fact, it’s kind of illegal and could get your father in some serious trouble.”

“Good!” You cover the ground between the two of you, stopping barely inches from him. “I hope he gets in shit, I hope he gets court martialled, or whatever the fuck it is that happens to you lot when you misbehave.”

His frown softens, curiosity taking over his expression. “What?”

You have to take a deep breath, because standing this close to him has your head spinning. “My dad is an asshole.”

Bradley tips his head. “Well, yeah, but why does that matter right now?”

“Because”– you take half a step back so you don’t hurt your neck looking up at him –“when we were younger, when you got accepted into the TOPGUN programme, he told me that you weren’t good enough for me.”

The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“I didn’t believe him,” you continue quickly, “but he threatened me. Well, he threatened you, your career. He said that if I didn’t get over my stupid crush, he would ruin your career, and I was young and stupid enough to believe that he could.”

His jaw relaxes and his expression softens. “He said he would ruin my career?”

You nod. “I couldn’t let him do that, but I couldn’t lose you either, so I did the only thing I could think of. I started dating assholes that dad would like, so I could stay friends with you. If he thought I was with these other guys, he wouldn’t question how much time I spent with you.”

His eyes go a little glassy. “You dated all those assholes so you could stay friends with me and protect me?”

You nod again, the bridge of your nose stinging as you stare up at the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. “I couldn’t risk him finding out that I’m in love with you.”

Despite the distant sounds of the ocean, the birds chirping, and the hum of machinery, you feel like the world has stopped spinning. You hold your breath, waiting for him to react, to say something.

“In love,” he whispers, “with me?”

You nod for the third time, your voice stuck in your throat with the last breath you’d captured.

“Fuck.” He rubs a hand up his jaw and through his hair, his eyes bouncing around the hangar before returning to yours. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You feel like the elephant sitting on your chest has finally moved, and you let out a long breath.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. “Because I am so in love with you, it-” He doesn’t finish his sentence before he dips his head and presses his mouth against yours, his hands holding your head.

His lips are as soft as you’d always imagined. They taste like mint and something sweet, and they move against yours in the most perfect way. Your fingers find the material of his flight suit and pull him closer, that rope in your gut demanding his body be against yours as you mouths move together. When he fits against you like he was made to be there, everything finally feels perfect.

“Hurts,” he whispers against your lips. “So in love with you, it hurts.”

“Does it still hurt?” you murmur into his mouth, not letting him more than an inch away from you.

You feel his lips curl into a smile. “A little less now, but you should keep kissing it better.”

He tilts your head back and deepens the kiss, making you gasp against his mouth. Your head spins and your knees give, but Bradley’s hands quickly fall to your waist and keep your body pressed to his.

He chuckles. “I’ve got you.”

“Always have,” you say.

He presses his forehead against yours as you both breathe. You know Bradley, you’ve known him since you were ten, and you know that he is doing exactly what you’re doing right now. He’s telling himself that this is real.

“Do you- um, do you want to come over tonight?” you ask.

In one swift move, his hands drop to the backs of your thighs and he crouches a little before hoisting you up off the ground. You yelp and wrap your legs around his waist, now looking down at his big, beautiful smile.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he says. “Do we have to wait until then or do you just want to do it in the Bronco?”

You giggle, your cheeks burning. “It’s really weird to hear you say shit like that.”

He chuckles. “Oh, baby, you better get used to it. You’re going to hear a whole lot more come out of my mouth tonight.”

END.

#this was so enjoyable #Bradley Bradshaw angst #Bradley Bradshaw fluff #geminiwritten

1K notes · View notes

althaiareads · 8 days ago

Text

To say a lot happened the night of your High School graduation should probably be considered an understatement. Lives changed. Drunken decisions made in a matter of seconds, by you, your friends, they affected the trajectory of everyone’s individual future like some fucked up Butterfly Effect, or whatever the hell the phenomenon is called.

Why am I already crying omg. I just got so attached to all these characters and omg, I can't believe it's over :(

“You’re both supposed to be my fucking friends!”

Oh, that's hurtful. Like, yeah, I get that they are both so incredibly drunk, but the timing is so fucked up, y'all.

What transpires instead is a screaming match you don’t entirely remember the full details of.

Dude, am I glad to finally know what happened that night and I have so many thoughts, like.

Why did you wait until you were one drink away form blacking out to confess your feelings? (Because they were fucking teenagers with feelings too big to handle, ik, but stillll)

It is so fucked up the way Billy's death absolutely messed with her head. It actually makes me so sad, her reasoning behind rejecting Eddie, "everyone who loves me, dies"???? Okay, hear that? That's my heart breaking.

Then running to Steve just to feel something other than the grief and the pain that Eddie inadvertently caused with his confession is just so... human.

AND THEY WERE ALL FRIENDS AND THEY DID NOT MEAN TO HURT EACH OTHER'S FEELINGS BUT THEY STILL DID AND THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO NEXT AND

The beginnings of her struggle with alcohol, I just want to hug her and tell her everything is going to be okay.

“Come on, let’s go.”

6. and even after everything he still wants to take care of her.

“That’s nice.”

Would you look at that, she's a fucking comedian. JASHGFJASHGDJHASJDHAJDSGHJDFHGFAJ

“After I stormed off, I called my boss at the station and I told him I’m quitting because I decided to come with you to Vegas.”

OMG HE QUIT HIS JOB TO FOLLOW HER TO VEGAS, THEY ARE SERIOUS SERIOUS

The past is the past. You’ve both overcome the associated demons and now you’re here, together. In love.

We've come so far. I can't believe that a trip to a lakehouse ago they couldn't even look at each other, and now they are in love, and living together and she has reconnected with her friends and she's letting herself be loved and

“I am,” you say, leaning your back into Eddie. The primary source of your happiness. Yours forever.

SHE'S HAPPY, WE MADE IT, TEAM!!!!

I am so incredibly relieved that you decided to let them be happy. Thank you so much for that, this was such an amazing ending to this journey. Thank you for sharing this story, it is genuinely one of my favourite fics I have ever read, I had the time of my life getting to know these characters, screaming at my phone when they were being dumb, crying along with them and laughing at their antics. I am sad that it has come to and end but could not be happier with the way it did <3. Thank you, again, mwaaah.

eddie my love | the right where you left me. epilogue

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 4.1k

summary: in a frantic hurry, Eddie Munson admits he’s in love with you and to his pleasant surprise, the world doesn’t end. quite the opposite actually. it keeps spinning. maybe even a little bit faster? especially when, against your nature, you agree to stay.

content warnings: forced proximity, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, emotional hurt / comfort, a little angsty but overall fluff era, some serious mutual pining, use of pet names, plus mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, also touches on topics of: death, grief, toxic relationships, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle, unrequited love — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

A dramatic chain of events unfolded in front of your very eyes, but rather unfortunately, you don’t remember most of what occurred because you were dancing along that thin line of a mild hangover the next day and completely blackout drunk (queue instead a horrible hangover).

One thing stands out, for sure. The big thing. A motive (of sorts) that swayed the reasonings of your later dilemma: stay or leave.

Eddie Munson admitted his feelings for you, his best friend.

Sitting on a lounge chair in the back garden of Chrissy Cunnigham’s mansion-of-a-house. Your head resting on his shoulder, talking about plans for the summer, and beyond. With a shaky hand, Eddie removes the plastic cup from your grasp and intertwines his fingers with yours. He takes in a deep breath, which you can hear him exhale despite your inhibitions.

“I like you,” the metal-head says.

You giggle next to him, gaze glued to where his thumb presses into your wrist.

“Well, duh. We’re friends, asshat. I’d be surprised if you didn’t like me.”

