t1red-twilight

[t1red-twilight]

Vanilla Tobacco

summary: would you ever be enough for joaquin?

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MATURE/MINORS DNI, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f!receiving), internal angst, yearning, insecure!reader, fluff, love confessions

wc: 3,115

an: this fic idea came to me while i was listening to vanilla tobacco by eloise 🫶🏾

danny ramirez characters masterlist

You and Joaquin spend more time together than you expected to, but that feeling creeps in when the first streams of light peak through his curtains.

That feeling is exactly what you’d been worried about when you and Joaquin first started.

Since the beginning, you felt like Joaquin was out of your league. Not because you weren’t in one of your own— you had plenty to offer—but because you’re just a civilian. It feels silly when you really think about it, but you don’t have any special abilities, no training, and you certainly aren’t a mechanical or quantum genius.

You’re just a person. A normal person with not much but yourself to give. And while it was a lot to give, would it be enough for someone like Joaquin? You weren't sure.

It’s what you’re thinking about when he stirs beside you. You quickly close your eyes, trying to settle back into the mattress but Joaquin can feel the tension in your muscles as he stretches against you.

Lips brush the spot beneath your ear and his voice thick with sleep but smooth, “Buenas días, cariño.”

“Buenas días,” You murmur softly, sinking back against him when his arms circle you.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Hmm?”

“You were awake, probably laying there worrying about everything under the sun. So what was it today?”

He’s observant. Too observant in this case.

“Nothing important.”

He taps your hip, prompting you to roll over to face him. “It’s important if you’re worrying about it. C’mon, querida, lay it on me.”

“It’s just…gallery stuff,” You say hesitantly. “There’s an artist I’m hoping to hear back from.”

It isn’t a complete lie, there is an artist you would die to have in the gallery you help manage. But it’s the weekend, you know you’ll hear back eventually. With Joaquin, you don’t have the courage to ask the right questions.

“I’m sure you’ll hear back from them soon. They’d be lucky to be working under you. I mean look at that,” he points to a piece you painted that’s now hanging on his wall.

You hadn’t planned to give it to him though your relationship with him had inspired it. He’d come over one day and begged you to give it to him, not knowing he’d been the inspiration.

Your cheeks warm at his praise, at the meaning of the piece, unbeknownst to him. Shaking your head you insist, “That’s nothing.”

“It’s from your hands,” He counters, eyes warm.

His faith in you and your artistry make your heart race a little, that feeling returning. You try to swallow it down, distracting yourself by running a hand through his soft hair. “If you wanted in my nonexistent pants, you could just kiss me.”

His eyes go from warm to scorching, and he pinches your thigh playfully. “Maybe I wanted to compliment you first. I get to do that, you know.”

You’ve got him right where you want him, and you know that with his touch, with his kiss that all those worrying thoughts will fade to the background.

“Compliment received. Now what?”

The depth of Joaquin’s hunger bleeds through when he leans in to kiss you. His mouth is insistent, entitled as he kisses you deeply. He pushes you back against the sheets, both his arms coming up to pin your wrists down on either side of your head.

“Vamos a alistarte para mí, ¿hmm?” He asks, his lips brushing yours with every word.

“Mhmm, yeah,” you breathe, kissing more firmly at his mouth.

He returns your kiss for a few seconds before he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently. He starts a trail of these bites downward, your neck, your breasts, tummy and eventually thighs as he spreads your legs wide.

His mouth stays that way even as he eats you out; eager and demanding. He knows exactly what to do to get you to shiver and whine, his tongue alternating between sucking at your clit and dipping inside you to taste more of your slick. This combination takes you high quickly and once you’re relaxed for him, he slides his cock inside of you in one thrust as he kisses you gently.

With each roll of his hips, the tip of his cock feels like it’s kissing your womb, like he’s trying to dig himself further inside you.

“Joaquin, fuck,” You whine, one of your hands gripping his hair roughly.

He groans as pleasurable pain bursts against his scalp; he welcomes the way you sometimes pull his hair or bite the muscle of his arms. He bends to kiss the tip of your nose, shushing you. “Shhh, yo sé. Just take it for me, hmm, amorcito?”

You let out a gasping breath, nodding softly. It feels like he’s in your guts, in your throat but taking him is what you want. What you both want. “Okay,” You breathe, trembling beneath him as the band inside you winds tighter.

“Hold me close, querida,” He coos, finding more stable purchase on his knees so that his thrusts can come quicker and harder.

It’s a familiar dance that your bodies fall into, hips kissing in a rhythm that bring you both closer to the prescipe of your highs. Joaquin’s mouth is always busy, either praising you with how well you take him or leaving bites along your neck and shoulder.

You fall apart around him, biting your lip to hold in the wanton groan.

Joaquin bends to take control of your lips, shaking his head as he does. “Quiero oírte,” He mumbles against your lips.

It’s impossible then for you to resist; how could you deny him what he wanted if it was in your power?

Your body shakes beneath his, squeezing his cock tight as you whimper and moan beneath him. While you’ve always felt self conscious about how loud you can get, Joaquin has reassured you that he loves it. You should believe him with how quickly he unravels as your moans spill into the air.

He kisses you deeply, licking into your mouth trying to swallow your sweet sounds as he fills you with his cum.

You’re exactly where you want to be— surrounded. By the scent of sex and Joaquin, by his warmth and his praise. By his desire.

—

The next time that feeling shows its face is just a couple weeks later. You woke up with a start, your brain playing games with your heart even as you slept. The sight of Joaquin soundly asleep in your bed should’ve helped but it sent you further into a panic.

You love him, that much is sure. But could you ever tell him? Would you be enough?

Slowly, you reach over to grab your phone off the nightstand before slinking out of bed and into the kitchen. You call one of your closest friends, Eden; they’ve been privy to the entire journey Joaquin. They know how much you care for him.

As usual you skip the pleasantries, too far in your frenzy. “I have to end things with him.”

Eden has been quite patient with you despite your flip flopping nature. Even now. “Why’s that?” They ask, like the two of you haven’t had this conversation multiple times now.

“You know why.”

“I know why you think, but like I’ve said before I don’t think that’s true.”

“He’s a superhero.”

“And you’re somebody’s too. Managing a gallery at your age isn’t something that just happens, usually you’re just assisting.”

“Yeah, but I’m not saving anyone’s life.”

“No one’s expecting that from you. Least of all Joaquin,” They reason easily.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him. Maybe I haven’t yet, but I probably will and I think that would hurt more than me just ending things while we’re ahead.”

“Are you really ahead if you’re in love with him?”

“He doesn’t know that I’m in love with him. That would scare him off too I bet.”

“Did you call me so I could confirm your delusions or challenge you?”

Your voice grows softer as your words grow more vulnerable, “I don’t know, I just— I woke up in a panic and when I looked at him I had to face everything that I might lose. Waking up next to him means more than I ever thought it would.”

Eden’s tone is much more tender when they speak again, “Honey—“

“Querida? You in here?” Joaquin calls, his voice sounding much closer than you would like.

If you could hear him so easily, could he hear you?

“I have to go, he’s up. I’ll call you later,” You hang up just as Joaquin appears in the hallway, giving him your best reassuring smile. “Mornin’.”

He tilts his head, hair fluffy and mused. He studies you for a moment. “Que pasó?”

“Nada. Fue Eden.”

“They okay?” He asks, slowly closing the space between the two of you.

“Yeah they’re totally fine.”

