fairylatte7

[fairylatte7]

YEP I WANT ALL THE DAMN TEA

MARVEL!!!!! GIVE ME A MINI SERIES ABOUT ISAIAH BRADLEY’S ORIGIN STORY AND HIS FIGHT WITH BUCKY IN GOYANG, AND MY PAYCHECK IS YOURSSSSS

[fairylatte7]

This is the cutest thing ever! Such a unique and adorable concept! I’m such a softie for joaquín my loveee 😓

lightning and rainbows | j.t.

pairing: joaquin torres x shy!reader

summary: sam & bucky ask for your help on a mission, leaving you smitten and in love with joaquin torres

w/c: 658

warnings: reader can control the weather, fluff, slight angst?, reader being insecure abt powers, social anxiety, swearing, joaquin being a lovesick cutie, pre-relationship, tfatws spoilers obvi

a/n: based on this request! lowkey misread the request so it's pre-relationship instead of established. So sorry nonnie, but i hope it still lives up to your expectations!! also lets not talk about how long this has been in my drafts okay...

When Sam and Bucky had asked for your help in stopping the Flagsmashers, you had been hesitant.

After the Battle for Earth, you had withdrawn from the superhero life. You had lost so many friends—no, family—that day, and you couldn’t see the point in continuing to save the world.

Yet here you were; sitting on the side of a German road waiting for Sam’s air force friend to come pick the three of you up after getting beat up by a group of super soldiers.

You sit between Bucky and Sam on the curb side as they bicker over the Flagsmashers and Walker and Sam giving up the shield. There’s a mini storm cloud over your head, drenching you in rain that you can’t control. Thunder sounding every time Sam and Bucky blame the other for something minuscule.

Your powers always went haywire whenever your emotions were running wild and the two bickering men on either side of you weren’t helping in your calm meditation practices that your therapist had given you.

When Bucky reaches across you to swing at Sam, You finally have enough. And without thinking you lay a palm against each of their chests, arms folded in an ‘x’ across your chest and sending a small bolt of lightning into both of them.

They go flying back in opposite directions, hair standing up and cursing. You jump up to apologize as you see the little strands of electricity crackling along Bucky’s vibranium arm and Sam begins ranting about his tech malfunctioning…

“Wicked…”

You whirl around at the sound of the voice, awe visible in it. There’s a flush to your cheeks as you notice Lieutenant Joaquin Torres leaning against a military issued jeep. His expression one of awe and wonder. He pushes off the driver side door, coming over to you as your mission partners gather their wits and clamber to their feet.

"That was awesome! Can you generate lightning strikes too?"

The flush on your cheeks deepens even more at his genuine excitement. You’ve always been self conscious of your powers. Never having been able to fully control them and the thundercloud above your head is a testament to that. You’re drenched to your core from the small rain cloud.

Yet Joaquin’s face stays full of childlike curiosity and excitement and your powers can’t help but to cause a little rainbow to form over the gray cloud, rain trickling to a sprinkle as you stutter out a response.

“I-I mean…I uh.” Sam cackles at your flustered state, both he and Bucky having forgotten their mini argument at the sight of you being reduced to a blushing school girl at the Lieutenant’s praise.

Joaquin just nods, little happy smile that makes him look like a golden retriever never faltering as he waits patiently for your answer.

“I-I can generate lightning strikes, b-but but I can’t really control it…” You trail off awkwardly, trying to calm your racing heart at the cute boy smiling so prettily at you.

His smile widens into a grin and he walks closer, seeming to not mind the light spray of rain and your soaking appearance. “That’s really cool! I wish I could zap Sam with lightning whenever.”

He says it with a light chuckle and you find yourself giving him a shy smile back. The rain from your storm cloud has slowed to a stop and the grey cloud fades as you stand before Joaquin. The rainbow staying much to Sam’s delight and your embarrassment.

Joaquin doesn’t notice or seem to put two and two together that the rainbow is because of him as he chatters on about how awesome your powers are and excitedly asks if you could show him more some time.

You can’t help but to fall a little in love with him at that moment in time. And you’re oblivious to how that feeling will only grow the more time you spend with the energetic Lieutenant…

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

taglist: @lottiewills @softpia

[fairylatte7]

[fairylatte7]

Oh this does something to me please understand

Sam: “Steve made a mistake.”