Eddie shakes his head and twists, facing you. When you catch his pretty brown eyes, your cheeks bloom because there’s something behind his gaze that’s different to any other time he’s looked at you — which, for all accounts and purposes, is actually quite a lot.

“I like you as eh, as more than a friend.”

Upon hearing his admission, your heart fills with joy, growing like a balloon only inside your chest. The world stops spinning and for a split-second you feel stone cold sober. Eddie like-likes you. That fact makes you giddy because he’s perhaps the best person you have ever met and undeniably, he would make a phenomenal boyfriend.

But reality seeps in and a needle approaches the balloon faster than you’d like. A prick in the form of your ex-boyfriend Billy, who is the only other person on this Earth that’s ever admitted to liking you as anything other than platonic. That is until he died and although you can’t exactly prove the theory that people who love you die — since that list is only one, and that’s not enough data for any scientific research — you still don’t feel like tempting fate. Especially because now it’s Eddie saying these nice things and you need him as a friend more than you need him as something different.

“Eddie…”

“Look, I-I just… We could be really happy, angel. If you just gave me a chance.”

The memory is a little hazy. You want to believe you let him down gently, because that would be easier to digest considering what happened later that same night, but a part of you knows there was nothing gentle about how you handled his heart — Eddie’s version of the story corroborates this feeling you’ve carried.

A shove and quick escape from his grasp. Some irrational yelling about not seeing him in the same light and a very defensive stance on how he could do this to you, as if he’d committed some cardinal sin. There’s begging to forget about him ever saying anything (on his part) and some tears (also on his part). And the topic is put to bed. For now, you remain friends. The balloon has popped.

“I need a minute,” Eddie announces without looking at you and walks back into the house.

For a minute, you’re devastated. Thinking you made a mistake reacting the way you did, you consider running after the metal-head and apologising, blaming your nerves since you’d never actually admit out loud that Billy’s death has fucked you up in any considerable way. Then someone hands you a drink and as you down the burning liquid, you forget all about Eddie’s sad expression.

One foot in front of the other, you follow in his general direction with the intention of finding your girlfriends, Robin and Nancy. You want to tell them what just happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind. Instead, you bump into Steve Harrington.

Although it’s no excuse, it all happens really fast.

In the kitchen, you do a couple shots together, laughing and maybe even flirting. Definitely flirting. You don’t mean to. He’s just really fucking handsome and he’s showing interest a) because he finds you to be smoking hot, b) because he’s just as drunk as you, and c) because he has no idea his friend Eddie finally told you how he feels about you.

Bumping bodies, you move through the crowd of your classmates to find someplace private. Steve’s hand is on your waist as you do and a fire ignites within your gut. An emotional connection isn’t something you’re ready for quite yet, but something strictly physical? Well, you want this guy and you want him bad.

Steve’s mouth is on yours before the door even shuts behind him and the rumours are true: The King is a damn good kisser.

He’s got one hand at the back of your neck, the other strategically placed on the curve of your ass, squeezing. He smirks against your parted mouth, then lightly bites your bottom lip before leaning back down and the suave in his movements, the confidence, it all catches you off guard. Although, that could also be the alcohol. You’re both very tipsy.

Suddenly, your feet are up, off the ground. Legs wrapped around Steve’s waist as he props you against the closed door, closing that gap between you further. His mouth is hot against your skin, working its way across your jaw and down the nape of your neck.

At first, you don’t hear the knock on the door. Too lost in the sensation of Steve’s sultry voice, possessive touch, and honestly, literal BDE. But the knocking gets louder and then a voice calls out. A tone you know all too well. You freeze, once again feeling momentarily sober.

Eddie’s trying to push inside. He’s complaining about the resistance until he manages to get his foot in and Steve pokes his head of hair out.

“Dude,” is all Harrington says.

“Shit man, sorry,” Eddie fumbles, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

The expression fades quickly, however, since in the mirror across, Eddie spots your reflection. Hiding behind Steve’s frame, head buried in his shoulder. Your gaze is peeking out, staring ahead into the mirror too.

“What the fuck?”

Steve sees the look on his friend's face and realises immediately how badly he just messed up. He drops his hold on you and stumbles backwards into the room, allowing Eddie to open the door wider and step inside.

The metal-head doesn’t really care about his mate’s apology. His attention is solely fixated on you. The girl he’s into wholeheartedly and rather desperately. Also the girl who mere twenty minutes ago heard him spill his guts on the matter, and rather ungraciously, shot him down.

He’s angry. Why not him? How come you’re into Steve and not him?

“Fuck- Are you seriously going to listen to me tell you how I feel about you, then try and jump into bed with fucking Harrington?” Eddie’s in disbelief, instantly yelling with his arms stretched out as if he’s daring you to fight back. “You’re both supposed to be my fucking friends!”

“Dude, I-I didn’t know you finally said something.” Steve tries to intervene and calm his friend down. “Fuck, man, it’s no excuse but we’re both kinda drunk and this doesn’t mean anything.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and shoves Harrington out of the way before once again, peering directly back at you. You, who doesn’t want to indulge in this nonsense right now since it was just a stupid kiss. So, you turn back out into the hallway, hoping to find another drink.

Your best friend is hot on your heels. He grabs your arm, spins you around.

“You couldn’t even wait a day to soften the fucking blow?!”

“I fucking told you, Eddie,” you snap back, trying to free yourself from his grasp. “I don’t fucking feel the same way!”

Even though it’s not entirely true. At this moment in time, you’ve had one too many drinks and it’s easier to ignore, push down what you actually feel towards him, than address it. People you love die, the devil on your shoulder hisses.

“It’s just a stupid hookup,” you tell him. “You’re not my keeper, Eddie. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Eddie’s silent for a moment. The rage on his face disappears for a split-second, showcasing the sadness and heartbreak you’ve just caused. And if you were sober, you would’ve noticed it sooner – in the moment, as opposed to the next morning when you replayed this interaction in your head. But you’re wasted and Eddie annoyed you by announcing his feelings out of the blue.

“Do you realise you just shit on everything we’ve ever shared?!” Eddie’s pointing a finger, it’s close to your face and your anger spikes.

That’s when you definitely shove him. Or maybe you slap him? He’s suddenly holding your hand either way, preventing you from making this fucked up situation ten times worse, although, in your inebriated state, you don’t really care about optics. Jesus Christ, you don’t really care about anything other than finding another drink.

Undeniably hurt and riled, Eddie on the other hand wants answers and he wants them now. He pulls you through the next open door he sees and kicks it with a thud, right in Steve’s face. No witnesses because maybe if you two are alone, he’ll get you to tell him the truth: what makes Harrington better than him?

What transpires instead is a screaming match you don’t entirely remember the full details of.

Until that moment, you and Eddie have never fought. Not even a silly little argument over the most miniscule thing. He’s been your peace. He’s kept you grounded. Even when Billy talked shit in your ear about the metal-head, you always stood up for the curly-haired boy (much to your then-boyfriend’s dismay).

Standing in Chrissy’s childhood bedroom, your life explodes in front of your drunken eyes. You’re too lost in the alcohol wave to fully understand the repercussions of your words and even worse, your actions. Eddie however, he’s stone-cold sober. He’ll remember every single excruciating detail of this argument, and surrounding reasons, until the day his days on this Earth run out.

Which is why — in the heat of the moment — he calls you a slut and shoves the gifted red guitar pick into your grasp, no longer wanting to have any reminder of how much you mean to him on his body. You don’t want it either. Feeling like he’s policing you, plus that disgusting slut comment, you feel like severing this friendship. So you approach the window and before Eddie knows what’s happening, you throw the piece of plastic out the window.