His gaze lingers a beat longer than usual and for a moment you think he’s going to say something that confirms he overheard. Instead, his hands cup your cheeks, and he examines you further, his eyes so soft and warm. “You okay?”

You shut your eyes, leaning into his hands with a soft hum.

“Eyes open,” he challenges.

Silently sighing, you open your eyes, finding his gaze toxicating and grounding all at once. “I’m okay. Dame un beso,” you whisper.

Joaquin is still at first, and you can feel the way his eyes dig into you, searching for whatever you’re trying to hide from him. Whatever he sees, if anything at all, he must not be ready to talk about. Or maybe, he’s respecting your autonomy.

The way his hands cradle your face changes into something nurturing and delicate. “Besos a la orden—pero solo porque me lo pediste bonito,” he teases.

His kiss is much like it always is, unyielding and hypnotic. He has you pinned against the counter with nowhere to go. If your hands are any indicator where they’re clutching at his shirt, there’s nowhere you want to go anyway.

As always, you and Joaquin work together seamlessly, your hands moving up to thread through his hair as his move down to grip your hips and hoist you on the counter.

“What do you want, hmm? Who?” he asks, breathless from thrusting himself into the cradles of your thighs.

“You,” you mumble clumsily into his mouth, too occupied with tasting his tongue.

“Soloamente yo?” he grits out, nipping at your lip.

There’s a new and charged intensity in the way his mouth is against yours, the way his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips.

There is no hesitation in your answer. “Yes.”

“Porque?”

“Hmm?” you hum in confusion, breath catching in your throat as his fingers slide into your panties to find your clit.

Why do you want him? What kind of question is that— why wouldn’t you want him? The true question is why does he want you? But you aren’t allowed to slip into that thought pattern, his voice bringing you back to the present.

“Porque?” he asks again but he doesn’t let you respond. He keeps talking, his voice and fingers relentless. “Porque tu eres mía. Entiendes?”

“Si, soy tuya,” you whine as two of his thick fingers slip inside you.

—

It’s been a few weeks now since that day. You’re still thinking about how intense Joaquin was that morning, wondering what had gotten him so riled up. He had spread you across your kitchen counters and kept you pinned there with his fingers and mouth for minutes on end, eventually dragging you down to the floor to lose himself inside you. Whatever that was felt like a new piece of him you had unlocked, carnal and passionate. The thought sends a shiver down your spine— it feels like you can still taste him and feel his touch.

There’s a knock on your door and Joaquin starts to tease you right off the bat, “You always daydreaming on the clock like this, querida?”

You jump, grateful that you had decided to take your work back to your office instead of working in the lobby with how distracted you seem to be.

Scrambling, you reach for some papers in an attempt to look like you’re working. “Oh fuck, Joaquin. Hi. Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were out of town.”

“We finished up early.” He leans on your desk, bending to place a kiss on your forehead. “I’m here because I want you to get dinner with me. You down?”

“Definitely, but I’m not off for another hour.”

“An hour, huh?” He looks at his watch, squinting. “I could make something shake in that hour. I’ll pick you up then.”

“O-okay,” you confirm before glancing over to your computer screen.

He clears his throat, and you meet his gaze again. Teasingly, he says, “Dame un beso, princesa.”

His words bring heat to your face but you can’t help but smile whenever Joaquin teases you; it’s so him. You stand from your desk, palms pressed into stacks of paper and sticky notes so you can press your lips to his. His hands find your waist and he nearly drags you over the desk, just succeeding in curbing his eagerness to be with you. It makes your head swim and for a moment you forget you’re at work.

The shrill of your phone cuts through the sensual haze and he pecks you on the lips on last time. “I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

You’re able to let yourself slip into a groove when there’s another knock at your door.

You don’t even look up, continuing to type the email you’re writing. “Joaquin, it definitely hasn’t been an hour.”

“So it was him!” your coworker, Daniella squeals. “When he asked for you at the reception desk I thought it was him. Jeff said it wasn’t.”

Jeff makes his way into your office with Daniella on his heels. “I thought he’d be the type to keep romance in the inner circle. Date another avenger or something. How’d you bag the Falcon?”

“We’re just getting to know each other,” you suggest.

“That’s not what he said at the desk,” Jeff retorts.

“Yeah, he said he was your boyfriend,” Daniella sings.

“Well he wasn’t gonna say he’s my booty call. Can you guys let me work, he’s gonna be back to pick me up.”

“Oooo, he’s taking you for a ride on those wings?”

“Dani—“

“Maybe an autograph?” Jeff cuts in.

“Out. Both of you.”

They know you only use that tone when you’re dealing serious and scurry out of your office. You get a decent amount of work done and when an hour has passed you pack up and make your way into the lobby. Joaquin is studying a set of quilts hanging from the ceiling, his back to you. You quickly make your way past the reception desk, ignoring the kissy sounds that Daniella and Jeff make as you walk by.

“Prompt as ever, Torres.”

He glances over his shoulder at you with a grin. “Always. C’mere. Para ti,” He hands you a bouquet of wildflowers before grasping your free hand to pull you close. “This is one of your artists, yeah?”

His question derails you from questioning him on the flowers. “Yeah, the one I was worried about.”

“Told you you’d get it done. Listas?”

“Listo.”

Joaquín takes you to a place you’ve both been a few times, a dining hall comprised of food trucks by the water. There’s collections of picnic tables to sit out, a dessert corner, and even a dance floor.

After making a game plan to get one thing from each truck, you both take your respective routes and agree to meet at a table near the dance floor.

It’s a struggle not let your mind wander as the two of you catch up, telling the other how the last week has gone while munching on your buffet. Jeff’s words had amplified you worries about not being enough for Joaquin.

As always, Joaquin notices but this time instead of confronting you, he wants to give you reassurance. He had heard your conversation with Eden all those weeks ago and in turn could identify when you were getting in your head about your dynamic with him. After some thinking, he realized he was ready to put those questions to rest for the both of you.

He finishes his bite, wiping his fingers before he rests a hand on top of yours. “Dance with me.”

“Joaquin…”

His mouth sets into a pout, eyes going wide. “Please, querida?”

You let out a resign sigh and start to stand, “Fine.”

There’s a slow song playing once he guides you to the dance floor, and he pulls you close, tucking you against his chest.

His mouth brushes your temple when he finally speaks “You’re distracted.”

“I’m not.”

“You barely touched those curly fries, and we got them because you begged.”

You shrug, looking up at him with a frown. “So maybe I’m a little distracted. Work has been a little nuts.”

“It’s not about, oh you know, your conversation with Eden?”

It feels like someone’s poured cold water down the back of your shirt. You stand straight up, creating a small gap between you despite being linked by your hands. “What conversation with Eden?”

“The one where you worried about being enough for me— which you are,” he murmurs.

“No it’s not about that,” you lie.

“Then it’s about the loving me part?”

The nonchalant manner in which he brings it up has discomfort festering in your chest. Did he think it was funny? That your love for him was so inconsequential that he could talk about it like it’s the weather?

“Joaquin I don’t want—“ you start defensively, but he cuts you off.

“Te quiero también. I do. I wish you would’ve told me sooner. Or maybe I should’ve been the brave one, no sé.” He stops, raising a hand to your cheek so that you have to meet his gaze. “But it’s true, I love you too.”

“You do?” You ask skeptically.

“I do.”

“So what does this mean? That you really are my boyfriend?”

He laughs, holding you a little closer as he starts to to sway again. “Your coworkers are chatty.”