Bucky: “No, he didn't.He gave you that shield not because you're the strongest, but because you're you. You think if you had that serum you'd be able to protect all the people you care about. Steve had it, and he couldn't. You're a human being, and you're doing your best. Steve gave people something to believe in. But you...you give 'em something to aspire to.”

Captain America: Brave New World

[fairylatte7]

HELLO?!

[fairylatte7]

I'll be in Louisiana for the next week or so. No new one shots until July💔🤧

Maybe I’ll run into Sam or Sarah. Who knows lol? 😍

[fairylatte7]

YES OMG PERFECT

i need to CHOMP on Joaquin's bicep SOOOOO bad!! Firm believer that he lets you put your chin in the divot of his elbow and flexes because it makes you a little lightheaded and giddy and he loves how your skin heats up when you ask him to do it again!

[fairylatte7]

Captain America: Sam Wilson (2015) #22

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So much has changed in this past year. So much more will continue to change

Simone de Beauvoir, from Diary of a Philosophy Student: Volume 1, 1926-27

Text ID: I observe how much I have matured since last year despite my belief that I was losing myself, how something strong was born from the painful experiences survived and from the numerous minutes that I believed were wasted.

[fairylatte7]

I remember exactly where I was when I saw this for the first time. I couldn’t breathe omgggg.

#he was insane for this

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live! | March 24, 2025

[fairylatte7]

Rewatched this interview last night and nearly cried over how handsome he looks 🥺🥺

I mean, come onnnn… he looks like a prince 🫶🏻

[fairylatte7]

MY BABYYY 😩🤧

babiest falcon!

(from danny’s ig)

[fairylatte7]

You in my arms

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x fem!reader

warning: lots n lots n lots of kisses, and mentions of some insecurities on Joaquin's part

Wordcount: 2.5k

summary: You kiss Joaquin's scars as he sleeps.

A/n:something cute something nice something also entirely self indulgent be i couldnt stop thinking about it after his crash he would 100% have scars tagt he was insecure about n just imagine kissing them all uhhhhh yes please me and the other 5 joaquin fans woulddddd

Oh also there is a aecond part of i'll see you in a minute in the works:p

Masterlist

English is not my first language please be aware!

He had been released from the hospital a few weeks ago. According to Sam, he wasn’t allowed on any type of mission or even to get information about said missions. No, what he had to do was lie down and rest. Did he do either? Mostly no, but still, you managed.

At times, you’d find him training, either in the gym or in his room, and you would always scold him endlessly for it. He had just gotten out of the hospital why the hell was he so eager to send himself right back? You knew his physical therapist was just as against his intense training as you were, and still, he refused to listen. To you, or to anybody else, for that matter. At some point, you decided to just give up, not fully, but you did ease up on him after some time, because you realized what this was. He wasn’t outright trying to be annoying or undo his recovery. He was trying to get back a sense of normalcy in his life after not being able to do anything for so long. And maybe you’d been a little selfish not to notice that sooner.

Right now, you were rummaging around the kitchen, looking for something to snack on. After about five minutes, you found nothing, so you gave up and went to search for Joaquin. Maybe he had a secret stash of sweets or snacks somewhere near him. Pushing his (your) bedroom door open, you spotted him—shirtless and in shorts, sprawled out in a full starfish pose across the bed. His chest was slowly rising and falling, indicating that he was in a deep slumber. Softly trudging in, mindful not to wake him up, you settled down next to him. On your side, with your hand propping up your head, you admired him—his sharp nose, his long eyelashes, his lush black curls and slowly your eyes began to drift. Not in a perverted sense, but rather in a quiet, homely one.

Your eyes found countless scars littered all over his torso, with one huge scar stretched across his chest the very same area where they’d laid him down open on the surgical table. You remembered the scene as if it were unfolding before your eyes all over again. How cold he looked. How gone he was. All you could do was stare. You didn’t know if your grief should start, or if he would pull through. All you knew was fear. Paralyzing fear. Your eyes darted back to his face. Before you knew it, you let out a small, shaky sigh possibly out of relief, of just having him here, in your arms.

You placed your hand lazily on his chest, then stroked your thumb over his skin. Your thumb traced each small and large scar you could find with his chest bare in front of you. He was still soundly asleep, but by now, his eyebrows had started to furrow, perhaps he was having a troubled dream, or maybe he could feel what you were doing.