Then, for good measure, you flip him off.

“Your behaviour is fucking desperate,” he spits in response.

“Fuck you, Eddie.”

You leave him stewing in his own misery, slamming into his arm on your way out the door, and head back downstairs to rejoin the party.

A group of jocks is playing beer pong. One of them whistles in your direction, tipping his head towards the table, a wordless invitation to join them. You do. One game turns to two, then three. The taste of beer is rude on your tongue, even harsher on your stomach, and you’re reminded — a little too late — never decline the strength of your poison. If you must mix, the only way is up.

Excusing yourself, you stagger towards the front door. Fresh air slaps you in the face, doing very little to prolong the inevitable. In fact, it speeds it up. Bending over a plant pot, brown flume, a mix of vodka and beer, spills out of you in waves.

That’s the last thing you remember.

Eddie, having heard a string of apologies from his mate Steve, wants nothing more than to go home, smoke a joint and forget about this wretched night. He pushes through his drunken classmates, fetching a cigarette from the inside of his jacket. With the bud between his lips, he makes it outside, only to stop dead in his tracks.

You’re leaning against the porch railing.

Hesitantly, Eddie walks around you. His first instinct is to completely ignore the girl who broke his heart not even a half-hour ago, so after he hops onto the grass, lighting the cigarette, he’s really doing his best not to turn around. Then you make a coughing sound. An even worse sound follows after and the metal-head closes his eyes momentarily because he knows he can’t leave you here. Not like this.

“Come on, let’s go.”

He’s by your side, propping you up against him. Carefully, he guides your right arm around his neck and slides his left one around your waist. Stumbling over your own two feet, you barely make a straight line. Eddie’s holding you. Kicking rocks and twigs out of the way, so you don’t accidentally trip over them, sending both of you falling.

Eventually approaching the van, Eddie helps you into the passenger seat, clicking the seatbelt into place. His gaze scans yours and before he can help himself, Eddie places a gentle hand on your cheek. Thumb grazes along your muscle as your drunken eyes dilate. Something close to a smile tugs at your lips and Eddie’s heart clenches in his throat because he knows, judging by the glazed look on your face, you won’t remember this part of the night. Only the earlier fight.

Dropping his hand, Eddie offers you a bottle of water from the glove compartment and watches you take a few sips before closing the door. He jogs around the front of the car, sliding in behind the wheel. There’s one last longing look shot in your direction, but you’re not paying attention. Gazing instead out the window, into the night.

The drive to the Wheeler residence is silent.

In fact, no words are exchanged until Eddie helps you into bed.

Having taken off your bile-covered shirt and skirt, the metal-head lifts the sheet covers and guides you under. He places the half-drank bottle of water on the bedside table and is about to switch off the light, walk out and hope tomorrow you’re in a mood to talk, when you say his name. Faintly, at first. He’s not sure he’s even heard anything, or if his mind is playing tricks. Then you say it again, with more conviction, and when Eddie looks at you — what will happen to be the last time for the next three years — you reach for him.

“Thank you,” you croak when he hesitantly takes your hand.

Eddie squeezes your palm, eventually forcing himself to let it go.

“Always.”

Then you close your eyes, letting sleep take over, and Eddie drops your hand before walking out — this time without stealing a last glance.

Three years later and the lie of that always has finally stopped gnawing at the metal-head.

In a frantic hurry, Eddie Munson admits he’s in love with you and to his pleasant surprise, the world doesn’t end. Quite the opposite actually. It keeps spinning. Maybe even a little bit faster? Especially when, against your nature, you agree to stay.

Sitting together on the deck, feet dancing with the cold water beneath, you and Eddie talk.

A conversation that should have been had the morning after Chrissy’s infamous graduation party. Instead, a hangover of shame clouded your judgement back then, and Eddie’s ability to hold a grudge definitely didn’t help the matter.

Perhaps parting ways, not speaking for years — and getting sober — then circling the subject all weekend until it was almost too late, well, maybe all of that was for the best. It helped evolve you two into the people you are right this very moment. Two people who are finally willing to accept the love they definitely deserve.

“I uh,” Eddie clears his throat.

“You love me,” you say, tilting your head slightly in his direction.

He nods, once, slowly, then meets your eyes.

“I do.” Eddie affirms, “A lot, actually.”

A smile circles your lips.

“That’s nice.”

He scoffs a laugh, bumping your arm with his own.

“Well, fuck me then. I guess I take it back,” he teases and you playfully roll your eyes, telling him he can’t.

“All our friends heard you say it,” you point out.

Eddie smacks his lips together, pondering, and your gaze instantly shifts downwards from his chocolate-button eyes, landing shamelessly on his mouth. You want to kiss him, but that would be counterproductive. The spell is only broken when you feel the tips of his fingers reach for your own, currently resting on the wooden deck between.

Letting him hold your hand, you look out onto the lake.

“I had a really good weekend with you,” you admit quietly.

Eddie gently squeezes your fingers and after a beat of silence, he says, “I quit my job.”

Before your head even snaps back in his direction, eyes wide in disbelief, he lifts his free hand in the air to stop you from questioning his actions and jumping to conclusions, and continues talking.

“During breakfast, when you said we’ve only been surface level, I knew you were lying and I realised in that moment just how truly scared you are to feel happy because of what happened to Billy.” The metal-head explains, “After I stormed off, I called my boss at the station and I told him I’m quitting because I decided to come with you to Vegas.”

“Eddie—”

“Shh woman, let me talk,” he stops you with a timid smile. “I aim to prove to you, it’s okay to move on and leave the past in the past. The only way I can do that is if we’re in the same city.”

Life in Las Vegas became fuller with Eddie Munson by your side.

Your tiny apartment suddenly doesn’t feel as suffocating when the metal-head fills it with his trinkets, collection of vinyls, and gradually decorates the empty walls with prints and posters. Eddie gives your now shared home, life and in return you help him find a presenter job at a nearby station — a daytime slot, so you don’t have to spend your evenings alone anymore.

As weeks pass, you introduce him to the wellness hobbies you’ve picked up over the years. Hiking, yoga. Seemingly not a good fit for the dark academia vibe of your non-labeled boyfriend, but Eddie dives into these activities head first because they’re a part of the person you’ve become in his absence and this challenge he’s created (and accepted) for himself — “it’s okay to move on” — requires him to be completely willing.

Next on the agenda of assimilation is meeting your Vegas friends.

Jax being first on the list and although you worried about a potential stand-off of male egos, the two guys click immediately, mainly bonding over their shared priority: your happiness. Later on, at a house party Jax throws, Eddie meets the remainder of your new friend group: Chiti, Savannah, and Sammy. People the metal-head only recently became aware of, but a group that undoubtedly cares for you just as deeply as the Hawkins crew.

And speaking of which, they eventually also make their way down to visit — as promised. The six of you cram into your small apartment, squeeze like sardines in a metal tin, but no one complains because you’re together again, if only for a short period of time.

When it’s just you and Eddie, Earth slows down.

His willingness to simply be there for you makes your heart grow tenfold, and you become more and more obsessed with him. Every single morning, brown-eyes find yours and he whispers he loves you, then kisses you softly. Never once forcing you to say it back, although you feel it. With every fiber of your being, stronger each day, you feel the love you have for him.

One evening, about four months into living together, labeless, but with certain strings attached, the two of you are cooking dinner together. Eddie has just come home from work and you wrapped up an assignment, it’s quiet and blissful.

Sitting at the kitchen island, while Eddie is chopping vegetables and telling you about his day, you realise that it has been a while since you’ve thought about Billy. Honestly, if you had to say, you wouldn’t be able to point out at all when exactly your dead ex-boyfriend crossed your mind for the last time.