“They were bursting at the seams. Jeff wants an autograph.”

“Only if he’s not a pain in your ass.”

“He’ll be one if I don’t get it for him.”

“Then sure, mi amor, I can oblige,” he agrees, kissing your mouth, your temple, your forehead.

You rest your head more firmly on his chest, feeling much less restless. He loves you too. You’re enough for him. He needs you too.

“Thank you, Joaquin.”

“Always.” He assures you. After several moments of reverent silence he speaks again. “Y’know you haven’t said it back, so I’m just wondering if—“

“Yes, Joaquin, I still love you.”

“Just checking,” He murmurs cheekily.

must be 18+/have age in bio to be on the nsfw joaquin torres taglist!

nsfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69 , @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @peacefangirl, @soularsss, @everydaydreamer, @violetpassionfruit

[t1red-twilight]

rhett abbott | "what do you mean you paid for it?"

a/n: okay back to me being chronically online so theres this trend- (gets shot) okay but no listen theres this thing girls do where they pretend to pay for smth with their own money to see what their boyfriend does? anyway that with rhett bc wtf are you doing paying for ur own shit when hes right there

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Baby?"

"Euh-yeah?" Rhett calls back from the other room. When you don't respond, the kitchen sinks turns off and he clunks his way into the living room in his boots, eyebrow furrowed and drying his hands with a dish rag. "Yeah?"

You smile softly at him despite yourself, too fond not to. "Did I show you the bracelet I got today?"

Rhett's eyebrows quirk in that way he gets when something interests him. "No, y'ain't. Lemme see, babydoll."

You hold your wrist out for him obediently as he crosses the room. Rhett gently holds your wrist, just below the shiny new bracelet, in his oversized hand, turning your arm this way and that in a thorough inspection.

"Real pretty, darlin'," He praises. You smile shyly, scuffing your shoe against his boot. Rhett plays a brief game of footsie with you, until it turns into laughter and a struggle, his hands finding your waist and hauling you- squealing- onto the couch so he can run his fingers down your sides and watch you squirm and giggle.

Panting, you thunk your head back against the couch cushion, face flushed hot. Rhett props himself up above you, mindful to keep his boots off the couch, and brushes hair out of your face.

"I mean it," He hums with a secret smile, one you recognize as just for you. You rest a hand on his chest. He leans into your touch. "Real pretty. How much this set me back for?"

"Huh?" You ask.

"The bracelet," His hand circles your wrist, fingertips playing with the metal. "How much was it?"

Your eyebrows furrow as you smile, confused. "Baby, I bought it."

Rhett stares at you. HIs eyes darken, a frown that he'd never admit bordered into a pout crossing his pretty features. "Y'what?"

"I bought it," You say softly, sliding the hand resting on his chest up to his neck, resting on the crook of his neck and shoulder. "Wi' my money."

"Now, why'd you go and do that?" He sits up so suddenly that you fall backwards with an 'oomf.' Rhett stares down at you, brow tight and a real true pout on his lips. His hand comes up to rest on your stomach. "Y'got a card on my account, don't you? Y'lose it? I'll get you a new one, baby, y'ain't gotta spend your own money."

You give him an incredulous look. "I wasn't gon' use your money on somethin' like this, baby."

He scoffs at you. "Exactly what it's for, darlin'. Buying my pretty thing pretty things. How much you spend on this?"

And he's got your wrist again.

"I ain't sure you wanna know now," You say, eyeing him warily. "But it's somethin' I've been wantin' for awhile now, so... that's why I bought it."

"Fifty?" He asks. Your silence is telling. "Hundred? Baby."

"Two hundred," You mutter shyly. Rhett exhales through his nose, sitting back. You scramble after him. "That's why I ain't use your money, baby, not on this-"

He welcomes you into his lap as you throw a leg over his thighs, settling down there. His oversized hands find your waist, a troubled look in his eyes.

"You should use my money on stuff like this, honey," Rhett sighs, leaning back into the couch. You run a hand through his curls. "I wanna get you pretty things, darling."

"You're my pretty thing," You shoot back, to which he gives you an unimpressed look.

"The rodeo pays me a whole helluva lot more than waitressin' and- and writing books, so-" Rhett looks real frustrated now, sighing again and running a hand down his face. "Use my money next time, baby, not your own. You save that, alri'?"

"I'm not a child, Rhett," You say quietly. "I can spend my own money."

Rhett just shakes his head. "I wanna... I gotta provide for you. I need to do this for you. An' you gotta let me, alright? Please. Let me."

And it's not often this boy of yours says please like that, all soft and worn like an old Stetson. So you relax into his lap, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips that he eagerly returns, happy to have his hands on you.

[t1red-twilight]

get me a man who writes longing letters

Letters I Couldn’t Send

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob's been feeling lonely in between missions especially when Y/n isn’t there to occupy his mind, so he decides to try therapy. There it's suggested he writes his feelings out. But what happens when the letters get out to her?

WC:4.3K

A/N: Well his definitely couldn’t of had a much more satisfying ending but in outta ideas guys please send me suggestions

⸻

It started with the silence.

Not the battlefield kind, Bob could handle that. That noise had a rhythm, a reason. The thunder of explosions, the sharp crack of gunfire, the barking of orders over comms, it all had a place. It meant something. Chaos with a cause.

But the silence in between missions?

That was different. That was the kind that lingered like smoke, curling around his ribs, felt like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

The team had shipped out again. Another international crisis. Another mess the Thunderbolts had been sent to clean up. This time it was Seoul, some subterranean weapons lab under the city that had to be neutralized before things got out of control. A high-risk, high-stakes mission.

Bob hadn’t been cleared to go.

He never fought the orders. Not anymore. There were a few missions within the year he was able to go, but not after what happened the last time he’d pushed it. He knew better. When the possibility of unleashing the Void even whispered into the room, the protocols snapped into place like a cage around him.

Stand by.

Stay ready.

Do not deploy unless sanctioned.

Those words, cold and clinical, had carved themselves into the soft tissue of his brain. And so he stayed behind. As always.

And now… now it was just him, alone in the tower. The rest of the team was who knows where, halfway across the world, running through smoke and fire. Maybe Ava was phasing through walls. Maybe Yelena was laughing in that sharp, unbothered way as she cracked someone’s ribs. Maybe Bucky was gritting his teeth through another close call. He could almost see it all. Feel it.

Meanwhile, he sat in a worn-out hoodie on the rec room couch, staring at the flickering screen of a movie he didn’t remember choosing. The credits had rolled five minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved. Didn’t blink. Just sat there in that electric stillness, his coffee long gone cold in his hand, the cup sweating against his palm.

That silence was the worst kind. The absence. The hollowness.

On good days, Y/N was there to fill it. Her laugh, her voice, her presence, it was like light through a cracked door. Just enough to remind him that the darkness wasn’t total. That he wasn’t always a ticking time bomb. That sometimes, someone saw him as more than the Void’s vessel. That someone could love him anyway.

But she was on the Seoul mission, too.

And without her…

It was like something had been scooped out of him and never put back. The walls felt closer. The silence had teeth now, and it bit every time he looked.

He didn’t blame the team. Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t their fault he couldn’t be trusted, not really. The risk was real. He knew it. They followed orders. They didn’t write them. Still, knowing that didn’t stop the isolation from curling around him like smoke, quiet, creeping, inescapable.

