devynsshitposts
devynsshitposts
Devyn's Shit Posts
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Shit posts cause I need somewhere to vent and shit post. (23 with no direction 😭)
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devynsshitposts ¡ 7 days ago
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Four Paces Behind You
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Pairing : Bodyguard!Joaquin Torres x Princess!Reader AU [vague description of reader being shorter than Joaquin)
A/N: thank you so much for this request anon and I wanted to write only one scene but then I got possessed by a tween on sugar rush and ended up writing some 8k words AND IT JUST KEPT INCREASING LMAOO. So here I am... with a whopping 13.5K words idk I went full ballistic w this :) I kind of imagined the princess to be from a South-Asian kingdom [My only references has been the movies I have seen lol (there is a film called Khoobsurat and a lot of rules and setting is inspired from this movie)], but I have left the descriptions vague so you can imagine the kingdom how you see fit. So here you go, this is my love letter to all the soft romance delulu girls who wants to annoy a man so much that he ends up falling for them, may you all get the book boyfriends you truly deserve <3 listen to Two Hands by Tate McRae for better experience during the scene [mentioned below]
Warnings: DUAL POV. ANGST ANGST ANGST!!!! Reader is a bad girl trying to be good. Inaccurate royal people's rules ig?, mentions of destructive behaviour, self saboutage, attention seeking people, sexist themes, paparazzi being assholes, family arguements, basically reader is a princess trying to follow her dreams, mentions of forced marriage, Inaccurate F1 rules and working? [reader is a racing enthusiast], also Joaquin Torres on a bike doing stunts in Vienna, you're welcome.
Word Count: 13.5K
⋆。 ゚☁︎。 ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。 ⋆.⋆。 ゚☁︎。 ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。 ⋆.
Bodyguard! Joaquin Torres X Princess! Reader
Your sash poked into your neck like a velvet noose.
You blinked rapidly, the fake lashes heavy and clumped from the last-minute extensions someone insisted you needed. The tiara perched atop your head gleamed under the crystal lights, but it didn’t feel elegant. It felt like obligation, pressing down on your scalp with every inch of your heritage. Even your gown, a masterpiece of silver sequins and duchess satin... felt like armor, and the enormous flare of it made you feel less like a royal and more like a wedding cake about to topple over.
Despite the wardrobe struggle, you stood tall... you had to.
But your mind wandered like it always did. You found your focus snagged on the curtains in front of you. Deep burgundy, maybe velvet… or brocade? You weren’t sure. You wanted to run your fingers along them, and you raised your hand to feel the curtains, only for your eyes to fall on your white satin gloved hands, too sterile, too clean, and it irritated you further. the curtains were the only barrier you had between you and the bustling crowd in the halls.
Around you, event planners and makeup artists hustled past, speaking to each other, making sure the event goes smoothly. The Grand Hall of the Royal Palace overflowed with global dignitaries, foreign royalty, press, and every relevant elite worth impressing.
Today was your twenty-fifth birthday, your official introduction as Queen Regent-in-Waiting. A ceremonial declaration that once your brother, Prince Ramil, ascended the throne after your father, you would follow.
Assuming you didn’t implode first.
You fought to breathe in the corset cinched so tight that your ribs ached, but you didn’t dare shift. You had been trained for this, for the perfect postures and the Hollywood smile, since you were a toddler.
“Breathe, Your Highness.”
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was, his voice could be recognized by you in an instant. I was low and smooth, one syllable from him could cut through noise like a hot blade through wax. It always calmed you, steadied you, reminded you that amongst the plastique and fakeness of being a royal in 21st century, someone inside the palace walls was still real.
Joaquin Torres.
Ex Air Force.
Your Bodyguard.
From the corner of your eye, you saw him step closer, four paces behind you; exactly as protocol allowed. His hand reached forward with practiced stealth, brushing your fingers and leaving behind something small and familiar.
You glanced down to find a lemon candy, half-wrapped. You bit down on it immediately, the sharp citrus hitting your tongue like a jolt of electricity. Your lip twitched, and you grimaced.
“Thank you,” you murmured, barely moving your mouth, your smile still fixed.
“I heard you skipped lunch,” he replied, voice dry.
You rolled your eyes, “Don’t be dramatic, Torres. I had a large breakfast.”
“Let me guess. A strawberry Pop-Tart and black coffee.” He scoffed.
“It was two Pop-Tarts,” you hissed, and you could hear the soft huff of amusement he didn’t let anyone else hear.
Behind you, Joaquin stood at his full height. He was wearing his formal black three-piece suit; the same one he wore at all events. He looked handsome in it, better than any prince in extravagant clothing… although you liked him more in a tank top where his toned biceps were in full view. You never told him this, of course, because he would never let you live it down. Because Joaquin Torres could be a terrible flirt and a softie by heart, but he was a pillar of safety for you first… truly unshakable. He was your shadow, your shield, your most trusted friend.
He had been assigned to you at nineteen, back when your name was plastered on tabloids more often than national newsletters. You had been caught by paparazzi way too many times at places any princess shouldn’t be; clubs, celeb parties, bars in foreign countries... but mostly at illegal underground car racing events.
You were wild back then.
The media loved any chance they got to drag the royal family through the dirt, and had nicknamed you “Drift Princess” by the number of times you had been booked for driving your custom hot pink mustang at ungodly speed, so fast that your car was a blur in the paparazzi pictures. You still remembered your first photo that was everywhere in media for a month: your hot pink Mustang streaking through a back-alley track, smoke curling off tires, your grin wide and reckless.
You hadn’t cared at all back then, being the obnoxious spare to the throne, and nobody dared to stop you… until Joaquin had been thrown into your world, with his all-brooding eyes and scolding lectures. You swear you never saw his lips twitch back then, never.
You hated him at first; The way he hovered around you anywhere you went. The way he shadowed you, barked rules your way, blocked exits before you reached them. The way he cared when everyone else was just… tired of you. You fought him with everything; snuck past him, climbed walls, got black out drunk at unknown clubs, disguised yourself in hoodies and sunglasses. He found you every single time... He’d dragged you out of bars, carried you out of parties, intercepted sneaky getaways from the palace walls.
You believed he hated you too… until one night, he’d literally tackled you before you could climb over a 30 feet palace wall, one wrong step away from falling to your death. You’d been cursing him out as he picked you up and hauled you to your quarters looking ready to combust.
“your highness, You could’ve died!” he had shouted at you, practically shaking.
“Then I’d finally be free,” you’d snapped back.
Joaquin had gone still hearing that. His face dropped from angry to sadness, eyes burning with something you couldn't decipher.
“The next time you want to go,” he had yelled, “You tell me.” He pointed at you and then at himself. “I’ll take you. You can race at full speed or drink yourself into a coma with your rich friends, I don’t care. But I need to know where you are! I can’t protect you if I can’t find you!” You’d stared at him for a long time after that.
He’d been furious. You’d never had anyone scream at you like that. Never seen anyone that scared for you… not even your own family. That night, six years ago, had changed everything. He was still your bodyguard, but he had become so much more. Your secret-keeper, your movie nights partner, your only real friend, the only one who knew who you were beneath the crown.
The trumpet blared from the other side of the curtain, and you felt the anticipation of your arrival in your bones.
“It is my utmost honor,” the spokesperson announced, voice echoing around you, “to introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess y/n, first of her name, and third in line to the throne of Tavreshi!”
Your hands clenched, then released, you took a deep breath to prepare yourself as you waited for the cue of the trumpets.
Behind you, Joaquin murmured with a smirk in his voice, “Time to shine, Your Royal Driftiness.”
You bit back a laugh. “Say that again and I’ll trip on purpose.”
He leaned ever so slightly closer. “Not if I catch you first, which I always do.”
Your chest tightened at his words, but you didn’t respond.
That night at the fountain...
A heartbeat passed, and then his voice rang in your ears, this time a bit closer, “Show them who you are, princess. Good luck.”
Then the curtain opened.
The hall exploded in light and sound, flashing bulbs, camera shutters, music rising in grandeur. The applause surged like a wave crashing into your ribs as you stepped forward, looking at your family standing at the end of the staircase; Your grandfather – the king. Your parents and your brother, Prince Ramil, all beaming at you in pride and awe.
You smiled as you descended, not the plastic kind that you practiced so often. The real kind, showing your true self. And behind you, half-shielded in shadow, Joaquin followed your steps, four paces behind, hand hovered at his side.
Just in case you fell.
---/---/---
The golden ballroom gleamed with candlelight and polished marble, humming with music and gossip from the high society. You had stood beneath the chandelier, smiling through the weight of too many eyes. You had cut the huge birthday cake, and your father had danced with you first, proud of the woman that you had grown to be. After which your older brother, Prince Ramil followed, cracking a joke mid-waltz that made you want to flick his forehead.
Now, standing alone at the slightly raised podium of the room, the chatter was fading while the music grew louder, you tried not to twist your fingers. After all, this was the first time the event was in your honor.
You were twenty-five now, and officially named second in line to the throne. A future queen, in everything but title.
There were a thousand cameras clicking your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake so they can drag our name in tomorrow's headlines, well, you didn't blame them. They haven't had a bad news about you for five years now. They were hungry to see you fall. Diplomats, nobles, foreign royals watched you with curious eyes, the youngsters in awe of your rebellious nature poised so perfectly, and the elders with their judging stares.
Behind you, four paces behind, stood Joaquin Torres.
He didn’t care about the glittering gowns or the music. His serious eyes scanned the room for the 100th time. Exits, guests, and upper balconies. He was whispering into his comms again, his hand against his earpiece, tense as ever.
You glanced back slightly and muttered under your breath, “Would it kill you to relax a bit?”
Joaquin glared at you, standing straight, “Probably. Likely it would kill you too.”
---/---/---
She laughed at his deadpanned quick remark, pulling him from his scan for just a second. That was the thing about her; she could find sarcasm even in places armored with protocol and pressure.
She turned her head more now, catching his eye over her shoulder. Her smile crooked, she asked, “Dance with me?”
Joaquin blinked at her boldness, sure he had danced with her during lessons, but infront of everyone? He looked straight ahead, avoiding her glance; this wasn’t protocol, his recruiter’s voice rang in his ears, “you have to stay close to her Torres. And the minute you catch feelings, know that you have failed your duty.”
But before he could respond, he watched as a steward approached and gave a polite bow, earning her attention, “Your Highness, may I present His Royal Highness Prince Idris of Meira. He would be honored to have the next dance.”
She turned and accepted with perfect grace, as the tall tan skinned prince whisked her away to the dance floor.
Joaquin stepped back, his jaw tight, hands behind his back as he watched her take the foreign prince’s hand and let herself be led back into the dance.
“I’ve never seen her this graceful,” came a voice beside him. He glanced sideways to see Prince Ramil, y/n’s brother and current heir, standing next to him, drink in hand, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
“She always is,” Joaquin said, neutral.
Ramil followed his sister’s slow turn across the floor. “Idris is a decent man.” He looked at his champagne, grimacing, “he’s quiet, loves to read, also, his small island nation mines diamonds for a living, so, he’s like loaded.” He slurred his words, and Joaquin’s heart raced as he glanced back at her, twirling on the dance floor, laughing.
Ramil went on. “You did not hear this from me but, the king’s planning a pact between them. He hasn’t said it directly, but it’s clear. I heard him talk to dad saying Meira is a good ally nation to have.”
Joaquin’s jaw ticked his gaze locked on how Prince Idris led you around the dance floor, looking into your eyes.
“Prince Ramil, The King has summoned you,” Sam Wilson, Ramil’s Bodyguard and Joaquin’s senior form Air Force, led him to the podium where the king sat, looking back at Joaquin and silently telling him not to spill this to anyone else.
He turned his attention back to the princess. From where he stood, it looked like they were flirting. She tilted her head, her hand resting on Idris’ shoulder longer than necessary. She was playing a part maybe, this was diplomacy and strategy and rebellion rolled into one, but Joaquin wasn’t immune to the slow, bitter burning that was silently creeping into his lungs.
Because he knew what it meant to stand too close to fire and not be allowed to touch it.
Joaquin had hated her at first. She was spoiled, entitled, downright unhinged, and the physical personification of pure chaos. She didn’t care about the rules, or etiquettes, or safety and image.