And you realise right then and there, you’re no longer scared. Eddie has completed his challenge.

So, without giving it a second thought, you blurt out the three words he’s been longing to hear from you for as long as he can remember.

“I love you.”

His head snaps up, gaze catching yours. Seeing the conviction written all over your features, he drops the knife onto the wooden board and rounds the cabinets, approaching you like a moth to flame. His ring-clad fingers grip your face gently and he’s fighting back a smile, which makes your own mouth twitch upwards.

“Are you sure?”

He’s not certain exactly why he asks the question. Maybe because he wants to hear you utter those words again, and you do, with even more fervour.

Nodding, you say, “I love you, hotshot.”

Grinning like an idiot, Eddie lowers his body, lips smashing against yours in an elated kiss because you love him, and he loves you, and all is going to be okay. The past is the past. You’ve both overcome the associated demons and now you’re here, together.

In love.

Parking your car at the desired destination, you glance out the half-opened window and note how the weather is far from ideal for the planned activities.

It’s cold. Cold enough to make anyone's atoms shiver. Dark grey clouds cover every inch of the sky above, hiding the beautiful autumn sun. The air is brisk. It’s harsh against your skin as you eventually get out of the red Jeep and the unwelcoming breeze that follows makes you wish that you had packed warmer clothes for this weekend.

Déjà vu.

A heavy jacket is draped over your shoulders and you smile, tugging it closer to yourself while looking behind for its wild-haired owner. Eddie winks at you, then opens the boot to grab both of your bags as the door of the lake house swings open and Nancy runs out, arms spread wide as she squeals with excitement.

“You’re both here!”

The hug Nancy gives you is strong, almost full force — pretty much the same as the one she embraced you in at exactly this time last year, in this very same spot. Her arms are wrapped tightly around you and you instantly hug her back, a small smile circling your lips.

“Of course we’re here,” you tell her, pulling back. “It’s not every day your friends organise a weekend getaway to celebrate their engagement!”

She beams and not-so-casually lifts her hand to show off the elegant rock gracing her ring finger. Then, just as quickly, she pulls you by the arm, into another quick embrace and whispers in your ear, “You’re next.”, earning herself a nudge in the side because, even though, you’ve been going steady with the metal-head for just under a year, you’re nowhere near ready for marriage.

Although, marrying Eddie Munson would be far from a travesty.

After saying hello to your brunette boyfriend, Nancy leads you both into the lakehouse. Not much has changed inside, yet the wow effect is still as strong. The rest of the group — Jonathan, Steve, Argyle, Robin — are sitting outside, on the patio. They jump up excitedly when they see you and Eddie, greeting you both like no time has passed (because really, it’s only been a couple of weeks).

Eddie makes himself comfortable next to you, hand on your thigh. He instantly engages in conversation with Jonathan, while you look at Steve. He offers you a cigarette, then lights the bud for you. After a moment of huffing smoke, he leans in closer and with a tender smile on his face says:

“It’s nice to finally see you happy, sweetheart.”

And this time around, right here, in this place where, last year, you’ve reconnected with not only yourself, but the best people in the world, where you met Eddie Munson all over again, opened yourself up to him and fell in the process, the sentiment surrounding your joy is true.

“I am,” you say, leaning your back into Eddie. The primary source of your happiness. Yours forever.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

to all you babes, thank you for loving this little labour of love. i literally can’t believe we’re at the end of this story 🥲 obsessed with every single person that’s liked, reblogged, commented, and overall enjoyed reading this fic. i love you all forever and ever - until next time!

lastly, tagging some cool people that expressed ongoing interest in this story:

@ali-r3n @thelazyarchangel @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @peculiarwren @fxoxo @losingmygrasponreality @kellsck @sp1dyb0y1008 @mmmunson @somethingvicked @darknesseddiem @scream4mami @pineapplechuncks @sophiejayne-illustrations713 @emxxblog @bl0ssomanddie @theladyhellfire @gracelouiseoneill @emquinn94 @transparent-enemy @rach5ive @knew-better-forever-girl-two @lemonmarquee @mossgh0st @probablyin-bed @dustbowleddie @residentoftomlinsonsass @heart-eyed-love @munsonburn3r @helsa3942 @althaiareads @theladyhellfire @v1per1ne @sugarplumsweetiepie @rizzraa @micheledawn1975 @gracelouiseoneill @moremaple @bigpoppascherry @jeangeniex @daisy-munson @ceeezy @kissmyacdc @cyressluvy @mango-slush-boba @iyskgd @bigpoppascherry @everlove @tieganspeirs

#this is my emotional support fic #right where you left me #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson angst #Eddie Munson series #Eddie Munson fluff #cacoetheswriting #favs

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althaiareads · 8 days ago

Text

Okay, it took me a while to get to this, but I am now SEATED! I am so ready to get back to my two favorite people.

Eddie Munson gave you hell for kissing Steve then jumped into bed with the blonde Cunningham. Whatever. He needed someone to make him feel better. That’s not what irks you.

Maybe it does not irk her, but it sure does me, idc. I am not a good person.

That was a shitty move, but like, I get where they are both coming from? Because they were both hurt at the time, but they've had enough time to process their feelings and they were making a steady progress towards honesty and understanding and I hate how this feels like a step back.

The metal-head kind of predicted it himself, with what he said. You’re afraid of falling. Love and other good things. You don’t want to feel them because they’ve hurt you before and he knows that. Which is why your instinct is to leave. Run to Las Vegas and forget about Eddie Munson once and for all. You can’t keep stringing him along forever.

I feel her so much. That is so me, I am working through it in therapy, but that has been my go to mindset for a WHILE. But no, we gotta face our fears and let ourselves believe that we are worth it and we deserve good things coming our way.

You have to leave. Alone.

NOOOOOO, WE DON'T HAVE TO LEAVEEEEEEE. WE CAN MAKE IT WORK!!!! Y'ALL ARE BOTH OKAY WITH PUTTING IN THE WORK.

I swear to god, beautiful, if you leave????

Platonically, the feeling is not as scary.

Again, I feel her, she is so me, etc etc etc

“I’ve been head over heels in love with you for a very long time, angel.” Eddie states, a nervous tick in his voice because you don’t do well with proclamations, but he’s not going to let you leave this time.

Okay, officially I have no words left, I am just gonna go ahead and drink some tea and prepare myself for the finale...

break my heart again | chapter six from right where you left me.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 6.4K

summary: He realises in that moment how, although you’ve never said anything, you have feelings for him too. Back then, even stronger now. All along. All this time. And Eddie does next what he knows is wrong. He forces your hand — just like he did three years ago, but this time, he’s hoping for a different outcome. That’s all he’s got left. Hope.

content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, slow burn, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, emotional hurt / little comfort, some serious mutual pining, use of pet names, implied intimacy | non-explicit, plus mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, also touches on topics of: death, grief, toxic relationships, gaslighting, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

2:34AM.

The house is still. Quiet and empty. Everyone is hiding away in their own rooms, trying to get some sleep after a long and exciting day.

Except the house is not still. There’s shouting bouncing between the walls, keeping the group awake. Raised voices coming from one bedroom.

Eddie’s, to be exact.

Ding. Phones illuminate the darkness. The group chat.

Steve: They’ve been arguing for over an hour… Robin: should someone check what’s going on? Robin: not it

Jonathan sends a thumbs down emoji.

Nancy: Let’s leave them alone for a bit longer. Steve: I’m trying to sleep Robin: we’re all trying to sleep, Harrington Nancy: 15 minutes and I’ll go, okay?

Thumbs up reactions fly in. The chat dies down for a moment. Phones get locked, attempts at eavesdropping continue.