He tried to distract himself. He worked out until his muscles screamed, then showered in water too hot to be comfortable. He tried reading but couldn’t focus past the same three sentences. The TV offered its flashing noise, but none of it landed. Everything felt… detached. Like he was watching the world through glass.

Three days.

Seventy two hours of radio silence, punctuated by brief check-ins from mission control.

No voices he wanted to hear.

No knock on his door.

No trace of her.

On the third night, long after the bunker had gone still and the movie had long since ended, Bob sat there with the remote loosely clutched in his fingers and the cold coffee in his other hand, staring at the black screen that reflected only a faint, distorted version of himself.

He looked haunted.

He felt haunted.

And not by ghosts, exactly. Not even by the Void, though that shadow was always somewhere at the edge of his vision. No, this was something worse. Something smaller, but deeper.

The ache of being forgotten.

The ache of still being here, when the world kept turning without him.

His throat worked around a dry swallow. He hated how dramatic he sounded, even inside his own head. He was alive. Safe. Fed. Sheltered.

But he was also invisible.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob Reynolds thought, not about the darkness, not about the power sleeping beneath his skin but about something gentler. Something simpler.

Maybe I should talk to someone.

Not about the Void. That would come with too many complications.

Not even about the past stories or the weight of being left behind.

Just… about being alone.

About what it did to him.

About feeling like a ghost in his own skin.

And maybe, just maybe, if he said it out loud…

It wouldn’t feel so permanent.

⸻

The therapist’s name was Dr. Madani.

Mid-forties, calm eyes, no nonsense. She wore neutral colors and practical shoes, and her voice had the kind of steadiness that made you believe she wouldn’t flinch even if the walls started to bleed. That first session, Bob had waited for the telltale sign, disbelief, discomfort, judgment when he told her exactly why he was there.

That he was part of the New Avengers?That he had powers that could level cities if he lost focus? That sometimes, he wasn’t allowed to leave the country, not because he’d done something wrong, but because if he got too emotional, reality itself might tear open like wet paper.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t ask him to repeat it. Just nodded once and scribbled something calmly into her notebook.

That was a good sign.

Better than good. It was rare.

So he kept coming back.

Once a week. Tuesday mornings. Early, before the rest of the compound stirred too much. He liked it that way, quiet halls, empty coffee pots, sunlight just beginning to filter through reinforced windows. He sat on the same couch every time, hands braced on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Dr. Madani never pushed. She asked questions like she was handing him a flashlight, not leading him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

And slowly, very slowly, the words started to come. About the silence. About the guilt of being spared from missions he wanted to join. About feeling like his existence was always something to be managed, measured, mitigated. Not lived.

He didn’t tell anyone at first.

Not because it was a secret.

It just felt… personal. Sacred, even. Like something he needed to protect. A small part of himself that hadn’t yet been cracked open by the Void.

But eventually, people noticed.

It started in little ways. He was a bit more grounded. A bit less like he might disintegrate if someone looked at him too long. A bit more… here.

Yelena was the first to say anything.

She poked him in the arm one afternoon after training and gave him a once over, lips pursed. “Therapy?” she asked, like it was a codeword.

Bob blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

“Good.” she said with a sharp nod. “Maybe now you won’t look like you’ve seen a ghost every morning.”

Then she grinned, wide and wolfish, and wandered off before he could respond.

John, never one for subtlety, clapped him on the back so hard Bob nearly dropped his water bottle. “You’re seeing someone?” he asked, then immediately corrected himself. “Like a therapist someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured, couldn’t be a woman.”

Bucky in the background expression shifted into something more sober. “Good man. Wish I’d started sooner. Might’ve saved myself a couple bad years.”

Bob wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded. They didn’t have to say it all out loud. Not every wound needed to be unpacked in public.

Alexei found out next. Over breakfast. The Russian looked up from a plate piled with bacon and muttered, “Ah, Westerners. Always with the talking.” in that deep, sardonic tone of his.

But it came with a rare approving nod. One of those subtle things Alexei did when he didn’t want to make a big deal out of being proud of someone.

Ava didn’t say much. She never did.

But one evening in the corridor, she passed him on the way to her room, paused, and met his eyes. No smile. Just a shared, quiet understanding. A nod of solidarity from one ghost to another.

And then there was you.

You found out by accident, really caught the tail end of a conversation between Bob and Dr. Madani over the phone as he tried to reschedule a session after dinner ran long. You didn’t press. Didn’t joke, didn’t pry.

Just waited until the next time the two of you were alone, in the stillness of his quarters where the air always smelled faintly like cedar and coffee, and said, gently.

“I heard… you’ve been talking to someone.”

Bob stiffened, a little embarrassed. He opened his mouth to downplay it, but you stepped in before he could.

“I’m proud of you.” you said.

Simple. Quiet. Honest.

And that-

That undid something in him.

Like a thread pulled loose from a tightly woven net, a quiet unraveling that wasn’t painful, just… necessary. The tension in his chest gave way to something warmer. Softer. Real.

He looked at you, really looked, and saw the sincerity in your eyes. No pity. No worry.

Just love. Just you.

His voice caught in his throat, but he didn’t need to speak.

You knew.

You always knew.

And in that moment, for the first time in months, Bob Reynolds felt less like a walking disaster waiting to happen… and more like a man becoming whole.

⸻

Session 9

Topic: You.

He hadn’t walked in planning to talk about you.

That morning had been like the others, gray sky, stale coffee, muscles sore from a workout he barely remembered doing.

Bob had come in wanting to talk about anything else.

But somewhere between describing the chaos in his life and feeling alone and how he’d locked himself in the tower for twenty hours afterward just to feel again, you slipped in.

You always did. Eventually.

“She’s different.” he said quietly, almost without thinking. “Y/N, I mean.”

Dr. Madani didn’t flinch. She never did. Just tilted her head the way she always did when something important passed between the lines.

“How so?”

Bob stared at the ceiling for a long moment, fingers laced together in his lap. “She doesn’t look at me like I’m going to break.”

“Who does?”

“Everyone.” he said. And it wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t even angry. It was just true.

Dr. Madani nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“But she doesn’t.” he continued. “She doesn’t tiptoe around me. Doesn’t treat me like glass. When she talks to me, it’s like…” He paused, struggling for the right shape of the thought. “It’s like I’m me. Not Sen- Not a broken man. Not whatever nightmare people think I could become.”

“You trust her.”

That landed like a stone dropped into still water.

He nodded. “Completely.”

Dr. Madani leaned forward, just slightly. Her tone softened, but there was steel beneath it. “Do you have feelings for her?”

He hesitated.

Not out of denial, but out of reverence. As if the truth might shatter something sacred.

Then he breathed out and said, “Yeah. I think I love her.”

The words changed the air in the room. Denser. Heavier. Not oppressive, but real. Like the truth had settled onto the couch next to him, folding its hands neatly in its lap.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. He looked at the floor, where his boots had tracked a bit of mud in from the rain. It felt safer, somehow, than meeting anyone’s eyes while admitting that.

Dr. Madani’s voice cut gently through the silence. “So why haven’t you told her?”

Bob stared, long and slow.

“I don’t know how to explain it.” he said. “She sees the real me. The part I don’t show anyone. And I think if I try to have more… if I try to touch that kind of happiness…” He swallowed hard. “I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin her.”

“You’re afraid.”

He didn’t argue. Just stared at his hands, watching how they trembled ever so slightly.

“Yeah.”

For a long moment, there was only the soft ticking of the office clock.