She was the poster child of what a kid becomes when they don’t hear no for an answer.
But then, he had seen her talk to the stable horses like they were old friends, he saw her take care of her cars and bikes like they were a part of her, always ending up covered in grease and dirt but with a content smile on her face when she finished. He saw her sneak into the servant’s kitchen to share a cup of tea with her maids. He saw her fighting a guy twice her size at a club in Thailand, smiling through bloodied teeth as he carried her out. He saw her cry when she thought no one was watching, in her brother’s arms after her grandmother’s funeral.
Somewhere between dragging her out of a racing pit with engine oil on her hands and staying up to argue with her about how to handle PR disasters… he fell.
He fell hard.
But the brutal truth stayed unchallenged; that knights don’t fall for princesses.
He shifted his weight. Checked his comms again. Sam Wilson, Prince Ramil’s bodyguard, muttered something over the channel about the southern gate being clear. Joaquin gave a curt nod in response, but his eyes never left her.
Their dance ended, and the hall burst into raging applause. They didn’t linger for long, but they kept talking all night. Her and Idris, walking around the room greeting guests together, sitting at the edge of the ballroom sipping drinks, smiling like they had known each other for a while, and maybe they did, after all, they both were royals.
Joaquin followed them, four paces behind, stone-faced. He couldn’t hear them, but he heard her giggle, and Prince Idris holding her closer than friends should. He saw just the flicker of her hand brushing her hair, the way she threw her head back when she laughed, something genuine and rare that only he had witnessed all these years. If anyone looked closely at his stone-faced expression, they’d think he was just another bodyguard doing his duty. But on the inside, the storm in his heart only grew. He was spiraling, seconds away from cracking as he saw Idris hold her by her waist.
The realization hit him like a truck; that one day, she might belong to someone else.
And he would have to watch it unfold, helpless.
---/---/---
It was midnight when the royal family gathered in the smaller private sitting room at the palace; a room reserved for “family conversations.” You had told him enough for him to know nothing good ever came out of that room anytime your grandfather had summoned the family there.
That meant no servants, no helpers… just good old family having a heated argument, with the tension thick enough to choke on.
The King stood by the fireplace, cane in hand, eyes sharp despite his age. Queen Miriam, your mother and King Consort Advit, your father, sat on one of the long couches, pale-faced and clearly exhausted. Prince Ramil leaned against a wall, drink in hand again, expression unusually unreadable.
You stood across from them all, still in your gown. Your heels had been kicked off, and your tiara long gone. Your voice trembled; not with fear, but with fury by what you had just heard the king announce to the room.
“You want me to marry him?” you spat. “After one polite conversation and a single dance, you think we are the best choice to be married?”
The King didn’t look at you, his gaze focused in the kindling in the fireplace, “This isn’t about romance, my dear. This is about diplomacy, the stability of our land. You were raised for this.”
You screamed, “I wasn’t raised to be sold off like property!”
“Mind your tone.” The king shouts.
“No.” you stepped forward, that made him look at you, his eyes blazing with fury as he witnessed you defy him, “I went to university. I’m the first one in this family who studied mechanical engineering. I built things with my own hands. I raced. I trained in secret because you won’t allow me to have a proper racing trainer! I almost died trying to learn racing and none of you cared! And I’m supposed to believe this is for my own betterment!”
Your mother reached for you gently, getting up from her seat, “Darling, your education was never meant to distract you from your duty-”
“It wasn’t a distraction!” you snapped, as your mother looked at you with pleading eyes, “It is my dream. It has been my dream since forever! I have told you I want to race Formula One. I want a life outside these walls. I can’t be poised and perfect forever mother!” your voice cracked, “I’m twenty-five years old, not a pawn on a chessboard for you to move however you please!”
Ramil’s voice pierced through, “You really think they'll let a royal heir drive 300 kilometers an hour in a tin box?” he moved towards you, resting his glass on the coffee table.
You turned to him, fighting tears, your eyes glassy, “I thought you would understand.”
“I do, y/n.” he breathes out, “but you cannot escape this, so accept it.”
Your father stood now, voice strained but measured, he takes your hand patting it gently, “Y/n dearest, we love you. We all want what’s best for you…”
“Then say something!” you begged, your voice trembled. “Don’t just make me accept this alliance, Help me dad, Please.”
Before he could say anything, The King’s voice rang out louder, “You will marry Idris of Meira within the year, I have made arrangements with his court. That is my final word.”
“Father, If I may…” your father’s words were cut off in an instant
“I said… that is my final word!” He slammed his cane on the ground, and it was like if time had stopped for a second.
Nobody moved, nobody breathed. The monarch had spoken, and his words were as final as a statement written on stone.
Your eyes swept the room, looking at your mother, your father, and your brother. No one met your gaze; out of shame or sadness... you would never know.
---/---/---
The doors had been closed, but the voices inside had been carried out perfectly. The servants outside stood frozen, and the bodyguards exchanged quiet glances. Some felt sorry for the princess, others were scared and somewhat anticipated of what would happen next.
Joaquin stood in the corridor just behind the corner, his jaw tight and his fists clenched as he heard your shouts and the King’s booming voice echo through the hallway.
A loud click of a lock opening broke everyone out of their trance.
He saw her when she fiercely walked back to her quarters; grabbing the front of her giant dress, barefoot, her heels in hand, her makeup smeared with tears streaking her cheeks. And despite all of this, her head was high and her back straight. She stopped in her tracks as she glanced back at the door, hoping for someone to stop her.
No one did.
Her eyes locked with his, and he saw a tear tumble down her face before she turned and continued on her way.
Joaquin moved immediately.
---/---/---
The corridor outside her private quarters was silent, save for the quiet, muffled sobs echoing from the other side of the carved rosewood door of her bedroom. He had ordered the guards to clear the area, and had updated the security protocols: only two people besides immediate family had clearance to enter the Princess’s personal chambers.
Him, and Asha, her handmaiden.
Joaquin stood still, jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides. He wanted to slam open the doors and hold her tight, but he stood at his place, his patience hanging by a thread as each sob of her tore through his heart. She needed space after the whirlwind of information was dumped on her out of nowhere, but he couldn't just stand still and do nothing.
Asha paced nearby, her petite figure distressed, worry shadowing her usually bright face, her arms folded tightly across her chest, “The Princess hasn’t cried like this in years,” she whispered, almost as if afraid you would hear her. She had seen her grow from a toddler to now, her wise eyes held the worry a mother's would for her child.
Joaquin didn’t answer, he just nodded at her as he stared at the door, waiting for you to open it.
He recalled a different version of you that would throw tantrums like these for the most illogical reasons; a wilder, untamed version.
You were nineteen when he first met you, he bowed and greeted you as you made a sour face, spoiled and recklessness reeking from your aura, of an overgrown child with a royal title and money that could buy you anything you wished for.
“Princess of Speed,” the tabloids had called you. Others were less kind: “The Royal Wreck,” “Drift Princess,” “Crowned Chaos.”
He had seen you laugh about the mess the next day, but had also noticed how the smile never reached your eyes anytime you read the articles.
He had found you half-drunk on rooftops, snuck you out of red-lit clubs swarming with creeps, yanked you from the passenger seat of cars moments before they launched into illegal drag races.
But the worst night… he still had nightmares recalling how horribly wrong it could have gone if it wasn’t for him to act rogue and breaking protocol.
---/---/-----/----/-----
[Listen to Two Hands by Tate McRae for this scene for better experience]
Six years ago, Vienna
He’d gotten the intel too late.
Oil slicks were laid down past the first curve of the track with hard debris meant to cause a wipeout. The kind of trap designed for a car like hers, the fastest cars on the track. Anything going above 90 was not coming back from it.
She was going to die.
Joaquin gritted his teeth as he tore through the roads on a stolen Ducati motorbike, the roar of the engine screaming beneath him. The underground track loomed ahead; the dark, sharp, uncharted roads calling out to her as y/n sat poised behind the wheel of a goddamn Lamborghini, seconds from launching herself into it like it was just another thrill.
The crowd parted like the red sea as he blared his horn and skidded the Ducati across the tarmac, blocking her path just as she had hit the gas pedal at the starting point. The Lambo screeched to a halt in seconds, and he heard a rather interesting curse word screamed at him, fury blazing in the princesses’ eyes before she even opened the door.
She strutted towards him, wearing a short skirt and white top with a racing jacket, ready to fight him in the middle of the road, “What the actual—!”
Joaquin took off his helmet, walking to her in a hurry, “Forgive me, your highness, but I swear to God…” he snapped, stalking toward her. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
She looked more shocked than afraid to see him, but he didn’t care. He grabbed her by the arms, grounding her, shaking her just enough to make her look at him. Her entire body shook, as she processed that Joaquin was actually standing in front of her.
“There’s a trap on the curve. Designed for you to loose control in seconds.” He screamed as the crowd roared around them, watching the race start.
She opened her mouth to argue, but behind them, he heard it; racing bikes, at least four, moving fast and close to them.
“The paparazzi. They traced your car.” He looked at her with panic in his eyes.
She froze as soon as she heard the roaring bikes, two racing past them towards the road where she was supposed to crash.
Joaquin leaned in, lowering his voice. “Y/n, hey.” He held her face, “soon they will realize you’re not racing! You need to get on that bike. Now.”
She hesitated, but Joaquin pulled her with him, “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder again.”
She groaned, rolled her eyes but climbed onto the Ducati behind him, silent as he handed her his helmet. She didn’t protest when he grabbed her hands and placed them around his waist.
“Hold on,” he muttered.
Then they were flying. The Ducati ripped through the confused crowd who wondered why she left the race, entering a maze of streets, the tires kissing death on every corner. Seconds later he heard it; bikes chasing them, the camera flashing. Joaquin zipped up his jacket to his chin, his face down, as camera flashes distracted him. Shouts echoed, calling y/n to look back, but she held him tighter, refusing to look up. He didn’t let himself feel anything; not the way her grip tightened around his body, not the way his chest burned as she grabbed his jacket.
He’d swore as he swerved his bike through uncharted streets, the pedestrians screaming obscenities his ways, but all he cared was to lose the paparazzi who were hell bent on getting a click. He knew in that moment he would do anything for her.
And if it meant risking everything; his life, his dignity, his job, his heart… so be it.
---/---/---
They lost the paps after 20 minutes of circling back and forth inside the city, and he was damn sure he was soon to be banned in this Vienna forever, if he was lucky enough not to be thrown in jail. Joaquin rode in silence, her arms still tight around his waist long after they were gone.
As soon as they entered her room, shedidn't even turned on the lights before turning on the TV... which flashed the latest news: “police have found two cars crashed into each other at the underground tunnel which seemed to have been a part of the illegal street races that had been happening at night. The perpetrators were captured, and one of them had been sent to the emergency ward with severe injuries.”
His eyes found her in an instant, standing in the middle of her hotel suite; her face illuminated by the TV's light, devoid of color, flushed cheeks, wind-tangled hair, knuckles white at her sides. The girl who was so used to take up all the room anywhere she was present, now looked small in the silence that followed as he shut the TV off.
Then she finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper, “Does nobody care if I live or die?”
He blinked, his breath quickened.
“Is my life so cheap that they can sell it for mere… pictures?” Her voice cracked on the last word. She turned to face him fully, tears welling, brimming. “Is that all I am? A price tag for the highest bidder?”
His throat tightened, watching her crumble in front of his eyes. He had never seen her scared, ever. Even when he reprimanded her for trying to jump off of the palace walls.
He stepped forward, “I do,” he said on his own accord, “I care.”
Something in her crumbled as he spoke, her lips trembled into a smile, as if she didn’t believe him, tears slipped freely down her cheeks as a sob wrecked through her.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered, her legs shaking while she hid her face in her hands.
Joaquin moved as if he was possessed, like his mind and body were saying two different things. But in three long strides, he was there. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in. She clung to him like she’d fall apart if she let go, sobbing into his chest, grief and fear and exhaustion of the entire day unraveling all at once.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re safe.” He caressed her hair, soothing her back as she shook with every sob.
That night, he hadn’t screamed at her.
When she finally cried herself to sleep on the bed, curled like a child, he covered her and took a seat. He stayed by her side the entire night, sitting in the armchair next to her bed, watching her breathe.