You knew Joaquin. All his training and all of his avoidance when it came to talking about that mission stemmed from his insecurities. He was scared that that was the end of his superhero life and he was ashamed of it. When he had come back to his senses after the coma, you had yelled at him. There’d been little to no bite in it, but still you’d warned him. You told him how stupid and how selfish it was of him to ignore Sam’s orders and just dive headfirst, quite literally, into danger.

He hadn’t seemed like he cared. All he did was stare at you and mumble that you should stop talking and just kiss him already. You smile at the memory, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes linger on the scar in the middle of his chest. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and placed one soft kiss on one of the smaller scars. Your eyes flitted up to check if he had woken, but he was still in deep sleep. So instead, your lips found purchase on another scar. And another. And another. Each one that was longer earned several kisses peppered along its length. When you reached his neck, your kisses slowed, became more sincere. Thanks to his fall, he’d gotten a large burn scar along the side of his neck.

The last one remaining free from your soft attack was the biggest one, the one across his chest.

You let out a sigh before your index finger gently grazed down the length of it. You leaned your head forward and pressed one long, slightly wet kiss, because you’d wet your lips beforehand onto the edge of the scar. Shifting carefully, you moved your legs to straddle both of his, mindful not to put any actual pressure on him. Once again, you admired him. It didn’t matter how mad or how sad you were at Joaquin—his beauty, to you, was still ravishing. Sometimes, you just wanted to stuff him in your pocket and never let anyone see him again. Only you. But alas, you couldn’t. And you were sure that if Joaquin knew how you felt, he’d tease you about it until the very last day of your life together.

Your lips found purchase at the beginning of his scar, and slowly but surely, you drew kisses along the entire length of it.

“Baby,” his voice cut through the silence, rough and still thick with sleep. You felt his hand gently running through your hair. “Morning, baby,” you smiled, pulling yourself up toward him, your lips hovering just shy of his. Your smile grew into a full-blown grin you couldn’t hide, even if you tried.

Through the window to your right, the sun was shining through, casting a golden light that illuminated Joaquin’s features just perfectly. “You look perfect,” you muttered, finally closing the distance to plant your lips on his.

He let out a soft sigh, both of his hands cradling the sides of your face as he kissed you back. Slowly, he pulled himself upright with you still against him, lips not parting even once. Even as you pulled away slightly, he quickly leaned in again, shaking his head at the loss of your mouth on his. Ever the romantic. Muffled against his lips, you called his name. “Joaquin.”

“Hmmm?” he hummed, still chasing the kiss. Finally, his lips parted from yours. “What were you doing?” “Nothing,” you replied, though your smile gave you away completely. His eyebrows raised in fake mockery. “I felt you, you know.” “Mmhmm, so?” you teased. “Can’t I admire my beautiful boyfriend?” Your eyes flickered across his face before you leaned in to plant more kisses on his neck. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders while his hands found your waist, settling there with a soft grip.

His skin was warm beneath your lips, comforting and familiar and yet, somehow, still addictive. You couldn’t stop. Not that you ever wanted to.

But then you felt him squirm beneath you, and reluctantly, you slowly pulled away, glancing around the room in search of your phone. “You already distracted? You just woke me up in the best way possible, baby—what the hell you looking for?” His lips land against yours again before you can even answer.

You hum into the kiss, your hand curling into the soft, messy curls at the back of his head. You kissed him back with the same kind of care, the kind that told him he was safe here, that every scar, every part of him, was loved.

“I was gonna take a picture,” you whispered as he pulled away just slightly, his nose brushing yours.

“A picture?”, he tilts his head slightly eyes finding yours.

You nod, sheepishly. “You looked really pretty in the light. And I wanted to remember this moment.”

A soft pink spread across Joaquin’s cheeks, something that always made your chest squeeze. He was good at pretending to be cocky, but at the core, he was so tender, so humble, it broke your heart a little every time.