Then Dr. Madani leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Try this.” she said. “Write it down. Letters. Say what you want to say to her but don’t give them to her. Not yet. Keep them for yourself. Get the words out of your head.”

He looked up, brow furrowed.

“Even if you never show her?” he asked.

“Even then.” she replied. “Letting love exist on the page is still better than letting fear keep it caged.”

He didn’t say anything, but the thought rooted in his chest, somewhere between his heartbeat and the Void.

That night, when the tower was quiet again and everyone was asleep, he sat at his desk under the soft buzz of the overhead lamp, a pen between his fingers and an untouched notebook in front of him.

For a while, he just stared.

Then, finally, he wrote:

Y/N,

You don’t know this but when I hear your voice, the noise in my head quiets. The shadows settle. The Void gets smaller. I think that means something.

I think you saved me before I even knew I needed saving.

He stopped there.

Closed the notebook.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob went to bed feeling like something in him had been released.

⸻

Letter One

Not Sent.

Y/N,

You asked me once casually, like it was nothing, what the Void feels like.

I gave you the easy answer. Told you it was a black hole. And that’s true. It is. It’s gravity and hunger and noise. It’s this constant ache just under my skin, like I’m being pulled in two directions toward destruction, and away from myself.

But I didn’t tell you the rest. Not really.

The Void isn’t just darkness. It’s absence. Of peace. Of quiet. Of being seen. It’s like standing in the middle of a screaming crowd where every voice is my own, shouting all the worst things I’ve ever believed about myself.

And then there’s you.

When you talk to me even just in passing, about dumb things like who drank the last cup of coffee or how Ava pretends not to like that dumb soap opera you got her into the noise changes. It doesn’t vanish, not completely. But it dulls. It backs off, like it knows it doesn’t belong in the room when you’re in it.

You make the world quieter, Y/N.

You make me quieter.

And I think that’s what love is.

Not fireworks. Not grand declarations. Just… a quieting. A calming. Someone who makes all the chaos feel like it has somewhere to go.

You do that for me.

And maybe I’ll never say this out loud, not the way I should but I need somewhere to put the truth.

So here it is.

I think I’m in love with you.

⸻

He wrote after therapy.

After the sessions where he’d dig through the wreckage of his mind and come back with shards too sharp to hold. After days when Dr. Madani asked gentle, pointed questions that left him raw and humming with things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

He wrote after bad dreams, when the Void swallowed cities behind his eyelids, when he woke up choking on screams that never left his throat. He wrote because it was the only way to drain the darkness out before it rooted deeper.

And sometimes, he wrote after the softest moments. The ones that shouldn’t have meant anything.

Like watching you twirl a pen between your fingers during a mission briefing, utterly focused and unaware.

Like the way your brow furrowed when you were reading intel too fast.

Like the time your laugh, real, unguarded, echoed off the walls of the living room at 1 a.m. because Yelena told a joke so bad it looped back to being good.

Those moments lodged themselves in him like stars against an obsidian sky. They glowed when everything else went dark.

He wrote because he couldn’t tell you.

He wrote because he wanted to.

Because his hands could say what his mouth never would.

The letters piled up.

Neatly folded, tucked into the back of a weather-worn notebook no one ever touched.

No signature. No dates. Just page after page of aching clarity.

He didn’t need to claim them. They were all his.

All you.

Sometimes they were two sentences.

Sometimes five pages.

Sometimes just a line that repeated over and over again until the ink smudged:

Please don’t ever leave.

They weren’t meant for the light.

Weren’t meant to be found.

They were a quiet kind of survival. A confession without consequence.

But even as they sat hidden in the dark, they were something real.

Like the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

Like the way he never said goodbye, only “Be safe.”

Like the silence that always followed after you left a room.

⸻

Then they were gone.

It only took one careless moment.

Late one night after training, the team had drifted into the bunker kitchen like ghosts, sweaty, half-laughing, bruised from sparring but wired from adrenaline. Yelena, still in her tank top and boots, ducked into the storage lockers for her secret stash of Russian chocolate.

Bob��s locker was just below hers. She nudged it with her foot, just to balance herself, and something shifted.

A low thud. Then a soft, papery sound like wings.

A field manual slipped out and landed on the concrete floor, its spine cracked from age and use.

“Oops.” she muttered, bending to grab it.

But when she reached down, her fingers brushed not one, but several loose pages, creased and tucked between the manual’s back cover and its binding. They scattered like leaves. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

She picked one up without thinking. Eyes skimmed.

Then stopped.

The words weren’t tactical notes. Not mission logs.

They were intimate.

You asked me once what the Void feels like…

Her stomach dropped.

Another page.

When you laugh or look at me like I’m just Bob, it’s like the noise goes quiet…

Her breath caught. She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide, then back at the paper in her hand like it had burned her.

This wasn’t a journal.

These were letters.

To Y/N.

Without waiting, she grabbed a few more pages, reading faster now, pieces of the same heartbreak pulled out of hiding:

Sometimes I don’t know if I want you to know how deep this goes. If you knew… you’d leave. Or worse, you’d stay, and it would break you.

I would never forgive myself for making you carry this weight, too.

I think you make me want to be something more than just a weapon.

Yelena stood frozen, heart pounding.

Footsteps padded in from the hallway. John, towel slung over his shoulder, drinking water from a bottle. “You find your chocolate or what?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable.

Then she held up the pages like evidence.

“Guys…” she said, voice steady but soft. “You need to see this.”

Within minutes, the small living room was quiet. Too quiet.

John sat with one knee bouncing anxiously, flipping a page with careful fingers.

Ava stood against the wall, arms crossed, reading one of the shorter ones three times over and saying nothing.

Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian that no one asked him to translate.

But it was Y/N’s arrival that shifted the air.

You walked in fresh from a shower, towel around your shoulders, hair still damp, laughing at something on your phone.

Then you stopped.

They were all looking at you.

And on the table in front of them, you saw the unmistakable handwriting you’d seen on Bob’s grocery lists, his mission notes, the corner of your birthday card this year.

And your name.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

The letters weren’t signed.

They didn’t need to be.

⸻

The team sat around the table. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t natural for them. No joking, no casual bickering. Just the kind that settled in like fog before something heavy fell.

Yelena had spread the letters out like puzzle pieces, some wrinkled, some barely touched. All fragile in their own way.

“This is about Y/N.” she said, voice low but certain. “All of it.”

Ava, slow and careful, picked one up. Her eyes scanned it with that clinical precision she used when reading threat assessments. Only this time, her features softened.

“It’s him.” she said. “It’s Bob.”

John leaned back, frowning. He tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “No shit sherlock.”

The second your eyes fell on the handwriting, tight, slightly slanted, every ‘t’ crossed with a deliberate flick you knew.

Because you’d seen it scribbled across mission logs, smudged onto napkins from midnight meals. Because once, during a stakeout in Argentina, you’d fallen asleep beside him and woke to find your name written in the corner of his notebook over and over like he was trying to memorize it.

Because only Bob would write something like:

You make the monsters quiet.

And suddenly it felt like the ground beneath you shifted. Not in a way that knocked you over. But in that slow, undeniable way earthquakes start, quiet and deep and unstoppable.

You stepped forward, hand hovering over the letters like they were sacred. Your eyes flitted across half-finished thoughts, tear-stained lines, pages where he’d scratched something out only to rewrite it again a few lines down.

I watch you brush your hair behind your ear, and it’s like watching sunlight bend.