Vowing to himself; this would never happen again. Nobody would ever come this close to harm her. because he would reach to them first
He would cross the ends of the earth to keep her from harm, and no one would ever come close to hurting her like this again.
---/---/---
That was the night something in Joaquin... shifted. That was the moment everything changed for him, when his heart began to flutter anytime, she was sad or close to danger. His heart seemed alive when she smiled, or laughed, or dragged him off to talk his ears off about engines and races and F1, breath stopping when she would mention any racer who looked cute in her opinion.
The Princess changed after Vienna. She didn’t run away from the palace; she worked with NGO’s and genuinely worked to change the lives of the underprivileged. She took responsibility, asked him to teach her how to drive safely and not gas her car from 0 to 100 in three seconds like a rookie. He saw her join university abroad, and he followed her to keep her safe. He saw her study for hours, write reports, and her own speeches for ceremonies and public events. he kept her at an arms distance, but close enough so the creeps wouldn't dare approach her at frat parties.
And somewhere in the middle of state visits and etiquette lessons, he had stopped seeing her as a spoiled kid and started seeing her as a person. Flawed, yes, but absolutely fearless.
But tonight, she was back behind that locked door like she’d been then. It had been years since she did this. He heard another sob echo through the closed doors, and that was his last straw. He turned to the door, “Princess,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
No answer.
He tried again, this time stronger, but still gentle. “Your Highness. Just open the door and let me know you’re alright.”
Her crying paused, and he heard her footsteps come closer. He rested his palm against the wood, gulping, debating what to say next, “I don’t need you to talk,” he said. “I just...” His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, “I just need to see you. To know you’re okay.”
Joaquin felt her presence through the door; she was standing right behind it. Asha cast him a glance, walking to the door, resting her hand on his shoulder. He leaned his forehead against the wood now. “y/n,” he whispered the name only a few were allowed to use, “please.”
A moment passed, Asha looked at him and then at the door, and all of a sudden, they heard the sound of slow movement inside. A slipper scuffing the floor, and the turn of a lock - Click.
The door cracked open an inch, just enough to reveal a tear-streaked face looking up at him, her eyes red, pouting. Joaquin didn’t move. He just looked at her, and all the rage boiling inside him softened in an instant.
“Hey.” He said, “can I come in?” She gulped, breathing hard, and finally, she nodded.
---/---/---
When the door creaked fully open, she stood right in front of him; barefoot, her hair a mess, and her cheeks still stained with tears.
She was still in her dress, but now the satin of her flared gown had been ripped open at the skirt seam, and the sleeves were ripped apart. Joaquin realized that she had tried to get out of the dress on her own, but the corset restricted her moments, and she had decided that tearing up the dress in shreds was the way to go.
And honestly, he didn’t blame her.
Asha was already behind her, muttering, “Dear lord,” before hurrying to unfasten the shredded gown from the back. Her top loosened, threatening to fall down, and he quickly cleared his throat and turned around.
Joaquin walked out to the princesses’ sitting room, standing near the threshold trying not to think about how the corset hugged your chest to push your breasts up, and he had unwillingly witnessed the swell of them just seconds ago. He instead focused on your conversation with Asha as she frantically dressed you into your night clothes and cleaned you up as you blared out an angry rant onto your ancestors for repressing the women in your lineage that had led to this... unsure if he should follow inside or wait until he’s summoned.
Y/n whined at Asha like a child, “Burn the bloody dress. I don’t ever want to see that thing again!”
Then, her voice came for him, low and tired. “You coming in, or do you need a royal scroll to give you permission?”
He exhaled slowly at the sarcasm and stepped inside.
By the time the door shut, y/n had changed into her softest, most worn-out clothing: a faded 1970’s Monaco Grand Prix shirt that practically hung by a thread, and loose trousers rolled at the ankles. Her hair was still wild as Asha tugged at the knots, but to Joaquin, she now looked more herself than she had all night.
Asha braided her hair and she flopped face-first onto the bed with the dramatic flair of someone who’d just lost a war.
“No one enters,” she mumbled into a pillow. “Except you two. Got it?”
“I told the guards already. Don’t worry.” Joaquin says softly, walking to the sofa near her bed.
Asha got busy folding up the destroyed gown with practiced efficiency, getting it out of sight before y/n decides she actually wants to burn the gown.
Joaquin took off his suit jacket, draping it on the back of the sofa near her bed, and takes a seat leaning back, his arms crossed. “You alright now?”. Y/n turned her face to the side to glare at him, her cheek pressed to the velvet pillow. She opened her mouth to slap him with some snide remark, but before she could answer, her stomach gave a loud, angry growl.
Asha’s eyes snapped to her like a laser. “What have you eaten today?” she looks at the princess accusingly, her hands on her waist. The princess winced and slowly turned her gaze to Joaquin with guilt written all over her face.
He sighed, rubbing his temples, “Ay dios mio.” He pulled out his phone, “I’m ordering food. Real food, all your favorites.”
“And boba tea, my treat.” she mumbled into the pillow.
“Obviously.” He scoffed.
---/---/---
Fifteen minutes later, the mood in the room had transformed completely.
You sat cross-legged on the bed, your mood a bit better and face a little brighter. Your lap was covered in crumpled wrappers and boxes: fried chicken, spicy fries, mango pudding, dumplings, and, yes, the largest boba tea cup money could buy. You devoured it all like it was your final meal on earth.
Joaquin sat on your sofa watching you with amused disbelief, “I swear, you eat like you haven’t seen food in a decade.”
You took a big gulp of the boba tea, and spoke, “You’ve seen our palace menus. I’m lucky I still know what seasoning tastes like.”
Asha, sweeping up the bits of tissue and packaging, sat down next to you and swiped a stray strand of hair from your face, “I haven’t seen you throw a tantrum like this since you were twenty and your new designer shoes didn’t match with any of the purses you owned.”
“They clashed, Asha. It was a fashion emergency.” You said between bites, smiling at the memory. It had taken you some time to leave old habits of getting what you want anytime you want. You had learned how to act like a decent human being and not throw a tantrum at the smallest inconvenience.
Joaquin chuckled along with Asha, as she lovingly wiped your face with a tissue, helping you so you don’t spill the food.
You smiled at the sound that you so rarely heard, watching him look at you with a smile on his face, the way his eyes crinkled, and his canines peeked out a bit behind his lips. He was a handsome looking man in every sense, but more so, he was a good man. And sometimes, he took himself too seriously. It soothed your heart watching him sit back and relax once in a while.
Asha took your hand, rubbing it, and she asked you hesitantly, “So… Are you actually going to marry Prince Idris?”
You paused mid-sip, narrowing your eyes, “What do you think?”
Joaquin shared a look with Asha, and you giggled.
Not the cute kind, but the devious one that you involuntarily let out, any time before you did something crazy. You set the drink down and leaned forward like a child about to tell a ghost story. “Alright. I’ll tell you both a secret. But it stays between the three of us. Pinky swears.” You extend your hand to Asha, and she obliges.
Joaquin raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
The princess grinned wickedly. “C’mon, soldier boy. You know the rules.”
He scoffed at his nickname that you called him just to annoy him, and with an exaggerated sigh, Joaquin stood near the bed and held out his hand. She locked her pinky with his, and smiled.
She whispered, “Prince Idris is planning to abdicate.”
Both of them blinked, taken aback by the revelation.
You smiled and continued, “I knew him before, he did a semester at my college.” You sit straight, “nobody knew he was a prince, and even if they did, they didn’t care. I had guessed he doesn’t want the throne, living like he did back then. We talked for hours tonight, and he confirmed it... he will announce it in a few weeks.”
Joaquin’s eyes widened slightly. Then he leaned back in the chair and exhaled hard, “That’s great!”
Aveline tilted her head, suspicious. She gave him a look, one he dodged expertly, to which he replied, “…for you. It’s good for you because you won’t have to marry him.”
You nod, and go back to eating your food, when Asha yawned, stretching with a dramatic sigh. “Princess y/n, with all due respect…”
You rolled your eyes, “Oh my god Asha just go! Stop with the formalities!”
She happily gathered the trash and bowed to you, addressing Joaquin as she went away, “Do not let her burn the gown in the bedroom, she can do it tomorrow in the garden.”
Joaquin nods and you mutter, “I heard that?” as Asha left, closing the doors behind her.
And then, they were alone.
Joaquin huffed out a breath, leaning back on the sofa, exhausted after a long long night.
---/---/---
Having dismissed Asha, the final cleaning duties fell on you.
Not that you mind it, you did it all the time in college. It was a way to get your mind off of things. You cleared the bed in slow movements, the weight of the night falling on you. Torn silk, broken pearls, the remnants of your tantrum were all swept aside when you finally gave up. Joaquin watched you silently after you refused his help and hissed, “sit your ass down pretty boy.” his presence was dear to you, you never felt more at ease with anyone other than him.
He somehow always knew when you were going through a hard time, as if he looked right through you. At first, it scared you, but now, alone with him in your room, it was comforting.
She exhaled sharply and looked at him, strands of hair falling across her face. “You going to just stare at me like a statue, Torres?”
Joaquin chuckled his voice low, standing up. “Here to supervise your highness’ dramatic bedtime routine.”
“Dramatic?” you quipped, placing your hands on your waist, “thank the man upstairs you weren’t here to witness my meltdown.”
“Nah, I’ve been watching it all these years,” he muttered, and made you throw your pillow at him, which he caught with his insane reflexes, his biceps bulging through his white formal shirt, his tie loose, his vest still intact after all this.
Once the bed was cleared, you stretched with a loud sigh, arms above her head, and Joaquin seemed to look away, and you instantly retreated, realizing you just exposed your midriff to him.
“Sorry.” You muttered.
Joaquin paused for a beat, watching you, and then said, “I have something for you.”
That made you perk up instantly, eyes shining, “You do?”
He reached into his jacket on the sofa, and pulled out a small, black wrapped box... neatly tied with a pink ribbon. Your excitement knew no bounds as you hurried off to him, standing a head shorter than him now that you were out of your heels, your chin tilted up to meet his gaze, arms tucked behind your back like a curious child. Joaquin looked away for a second, smiling with his teeth bared, and gave the box to you.
You gently took the box and unwrapped it, the content inside made your heart jump.
Nestled inside was a silver necklace, its pendant was an oval frame holding a pale pink gemstone the size of your index nail. It was beautiful, you hesitate to even touch it, fearing you’d break the fragile looking stone.
“It’s a star sapphire,” Joaquin said quietly, making you look at him, “I found it some years ago on a trip to Jaipur. I… I kept it, kind of… because…” he trailed off.
Your fingers brushed against the chain. “It’s beautiful, Joaquin.” You looked up at him again, speechless, your lips slightly parted, a blush crept up your neck, and you asked him hesitantly, “Help me put it on?”
He nodded, stepping behind you. His hands were steady as he lifted the chain, and you brushed your hair to a side to give him access. For a moment, his scent; musk, dawn-like, and something uniquely him… washed over you. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and you let out a small exhale. His hands lingered, just a heartbeat too long, his figure looming behind you, before he stepped back as he secured the clasp.
“There,” he murmured, his voice husky. You turned back to him, your hand resting above the pendant, as the pink gemstone glistened against your skin, “Thank you… Joaquin.”
You looked at him to see his shoulders slumped, his hands fidgeting, he looked up at you, almost blushing, “uh… the necklace… I know it’s not much. I… it’s alright if you don’t like-” You cut him off by grabbing his shoulders and shaking him playfully, “Don’t be stupid, Joaquin. I love it, it’s more precious than anything I’ve ever worn.” He looks at you, his eyes crinkling as a wide smile spread across his face, and you added, “also… it’s pink so it will go with all my outfits.” you trailed off as you twirled in your room, earning a laugh from him.
“Well in that case…” he pulled another, slightly larger box from behind him and held it out.
You tilt your head, puzzled at how he materialized the box out of thin air, “how did you…”
“Just take it”
“Okay.” You smile, tearing it opens with childish glee and gasped, “You didn’t!” It was your favorite pastry. Rich chocolate layers with raspberry filling and tons of whipped cream from that tiny bakery near the end of the city that nobody knew you loved… except for him.