Robin: do we know what they’re arguing about? Robin: they looked mighty cosy this evening and now this? Steve: I can take a wild guess Robin: do enlighten us, detective Jonathan: Guys, it’s not our business. Steve: They’re kinda making it our business, Byers Steve: I suspect it’s got something to do with Chrissy Robin: of fucking course

Chrissy has had enough of being made to look like a fool. She felt as though she sacrificed enough for Eddie Munson during their time together and she wanted something in return, for the years she wasted on the metal-head. For all the instances he’d tell her you meant nothing, yet his actions proved otherwise.

Chrissy no longer wanted to be the butt of the joke.

Recording her version of the story, articulating it into words she’s been too afraid to feel, was therapeutic. She should have left it there. Let the past go and find someone who actually cares. But she couldn’t just let it be. Not so deep down, she wanted Eddie to hurt — you’re just collateral damage, a means to an end.

You pressed play without thinking too much about the implications because what could Eddie’s pretty ex-girlfriend possibly want with you. Issue some vague and empty threats, perhaps? Or maybe to tell you something along the lines of ‘good luck, he’s an asshole’ — typical ex-girlfriend stuff.

Only there isn’t anything typical about Chrissy’s message.

Listening to it once should have been enough for you, but no, you had to go and hurt your heart by playing it again and again and again, until the words made even less sense than they did the first time around.

It’s incredibly incriminating, to say the least, and you don’t quite believe that anything Chrissy has said is true, so you let auto-pilot take over and saunter down the hall, towards Eddie’s bedroom.

He opens the door before you even get a chance to knock, as if he knew you were coming. As if he felt your energy gravitate in his direction and he wanted to meet you halfway. A smile reaches his lips, cocky yet soft, and your heart clenches because you desperately want everything to remain on the edge of whatever the hell you two have been doing all day.

“Miss me already, angel?” He quips, arm above his head, resting against the frame.

“We need to talk,” you say and slide under his bicep, stepping inside his safe space.

Eddie shifts, his smile faltering. He gets the sense that he’s not going to like what’s about to come out of your mouth. He swallows a breath and shuts the door with the heel of his foot, a gentle thud vibrating against the floorboards.

“What’s going on?” Concern laced through his tone.

You don’t answer. Not really. Instead, you hold up your phone, the one you’ve been gripping tightly in your hand, imprints left behind on your palm.

Staring at the metal-head, you press play. Chrissy’s voice booms from the speaker and you observe Eddie for any sort of reaction: to prove she’s lying. She has to be lying.

“Okay, ugh. This is so weird,” Chrissy’s note begins. “You don’t have to listen to this. In fact, I half expect you’ve already turned it off because you don’t owe me anything. We were never friends, just friendly. Acquaintances by nature or some shit.”

She pauses. Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the phone. He takes a step forward, but doesn’t try to come any closer to you. Almost as if he knows what his ex-girlfriend is about to say and he feels helpless to stop it.

“Now that you seem to have reconciled with him. There’s something I think you ought to know. Something he definitely won’t tell you since he’s always been quite chickenshit when it comes to the truth and you - separately and combined.”

You play the second voice note, eyes not leaving Eddie’s brown ones for a second.

“Our graduation party. There’s not a lot I know about what happened between you, Eddie, and Steve. He never told me the specifics, but I can piece together a rough picture and I know there was a blowup, one he blamed you for.”

Shuffling in the background indicates she’s on the move as she speaks.

“Listen, I’m not here to make assumptions or whatever. I just think there’s been a certain double standard which you don’t deserve - coming from me, that must feel like a shocker.”

Chrissy chuckles. The voice note ends. You play the next one, but not before Eddie says your name which makes your insides curl.

“After you fought for everyone at the party to hear, and after Eddie took you home, I don’t know if you know that he came back. I found him ruffling through the bushes. I suppose he was looking for something, although he never told me what. He never told me much when it came to you.”

Your free hand lands on the guitar pick around your neck.

“Well, I invited him in.”

“Angel—”

“Eddie, shut up.” You interrupt, voice quavering because now, seeing the downcast expression on his face, you know what Chrissy is about to say next is true.

The note continues.

“I’ll spare you the details. We slept together. Bet Eddie would never tell you that, huh? He’s all high and mighty about whatever you did with Steve earlier that very same night, when in reality he’s not much better.”

A pause for dramatic effect.

“Then, word spreads that you’ve skipped town and Eddie comes around more often. I asked about you, you know? I asked if he told you about what we did because I’m not stupid, I know there’s always been something between the two of you, and I didn’t want to step on any toes in case you came back. All he did was shrug and say you didn’t deserve to know anything from him anymore.”

Tears wet your lashes.

“Talk about being a conniving asshole.”

In the last, shortest note, she adds, “Sorry you had to find out this way.”

With the click of a thumb, you lock your phone and go back to gripping it, tight. Anger seeps through your fingers, although that’s where it starts and ends. The rest of you feels borderline numb — which usually drives you to drink. You hate yourself for this setback, but more so for allowing this in the first place. For getting caught up in Eddie’s forgiveness and his laugh, his touches and kisses, his promises of a better tomorrow.

The sham is clear. Chrissy spelled it out in her voice notes.

Eddie Munson gave you hell for kissing Steve then jumped into bed with the blonde Cunningham. Whatever. He needed someone to make him feel better. That’s not what irks you.

What hurts the most is the radio silence that followed beyond the night. The years of no contact.

What hurts the most is allowing you to think everything was your fault. For allowing you to isolate yourself from your friends, your home. For letting you stew in misery, thinking you hurt him beyond repair.

“I was going to tell you,” Eddie says, taking another step in your direction. “I swear, angel. I-I just didn’t know how to go about it.”

You scoff although your voice wobbles as you say, “Well, thank god for your ex-girlfriend.”

Eddie’s now an arm-length away.

“Look, I-I know this looks bad, but this doesn’t have to change anything,” he half-pleads. “I mean, we dated after, so it’s not like—”

“Like me and Steve?” You interrupt in disbelief at this entire situation. “I thought we moved past that.”

“We did,” he agrees with a shake of the head. “Fuck! I-I am just trying to say how what happened between me and Chrissy is different.”

Slowly, you nod. “Right, because that explains it so much better.”

“Angel—”

“You think I’m mad because you had sex with her?”

He seems shaken by your question which answers it immediately.

“Eddie, I don’t give a shit about who you sleep with. Chrissy, those horny moms that listen to your radio show, whoever else.” You tell him, “I’m upset because I went years believing everything that happened to us was my goddamn fault!”

The yell slips and he flinches, not expecting such ferocity.

Eddie left you to your own guilt and that’s his prerogative. The secrets however, they hurt. First the Billy thing, and now this. And imagining how different things could have been if you knew all this information sooner makes you want to scream.

“You keep secrets, Eddie. Billy and this, and you fail to realise how these secrets impacted me and my decisions!” You accuse. “What’s worse, we had a heart to heart last night, which would have been a good opportunity to tell me about this thing with Chrissy, but you chose yourself over me, again.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “You still left, remember? You didn’t have to do that. You could have stayed and we uh, we could have tried to work it out—”

“I left because of you!”

Something snaps then. The last string of forging forward.

“Okay, I don’t like the accusation when you’re the one who made out with my friend.” Eddie goes on defence.

“Jesus! How many times are you going to make me apologise?” You throw your arms up with the question. “I was drunk and sad. My best friend—” You point to the metal-head. “— just told me he had feelings for me at quite literally the worst possible time and I wasn’t ready to…”

The sentence fades as you shake your head. “No. You don’t get to say anything about me kissing Steve anymore because you forgave me, remember?”

He’s staring at you. Hands formed into fists at his sides.