If I were braver, I’d tell you. But I think if I did, something inside me might unravel for good.

You are the only silence I’ve ever trusted.

The breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

But your fingers curled slightly, like you were gripping onto air to stay steady.

Yelena watched you carefully, saying nothing for once.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The room belonged to you now. You, and the weight of what he’d kept hidden.

All those nights Bob had stayed behind while the rest of you flew into chaos. All the long silences. The soft, watchful way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. The way his voice always softened when he said your name.

It was never nothing.

And now, it was everything.

⸻

You found him on the roof.

Of course you did.

It was the only place he ever went when the bunker walls started closing in, when the weight of what he was, what he carried, got too heavy to breathe through. Up there, the night sky was endless and forgiving, and no one asked him to be a hero or a ghost. Just a man.

The wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped beside him, silent at first.

He was sitting near the ledge, knees pulled up, hands clasped tightly between them like a boy waiting for punishment or a prayer to be answered.

You stood there for a long moment before you spoke.

“I found the letters.” you said softly.

His head jerked slightly. “What? I mean- what letters, I-“

But the panic in his voice was already giving him away.

He flinched, shoulders curling inward. “They weren’t supposed to get out, you weren’t supposed to see that-“

“I know.”

Silence again. The wind whistled low between the buildings below, a distant car horn echoing like it belonged in another life. He still didn’t look at you. His jaw tightened, and you could see the twitch in the muscle near his temple, an old tic from when he was trying not to fall apart.

“I was scared.” he said eventually, voice raw. “Not of you. Of what I’d do to something good.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re good.”

You sat next to him. Not touching, yet. Just close enough that the heat from your shoulder brushed his.

“So are you.” you said.

He let out a broken laugh. Shaky. Bitter.

“That’s not true.”

“It is to me.”

And that’s when he looked at you. Really looked.

Not the sidelong glances in mission briefings. Not the half-second stares when he thought you were asleep on the couch. This was different.

This was Bob, stripped bare.

And what you saw was everything, the fear he’d never quite shaken, the hope he’d buried under layers of self-control, and the longing so sharp it cleaved straight through the air between you.

“I’m not perfect.” he whispered. Like it was a confession. A warning. A truth he thought might send you running.

“Neither am I.” you replied gently. “But I still choose you.”

He blinked, and his whole body seemed to tilt toward you, like he didn’t quite believe the weight of what you’d just said. Like he didn’t dare.

“But the Void-”

“Isn’t all of you,” you cut in.

“But it could be-”

“And if it ever is.” you said, voice steady now, “I’ll be there. I’m not afraid of the dark, Bob. I just don’t want you to live in it alone.”

The breath he let out was half a sob.

He turned away, just slightly, as if giving himself a second to pull the world back into place but he didn’t move far. And when you reached out and slid your fingers over his, he let you.

Just like that.

A quiet surrender.

A beginning.

You sat there together until the sky turned navy and the stars blinked on, one by one. No grand declaration. Just being. And a passionate overdue kiss that’s been waiting to happen

Because love, real love isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it’s just two people on a rooftop, holding hands in the dark.

⸻

Letter Twenty-One. Sent.

Y/N,

You told me once that I wasn’t alone. I didn’t believe you then. But I do now. Because you saw me when I didn’t want to be seen, and you stayed.

I love you. In every version of me. Even the ones I haven’t met yet.

Always,

Bob

⸻

[t1red-twilight]

masterlist s. r. masterlist blurb masterlist

the whiteboard loomed in front of you. a map burned your retinas, and several haunting photos of victims just almost blurred your vision. what were the similarities? each victim lived in very different places, lead different lives, had seemingly nothing in common.

you scoffed quietly. how were you, any of you supposed to find any sort of pattern to catch the unsub?

you heard spencer call your name, but it didn’t quite register. he stepped closer to you, standing to your side, shouldered grazing. “angel,” he murmured. “we’ll find it, we always do.” from the corner of your eye you could see him glance at you and offer a reassuring smile.

when you didn’t respond, you felt the back of his hand brush yours. a tiny gesture that despite the crowd bustling around you, he was reminding you he was there. there to help, there to provide comfort and assistance.

at first you didn’t respond at all. then, you turned to face him, and smiled as mush as you possibly could through your stress. time was always pressing on the team; it was always there like a dark thundercloud threatening or only failure but letting victims and their families.

“i know,” you finally whispered. “time is so limited, though. i have to find the pattern, the theme. this is life or death, spence.”

spencer linked his pinkie with yours. “you got this. we all got this. this is a hard case, but it’s only been a few hours.” he tugged on your pinkie in an effort to get you to turn to him. when you did, he continued. “i know it’s difficult to not be a perfectionist, but have a little faith in yourself.”

“okay,” you responded, mustering a smile.

“even i don’t figure things out the first try,” he joked. when you laughed lightly, he continued. “we got this,” he repeated once again.

you let out a breath of fresh air. “thank you, spence.”

he smiled crookedly back. “of course.”

[t1red-twilight]

masterlist p. parker masterlist blurb masterlist

“baby,” you heard from behind you. you hummed in response, not turning around. you could feel the dull throb of pain in your back from hunching over for a while, but you chose to ignore it. “honey,” peter followed.

you hummed again. after a few brief moments of silence, you heard the bed shift and peter’s ankles crack as he stood up. the warmth from his body radiated through you before you even felt him wrap his arms around your shoulders.

peter’s head rested on your shoulder. “darling.” the gravelly tone in his voice from the lack of sleep was more apparent now that he was closer to you.

“yes?” you finally responded verbally. you leaned your head back slightly into him, but not enough to fully relax. there was still homework to be done, after all. you were exponentially close to completing your master’s program, and this assignment was almost done. you just needed twenty more minutes. or maybe thirty or forty five.

peter’s lips grazed your shoulder, slowly moving toward your neck. when you leaned away just a hair, he pulled away. “you’ve been working for two and a half hours, honey. i think it’s bed time.”

you grunted quietly, and kept working on your research project. his arms tightened more tightly, but not uncomfortably. he mirrored your grunt, and you sighed. finally, you let yourself relax into him. “pete, i just need like one more hour at most. then i can go to bed. i’m so close to finishing this.”

peter pulled away, and you immediately returned to your slumped position. “look at the way your back is right now. if you stay like that you’ll wake up sore in the morning. and not in the good way.” you understood the innuendo he was getting at, but you ignored it nonetheless.

“plus, i won’t be able to sleep without you.” you could definitely hear the pout and sass in his tone. smiling to yourself, you decided that your work could wait. you had a little but until it was actually due anyway.

the office chair you sat in turned around to face peter for the first time all evening. you rolled your eyes very sarcastically, but your grin overpowered it. “fine.” you huffed in false annoyance. “i guess i can go to bed. even if it’s with you.” you sighed more dramatically this time.

“yes!” peter cheered quietly. “i knew you couldn’t resist me.”

you stood and stretched your back. “my back was getting sore anyways. let’s just go to bed.” you followed him to the bed and reveled in the way he cuddled you close to him straight away.

[t1red-twilight]

pearl is so much stronger than me because i would’ve instantly accepted his offer

[t1red-twilight]

means i care

joaquín torres x reader

"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water."

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: friends to lovers, idiots in love, pining, enhanced!reader with energy manipulation powers, canon level injuries, some angst, fluff, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, pov switches

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“You know, if we don't succeed here, we'll be looking at World War III. I could use a little extra good luck. If you know what I'm sayin’.”