You squeaked, actually squeaked, jumping up and down, He saw how sad you got in the past few weeks when you were put on a strict diet to fit in your birthday gown, glooming to him about how you can’t even have your favorite sweets in secret because they will know. You looked at how happy he seemed watching you so ecstatic, and you couldn’t help it. You jumped into his arms, hugging him tight, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Joaquin froze, his arms hovering before he slowly wrapped them around you. You had no idea how long you stayed like that; before you pulled away and flopped into your sofa, feet curled beneath you like a cat, already devouring the pastry. You didn’t miss how he stood transfixed at your act, and slowly moved to lean against the nearest wall, hands in his pockets. To divert your mind off of how you still feel his body against yours, you mumbled between bites, “You know the crazy part? I didn’t even eat the stupid humongous cake they made me cut today.” You looked at him, and found him amused at this revelation, “Everyone got a piece and I was rushed off to ‘get presentable for your first dance with Father!!!' ugh! I didn’t even get a bite!”
Joaquin smiled sadly, watching you, “you should have just ordered them to give you some.”
“Ha ha.” You deadpanned, licking the remnants of the pastry from your fingertips, when you caught him staring at you, “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said softly. “You’re just… happy.” His smile dimmed slightly, softened. “For the first time in a while.”
“Can you blame me?” you tilt your head, and perk up, “Can I ask for one more gift?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Greedy.”
You stood and walked to the center of the room, barefoot on the fine fur carpets, extending you had to him, “Dance with me.”
Joaquin blinked, straightening his back, “What?”
“You owe me a dance, soldier boy.” You laugh, “we were interrupted by a certain prince, remember?”
---/---/---
He did remember, the scene of her being led on the dance floor while he stood helpless in the back will forever be etched in his brain, he feared.
Joaquin took her hand, and it fit into his perfectly. She placed her other on his shoulder, and his hand found the small of her back.
“Just like we practiced?” he asks her.
“Just like we practiced.”  She smiled, her face just inches away from him.
“Don’t step on my toes, princess.” He smirked, earning a slap on his shoulders, and he led her.
They moved in slow circles, the wind against the windows being the music, the low ceiling lights the witness to their waltz.
“Is your mood any better now?” he asked.
“Kind of.” She shrugged.
He looked at her for a while, the faint smile on her lips nly increased when he twirled her and bought her back in his arms, swaying. He assured her, “His majesty won’t make you marry Prince Idris if he announces his abdication.”
“I know.” She says, and her smile drops for a bit, “but there will be more prospects, better than the Kingdom of Meira… prospects I won’t have any say in.” she looked at his crooked collar, and adjusted it a bit.
“I want to drive in Monaco.” she said, eyes on him, “I want to feel the G’s on my body from an actual F1 car… I’ve studied that they are way harder than any sports car, not even a Bugatti can do that! You know, if you don’t strap in correctly in the racing pit, the G’s are sometimes so hard on your body you can get concussions.” Her smile was back, like she was imagining driving a racing car in the pit.” She took a step back and walked around Joaquin, her ands caressing his shoulders and then back into his arms, “I want to Travel more… Greece, Mongolia, Shanghai… Grandma went on a world tour when she was young, she used to tell me all kinds of stories from her days... I want to know who I am Joaquin, I can’t do that sitting in a castle.”
“Run away.” The words tumbled out of his mouth as he stopped in his tracks, realizing what he said.
“What?” She asked him, her eyes wide in shock.
He breathed out, “Run away, your highness. Don’t tell me you never thought of it.”
They stood in silence for a long moment, staring at each other in peril… hand in hand, their bodies close.
Y/n’s brows raised, he could see the gears in her head turning... And then… she smirked.
The same smirk that had gotten her into trouble too many times.
“Okay,” she whispered, eyes burning like stars. “I’m listening, soldier boy.”
---/---/---
Joaquin didn’t waste time. He stepped into the hallway to take a look; six guards, all mobile, every single one’s eyes on the door. Probably deployed by the king to give him updates on the princess. One of them, probably the newest one, seemed a bit startled to watching Joaquin slam open the doors.
Bingo!
Joaquin looked that guard dead in the eyes, and dropped his voice an octave, “Her Highness wishes for complete privacy,” he said firmly. “Only Asha and I are permitted. No one else enters.”
The guard exchanged glances with the others standing near, but Joaquin’s tone left no room for discussion. He nodded, and the guard next to him relaxed a bit but stood firm.
He needs another opening, not from the main hallway. So where? He rushed to the balconies, and saw the next one; prince Ramil’s quarters. There was a reason even princess y/n never dared to cross the balconies on her own, because the distance wasn’t the problem…it was the height. Below him there were three floors, one mistake and then fall was on concrete.
Inside, y/n began pulling open drawers and cabinets rushing to fill a duffle bag with anything she could. Asha rushed in a moment later hearing the commotion, eyes flicking from the princess’s hurried actions and to Joaquin, and she knew something serious was happening. She flexed her hands and joined y/n.
“Pack light,” Joaquin rushed in, urgency in his voice. “Clothes, cash, and jewelry. They’ll freeze your accounts the second they know you’re gone.”
Asha moved swiftly, helping y/n gather simple clothes, jewelry that could be sold easily, and a modest amount of cash. y/n, now dressed in black cargo trousers, a simple white t-shirt and her black leather jacket, stuffed the cash inside her pockets and shoes, looking at a baffled Joaquin and then shrugging, “I’ve seen spy movies, dude.” She turned to Asha, and gave her childhood handmaiden a tight hug.
“Take care of mom,” she whispered, “Tell them you were asleep, okay?” y/n said, wiping Asha’s tears, “just stay safe.”
Asha smiled despite the tears in her eyes, realizing this might be the last time she sees the princess, “You too princess, you’ve got this. Show them what you’re made of.”
With one last look around her quarters, Y/n joined Joaquin, who was already leading her to the balcony. y/n stopped dead in her tracks, “no, no, no! I am not jumping into Ramil’s quarters.”
“There are guards outside!” Joaquin hushed her, dragging her behind him, y/n whining as she followed.
Joaquin threw the bag first, and then climbed the railing and made the jump, perfectly, looking at y/n, “come on.”
“If I die Joaquin I will haunt your ass forever.” y/n looked at the sky, took a deep breath and climbed the railing. Joaquin stood guard as he prepared to catch her, but then she got down and tied her hair back.
“What the hell?” he whisper yelled.
“I don’t have Slenderman legs like you! I need momentum idiot!” saying so, Y/n ran to the end of the balcony and ran towards him with full speed, and like a cat, she jumped off of the railing to grab the other one… and missed.
Joaquin grabbed her hands as she squealed and hung on one side, trying not to scream. He pulled her up, and grabbed her waist as she hooked her leg on the railing and climbed up, breathing hard.
“You good?” he pulled her up to her feet as he slings the bag on his back. She looked him dead in the eyes, scoffed, and gently opened the door to Ramil’s quarters.
---/---/---
They tiptoe into the room, and find the living room to be darkened and quiet, the door of Ramil’s bedroom ajar, his figure under the covers. Y/n grabbed his hand as he looked ahead, the main door to the quarters was right in front of them, so they walked swiftly to cross the room.
Only to freeze as they hear the clink of a lighter opening.
Leaning against a pillar, lazily lighting a cigarette, Prince Ramil was right next to the door, his face illuminated by the lighter’s fire. Joaquin was quick to grab y/n’s arm and shove her behind him as Prince Ramil looked at the scene in front of him with his brows lifted.
“Well, hello.” he asked, voice low, “How do I owe the pleasure of you two sneaking into my quarters?”
Y/n let go of Joaquin’s hand, and stepped forward, crossing her arms. “I thought you quit smoking.”
Ramil stayed silent as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his gaze flicking between his sister and Joaquin. When he noticed the bag on his shoulder, his eyes softened, “You’re running away.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Ramil exhaled loudly looking at his cigarette, then he crushed it on the nearest brass vase, and shoved his hands into his shiny grey silk nightgown, “Well, I always said you were the brave one.”
y/n blinked, sharing a glance with Joaquin.
“Take the underpass to the airfield. I’ll have the jet ready at the private hangar.”
“Brother…” Y/n gasped.
Ramil only smiled, “I won’t ask where you’re going. Don’t tell me either, y/n.”
He stepped forward, pulling her into a tight hug, “Live your life, for yourself, and for me. I’ll be the lazy brat heir who loves easy money to a nonexistent nation and follow silly rules." he sighed, "I'll make grandpa regret ever thinking he had any control over us.”
She let out a soft laugh into his shoulder, “I love you, bro bear.” He pulled back with a mocking grimace and ruffled her hair, “we were having a nice moment, dude.”
Ramil turned to Joaquin, throwing him a key, “Take the back stairwell, and keep her safe. I’ll have Sam take care of the cameras.” He smacked him on the shoulder, and opened the door.
“Stay safe.” Ramil told his sister, who turned back to take one last look and then held Joaquin’s hand, running.
---/---/---/---
The corridor echoed with their footsteps as they ran together without looking back, finding the gate to the stairwell as Joaquin worked on getting the ancient lock open, and as they descended down the stairs, they found Sam Wilson, Ramil’s bodyguard running up.
“I owe you one,” Joaquin muttered as Sam passed him a data card, and Joaquin gave him the stair keys.
“I’ll make sure the cameras loop for the next and past 10 minutes,” Sam grinned, glancing at y/n and bowing, “farewell, princess.”
“Thank you Sam.” y/n smiled as she ran downstairs.
---/---/---
Y/n’s boots pounded the cobblestones of the courtyard, breath shallow as she ran beside Joaquin, the cold night air biting at her cheeks. His hand gripped hers tightly, and he looked around alert of anyone moving past. His white dress shirt was partially unbuttoned beneath his dark vest, hair mussed from all the running, his brows raised in process, “Almost there, Princess.” he said over his shoulder.
But Y/n wasn’t looking ahead.
She was looking at him.
And suddenly, her chest clenched, not from the running, but from a memory that came rushing back so vividly it was like she was living it again.
---/---/---/---
Two Years Ago, Y/n’s 23rd birthday
The palace had long gone to sleep.
Moonlight spilled across the royal courtyard, over marble benches and carefully sculpted rose hedges. You were sitting barefoot on the edge of the stone fountain, your feet splashing in the water as the fountain’s droplets fell on the hem of your gown, the heels discarded beside you.
You had excused yourself as soon as the party came to a halt, your parents always made a big show out of your birthday as to tell the world, ‘Hey, look! She isn’t crazy anymore!’. You absentmindedly toyed with a silver ring on your fingers; one you never wear out in public. It had belonged to your late grandmother, whom you loved more than anyone.
Joaquin stood a few feet away, suit jacket slung over a bench, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He watched her in silence, arms crossed, like he didn’t want to intrude but wouldn’t leave unless ordered to.
You looked up at him and scoffed, “Are you always going to look at me like that?”
He raised a brow. “Like what?”
Turning back to watch the moon’s reflection rippling in the water, you speak, “Like I’m one bad decision away from combusting.”
He chuckled softly, stepping closer. “You are one bad decision away from combusting.”
You smiled faintly, “Touché.”
He stood beside you, but not too close. Joaquin was always respectful, and always four paces behind you, especially in public.
“Why are you still here, Joaquin?” you asked, quietly.
“Because I will be fired if I don’t see you to your quarters tonight, princess.” He deadpanned.
You laughed, “no, I mean…” you took a deep breath, “You could’ve left after Vienna. No one would’ve blamed you.”
“I don’t leave people behind.”
You looked at him for a long time, your head tilting, “What if they are a reckless mess?”
He met your gaze, “Especially then.”
Silence lingered as the sound of the fountain filled the space between you.
“I don’t know if I am built for this, Joaquin.” you whispered, like a confession. “All these people, these rules. I feel like I’m suffocating under diamonds and…” she grabbed the hem of your gown, “this stupid gown. It’s not even real silk who even…” you almost got distracted until Joaquin spoke.
“You’re whatever you want to be, a princess, a high society lady, or a drag racing champion,” he said softly. “I’ll be here with you until you decide.”
You look at the sky above, watching the full moon shining down as the cold water grounded you to reality, “You shouldn’t do that,” you murmured. “Be kind to me like this.”
He turned his head slightly, looking down at you, “Why not?”
“Because I’m starting to count on it.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He let the question linger, as if deciding what to say next, “Don’t you trust me, your highness?”