“Next time,” he mumbled, burying his face in your neck. “Right now I just want you close.” You smile and shift slightly to the side, letting him pull you back onto the bed beneath you, arms wrapping around your waist like he was scared you might vanish if he let go. Arms cup your ribs. “I mean it,” you say into his hair. “You’re beautiful, Joaquin. All of you.“, you see his eyes dart to the side, his eyebrows furrowing in an unspoken question. Even the scars? „These scars“, your hands trails one softly „They’re not ugly. They’re proof you made it home. To me. And that you didn’t give up.” He exhales deeply against your skin, and it feels like something loosens in him. Like your words reached the part of him that still worried he wasn’t enough—not strong enough, not good enough, not whole enough to be someone’s hero anymore. Or more importantly your hero.

“I was scared,” he admits quietly. “When I woke up… and you just weren‘t there. I couldn‘t feel anything i could barely even see anything. Sam just looked at me which such…guilt. I thought surely you left me snd that was why you weren‘t there.“

You pull back just enough to cup his face between your hands, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones. “Never,” you whisper. “God, Joaquin, I could never leave you. You think any of that matters to me? You being here, you being alive, that’s all I care about. Can‘t say though that i wasn‘t mad at you for being reckless. Me and Sam talked shit about you for hours”, a small chuckle left you. „Wowww...even in a state of half-death you still find it in yourself to torture me. Ouch“ he fakes a pout that you just couldn’t resist. Your lips find his again, this time slower, deeper. The kind of kiss that said stay, that said heal, that said you’re mine and I’m yours and we’ll figure it out together.

When you pull away, he’s smiling through a shaky breath.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

You roll your eyes fondly. “Don’t start with that. You think I kissed your entire body just for fun?”

“Maybe a little for fun.”

You grin and lightly smack his chest. He catches your wrist, then intertwines your fingers with his. For a few moments, the silence is the only thing that speaks—soft, warm, comfortable.

“I missed this,” he says after a while. “Not just lying in bed. I missed you.” “You were right here the whole time, dummy.”, you let out a soft sigh. “I’m glad you’re back, my love.”

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You smile against his skin, letting the words settle like sunlight across your chest.

“I love you more.”

“You always have to win,” he murmurs, already starting to doze off again, smile still lingering on his lips.

You press one last kiss to the center of his chest, right along the scar and let yourself relax in his arms. The world could wait. For now, all that mattered was this—his heartbeat, your breath syncing with his, and the silent promise you made every time you kissed a scar: I see you. I love you. You’re still mine.

And this time, you knew he finally believed it too.

[fairylatte7]

LMAO I LOVE THIS

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[fairylatte7]

Thank you so muchhhh!!! 💕💕

Love was something you never heard enough ~ Joaquín Torres

Time has taken its toll on you. As a reformed member of what was seen by many as a terrorist group, working for Captain America under the conditions of a pardon seemed like nothing much to you. But working for Captain America brought you Joaquín Torres, and he was everything. 

Reader addressed as y/n, minor mentions of death

Me and @daredevilenthusist were chatting and I just had to get to work. Also Sam was right, “Flag Smashers” is such an awful name, like yuck. Where Do Broken Hearts Go was on repeat while I was writing this one. Four is a top- tier 1D album. The vocals are immaculate on that record. I’m still madly in love with Joaquín, obviously. 

Happy reading!

Five years can do a lot to a person. 

It did a lot to you. 

To this day, you still wait for someone to assure you that The Blip was a dream, you were still living in your family home, and that your parents and siblings were very much alive and well. 

You have yet to receive that desired confirmation. 

From a suburb of the United States, to a camp for displaced people in Eastern Europe, to ending up on the run from the American military due to a growing movement that you aided in creating; a lot has changed. 

The affinity you had for computer science while in school back home made you a vital asset for the movement. Every message sent out to supporters, and signal blocked, that kept the group safe, was facilitated by you. 

Despite not being a fan of violence, you believed in what the Flag Smashers wanted in the world. Global governments and organizations continued to make empty promises, and you couldn’t bear to see one more child orphaned or family displaced in the name of getting things “back to the way they were.” 

Taking that serum was the beginning of the end. 

If you never took it, you would have never started to reconsider the group's methods of resistance. 

If you never took it, you would've never found yourself in New York City building a bomb.

If you never took it, you would’ve never been in the basement of that unfinished building. 

You would’ve never been shot. 

You would’ve never begged Sam Wilson to take you to the location where the bomb was planted. 

You would’ve never disarmed the bomb three minutes before it was set to destroy an entire sector of New York. 