You shift your gaze from the Indian Ocean outside of the jet's window to the man sitting beside you. At first, you question whether or not you heard him correctly. Then, you see the sly smirk on his lips and the glimmer of mischief in his brown eyes and you realize that you had, in fact, heard him correctly.

If you had any doubt about what he meant by a little extra good luck, the look on his face makes it abundantly clear.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for a split-second before you look back out to the endless expanse of blue water surrounding you. God knows that if you stare at him for a moment too long, you might just be weak enough to give in.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come dangerously close.

“Good luck, huh? I hope you’ve got a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot stashed somewhere in that suit of yours, then.”

He laughs. The sound fills the jet and for a second, you forget where you are and what all is on the line.

“A thousand four-leaf clovers wouldn’t give me a fraction of the good luck that I’d get from a kis—”

“Landing in five!” Sam calls, effectively breaking the tension in the air. You doubt that it was intentional, but you’re thankful for the interruption nonetheless. As if the list of things on your mind isn’t already a mile long – the last thing you need to add to it right now is kissing Joaquín.

You should be used to it – the flirting and teasing. He hasn’t held back since the moment you met. First, you had assumed it’s just how he is – that he says the same things to any halfway decent looking girl in his age bracket.

Sam had insisted that’s not the case.

Still, past relationship trauma had left you unable to believe that he was being genuine –and unable to believe that any good could come from returning his flirtatious sentiments. Best case scenario, you hook up and relieve the tension that’s been brewing between you for months, things fizzle, and you have to continue to work together while attempting to ignore any awkwardness. Worst case scenario, you let yourself completely fall for him and someone inevitably gets hurt.

This line of work, this lifestyle – it doesn’t mesh well with romantic relationships. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, a few times over.

So, despite the fact that you think he’s annoyingly attractive, you brush off the compliments and cheesy one-liners. You look for every excuse when he tries to spend time with you outside of work and missions, never letting yourself give in even when every fiber of your being is dying to do so.

Like right now. He sits beside you, his arm and thigh brushing against yours. Even through his thick, heavy gear, it sends a shiver up your spine. You resist the urge to grab his hand in yours and tell him that you and Sam have this handled if he wants to help from the sidelines.

You can hear his response as clear as day in your mind. “Keep to the sidelines? And let you and Sam have all the fun? Pshhh. You wish.”

You bite your tongue, afraid to let him know just how much you care. You might not let it show, but you’re more worried for his safety than you are your own.

There’s no chance of him staying on the base while you and Sam potentially risk your lives. But maybe you can at least give him an incentive to keep himself alive.

Joaquín starts to stand when you place a hand on his arm. He freezes, an almost hopeful expression on his face as he looks at you expectantly.

“Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“Are you listening to a word I say?”

Sam’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You blink rapidly, lubricating your eyes that had been locked on a beeping monitor for an embarrassing amount of time.

“No,” you answer honestly. You glance at him for a brief moment before your eyes are back on the sleeping body a few feet away from you. “Not really. Sorry. What did you say?”

He sighs. He’s trying his hardest to not let it show, but you know that he’s getting a little annoyed with you.

You can’t really find the energy to care. You’re a little annoyed with him, too. He won’t stop tapping his fucking foot against the linoleum floor and the whole room still smells like the Chinese take-out he’d eaten hours ago.

Your stomach growls. Maybe you’re just hangry.

“I said you need to go home,” Sam says in an even tone. “Get a few hours of sleep, take a shower. Eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Over the last four days, you’ve spent more time in this hospital room than your own apartment. You’ve only left to go home long enough to shower every other day, and to get gas stations snacks and coffee on occasion. The longest you’d been away from Joaquín’s bedside was yesterday morning, when you went to the Target down the road to put together a get well soon basket for when he wakes up.

Most guests would be asked to leave after standard visiting hours, but you suppose working with Captain America does come with some perks. You suppose it also helps that you were the one who pulled Joaquín from the ocean, flew him to safety, and restarted his heart with your powers while you waited on the emergency medical team to get to you on Celestial Island.

Maybe the hospital staff pities or – or maybe they’re a little scared of you. Either is fine, as long as you aren’t asked to leave for an extended period of time.

You’re hungry, and you need to shower, and a few hours of sleep in an actual bed certainly wouldn’t hurt. But the thought of not being here when he wakes up…

“I’ll call you,” Sam says, as if reading your mind. “I swear. As soon as he wakes up, I’ll let you know.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you just nod. You’ve somehow managed to refrain from crying up until this point, but you’re running on a few hours of sleep and it’s starting to get to you.

Despite the various wounds and bruising across his body, he looks peaceful in his sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you feel yourself relax at the visual reminder that he’s okay. He’s resting, and healing, and he’ll wake when his body is ready.

“Okay,” you whisper as you stand up from the scratchy, old recliner that you have been glued to for the majority of the last few days. “You call me as soon as he opens his eyes.”

Before leaving, you walk to the side of his bed. On the table next to him sits a vase of wildflowers that have already started to wilt, and the basket that you had brought, full of some of his favorite things – beef jerky, Takis, gummy bears – as well as a few personal care items that may be of use for the duration of his hospital stay after waking up – deodorant, a toothbrush and travel sized toothpaste, and the biggest stainless steel tumbler that you could find.

In the middle of the basket sits a small, plush falcon. You hadn’t even been looking for it when it caught your eye in the store, but you immediately knew you had to get it for him. Seeing it had felt like a sign that everything is going to be okay.

You remove the stuffed bird from the basket and tuck it between his side and his arm before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to the center of his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve touched him since the accident, and you’re reluctant to pull away.

Your eyes sting with all of the emotions that you’ve been holding inside for days. You don’t look back at Sam or say another word as you walk out of the room, hoping with everything in you that the next time you walk into this room, he greets you with one of his obnoxiously perfect smiles and a corny pick-up line.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The first thing Joaquín hears is the low, repetitive beeping of a monitor. When he opens his eyes, he’s momentarily blinded by violent, early morning sunlight creeping through the blind slats.

“Well, well, well. How nice of you to decide to join the living today, Sleeping Beauty.”

He recognizes Sam’s voice a second before he sees him. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, he looks like he could use some sleep, himself.

All at once, images of the moments leading up to him plummeting into the ocean come flooding back. He remembers Sam yelling at him to back off from the last missile, the missile firing right at him, and then nose-diving into the ocean as you shriek his name.

You.

His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for any sign of you. His heartrate spikes on the monitor. Sam jumps up, rushing over to his side.

“What – where is she – is she okay?”

God, his throat is painfully dry. How long has he been unconscious?

“Easy, easy,” Sam soothes as he takes a seat at the foot of the hospital bed. “She is fine. She was unharmed and has hardly left your side in five days. It was like pulling teeth just to convince her to go home for the night. Made me promise to call her the second you woke up.”

At first, he assumes Sam is just messing with him. You have hardly left his side? You, the same person who has rejected every one of his advances for nearly a year?

“You’re being serious? She’s been here?” He asks in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam exhales. “She’s been a mess, man. I don’t know how much you remember, but…” He trails off, avoiding Joaquín’s gaze.

“She’s the one who pulled you from that water. By the time she flew you somewhere safe, you weren’t breathing. She had to restart your heart with her powers until the medical team got to you.”

He can tell by Sam’s demeanor that he isn’t joking around, but he still struggles to wrap his head around it all. He had fucking died? His heart stopped, and you’re the reason that he’s alive? And you stayed with him while he’s been recovering?