You blinked, a smirk on your face, “only a little..."
He scoffed, “Seriously, Princess?”
A smile tugged at your lips “Okay, okay! I trust you.”
A breath passed between the two of you, he watched you and you played with the water.
You sat up slowly and looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, the palace around you didn’t matter. The titles, the burden of the crown, your duty as a princess and his as you guard.
It was just two people looking at each other; a woman scared to take a leap, and a man ready to catch her when she does. This wasn’t just admiration. This wasn’t gratitude. He made you feel seen, not as a crown or a scandal… but as yourself.
You see the same thing in his eyes, the same feeling in his heart as yours.
“Looks like I’m in trouble,” you said, a broken smile forming.
“I know,” he murmured. “Me too.”
You take a step closer, close enough to feel his heat on your skin, and as being pulled by an unknown force… he staggered back, looking at his feet, “It’s getting late. I’ll escort you to your rooms, your highness.”
And though nothing more was said that night… You didn’t forget the way he looked at you in the moonlight. The way he stayed silent when he could have ruined everything.
That was the night you knew, you were in love with Joaquin Torres.
---/---/---/---
In the garage, your footsteps echoed across the large basement, and your eyes searched for your prized possession; a gift from your parents on your 18th birthday; a hot pink custom Mustang. You wondered what their reaction would be when they find out about you running away in it.
You find the car, gleaming next to Ramil’s black Range Rover, and you thank your past self for the maintenance job you did for the car only days ago.
Joaquin opened the door for you and tossed the bag in as you settled into the seat with practiced ease, closing the door behind you.
And didn’t get in.
You frowned, rolling down the window. “What are you doing? Get in.”
He shook his head, taking a step back. “I’m not coming with you. Not yet.” He said, ready to run the minute you start the engine.
“What?” Your voice cracked as you get out of the car and he groaned, “What the hell do you mean not yet?”
“This is not the time for you to be demanding y/n get in the car and go!” he shouts.
“I’m not leaving without you!” you shout back.
“Hush!” he panics, slapping a hand on your mouth, something he had never dared to do, “I need to stay behind and distract them. If I disappear with you, they’ll track both of us.”
Your heart began to pound for a different reason now; panic clawing at your throat, imagining everything horrible that might be unleashed on him, “No, no, you promised, Joaquin. You said you’d keep me safe.” tears brimmed in your eyes.
Joaquin’s chest rose and fell, his vest now open and his sleeves rolled up, he looked like a cursed prince who was to be sacrificed. He took a steady breath and stepped closer to you, his eyes locking on yours.
“They’ll hurt you, Joaquin!.” You shake your head, tears falling freely, “You don’t have to do the noble sacrifice act Joaquin!”
He held your face in his hands, smiling through his own tears brimming in his dark brown eyes, “You are amazing, princess,” he said, voice low and steady. “you deserve the world, and every good thing it has to offer. You’re more than the crown, and you need to listen to me when I say this; I love you. I’ve loved you for a long, long time. And it will break my heart to watch you be chained in this palace for nothing. So, go. Now. And let me handle the rest.” A sad laugh leaves his lips, as a single tear rolls down his face, “I’ll find you. I always do.”
Your throat tightened, and you let out a laugh, “You’re such an idiot.”
You grab the front of his shirt, and smash your mouth against his.
He grabbed your waist, pulling you closer. It wasn’t soft, or patient. It was pure, raging fire… forged in years of hidden glances, of duty, the ‘almost’, and all the things you were never allowed to say to him.
You pulled back just as fast, tears brimming in your eyes, “I love you too, soldier boy.” You whisper, caressing his face. He laughed as he rested his forehead against yours, “stay safe out there.”
“You too.” You say, taking to steps back, “and I’m sorry for this.”
You throw a clean punch on his nose, maybe a bit too hard.
He winced as he staggered back, grabbing his face as blood flew from his nose, “Ow! What the fuck?”
“In case someone asks why you didn’t follow me,” you said, wincing at the blood, “You can say I knocked you down in the garage.”
Joaquin stared at you, stunned, his face bloody, his lips parted like he wanted to say something.
And then he laughed, making your heart ache, and then waving, “bye, y/n.”
“bye.” You wave back, and all you wanted to do in that moment was to hug him tight and never let go, but that wasn’t possible.
So, you got into the car, revved the engine and looked at him for one last time…
And drove into the night.
---/---/---
One Year Later
The headlines had been relentless for weeks after she disappeared.
"Tavreshi's Rebel Princess: Vanished Without a Trace?" "Royal Scandal: Drift Princess Gone Rogue" "Abdication or Abduction? The Tavreshi Royal Palace Remains Tight-Lipped"
The royal palace stood as it always had; stone cold, high, immaculate, and painfully perfect. But everything inside it had shifted. A silence haunted the marble corridors and the sunlit courtyards. It was the kind of silence that didn't come from the absence of sound, but from the absence of chaos.
Princess y/n of Tavreshi had vanished without a trace in the dead of the night. No trail, no clues. She was gone like a whisper in the wind.
And the kingdom was grueling the people within the palace with a hundred questions.
“Where is the Princess?” “Why hasn’t she been seen since her twenty-fifth birthday?” “Was she exiled because of her rebellious past?” “Was it true she was in love with Prince Idris and was heartbroken after his abdication?” “Did she abdicate and went away in secret?”
The official statement was delivered after a few weeks, delivered stiffly by a senior advisor on a podium outside the palace;
"Her Royal Highness Princess y/n of Tavreshi has chosen to abdicate her title and step away from royal duties for personal reasons. She had left the palace for a peaceful retreat, and we ask for privacy and offer no further comment. Thank you."
But behind the curtain of diplomacy, everything was falling apart.
The King had lost his temper the day after Princess y/n vanished. He'd hurled a decanter of aged scotch across the room, shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces as Prince Ramil, and the king and queen reagent watched in horror, “She has humiliated this house! This nation!” he had thundered. “And you, Joaquin, were supposed to be her shadow!”
If it weren’t for Prince Ramil and Sam physically holding him back, the King would have broken Joaquin’s healing nose a second time. The man was trembling with rage, shouting about betrayal, national disgrace, and how he knew Joaquin had helped her escape. Joaquin was detained in the palace's interrogation room for three days. The questions came in waves; from the detectives, from the security head, from the King himself.
“Did you know she would run away?” “When did you realize she is not coming back?” “Did you kidnap her? Was this coordinated with outsiders?”
And Joaquin? He stuck to one story.
“I followed the princess to the garage,” he said calmly, every single time, “I assumed it was one of her tantrums, she’s run off before. I thought she’d feel better after a drive. But she punched me in the nose, and I fainted.”
“You didn’t call security?”
“I did when I woke up,” Joaquin replied, “I didn’t know she meant to disappear,” he said, eyes blank, voice steady. “I thought she'd calm down, like always.”
Prince Ramil matched the story with his version, “She never told me anything, I was drunk and sleeping in my room and I woke up to grandpa throwing a fit.” he shrugged.
They believed him. Or maybe they didn’t.
There was no hard evidence to contradict the various interviews. No surveillance footage, no recordings. Half the palace staff had heard the screaming match in the private salon the night before; the shouting, the smashed glass, the moment the princess had run to her quarters and how Joaquin had followed her, like he had done for the last seven years. The palace staff and security, especially the princesses’ handmaiden Asha had vouched for the fact that Joaquin had saved the princess from harm all these years, and he was always loyal to the crown and would do nothing to ruin its reputation.
Every shred of evidence worked in Joaquin’s favor.
The palace dropped the case on the condition that Joaquin be dismissed from royal service for “negligence in duty.” They made him sign a non-disclosure order and stripped him of honors.
But they didn’t know that the detectives were right; He had helped her get free.
---/---/---/------/----
One Year Later || Monaco Grand Prix
The spring sun high on the track as viewers settled on the podium, energetic and ecstatic to see their favorite cars race through the city of Monaco. Down by the pit lanes, cameras clicked furiously as reporters jostled for position, all hoping to catch the perfect candid shot of racers and crew.
But today’s buzz wasn’t just about the race… it was because every team was set to unveil their newest backup racer, and the media was in a frenzy; eager to break the news, snap exclusive photos, and flood social media with the first glimpse of the rising stars.
Joaquin sat stiffly in the VIP box, his cap pulled low, sunglasses shadowing his eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. He was trying to look relaxed, but even Sam, lounging next to him in a rumpled polo and chewing on a toothpick, wasn’t buying the act. Sam suddenly leaned forward halfway casually scanning the box, then froze.
“Bro…” he nudged Joaquin with his elbow, trying to stay subtle but failing, “Look at the guy in front of us!”
Joaquin didn’t react, “okay?”
Sam hissed louder, “I saw him at a gala once. That guy owns, like, every skyscraper in Singapore. You know those condos with swimming pools in the sky? When Prince Ramil said he’d get us the best seats, I didn’t think he meant billionaire-adjacent.”
Joaquin smirked faintly. “There are perks to working for a prince, Sam.”
Sam chuckled. “Yeah? Shame you got fired.”
“Wow. Thanks for that?” Joaquin glanced at him, deadpan.
Sam shrugged, grinning. “Just saying.” But the smile slipped from his face when he noticed Joaquin’s focus return to the LED jumbotron above the pit lane. “You look tense,” Sam muttered. “Like you’re the one about to go zero to two hundred.”
Joaquin didn’t answer him, only shrugged. There was a reason Prince Ramil sent Sam on a ‘laid back vacation’ with a plus one ticket to the freaking Grand Prix… he hoped to see a familiar face. His fingers tapped on his bicep, his eyes narrowed slightly, watching as a glossy video montage played on the massive screen highlighting reels of roaring engines, close-up helmet shots, and dramatic overhead drone views of the circuit. The announcer’s voice came through, polished and booming over the sound system.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Introducing the reserve drivers making their Grand Prix debut!”
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Graphic cards began appearing; each with the name and stat line of a new driver, their teams and accolades proudly displayed. Sam was mid-sip of his drink when the next name came up—and he nearly choked.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the newest backup driver for Team Mercedes... a former princess who earned her name burning rubber on the streets of underground drag circuits…”
Joaquin’s stomach dropped.
Sam blinked at him. “Wait. Did they just say—?”
The announcer’s voice rang out again, louder this time, over the rising noise of the crowd.
“You know her as the Drift Princess—but from this day forward, she answers to her own name. Give it up for Y/N Y/L/N.”
The screen cut to a live feed of the pit area. A figure in a black-and-silver racing suit, hands gloved, wearing a black helmet… she turned slowly toward the camera, her long braid swinging over one shoulder. Then, she raised her helmet just enough to reveal her face.
Her expression lit with the mischief of someone who knew they were rewriting their story, right in front of the world, she waved to the crowd as her fellow racers clapped and cheered for her.
Princess Y/N. Not a ghost, not a runaway. She was alive, and grander than ever.
Joaquin felt something snap loose in his chest; like a wire pulled too tight for too long had finally given way. The world around him that was deafening loud and electric, seemed to fall away into silence as his breath left him in one slow, shaky exhale, trembling through his ribs like a secret he couldn’t keep any longer. It was like watching a dream he never allowed himself to have walk into the light.
Y/n, his y/n.
Not the girl in glittering gowns upholding impossible expectations, not the princess the world had tried to box in on her responsibilities. But the version he’d always seen since he first bowed to her; the one who was stubborn with fire in her eyes and unshakable determination, the one who breathed freedom like it was oxygen, the one who once cried into his shoulder and told him she didn’t want to die.
Joaquin’s heart clenched, painfully, he didn’t know if it was pride or grief or longing.
All of it, maybe.
The crowd clapped and whooped, but he didn’t hear them. All he could see was the glint in her eye and the fire in her smile. She did it… she did what she swore she would become.
Sam turned to him slowly, slack-jawed. “Holy. Shit.”
But Joaquin wasn’t listening anymore, his eyes were fixed on his beloved.
---/---/---
Joaquin didn’t wait for clearance. He’d spent too many years memorizing the flow of high-profile security rounds and the way they rotated the shifts.