If you never took the serum, you would’ve never had the courage to make your own decisions, form your own thoughts, and do what you believe is right, no matter what. 

Yeah, those five years did a lot to you. 

Your work on that fateful night provided you with notoriety in the public eye and pity from the US government. 

You were free of all charges as long as you worked under Sam Wilson, Captain America, so that they could “keep tabs” on you. 

“We don’t need another super soldier running around!”,an old senator complained as you sat in your court hearing. 

Whatever. 

You didn’t bother to argue. You had lost so much by this point that you didn’t care.

One whole year since then and you feel like you’ve been working among Sam’s team for your whole life. 

You were sent on missions to all sorts of interesting places, all over the world. Even if you didn’t completely understand what was going on at all times, you loved getting to be useful and work for something bigger than yourself. 

Working alongside Joaquín Torres didn’t hurt either. 

Well, how could it?

He was such a sweetheart that you worried that if you spent too much time around him, your teeth would begin to rot.

“Hi y/n!”

“How are you, y/n?”

“Great work out there, y/n!” 

“I’m proud of how far you’ve come, y/n.”

"Oh, really? Tell me more, y/n."

Oh, it made you sick. 

And you loved every second you spent with him. 

You constantly asked him questions about himself and his family. You knew his favorite foods, movies, books; his long term goals and aspirations. 

You memorized his habits. The way he smiled awkwardly when he made a mistake; or how he leaned in when attempting to get information on a situation that has, in Sam’s words “absolutely nothing” to do with him. 

You even subliminally changed the way that you held your phone after noticing how he held his.

You basically knew everything about Joaquín. 

Or so you thought. 

The two of you were on a mission in Colorado. You were staked out near the bottom of a canyon. It was hot, dusty, and terribly boring, as you had no intel on when the people you were waiting for were going to pass through.   

Joaquín was sitting outside of the vehicle because he, “needs space” and “being all cramped messes with my vibe.” 

Naturally, you joined him.

Now you both sat on red dirt, backs leaning against the truck, legs outstretched. 

He took a swig of his water bottle. You took note of how his jaw clenched as he swallowed. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. 

You would have been incredibly turned on by this action if it wasn’t so damn hot outside. 

“I haven’t been this bored since that mission in Lithuania where we were at that safehouse for three days.” you grumbled. 

Joaquín leaned his head back and turned to face you. 

“Hm? What made it so bad?” he asked.

“There’s only so many rounds of monopoly I can play before I start to lose my mind, Torres.” you replied. 

“Ah, I didn’t mind it so much.” he said.

You scrunch your face up. “Why?”

“I got to hang out with you for three days straight and get paid for it. I’m not sure what more a man like me could ask for.” 

You were well aware that with the heat feeding into your delusion, emotional maturity was at an all time low in your department. However, you were also aware that what he said had you heart doing a gymnastics floor routine inside of your chest. 

This is just the kind of person he is, you told yourself. Just because everyone you’d ever cared for in your life is gone now, does not mean that you have to latch on to the first person to give you attention. 

You gave a slight chuckle. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. 

Joaquín began to pick invisible lint off of his suit. He only did that when he was nervous. 

Was he nervous? 

Your thoughts got the better of you and him blurted out your respective questions simultaneously. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

You stared at each other in silence and, for a moment, the scorching heat, mission, and dust in your boots didn’t matter. 

There was just him, only him. 

Joaquín rubbed his face and mumbled to himself, “I’m so stupid…” 

“You’re not stupid Joaquín. You did nothing wrong.” You assured him. 

As he looked at you, his deep brown eyes were filled with something you had never seen from him before. 

He sighed. “I feel like I know so much but so little about you at the same time. You know everything about me. I wanna know you better, I guess.” 

You readjusted yourself as you took a deep breath. 

“After everything that happened last year, every person that really knew me was dead.”

You paused

“I was alone.” 

Joaquín’s eyes softened, he was hanging on to every word you said. 

“But you cared. You know me better than anybody.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. It was damp, both from sweat and the water he poured on his head to cool down. His forearm muscles flexed as he formed his fingers into a fist in his hair. 

“I don’t know why I waited so long.” Joaquín said. “I’d love to see you outside of canyons and safehouses in the middle of nowhere.” 

Maybe this was a hallucination. A strange byproduct of sitting in the heat so long. 