The argument bounces back-and-forth like this. You’re hurt. He’s hurt. Neither of you willing to back down first because there’s a whole lot more to lose now than there ever was before — boundaries crossed, all those kisses and whatever the fuck they mean.

“Do the others know?” You ask, breaking a tension filled moment of silence.

Eddie shakes his head.

You smack your lips together. “That tells me you’re ashamed, which means you know what you did is wrong.”

“What do you want me to say?!” He half-shouts, feeling agitated and defeated all at the same time.

“You still haven’t said you’re sorry,” you answer, softer, sadder.

Eddie’s heart clenches. He can see the hurt behind your eyes, hear it in your voice. He should have apologised, but you came in hot and he felt blindsided — not like that’s a good enough excuse, although maybe it is considering some forty-eight hours ago, you two were hating each other.

Well, he didn’t hate you. Never ever. Quite the opposite in fact, all this time.

“I'm sorry, okay.” Eddie says eventually. “I am really fucking sorry.”

“If only that wasn’t so forced.”

He sighs. “We’re going in circles here, angel.”

And the argument starts again. At this point, it feels stupid, but there’s a gnawing inside your chest that’s not allowing you to let this shit go.

“You let me believe you were broken over me.”

“I was!” Eddie shouts. “What happened with Chrissy has nothing to do with how I feel about you, goddamn it!”

You blink. Feel, he said. However, not even a split-second passes to let you dwell on the word and his use of it because Eddie continues with his rant.

“The facts are, you left. Despite whatever I said or did, and whatever you said or did. At the end of the day, you still left! And maybe I am a shitty person, shitty friend, for not reaching out and not telling you about getting with Chrissy that same night, fucking sue me!”

The metal-head approaches you as he speaks. He stops only when he’s toe to toe, hovering over you, demanding eye contact.

“I was heartbroken and I chose to react how I did to help me get over you!”

He fucked up, he knows, but you’re no better either. There’s been years of miscommunication and hidden information; that’s hard to fix over a few days.

“Eddie…” You whisper his name and search his gaze for absolution. An ending to this whole debacle.

“Which frankly, is a tough fucking thing to do,” he adds and clenches his jaw in anticipation of what you’re going to tell him next.

But you don’t get to reply. You don’t even have a minute for his admission to settle because his phone starts intensely vibrating on the bedside table.

Hanging his head, Eddie walks towards it and after glancing over his shoulder at you, a sad look on his face, he reads the texts that are coming into the group chat.

He types.

Eddie: We’re fine. Steve: Sure doesn’t sound like it, dude Steve: Heard my name a couple of times… Eddie: It’s fine. Robin: liar

He slips his phone into the back pocket of his jeans with a sigh, and as he turns back around, he says: “I’m sorry, angel. For my part, I am.”. But you’re not there anymore.

The door to his bedroom is wide open. You must’ve slipped out in the split-second he paid attention to his phone instead of what truly mattered.

He follows, looking for you. When he finds you outside, sitting on the lawn and staring ahead at the lake, you tell him you want to be alone. Eddie says he knows, yet plops down next to you because he’s not making the same mistake he did three years ago. He’s not letting you retreat and run away when he just got you back.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says earnestly, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes.

“So you’ve said,” you reply, choosing to focus on the reflection of the stars in the dark water.

He sighs. “You don’t make things easy, you know.”

“So you’ve said,” you repeat.

Suddenly, he’s in front of you. Parting your legs, so he can slide in between. His own knees bump your arms, keeping you in place, no escape, as his hands delicately grip your face and force you to meet his sad brown gaze.

“I should’ve fought for you.”

Not a simple sentence whatsoever. Hard to say, hard to hear. The words settle around you, within you. They hold your heart. Squeeze it and let the blood pour until you’re faint.

The weight of this is bigger than anything he’s ever said to you. Eddie knows this too. He feels the way your body sags in his embrace. How you’ve seemingly stopped breathing.

He realises in that moment how, although you’ve never said anything, you have feelings for him too. Back then, even stronger now. All along. All this time.

And Eddie does next what he knows is wrong. He forces your hand — just like he did three years ago, but this time, he’s hoping for a different outcome. That’s all he’s got left. Hope.

“I should’ve fought for you because I-I don’t think I’ve ever stopped… feeling things for you.”

“Eddie.”

“And I-I think the problem all along has been your fear of reciprocating anything real.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug, “Or maybe you’re just trying to find another reason, another excuse, to push me away so you don’t have to face what’s been in front of you all along. Me.”

He kisses you before the words fully escape his plump mouth. The fight’s not over. The argument, simply put on hold. His lips trace yours, then travel along your jaw and down your neck. He reaches your collarbone and kisses there too, slow and steady.

He wants to hear you say it. Admit the feelings you’ve been harbouring.

His movement is methodical. His hands now on your waist, splayed fingers digging into your lower back as he bites your flesh, coaxing a moan from your parted lips.

“Eddie,” you breathe, “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

But you don’t. In fact, you lean forward.

“But we’re not having sex,” you mutter against his parted lips.

“Okay,” he breathes.

“And this doesn’t fix anything.”

“You already said that, angel.”

Since you have no further rebuttals — actually, you have plenty, but all you can think about right now is how much you want him.

Sure, the circumstances could be better, but fact remains. You want him to touch you and make you forget, make you feel better. Make you happy. And you want to return the favour, out on the grass, under the cover of darkness, because if nothing else, at least you’ll both have this moment.

3:17AM

Steve: It’s oddly quiet……… Nancy: Maybe they went to sleep? Jonathan: Exactly what we should be doing too.

He follows with a frown emoji, to which Harrington reacts with a thumbs down.

Robin: they’re not in their rooms Robin: and yes, I went to check because that’s what good friends do Jonathan: Not our business. Steve: The cars are still here, so they must be somewhere on the property Jonathan: Guys, seriously. Nancy: We should all go to sleep. Robin: fine Robin: but if they’re still missing in the morning, I won’t be the one talking to the cops Nancy: I’m sure they’re both fine. Steve: They’re in the backyard….. Robin: oh? Steve: They’re fine

He wraps the conversation up with a winky face and locks his phone. The rest of the group do the same, only after Robin sends one last message: “fucking finally”.

Finally.

That’s what you’d say to describe this moment too.

As Eddie’s hands gently slide under your top, as he works his lips along your jawline, as you tug his brown locks in your fingers, as he lay you down on the grass and wedged his denim-clad knee in between your thighs, finally is the thought that definitely crosses your mind.

Until it doesn’t.

“Eddie,” you mutter his name.

“Yes, baby?” He’s kissing down your neck, excruciatingly slow.

You exhale, eyes rolling to the back of your skull, turned on, but also nervous for his reaction to what’s about to come out of your mouth.

“What are we doing?”

He smirks against your skin. You can feel the twitch of his lips against that soft spot you didn’t even know you had until the metal-head found it.

“We’re not having sex,” he replies, teasing with your earlier comment.

The corners of your own lips twitch upwards involuntary. Happy, content. He’s funny. He likes you. Why is the devil on your shoulder trying to ruin this good thing?

“No.” Pressing your forehead to his, gently pushing away, you continue, “What are we doing?”

Slowly, the metal-head lifts his head, catching your gaze with his own. The gentle moonlight glow illuminates his face.

“There’s a lot riding against us,” you say. “And it doesn’t help that we’ve been avoiding this conversation.”

“What conversation?” He questions, although he already knows the answer.

“Eddie,” you whine. “We can’t keep pretending.”

Brows furrowed, he drops his hand to your lap, interlocking your fingers together. He squeezes once, twice, then swallows his breath. Nervous. A ticking time-bomb, this thing between you. That’s how he’d describe it. A lot of questions and excuses, not a lot of decisiveness out of fear, mainly.