So, when the noise of celebration roared around him as the match ended, he walked past the pit crew and to the garage like he belonged there. No one questioned him, no one gave him a second look. After weaving through people bustling around and press running to racers trying to get an interview, he found the main area where the cars were parked, his eyes frantically searching for her amongst the sea of mechanics, crew and racers.
A flash of hot pink caught his eye, and like a magnet being pulled to metal, he followed it.
Y/n was there, wearing a black and hot pink leather jacket. talking to a young girl holding a mic to her, her eyes sparkling as she expressed how happy she is to be a part of team Mercedes. Her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back in a messy bun that looked like it had been through a storm and stayed standing anyway, her smile didn’t falter at all. She hugged the girl when the interview was over, while she was smitten watching y/n glowing in her form. She was a force untamed, who was finally free from all expectations.
Joaquin breathed as her eyes locked on his, a hand on his heart just to check if this was real, or just another one of his dreams in which he met her to be close enough and then wake up just before he could touch her.
Y/n froze, her eyes widening as she registered who was standing in front of her. For one aching second, she didn’t move, only looked at Joquin with shock and disbelief. And then she sprinted, laughing, “JOAQUIN!”
She ran full-speed at him with no hesitation and no care for who watched her or what anyone thought. Joaquin barely had any time to snap out of his trance and brace himself before she collided into him and jumped into his arms, laughing.
He caught her effortlessly, holding her tight as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders like he always had. “You’re here,” she whispered into his neck, shaking with joy. “You found me.” His heart thundered, his mind going foggy while he struggled to put his feelings into words. Instead, he held her tighter, grounding himself in the feel of her body against his, her laughter vibrating his chest.
“You did it, princess.” he finally said, trying to keep his voice steady, his eyes stinging despite the laugh bubbling in his chest.
Y/n pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands cradling his cheeks. Her thumbs brushed under his eyes, over his cheeks, his slight stubble, almost as if she couldn’t quite believe he was really standing in front of her.
“How did you…?” he asked, unable to finish the question, his voice cracked halfway through.
She stepped back with a lopsided grin, “Prince Idris helped me. After he abdicated, he helped me stay under the radar while I trained.” She held his hand, “Besides, a few of the F1 engineers knew me from the underground scene. It didn’t take much convincing; a couple races, a lot of sweat, and boom… Team Mercedes.”
“You just… walked into Mercedes and asked to join?” he said, half in awe, half in disbelief.
“I made a deal to stay in secret until today,” she laughed. “Turns out being a former princess with a crazy past has some advantages.”
"Tavreshi Royals will loose their minds over today." he breathed hard.
"I couldn't care less." she shrugged.
Joaquin shook his head, smiling despite himself, as he caressed her hand. There was a pause between them, the kind that wrapped arounds your soul like a slow exhale. The noise of the crowd outside still echoed beyond the doors, and they caught a few eyes of the crew inside, but here, right now, it was just them. His eyes softened as he looked at her; the laughter in her eyes, the fire in her soul. She was exactly who she was always meant to be.
His eyes dropped to her collarbone, where nestled against her throat, was a glint of pale pink. His breath hitched, “You kept it,” he whispered.
y/n smiled, the kind that twisted his insides, “Yes, Joaquin,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing over the pendant. “I still wear the necklace my love gave me.”
He let out a soft laugh in awe of what she just said, “You’re unbelievable.”
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, “You softie,” she whispered.
“Only for you,” he whispered back.
She stepped in closer, arms sliding around his waist. Her voice dropped, filled with a different kind of ache, “You think it was worth it? All that we gave up for this moment?”
He didn’t hesitate, “Every second.”
“Me too.” She whispered, caressing his jaw.
This time, when she kissed him, it wasn’t rushed or panicked or desperate. It was soft and slow with the weight of everything they never said. The years of what-ifs all poured into one kiss that tasted like sweet relief.
When they finally pulled away, she held his face, teary-eyed, “I love you, Soldier Boy.”
He smiled, eyes shining, “I love you too… Princess.” He pulled her into his chest, arms locked around her like a promise.
The End
⋆。 ゚☁︎。 ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。 ⋆.⋆。 ゚☁︎。 ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。 ⋆.
My Joaquin Torres Masterlist
My Masterlist
⋆。 ゚☁︎。 ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。 ⋆.⋆。 ゚☁︎。 ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。 ⋆.
I added all the blogs who were in my previous Joaquin torress fic and the blogs that reblogged and commented on the sneak peek, if you want to be removed or added in future fics pls let me know <3
@feed-into-my-delusions || @mystickittytaco || @savedfanfics1992 || @ballorawan740 || @bcystar || @mixedfandxms || @prvtt-khadijjj
@tuiccim @parkjammys @akinrawsx @asteph22 @iamthebeth @onlyhereforthefics @yikesdameron @savedfanfics1992 @amigaytho @samwilson-mylove @jenniweaslee-faves @anna-phora @giona45-5 @lieutenantchaos
@summersblogsthings @supportourgoddesses @iamthebeth @bvckys-doll @obxfan2854 @sugar-crisps @yikesdameron @rawecreek @fluffyprettykitty @dance-is-life27 @breezyez777 @davinashifts333
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devynsshitposts ¡ 17 days ago
Text
between book pages and baked pies (r.r.)
Tumblr media
summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.
Then you found out he’s the Sentry —
and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.
pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader
content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au
warnings : none
word count : 7k
⋆˙⟡
Thursday, 10:43 am.
You glance up, and there he is.
You’ve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy — like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesn’t expect to be noticed in it.
He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please don’t ask me anything, but I’m also not in a hurry to leave.
Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.
You smile. “Back again. That’s three Thursdays in a row.”
He blinks, like he’s surprised you’ve been keeping count.
“…I like it here,” he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.
“Most people say that when they’re avoiding something,” you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “Bad day?”
He shrugs. “It’s a day.”
Fair.
He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare — you really do — but it’s hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like they’re familiar terrain.
After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks — both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.
You ring them up, sneaking a glance. “You like the ones where the world almost ends?”
He gives a faint smile. “Sometimes I like when it doesn’t.”
You pause, curious. “You a writer?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just… a fan.”
“I get it,” you say, handing him the bag. “Books are a safer way to live dangerously.”
He smiles at that. A little more real.
Then, on impulse, you ask, “So, what do you do?”
He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.
“…Sometimes I help save the world,” he says, deadpan.
You blink. And then you laugh, because there’s something about the way he says it — so dry and sincere — that it’s obviously a joke. Or at least… you think it is.
“Wow,” you grin. “That’s bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that.”
You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. We’ve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.”
He nods, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He’s almost gone when he pauses and looks back.
“What’s your name?” he asks you, and you tell him.
He nods once. “I’m Bob.”
Then he’s gone.
The bell chimes again — sharper this time. Final.
You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.
Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.
Bob.
⋆˙⟡
Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.
You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.
Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.
“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom’s voice practically sings as you answer. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone.”
You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. “Hi, Mom. You called me yesterday.”
“I know, I just missed you. So sue me.”
There’s a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enough—
“So, listen,” she continues, far too casually. “Next Saturday we’re doing dinner at our place. Just the usual — your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.”
“Mmhmm.” You sip your drink, waiting.
“We were thinking 6 o’clock. And of course we’ll do something vegetarian for you—oh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?”
There it is.
“Anyway,” she adds, far too lightly, “I just thought I’d ask — are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?”
You snort. “Bringing where? Into the lion’s den of a family dinner?”
“Oh come on,” she laughs. “We’re not that bad.”
You give her a look she can’t see. “Last time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighbor’s chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if I’d frozen my eggs.”
“She meant well. He didn’t, but—still.”
You roll your eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not bringing anyone.”
“You’re not?” Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. “Not even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.”
You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds — including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.
You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said “Sometimes I help save the world” like it wasn’t even strange.
But you say nothing.
“Anyway,” your mom chirps on. “No pressure. Just… you know. You’re not getting any less amazing with time.”
“That’s not how time works, Mom.”
“Semantics. Just let me know, okay? We’ll keep a seat open. Just in case.”
You sigh and mutter, “Okay.”
She’s already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighbor’s shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.
You definitely don’t have a date.
You definitely don’t need one.
…But your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when he’s not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.
⋆˙⟡
Tuesday, 11:07 am.
The bell over the door rings, and — like clockwork — you glance up.
There he is.
Bob.
Same as always, but also… not. His jacket’s still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didn’t get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.
You try not to smile.
Try.
“Tuesday this time?” you call out from behind the counter, tone light. “Switching it up?”
Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. “Had some time.”
You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance — new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesn’t stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.
“You sure it’s not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?” you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.
He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. “Maybe I like consistency.”
“Bold choice in this economy.”
That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.
He picks up The Lantern War — you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. You’ve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like he’s searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.
You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.
“You know,” you begin, tone half-teasing, “you don’t talk much, but you’ve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.”
Bob looks up — startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.
“People pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,” you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.
He blinks.
You wince. “Sorry. That was weird. I’ve just… been talking to my mom too much lately. She’s on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think I’m starting to project ‘potential boyfriend material’ onto every semi-normal customer.”
Bob doesn’t laugh, exactly — but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, gently placing the book under his arm.
You nod. “It was meant to be one.”
The air shifts then. Not awkward — not yet — but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.
You watch him for a second longer than you should.
He always lingers when he’s here. Not like he’s killing time. Like he’s… catching his breath.
You don’t say it — not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.
Still.
As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.
He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Would he?
He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.
“Thanks,” he says.
“See you Thursday?” you ask, voice light, playful.
He pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe.”
You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.
And you’re still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.
Right. Work.
You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically — scanning books, making small talk — but your brain’s somewhere else.
⋆˙⟡
“Hi, honey!” she sings the second you answer. “Don’t panic — this is not a ‘guilt you into bringing a boyfriend’ call.”
You snort. “You literally said the word ‘boyfriend’ in the first sentence.”
“Okay, technically,” she says, unfazed, “but I’m just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.”
You sigh and lean against the counter. “I know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Diane—”
“Oh, speaking of Aunt Diane,” she says sweetly, which should’ve been your warning, “she knows this great guy from her pickleball league—works in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.
Your stomach sinks.
You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.
“I—Mom, no.”
“Well, honey,” she says, trying for innocent, “you haven’t said you’re bringing anyone. And if you’re still single—”
“I’m not.”
Silence.
Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.
“I mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. It’s been, like, a month.”
A pause. Too long.
“You are?” she says slowly.
You wince. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didn’t want to scare him off. He’s… kind of shy.”
Your mom gasps like you just told her she’s finally getting a grandchild.
“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What’s he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?”
“Mom, calm down,” you say quickly, pacing now. “He’s just… quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.”
You mentally kick yourself.
“Well, now you have to bring him,” she insists. “If he’s already survived a month with you, he’s clearly got staying power.”
You laugh sharply. “Gee, thanks.”
She chuckles. “I’m just saying — you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.”
You force a smile into your voice. “Let me talk to him first, okay? I’ll see if he’s up for it.”
“Promise me you’ll try.”
“…Promise.”
You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.
Mouth open. Brain screaming.
You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.
Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for a month.
You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.
And for some godforsaken reason…
…you think he might actually say yes.
⋆˙⟡
Thursday, 12:45 pm
It’s raining again.
Of course it is.
A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.
“Two days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more time—” you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. “Who even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?”
You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.
“I swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, I’m moving to the mountains. I’ll sell rocks. I’ll become a rock girl.”
The bell above the door chimes.
Right on cue.
You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. “Welcome in,” you call absently, trying to sound composed — but you already know.
It’s him.
You don’t need to look.
Still, you do — and there he is.
Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didn’t even try to stop him.
There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.
“Back to your usual Thursday shift?” you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.
He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It felt wrong not to.”
There’s something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired — like his body’s been holding something heavy for too long — but his gaze doesn’t flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.
You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.
“Let me guess,” you say as he veers toward the back. “Fantasy section?”
“Always.”
You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book that’s been reshelved in the wrong genre. There’s no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.
He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasn’t cracked yet.
You rest your elbow against a shelf. “That one’s going to wreck you emotionally,” you warn, teasing. “But, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.”
Bob glances over. “Good to know.”
You hesitate — just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: “Hey… can I ask you something kind of weird?”
His eyes shift to yours — cautious, but open.
“Sure.”
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. “So… hypothetically,” you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, “if someone were being — let’s say — aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinner—like, a big one—”
“Okay,” he says slowly, still holding the book.