Maybe he was a hallucination. There is no way he’s real. He can’t be. 

“I’d like to see you too, Joaquín.” 

His eyes shined and his skin was even more golden under the intense sun. 

You were burning up and you wouldn't have it any other way.

When he began to lean in, you knew that once you had his face in your hands, you would never be able to let him go. 

And every part of you was fine with that. 

Just as Joaquín reached out to touch you, Sam’s voice came on through your in-ears. 

You and Joaquín bolted to your feet. 

“You two have got approximately 40 seconds before special ops flies directly overhead. Get in position.”

You gave Sam confirmation as Joaquín prepared to drive off. 

“And I heard all of that too.” Sam added. “So don’t come around me acting like nothing happened.” 

Joaquín gave you a knowing smile and you felt a warmth in your chest that you haven’t felt in years. 

The reason definitely wasn’t the tempurature outside. 

Time has taken its toll on you, there was no denying it. But it brought you Joaquín too, and that’s got to count for something. 

Gif and photo from pinterest, divider credits to @enchanthings here on tumblr!

thanks for reading!

[fairylatte7]

This edit made me cry. I was sobbing on the couch guys it was bad. Joaquín is so boyfriend like how is he NOT REAL ?? 😩

[fairylatte7]

Omggg thank you! I guess being delusional in bed at 4am was good for something 😭

Love was something you never heard enough ~ Joaquín Torres

Time has taken its toll on you. As a reformed member of what was seen by many as a terrorist group, working for Captain America under the conditions of a pardon seemed like nothing much to you. But working for Captain America brought you Joaquín Torres, and he was everything. 

Reader addressed as y/n, minor mentions of death

Me and @daredevilenthusist were chatting and I just had to get to work. Also Sam was right, “Flag Smashers” is such an awful name, like yuck. Where Do Broken Hearts Go was on repeat while I was writing this one. Four is a top- tier 1D album. The vocals are immaculate on that record. I’m still madly in love with Joaquín, obviously. 

Happy reading!

Five years can do a lot to a person. 

It did a lot to you. 

To this day, you still wait for someone to assure you that The Blip was a dream, you were still living in your family home, and that your parents and siblings were very much alive and well. 

You have yet to receive that desired confirmation. 

From a suburb of the United States, to a camp for displaced people in Eastern Europe, to ending up on the run from the American military due to a growing movement that you aided in creating; a lot has changed. 

The affinity you had for computer science while in school back home made you a vital asset for the movement. Every message sent out to supporters, and signal blocked, that kept the group safe, was facilitated by you. 

Despite not being a fan of violence, you believed in what the Flag Smashers wanted in the world. Global governments and organizations continued to make empty promises, and you couldn’t bear to see one more child orphaned or family displaced in the name of getting things “back to the way they were.” 

Taking that serum was the beginning of the end. 

If you never took it, you would have never started to reconsider the group's methods of resistance. 

If you never took it, you would've never found yourself in New York City building a bomb.

If you never took it, you would’ve never been in the basement of that unfinished building. 

You would’ve never been shot. 

You would’ve never begged Sam Wilson to take you to the location where the bomb was planted. 

You would’ve never disarmed the bomb three minutes before it was set to destroy an entire sector of New York. 

If you never took the serum, you would’ve never had the courage to make your own decisions, form your own thoughts, and do what you believe is right, no matter what. 

Yeah, those five years did a lot to you. 

Your work on that fateful night provided you with notoriety in the public eye and pity from the US government. 

You were free of all charges as long as you worked under Sam Wilson, Captain America, so that they could “keep tabs” on you. 

“We don’t need another super soldier running around!”,an old senator complained as you sat in your court hearing. 

Whatever. 

You didn’t bother to argue. You had lost so much by this point that you didn’t care.

One whole year since then and you feel like you’ve been working among Sam’s team for your whole life. 

You were sent on missions to all sorts of interesting places, all over the world. Even if you didn’t completely understand what was going on at all times, you loved getting to be useful and work for something bigger than yourself. 

Working alongside Joaquín Torres didn’t hurt either. 

Well, how could it?

He was such a sweetheart that you worried that if you spent too much time around him, your teeth would begin to rot.

“Hi y/n!”

“How are you, y/n?”

“Great work out there, y/n!” 

“I’m proud of how far you’ve come, y/n.”