“Pretending?” He ponders.

“Pretending it doesn’t hurt every time we look at one another,” you explain, “Pretending. everything is fine and we’re just two people who used to be friends.”

Eddie sighs. “That’s bullshit.”

And his lips are back on yours. Softer this time. A loving kiss. A loaded kiss. Making you forget why you were nervous in the first place because despite everything, he’s here and as are you. Together. Feeling… things. Liking each other. That should be enough.

Right?

Wrong.

Birds chirping and a cool breeze stir the brunette awake. He sits immediately because the first thing Eddie notices is how he’s alone — which is not how things ended at the ungodly hour of the night.

In the aftermath of a lovestruck haze, you fell asleep in his arms, but now you’re gone and dread spills into his gut.

Pulling his T-shirt over his bare torso, Eddie is on his feet and rushing toward the house. Inside, Steve throws him a look, a cup of coffee barely hiding the knowing smirk.

“Some night, huh?”

But Eddie ignores his friend. He’s got no time to entertain the teasing of it all. He needs to find you first.

“Fuck off, Harrington.” Eddie grumbles, albeit growing red as a beet.

Steve snorts a laugh, shakes his head, and dips out the back door to enjoy the rest of his morning coffee.

Eddie resumes his search.

The living areas are all deserted. Quiet. Upstairs, he checks his own room first, the common bathroom, and when they too prove vacant, he rushes down the hall until he reaches the door of the last place you could be.

He knocks. Once, twice. There’s no answer and his anxiety spikes. Calling your name, he helps himself inside. Also empty.

Worse. There’s no sign of you whatsoever.

Eddie circles the room, slowly. The bed is made. En-suite clear of any lotions and bottles alike. Hesitantly, he opens the wardrobe, only to find nothing at all. Free hangers and unoccupied shelves. Your suitcase is also gone.

Something catches the metal-heads eye. A singular item left behind. The plushy he won you at the fair. He reaches for it, then stops abruptly because a sound coming from downstairs catches his attention instead. The entryway. Hinges open, close.

Your laughter.

Hastily, Eddie grabs the toy and rushes out of the room. He stops at the top of the stairs when his wide gaze lands on the girl he was sure left him behind — again.

“You’re here?” He half asks, half says.

Your head snaps in his direction and a timid smile graces your features.

“Good morning.”

“You’re here,” Eddie repeats, stepping down the steps, until he’s an arms length away from you.

“Where else would I be?”

“Your room is empty,” he points out, then lifts the plushy in his hands, “This is the only thing that was left.”

You reach for the toy, but grab his hands instead. Fingers interlocking together and you squeeze.

“I packed up my car. The rabbit must’ve fallen out of my bag.” Slowly, you pull his knuckles to your chest.

He nods, once. Slowly.

“I-I just thought maybe you… The whole Chrissy thing and what I said last night…”

“Yeah, we should definitely talk before we leave today,” you say and offer him another smile.

Eddie takes it in, the twist of your lips, and relaxes slightly, but there’s a look in your eyes he can’t quite place. A certain detachment. He wants to ask you about it. He wants to double check that you’re okay because he doesn’t quite believe that you are. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance because you slip away from him, into the kitchen where seemingly the rest of the group has now gathered.

The detachment is intentional. You’re just unaware that Eddie picked up on it. He wasn’t supposed to.

Truthfully, when you woke up this morning, tangled in his limbs on the hard grass, your insides curled with panic.

You were almost free and clear, driving away without any goodbyes, when Nancy caught you.

She saw the look in your eyes and understood immediately because it’s the same look that you shared with her three years ago, when she told you to leave.

This time however, the Wheeler girl is telling you to stay. “At least say goodbye,” she says and you nod. “It’s the right thing to do.”

All through breakfast, you workshop a list of pros and cons to the internal turmoil of leave with Eddie or leave alone.

The Munson boy is staring at you from across the table and his deep brown gaze makes it all that much harder to think. Thoughts of he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve this, turn to, don’t leave him, don’t leave him, don’t leave. But no good will come of you staying, that’s what the devil is telling you. The dark part of yourself.

“This was a really good weekend,” Robin announces with a smile. “Thank you for organising, Nance. You’re the best.”

Steve lifts his mug. “To Nancy.”

“To Nancy,” the group echoes, you included.

“To us,” the brunette girl says instead.

Your gaze locks with Eddie’s and your heart drops. You don’t want to leave him. Not now, not ever. So maybe him coming with you to Vegas is a bad idea, because it’ll be that much more difficult to inevitably say goodbye?

His words echo in your mind: “Maybe you’re just trying to find another reason, another excuse, to push me away so you don’t have to face what’s been in front of you all along. Me.”, and despite the sinking sensation, you plaster on a smile and repeat Nancy’s sentiment, eyes not straying from the mahogany across from you for even a second.

“How about we each say what our favourite part of this trip has been?” Robin suggests, “Eddie, why don’t you kick us off?”

The metal-head swallows. He forces himself to look away from you, towards the remainder of the group and nods.

“Uhm. Sure.” He clears his throat. “I uh, I had fun at the fair.”

He doesn’t look at you when he answers because that would reveal too much to your friends. Although, judging by the snickers coming from Steve’s end of the table, they already know a lot more than they’re letting on.

“Good start,” Robin says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “Who wants to go next?”

Argyle puts himself forward. He says he enjoyed canoeing the most and the whole table, minus you and Eddie, barks out in laughter. Jonathan reminds his friend that he never joined them on the lake, he was afraid, and Argyle disagrees.

“That doesn’t sound like me, dude.” He drawls.

The group continues to laugh.

“Okay, okay,” Steve interjects, ceasing his chortles. “My favourite moment was cutting onions that very first night.”

Your eyes snap in Harrington’s direction and for the first time all morning, the smile on your face doesn’t feel forced.

“Don’t be cute,” you tease.

Steve rolls his eyes. “What can I say, sweetheart. I loved reconnecting with you.”

“That’s been my favourite too,” Robin chimes.

“Guys, stop,” you force, getting slightly choked up about this sentimental moment you’ve found yourself in. “These feel like cop-out answers.”

“What’s yours then?” Robin asks.

You hesitate. There’s been a lot. Some bad moments too, although the good outweigh them. Eddie is at the top of your mind. Making out in the lake. Later, dry humping (etc.) on the grass. A burn in your cheeks at the sudden flashes of memory.

“It’s all been really nice,” is what you settle on.

Robin rolls her eyes. “Right, ‘cause that’s not a cop-out answer.” She huffs, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Nice,” Steve repeats. “I guess bumpin’ naughties—”

“Well,” Jonathan interrupts, “I agree. It’s all been really nice.”

You flash him a grateful smile and he tips his head in your direction. A way of expressing ‘don’t worry about it’ behind the look he’s sporting.

“Me too,” Nancy adds.

“You guys are no fun,” Robin half-whines. “Only Eddie understood the assignment, and even he’s not being a hundred percent truthful.”

“I am,” the metal-head speaks. “Being truthful, that is. I really liked the fair.”

Robin smiles at him. “I know, dude. But I also know you guys did something salacious last night,” she says, pointing between you and the brunette across from you, “And I would’ve thought that’s the favourite moment.”

“Robin!” Nancy breathes in shock.

“We… I-I…” You stammer, searching for the right thing to say since there’s no use in denying it.

“That’s none of your business,” Eddie huffs for the both of you.

“I told them that,” Jonathan says.

“Oh come on,” Steve laughs, “It’s not a big deal. We’re just happy for you two. It’s been a long time coming.”