“And they may or may not have panicked and told said family they’d already been dating someone for a month… someone who does not, technically, exist—”
Bob’s brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Go on."
“Would it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe… pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. There’s pie.”
Silence.
Bob doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t recoil.
He just watches you.
And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.
“I know it’s weird. And probably creepy. And I swear I’m not dangerous. You don’t even really know me. But you’re the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think I’m secretly dating a war criminal.”
His expression shifts — thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.
“And if it helps,” you add quickly, “I already told them you’re shy. So you wouldn’t even have to say much. Just… look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend I’m charming.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”
“Just for a night,” you say. “No pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.”
“…Because your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.”
You blink. “Wait. How do you—?”
“You talk while you shelve books,” he says simply, mouth quirking. “I pick things up.”
You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.
And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it — bright and ridiculous and yours.
Bob… smiles.
It’s small. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing. But it’s there.
“So?” you say, biting your lip. “Would you consider it? I can’t offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.”
He sets the book down.
Looks at you.
A long moment passes.
“Okay,” he says.
You blink. “Wait — really?”
He nods, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why not.”
“You didn’t even ask what kind of pie.”
“I trust your judgment.”
You squint at him. “You’re either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.”
Bob shrugs. “Can’t it be both?”
Something in your chest tightens — in a good way.
“Dinner’s Saturday,” you say softly. “At my parents’. Here's... the address?” you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.
You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.
And he actually did.
He nods. “Should I wear something nice?”
“Honestly,” you say, “if you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street — a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.
And you?
You stand behind the counter, staring after him.
Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.
From relief. And something else.
Excitement, maybe.
Because somehow, against all logic and odds —
Bob said yes.
⋆˙⟡
Saturday, 5:49 pm
“Not too much sugar,” your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesn’t trust you with a spoon.
You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. “Mom, you’ve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, it’s on you.”
She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. “Don’t tempt me.”
You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way — cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. You’re elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.
You’ve told everyone you’ve been dating someone for a month.
That he’s meeting your family.
That he’s sweet and shy and real.
And in about fifteen minutes, Bob — your fake boyfriend — will be at the door.
You’re 85% sure he’ll show up. Maybe 90.
…Okay, 75.
“Do you need help with the crust?” your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like she’s trying not to pry.
You glance at her. She’s avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.
“Nope,” you say, pressing the dough into the pan. “Unless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.”
She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.
“So,” she says, “you never told me how you met him.”
You hesitate. “The guy I’m—bringing tonight?”
She nods. “Mhm.”
You stall by rinsing your hands.
“It’s kind of a quiet story,” you say carefully. “We kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just… kind of happened.”
“Hm.” She tosses apple slices into the bowl. “And you like him?”
You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Thanks for inviting me.”
You nod. “I think I do.”
Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.
“Well,” she says gently, “I can’t wait to meet him.”
You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.
Your heart stops.
Your mom turns toward the sound.
You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, “moment of truth.”
You walk to the door.
And open it...
You expected nerves.
You did not expect him to look like this.
Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hair—usually floppy and rain-wrecked—is now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.
You blink. “H-hi.”
He smiles—bashful, but sure of himself. “Hi.”
Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. It’s warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.
“I hope I’m not too early,” he murmurs.
“No—uh—no, perfect. You’re perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.”
You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.
As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers — fresh and faintly minty.
“My mom’s in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”
He chuckles. “Noted.”
You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.
Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like she’s just been cast on a reality show. “There he is! You must be Bob!”
Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.
He recovers quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And polite!” she says, delighted, patting his arm like she’s already ordering him to call her ‘Mom’ by dessert.
Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncle’s tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet “Yes, ma’am” that makes her beam.
At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.
“You look really familiar,” Milo says, tilting his head.
You freeze mid-chew. Bob’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
“I get that a lot,” Bob says calmly.
Milo frowns. “Like, weirdly familiar. Like—superhero familiar.”
“Milo,” your mom cuts in, “eat your green beans.”
Milo shrugs but keeps sneaking glances.
You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.
And about halfway through dessert, something happens.
The TV is on behind your mom’s head, low volume. Just the news playing — no one’s really watching. Your dad’s closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.
You’re listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchor’s voice shifts tone.
“—dramatic footage of the Thunderbolts’ mission this past Wednesday—”
Your brain barely registers it.
You glance at the screen.
Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.
A familiar flash of red and black—John Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.
And then—
Golden light. Blinding, unmistakable.
The Sentry.
A blurred shot becomes a close-up.
He’s floating mid-air. Hair wild, cape tattered, jaw clenched in focus. Glowing.
It’s not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.
You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.
Bob.
You snap your gaze toward him.
He doesn’t move, but his fork slowly lowers.
Your eyes dart to your dad. He’s starting to turn toward the screen.
Before he can react—click.
The TV cuts off.
Silence.
Your dad frowns. “Did the TV break again?”
Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No one’s the wiser.
Except for you.
And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.
You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.
Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.
You clear your throat.
“Hey,” you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. “Can you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.”
He rises without protest.
You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.
Then you turn, look up at him, and whisper—
“What the hell, Bob?”
You shut the door behind you.
Bob leans casually against the wall — too casually — like he isn’t literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.
You cross your arms. “Okay. Start talking.”
He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s waiting for a storm he knows is coming.
“I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.
You stare. “Bob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parents’ TV. With your mind.”
“I said I help people,” he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. “Sometimes I help save the world.”
You gape. “I thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I don’t know, a really good therapist!”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry. That probably would’ve been easier.”
“You’re—” You lower your voice, leaning in. “You’re The Sentry. You’re an actual Avenger. Or—Thunderbolt. Or—whatever the hell team you’re on.”
“Technically, I’m sort of on loan.”
You give him a look. “That's not the point.”
He’s quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just… waiting. Letting you process.
And you are processing.
All the little things you overlooked:
The quiet strength in how he moved.
The weird evasiveness.
The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.
You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.
“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he says. “I liked the bookstore. I liked that you didn’t know. You talked to me like I was just… Bob.”
You blink. “Is that your real name?”
“Yes.”
“And you really read fantasy novels?”
He actually smiles. “Especially the sad ones.”
You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.
“You came to dinner,” you murmur. “You sat through my uncle’s knee replacement story. You complimented my grandma’s brooch.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t hard. I meant it.”
You stare at him.
The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.
The man who shyly kissed your cheek.
The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.
You rub a hand over your face. “I dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks I’m undateable.”
His voice is gentle. “You didn’t drag me. I said yes.”
You glance up at him. “Why?”
His gaze softens. “Because you asked.”
You swallow.
He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. “If you want to call this off now, I’ll understand. I’ll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.”
You laugh — a short, startled sound — but it breaks some of the tension.
You look up at him. “You’d really do that?”
“I’m a very convincing fake ex.”
You’re quiet for a moment. He’s still standing there — not defensive, not cocky — just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.
The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.
And yet…
You find yourself saying, “Let’s just get through dessert.”
His brows raise slightly. “You sure?”
You nod. “We can panic later.”
He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.
“Okay,” he says. “Back to the pie.”
You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together — fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.
You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow… everything continues like nothing happened.
The pie’s been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.
Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, “Yes, ma’am,” with a small smile.
She beams.
You stare at him for a second longer than you should.
He’s calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.
Milo won’t stop glancing over, like he’s replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.
You press your knee against Bob’s under the table.
He glances at you.
You mouth: Thank you.
He just nods.
⋆˙⟡
When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. She’s humming. Actually humming.
You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.
After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bob’s arm like he’s already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, “You handled the chaos pretty well, son. That’s promising.”
You’re still not sure whether that’s a compliment or a threat.
Finally, it’s just the two of you at the door.
You walk Bob out onto the porch. The sky’s dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you don’t know what to do with them anymore.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, leaning against the railing. “I dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that or—”
Bob steps forward and kisses you.
Soft. Sure. Warm.
It happens in the span of a heartbeat — his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.
When he pulls back, he whispers, “Sorry.”
You blink, stunned.
He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.
You turn.
Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain — watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.
You groan. “Oh my god.”
Bob chuckles. “She’s committed. I respect it.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “That was mean.”
“That was method acting,” he teases.
You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to,” he says. “I meant what I said — I liked being asked.”
A beat.
“I still do.”
The air between you shifts — warmer now, quiet but honest.
You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.
He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.
“I’ll see you Tuesday?”
You smile. “Tuesday.”
And then he’s gone.
You close the door gently, heart fluttering like it’s trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:
“…Oh no.”
⋆˙⟡
Sunday, 7:36 am
It starts like any other day.
You stop at your usual corner cafĂŠ, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.
For a moment, the world feels normal.
You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isn’t until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels… off.
Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.
And then you see it.
Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.
“WHO IS THE SENTRY’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?” (Shocking New Romance Revealed — Civilian Involved?)
You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.
Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.
You nearly drop your coffee right there.
But it only gets worse.
Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore — just a normal Tuesday morning — you don’t see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.
You see a crowd.
No — not a crowd. A swarm.
Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at… nothing, because the store isn’t even open yet.
Your stomach drops.
Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.
And then, mercifully — your brain does the one logical thing.
It panics.
You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.
“Hey—hey! That’s her!” someone yells behind you.
You don’t look back.
You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.
Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.
And then—
“Hiii.”
You scream.
A figure drops from the fire escape like it’s nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.
Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.
She smiles. “So. You’re the girlfriend?”
You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. “I—I’m—who are you?!”
“Yelena,” she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. “Bob’s teammate. Sometimes assassin. Don’t worry, I’m nice-ish.”
You don’t take her hand. You just stare.
“I was sent to retrieve you,” she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. “Big mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.”
“I—I’m fine,” you lie, inching toward the wall.
Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. “You’re not fine.”
You exhale shakily. “How is this real?”
She grins. “You kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now you’re in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.”
You press your palms to your face.
Behind you, the voices are getting louder.
Yelena tilts her head toward the street. “Wanna escape this circus?”
“…Yes.”
“Come on.” She tosses you a hoodie from her bag — black, oversized. “Put this on. You’re going to Thunderbolts HQ.”
“What?”
“Bob’s waiting,” she adds casually, “and he looks very stressed. It’s adorable.”
Your heart thumps harder.
You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner — quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.
As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.
She tosses a protein bar in your lap.
“You’re going to need energy,” she says. “They’re gonna love you.”
The SUV pulls away.
The shouting fades behind you.
And your life? Well. It’s never going to be quiet again.
The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe you’re hallucinating. That’s possible too.
Yelena’s sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.
Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.
Yelena hops out and waves you after her. “Don’t look nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“Then pretend you’re not. That’s what we all do.”
You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.
You? You’re in someone else’s hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brain’s still processing “Bob is the Sentry.”
Yelena leads you through a corridor like she’s returning a library book. “Try not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the team’s diversity initiative.”
“…What?”
“Just smile and nod.”
Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. You’re still in someone else’s hoodie, your coffee’s long gone, and you haven’t quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.
She swings open a door, and inside it’s surprisingly normal — couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.
Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.
John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.
Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.
“Well, damn,” Walker says, leaning against the counter. “I thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.”
“John,” Bob says flatly.
“I’m just saying, we’re happy for you, man. It’s cute. Weird, but cute.”
Ghost sips her tea. “He’s been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.”
Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh — and fail. A little.
Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.
She smiles, perfectly calm. “Glad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.”
You blink. “Uh… thanks?”
Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesn’t look up. “So here’s the deal. We can’t exactly walk this story back without making it worse. You’re already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked… well, shockingly competent.”
Bob mumbles, “Thanks?”
Val finally meets your eyes. “So. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.”
You glance at Bob. “Would I… be staying with him?”
Bob visibly stiffens.
Val shrugs. “You’d have your own space. This isn’t The Bachelor. We’re not trying to force anything.”
Bob relaxes.
You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.
“…Okay,” you say. “But I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.”
“Done,” Val says, already walking away. “Yelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.”
Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again — sort of. You’re standing near the couches, and he’s holding a mug like it’s a prop he forgot how to use.
You glance at him. “So.”
He looks up. “So.”
“You, uh… handled that well.”
“I was sweating the entire time.”
You smile. “Didn’t show.”
There’s a pause. The good kind.
“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit, then quickly add, “I mean—not the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.”