"Oh, really? Tell me more, y/n."

Oh, it made you sick. 

And you loved every second you spent with him. 

You constantly asked him questions about himself and his family. You knew his favorite foods, movies, books; his long term goals and aspirations. 

You memorized his habits. The way he smiled awkwardly when he made a mistake; or how he leaned in when attempting to get information on a situation that has, in Sam’s words “absolutely nothing” to do with him. 

You even subliminally changed the way that you held your phone after noticing how he held his.

You basically knew everything about Joaquín. 

Or so you thought. 

The two of you were on a mission in Colorado. You were staked out near the bottom of a canyon. It was hot, dusty, and terribly boring, as you had no intel on when the people you were waiting for were going to pass through.   

Joaquín was sitting outside of the vehicle because he, “needs space” and “being all cramped messes with my vibe.” 

Naturally, you joined him.

Now you both sat on red dirt, backs leaning against the truck, legs outstretched. 

He took a swig of his water bottle. You took note of how his jaw clenched as he swallowed. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. 

You would have been incredibly turned on by this action if it wasn’t so damn hot outside. 

“I haven’t been this bored since that mission in Lithuania where we were at that safehouse for three days.” you grumbled. 

Joaquín leaned his head back and turned to face you. 

“Hm? What made it so bad?” he asked.

“There’s only so many rounds of monopoly I can play before I start to lose my mind, Torres.” you replied. 

“Ah, I didn’t mind it so much.” he said.

You scrunch your face up. “Why?”

“I got to hang out with you for three days straight and get paid for it. I’m not sure what more a man like me could ask for.” 

You were well aware that with the heat feeding into your delusion, emotional maturity was at an all time low in your department. However, you were also aware that what he said had you heart doing a gymnastics floor routine inside of your chest. 

This is just the kind of person he is, you told yourself. Just because everyone you’d ever cared for in your life is gone now, does not mean that you have to latch on to the first person to give you attention. 

You gave a slight chuckle. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. 

Joaquín began to pick invisible lint off of his suit. He only did that when he was nervous. 

Was he nervous? 

Your thoughts got the better of you and him blurted out your respective questions simultaneously. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

You stared at each other in silence and, for a moment, the scorching heat, mission, and dust in your boots didn’t matter. 

There was just him, only him. 

Joaquín rubbed his face and mumbled to himself, “I’m so stupid…” 

“You’re not stupid Joaquín. You did nothing wrong.” You assured him. 

As he looked at you, his deep brown eyes were filled with something you had never seen from him before. 

He sighed. “I feel like I know so much but so little about you at the same time. You know everything about me. I wanna know you better, I guess.” 

You readjusted yourself as you took a deep breath. 

“After everything that happened last year, every person that really knew me was dead.”

You paused

“I was alone.” 

Joaquín’s eyes softened, he was hanging on to every word you said. 

“But you cared. You know me better than anybody.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. It was damp, both from sweat and the water he poured on his head to cool down. His forearm muscles flexed as he formed his fingers into a fist in his hair. 

“I don’t know why I waited so long.” Joaquín said. “I’d love to see you outside of canyons and safehouses in the middle of nowhere.” 

Maybe this was a hallucination. A strange byproduct of sitting in the heat so long. 

Maybe he was a hallucination. There is no way he’s real. He can’t be. 

“I’d like to see you too, Joaquín.” 

His eyes shined and his skin was even more golden under the intense sun. 

You were burning up and you wouldn't have it any other way.

When he began to lean in, you knew that once you had his face in your hands, you would never be able to let him go. 

And every part of you was fine with that. 

Just as Joaquín reached out to touch you, Sam’s voice came on through your in-ears. 

You and Joaquín bolted to your feet. 

“You two have got approximately 40 seconds before special ops flies directly overhead. Get in position.”

You gave Sam confirmation as Joaquín prepared to drive off. 

“And I heard all of that too.” Sam added. “So don’t come around me acting like nothing happened.” 

Joaquín gave you a knowing smile and you felt a warmth in your chest that you haven’t felt in years. 

The reason definitely wasn’t the tempurature outside. 

Time has taken its toll on you, there was no denying it. But it brought you Joaquín too, and that’s got to count for something. 

Gif and photo from pinterest, divider credits to @enchanthings here on tumblr!

thanks for reading!