Hesitantly, you look back at Eddie. His own gaze is fixated on the ceiling above, head resting on the edge of the chair. He’s thinking about that detached look on your face. How can he share the same energy as his friends when you feel like you’ve already slipped away?

“So, are you guys like, together?” Argyle asks innocently, pushing the conversation along. “Congrats either way, my dudes.”

You want the ground to swallow you up whole. For all the talking you’ve done with the metal-head, you’ve not discussed a lot about what any of this means. The plan was to do so last night, before Chrissy’s voice notes. Plans shift. Mere moments ago, you said you’d talk before it’s time to go. You certainly didn’t think you’d be having this conversation in front of / thanks to your friends.

“We’re not together,” you say, blinking the embarrassment away, and the whole table looks at you. Including Eddie, whose lips part as if to say something different.

And he does.

“We uhm,” the metal-head clears his throat. “We actually haven’t talked about it.”

“Not for lack of trying” You mean it as a whisper, for no one in particular to hear. It comes out a little more intense than that.

Eddie leans forward. A snap judgement.

“You really want to do this here?” He asks quietly.

“Okay,” Robin chimes, “Guys, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, the dryness becoming unbearable. “All the arguing last night, and one reason we didn’t talk, would be my ex-girlfriends fault.”

Steve shouts, “I knew it!”, while you flutter your eyes closed. Breathing in, then out.

Last night. You decide, a little too late, that last night would’ve been a good idea to finish the argument. Wrap this cursed graduation party topic up, once and for all.

Instead, you gave into deep confessions and Eddie’s beautiful chocolate-button eyes, his light touches and the sensation of his lips on yours.

The group is chattering. They’re pressing Eddie for more details on what his hell-of-an ex did this time. He’s trying his best to fend them off: intentions may be innocent, but it’s none of their business. Unfortunately, he’s not having much luck.

Eventually, he cracks.

“I slept with her.”

Opening your eyes at that moment, you look at him again. His attention is already on you. Apologetic, sad.

“Well, duh, dude,” Robin begins, “You dated her. We kinda assumed you boinked.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Before,” he says, pauses. You can see him swallow his nerves. “The night of the graduation party.”

Silence stretches across the table.

And then you realise something.

You have to leave. Alone.

The flight to Vegas, and everything in between, cannot happen. How can you entertain the idea of falling for someone who, aside from wild confessions, doesn’t want to talk things through?

He too is always finding an exit strategy. Later, later, later. Eddie says later and nothing happens because there’s something different that gets in the way. His own excuses since he too is afraid to get hurt.

“Dude,” Steve begins, “That’s like…”

“It’s fine,” you chime. “That’s one of the things we actually did talk about. Not completely, but more than other stuff. ‘Cause we’ve done a lot of catching up, but uh, it’s all been very surface level.”

“Surface level?” Eddie asks in disbelief.

“Aside from Chrissy’s confession, we haven’t talked about anything real, Eddie.” You continue. “And we probably won’t because one of us will always find an excuse. Plus, there’s just too many other variables that make things difficult and as nice as this weekend has been,” you pause, heart hammering inside your chest, “We should stop kidding ourselves.”

His jaw locks into place.

“If that’s how you feel,” he says, monotone.

You nod, then blatantly lie. “That’s how I feel.”

Eddie stands. Chair sliding, falling backwards with force. He leaves before anyone else can add to the shitsorm that’s just transpired. Steve follows after his friend, shooting you an apologetic glance before he leaves. Robin and Nancy are suddenly on either side of you. The blonde telling you how she’s sorry for pushing this topic and the brunette reminding you that this doesn’t have to end. You freeze their voices out. Focusing on only one thing: the heartbreak in Eddie’s eyes as you spoke the words you didn’t mean.

Only a few seconds, you think, that’s all it ever takes to ruin a good thing.

After breakfast, you don’t care to stay much longer.

Itching instead, to get back to Fort Wayne. See your mom. Cry about everything while she hugs you. Maybe you’ll stay there a couple of days. Call in sick to work. Fake an emergency. Have her piece you back together. Maybe, while you’re with her, you’ll change your mind— No.

One by one, the group exchange goodbyes. Quick and long hugs. Promises of staying in touch. Some tears. A lot of pained laughter.

Robin says she’ll call every day and she’ll see you soon, for her girlfriend's birthday bash.

Nancy reassures her and Jonathan will also plan a trip to see you, and once again tells you about the room at her future house with your name on it. You stifle a sniffle and embrace her for a second too long.

Jonathan offers some wisdom. The silent killer, Jonathan Byers. A man of very few words yet, as you have come to experience, they’re somehow always the right ones. His hug is quick and you appreciate that about him. No mushy things needed.

Argyle announces loud and proud how it’s been nice to meet you, get to know you. “Likewise,” you tell him honestly and exchange a fistbump.

Steve’s next on the goodbye train. This hug you don’t particularly want to let go of. His strong arms hold you tightly, as if he’s trying to take away all of your worries and pain. In a hushed whisper, he apologises for what happened earlier and says how he only wants you to be happy — a sentiment not so dissimilar to the first conversation you had together this weekend. You place a soft kiss on his cheek and tell him you love him, because it’s true. He smiles, forehead pressed to your own.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Platonically, the feeling is not as scary.

When you break apart, you glance between the group and a lump forms in your throat. These are the best people you have ever met and reconnecting with them this weekend is what really matters, at the end of the day.

This group, plus Eddie.

Because Eddie is currently not here. He didn’t come to say goodbye.

And as you stride down to your car, glancing over your shoulder one last time, at your friends, at the house, you feel a thousand times worse for wear.

Until the front door opens with a violent shake.

Eddie comes into view. He’s got a wild expression on his face as he barrels down the front porch steps, then the gravel which crunches underneath his sneakers.

He pushes through your mutual group of friends and doesn’t stop his pace until he’s face-to-face with you, peering down into your surprised eyes, slightly breathless.

“It’s not been surface level,” he says.

“Eddie,” you begin, but his thumb is suddenly pressed against your bottom lip and you stop dead in your tracks.

(Never. Again.)

“Long before this weekend, definitely over the last three years, and before the graduation party, before Billy. Probably, actually,” he swallows, “I’ve been in love with you since the very first time I saw you.”

Tears brim the corners of your eyes as the metal-head continues.

“And I know there’s a lot we haven’t talked about and a lot we need to figure out, but this thing we have, baby, I’ll be damned if I let you get in that car right now thinking that all we’ve done is surface level.”

“Eddie,” you try again.

He shakes his head. “Unless you’re going to tell me you’re staying to have a proper conversation, the one I owed you yesterday, I don’t want to hear it.”

Someone — Robin — shouts, “Kiss him, you fool.” and the rest of the group snickers. Well, Argyle and Steve snicker, while Jonathan and Nancy remprimend the lot.

Then they lead them back into the house, leaving you with this boy who is wildly in love with you, and who you perhaps love back, but how can you even begin to tell him that, since the last time you uttered those words, they were to someone who died.

“Please, angel.” Eddie pleads.

You open your mouth, then close it just as fast, chewing instead, on the inside of your cheek for what feels like eternity. In reality, it’s only a split-second while your brain works out what to do.

When you lean forward, inhaling his breath, his scent, him, you don’t intend to kiss him. You do anyway. Softly, tenderly.

And suddenly, your arms are around his neck and his hands are on your waist. He’s pinning you to the side of the car and his knee is wedged between your thighs. Your fingers pull his brunette locks and he bites your bottom lip, hungry, needy, pleading for something else entirely than a conversation.

“Okay,” you mutter against his parted lips, “Let’s talk.”

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson angst #right where you left me #cacoetheswriting

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