He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didn’t know he needed.
He fidgets. “For the record, I didn’t just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.
Then, again, he softly says: “Do you think… once this blows over… maybe we could try the real thing?”
You consider it, heart full but calm.
“…We’ll see,” you say.
He grins.
So do you.
⋆˙⟡
A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy
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devynsshitposts ¡ 19 days ago
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Hes sooooo beautiful I NEED to get on his nerves
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devynsshitposts ¡ 23 days ago
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devynsshitposts ¡ 27 days ago
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Love Island Series Masterlist
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This season of Love Island is packed with surprises. Friendships will be tested, alliances will shift and complications in the villa will keep everyone on their toes. Relationships will form and passion will run high, but with drama everywhere and twists around every corner, nothing is ever simple. It’s messy, unpredictable and totally addictive. Are you ready for it...?
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pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader
content: fluff, angst, smut
warnings: sexual innuendos, cuss words, 18+ content, smut, drinking, verbal arguments, breakdowns, drama
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a guide before reading the love island series
episodes:
episode 1 - welcome to the villa
episode 2 - the bombshell effect
episode 3 - dear stranger
episode 4 - ex marks the spot
episode 5 - tangled hearts
episode 6 - handle with care
episode 7 - sparks fly
episode 8 - kiss it better, baby
episode 9 - imperfect for you
extras:
introductions: rafe edition
introductions: y/n edition
meet the islanders (girls edition)
meet the islanders (boys edition)
meet the islanders (y/n & rafe edition)
meet the islanders (bombshells edition)
meet the islanders (bombshells edition pt 2)
kissing challenge results
other:
how the audience reacts to the characters on the first few days
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𖹭 add yourself on the series taglist here 𖹭
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(inspo for this series: @finelinevogue @rafecameronssl4t)
Š 2025 all rights reserved - drewsephrry. do not modify, repost, plagiarize or claim my work as your own without permission
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devynsshitposts ¡ 27 days ago
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𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖊 ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹
“𝐁𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧” - 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐀𝐔
𝙽𝙷𝙻!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼
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*my faceclaim is T*te McR*e. I finished this before the collab came out. I do not stan any celebrity enough to say that I support her after working with M*rgan W*llen.
𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 | 𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝙹𝙹 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜. 𝙻𝙰 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙽𝙷𝙻 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚋 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎.
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑?
𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎?
𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 | +𝟷𝟾, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 (𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎), 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚜, 𝚌𝚢𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚡 | 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍.
𝕽𝖔𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 - 𝚓𝚓 (𝚋𝚏), 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚔𝚢𝚢 (𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛), 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎 (𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 + 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎), 𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚎 (𝚕𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 + 𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎), 𝚌𝚑𝚕𝚘é 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 (𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕 + 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛), 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 (𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍; #𝟼𝟾 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚜), 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 (𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚎’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛)
𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ One shots have been added since the original completion date. They don’t affect the overall plot and are not a required read. 💕
𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟻 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟼 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟽 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟾 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟿 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟶 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟷 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟸 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟹 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟺 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟻 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟼 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟽 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟾 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟿 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟶 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟷 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟸 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟹 𝜗𝜚 ��𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟺 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟻 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟼 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟽 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟾 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸𝟿 𝜗𝜚 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚝 | 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟶 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟷 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟸 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟹 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟺 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟻 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟼 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟽 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟾 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹𝟿 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟶 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟷 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟸 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟹 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟺 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟻 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟼 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟽 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟾 𝜗𝜚 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚝 - 𝚆𝙰𝙶 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 ⓘ 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟺𝟿 𝜗𝜚 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚝 - 𝙹𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝜗𝜚 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟻𝟶 (𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕)
ⓘ 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝
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devynsshitposts ¡ 30 days ago
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Wyatt Russell in ‘broke’ (2025) | True Brandywine
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Him as a cowboy goes crazyyyyy
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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It’s Me Again 😔
It’s a fic from years ago and i feel like I’ve asked this before but I’ve scrolled though my tumblr a bit and cant find it so I’m asking it again.
There was this one Bucky fic where he’s her bodyguard that her family didn’t want to hire for her but for her sister T and that’s like…the most i can remember. I know Clint was in it
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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text messages with bob!
author’s note: these are based on the plot of the complete knock, i mean you can enjoy these without reading it, but you’d find it more enjoyable after you understand the relationship between the reader and bob lol
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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john walker fic recs ✧°‧⭑.ᐟ
˚    ✦   .  .   ˚ .      . ✦     ˚     . ★⋆.
continuing to update | last updated 28/05 - (need this man so bad omfg, tysm writers <3)
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─── ✧ DRABBLES/BLURBS
nsfw hcs | @undyingdecay
he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.
enemies | @aquaholicsanonymousworld
team mates enemies to enemies who have hate sex.
domestic hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
nsfw hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
“Wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ long tonight,” he mutters, swirling the amber liquid. “Then you had to go and look at me like that.” You smile, heat pooling low in your belly.
dating walker hcs | @purehypnotic
giving john head | @shadowheartshapedbox
what it’s like giving junior varsity captain america head ;)
─── ✧ ONE SHOTS
the way i love you | @randomnessfangirl
John Walker is the bane of your existence...but everyone else can see that there is potential for you to put your differences aside and reveal your true feelings for each other.
girls' night revelations | @zerosomnia
After venting some frustrations at girls' night, the reader realises that they are not just angry at Walker but that there's some other stuff going on too. A confrontation ensues that ends in some truths.
the soldier and the nurse | @blueberrypancakesworld
He was a soldier who, even as a hero, always tried to protect everyone with his shield. Even the best soldier gets hurt, though, and John finds himself in the infirmary of the tower, once again with a nurse he had visited many times before. This time, however, it seems different, because when concern meets amusement, two hearts finally find each other.
nocturnal guilt and training | @/blueberrypancakesworld
It is one thing when you don't concentrate, it's another when you let yourself get hurt to deal with your own pain. John finds himself in dark places from time to time, which is especially evident after the last mission, but the soldier wants to go through it alone. Yet his girlfriend is there to help him no matter how long it takes, they would make it together.
code yellow | @inlovewithquestionablecharacters
sex pollen with walker.
thunderstorms | @angellily920
johns a secret softie :)
and you came back to me | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader.
off your game | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
Working with the Thunderbolts meant swallowing your pride daily — but nothing bruised your ego quite like him.
honey, where is my shield? | @husbandjoel
you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday.
moral of the story | @starktonyx
You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.
patched up | @bruisedboys
john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect.
helmet | @gallavichsreddie1128
Y/N may be the only person on the planet that gets turned on by John in his helmet.
asshole | @/gallavichsreddie1128
Y/N hates John but he and everyone else are convinced that it’s just sexual frustration.
bad words | @/gallavichsreddie1128
Y/N and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far.
need that | @blank-potato
You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.
my kid's better than your kid | @/blank-potato
You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.
but why's it feel so good? | @sexy-monster-fucker
While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical.
the heart of the matter | @divinepoints
You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.
pushing it down and praying | @swordgrace
your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.
you're the ache i asked for | @/swordgrace
forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.
a black eye and two kisses | @/swordgrace
john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.
only pretend until it's not | @/swordgrace
you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.
bit the hand that needs you | @/swordgrace
after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.
proximity check | @/swordgrace
when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.
change | @johns-walker
when you get injured during a job, you and john have a genuine conversation for once.
boundless | @endofthelinegang
the quiet halls of Avengers Tower keeps a kind-hearted witch who begins to distance herself from John Walker after his cold, self-protective indifference makes her believe he hates her. but when her warmth fades and he’s left in the silence he created, John finally confronts his fear of not deserving her—and chooses, for once, not to run from something real.
your hero | @spookieloop
You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.
─── ✧ SERIES (including mini)
the things we don't say part ii | @/endofthelinegang
trapped between fury and longing, you and John Walker collide in a moment that’s been simmering for months—raw, reckless, and impossible to ignore. When a knock at the door threatens to shatter what little you have left, he finally says the one thing he’s been choking on: he wants you.
thunder rolls | @/endofthelinegang
this is the prologue of a series where you are bucky barnes little sister who has managed to make it this far with him, one little snafu has happened, you happen to have feelings for another super soldier one that your brother does not particularly like.
it only leads to trouble part ii | @mydearmando
you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.
keep your heart, cause i already got one (ongoing) | @lauufeydottir
As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.
˚    ✦   .  .   ˚ .      . ✦     ˚     . ★⋆.
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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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
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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
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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Forest of Fics [masterlist]
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feat. Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Andy Barber, Nick Fowler, Ari Levinson, Curtis Everett, Lloyd Hansen, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Joaquin Torres, Wanda Maximoff, Matt Murdock, God the Bounty Hunter, Ransom Drysdale
UNLESS OTHERWISE STATED, MY READERS ARE CURVY FEMALES CURVY IN THEIR DEEP 20s to EARLY 40s
latest
For Keeps This Time Nomad Steve x Reader Exiled Nomad
Only Your Actions Talk soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x Reader I'm Your Man
Under Siege mean alpha!Bucky x omega!Reader Fine Line
Dangerous Desires soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x Reader I'm Your Man
Ceremonial Rituals Viking King Steve Rogers x Reader - sequel to So Black the Darkness Hums
I Felt More When We Played Pretend Nomad Steve x Reader Exiled Nomad
Rank and Promotion alpha!Ari x omega!Reader standalone introduction of Ari and his reader to the Fine Line Collection
Surveillance and Surrender Alpha!Ari Levinson x Omega!Reader sequel to Waiting on One Look and Maybe Not
RWT: Epilogue Steve Rogers x Reader Red, White & True
Maybe Not Alpha!Ari Levinson x Omega!Reader sequel to Waiting on One Look
Intimate Intrigues Nick Hansen x Reader
Arrangement minotaur!Bucky x scientist!reader sequel to Sacrificial
greatest
CEDAR TREES [royal/historical AU] king!Steve, smut, fluff
DEVOUR [mob AU] soft!dark Bucky, non/dub-con start, smut - COMPLETE SERIES
I'M YOUR MAN [mafia AU] soft!dark Andy Barber, dub con, smut
RED, WHITE & TRUE [presidential campaign/Steve stays AU] slow burn, politically arranged marriage, eventual smut - COMPLETE SERIES
Legal Temptations Andy Barber, canon adjacent, explicit smut
HUFFILY EVER AFTER: A CindereLloyd Story [modern AU] Lloyd Hansen, enemies to lovers, eventual smut - COMPLETE SERIES
OBSIDIAN STAIN & SIN [tattoo artist AU] MFM Curtis Everett & Ari Levinson, "no strings attached," someone catches feels, explicit smut
events & challenges
Aspen's Holiday Extravaganza 2022
Into an Alternate June-iverse 2023
Hot Bucky Summer 2023
Bucky Barnes Bingo, Round Five
Aspen's 1st Anniversary Sleepover
'A Very Horny Monday to You...' August Sultry and Sinful List
Aspen's Dark Forest Fest - October 2023
Aspen's Enchanted Birthday - January 2024
Hot Bucky Summer 2024
Build-a-Bucky Bingo 2023-24
Aspen's Countdown to Chris-mas - December 2024
Aspen's Birthday Jubilee - January 2025
Aspen's Valentine Storygrams - February 2025
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BUCKY BARNES COLLECTION
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STEVE ROGERS COLLECTION
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OTHER MARVEL CHARACTERS COLLECTION
Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson, Joaquin Torres, Matthew Murdock, Namor the Sub-Mariner
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SEBASTIAN STAN CHARACTERS COLLECTION
Nick Fowler, God the Bounty Hunter
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CHRIS EVANS CHARACTERS COLLECTION
Andy Barber, Ari Levinson, Curtis Everett, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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if I see one more thing tagged incorrectly when I am trying to do my daily doom scroll I am going to flip out.
PSA: if you’re writing a Bucky Barnes x Reader guess what that isn’t? A JOHN WALKER X READER. if the character you are writing the reader with isn’t the character you are tagging STOP IT
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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tower fics are so back baby
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devynsshitposts ¡ 1 month ago
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inside the twitter accounts of our favorite depressed delinquents ✨🫩 also hehe self indulgent bob x reader again, idk if people acc like this lol
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devynsshitposts ¡ 2 months ago
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rip to danny’s old insta profile pic… you were everything
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