Then, he remembers the last words you said to him before arriving on Celestial Island.

Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?

He isn’t sure if you really spoke those words, or if it’s some false memory that his subconscious conjured to keep him holding on while on the brink of death.

If it’s the latter, it worked. If it’s the former, and you really did say that, he supposes that offer is probably off the table since he technically did die.

Damn it.

Joaquín attempts to sit up and becomes aware of two things at once – he feels like he has been repeatedly ran over by a bus, and there's something fuzzy tickling his arm.

“What the hell…”

He picks up the small, stuffed falcon and can’t help but smile at it. “You shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, tossing the bird at Sam.

He catches it, smirking. “Oh, I didn’t.”

Sam gestures towards the table beside Joaquín. He follows his gaze, noticing the dying flowers and basket stuffed full of various snacks and self-care items. Whoever chose the contents of the basket, knows him well. He could live off of beef jerky if he had to, and gummy bears are his favorite.

“Who..?” Joaquín asks, trying not to get his hopes up that it could be from the person he most wants it to be from – the person who apparently saved his life.

“Take a guess,” Sam jabs as he tosses the stuffed animal back to Joaquín.

For a second, he thinks his heart just might stop again. He pictures you picking out the items and he has to shake his head to keep himself from grinning too big.

“Man, if I knew that all I had to do was die to get her attention, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just don’t go making a habit of it, okay? I don’t know if she would forgive you if you did it again.”

Sam then pulls out his cell phone, excusing himself from the room to give you a call and to get Joaquin’s nurse. Once he’s alone, Joaquín fights against all of the stiffness in his body to reach for the basket sitting on the bedside table. In addition to all of the other goodies, there’s a card tucked between a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a bag of Takis.

It isn’t in an envelope. He instantly snorts at the image on the front of the card – it’s a cartoon dog wearing a cone collar with a dejected expression. In bold print, it reads: At least you don’t have to wear a cone.

He opens the card, and immediately recognizes your handwriting.

I specifically remember asking you to not die. Guess you were right about that good luck kiss, after all. I'll remember that next time.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The simultaneous dread and relief that you feel when you see Sam’s name pop up on your phone can’t be described in words. Dread at the mere possibility of bad news. Relief that it could be what you’ve been hoping to hear for days.

As soon as you hear him say that Joaquín is awake, you’re jumping out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. You don’t think about taking the time to eat any breakfast or even make yourself a cup of coffee – you just throw on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and you’re out the door.

The short drive to the hospital is spent talking to yourself about what you're even going to say to him. How are things supposed to just go back to normal between the two of after something like this? After it felt like your heart stopped when his did? Do you even want things to go back to normal?

You knew you’d feel relieved to see him awake, but you don’t expect the overwhelming rush of emotions that comes over you as soon as you hear his voice murmur your name.

He's sitting up in his bed, holding the stuffed falcon that you’d given him and smiling at you like you hung the moon and stars as soon as you walk through the door.

That’s when you know the answer to your question – no, you don’t want things to go back to normal between you. With the way that you feel your heart in your throat, you don't think that’s a possibility, anyway.

“This little guy was a nice surprise to wake up to, you know. Kind of wish it had been you, but he’s cute, too.”

You no longer attempt to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for the last five days. You sit on the edge of his bed, directly beside his thigh and meagerly wipe the teardrops that leak down both of your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” His demeanor completely shifts when he realizes that you’re crying. He leans in closer and pulls you to him. You sob against his chest, and he runs a large hand up and down your back. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. It's gonna take more than a missile or two to take me out.”

You nod against his chest, but don’t pull away. He continues to massage your back as you attempt to calm down, focusing on the feeling of him against you. When you finally lean back, he wipes a lingering tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you from that water.”

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself return his cheeky grin. The teasing remark makes you feel the happiest you have in days.

“Leave it to you to find a way to flirt when we are having a conversation about your death.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, his expression suddenly turning more serious. “I do have a question, though.”

You tilt your head in curiosity.

“When you brought me back to life, was it like a mouth to mouth type thing? Or..?”

You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him back against his pillows. He cackles, his cheeks turning pink. He pulls you back to him, this time even closer than before. You can smell mint on his breath from the toothpaste you’d put in his get well soon basket.

“No. Thought I’d save that for when you’re awake.”

He places his hands on your sides, the light touches sending a thrill through you. The normally chilly hospital room suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.

“Are you sure?” He murmurs. “I don’t want you to think that you.. owe me anything, or have to kiss me just because of what happened—”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking.

“Joaquín,” you interrupt him softly. “I’ve been stupid. So, so stupid and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that it took something like this for me to open my eyes to what’s been right in front of me this whole time. I knew that if I let myself want more, if I let myself give in, that’d be it for me. And that terrified me. But I don’t care anymore. I’m more terrified of never getting the chance to—”

Suddenly, his hands move from your hips to either side of your face. He pulls you the remainder of the short distance to him, and then his lips are against yours; effectively ending your rambling.

One of your hands cups the nape of his neck, your fingers intertwined in his soft curls. His tongue ghosts along your bottom lip and you eagerly part them for him. The sounds from various machines and the voices out in the hallway all fade to white noise as he moves his lips with yours.

He's gentle. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still relatively bedridden, but he touches you like he’s touching fine, breakable China. There’s an underlying urgency, like he’s scared he’s dreaming and wants to savor this as much as possible before he opens his eyes.

You pull away with a gentle tug of his bottom lip between your teeth. He doesn’t drop his hands from caressing your face, and your rest your forehead against his, basking in the afterglow of a kiss long overdue.

“Damn,” he breathes. “Please tell me we can do that again, minus all of the months of rejection and the close call with death.”

You laugh. “I can promise you no more rejection, but you have to promise me no more close calls with death.”

A gentle stroke of his thumb across your cheekbone sends goosebumps down your spine. “I promise, mi vida. I’ve been waiting too long for this. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

mi vida: spanish for "my life"

thank you so much for reading!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[t1red-twilight]

“It’s fine to ship Yelena with people bc aroace people can also have sex and be in relationships-”

I am putting you in a meat grinder and making you into spaghetti bolognese, which I will share happily with my aroace moots who are also tired of this shit

[t1red-twilight]

Yelena: is a good friend

The fandom for some reason: “OH SO SHES IN LOVE WITH THEM!!!!!”

[t1red-twilight]

Get all these fucking Yelena Belova ship posts of my fucking dash

[t1red-twilight]

People are so annoying sometimes like you say ‘Wolverine is Bi because he was in the comics!’ but then say ‘Yelena isn’t AroAce she was in the comics but the MCU is different!’ you guys always have to ship people. Y’all are gross.

[t1red-twilight]

I don't understand, bc I am neither aro nor ace, but yelena being aroace means the world to me??

Everytime someone minimizes that part of her I am like...Sir, we are dueling at dawn and I am bringing a concealed gun.

[t1red-twilight]

Yelena Belova is asexual, she is not a lesbian. Pointing out her canon sexuality isn't "lesbian erasure" if she was never a lesbian

[t1red-twilight]

Whenever I hear the excuses from people “just friends don’t talk to each other like that” or “just friends don’t hug like that” to excuse shipping aroace Yelena with Bob or Kate I’m like wow it sounds like you have shitty platonic relationships. Idk about y’all but I’m out here cuddling and hugging my friends. I’m out here loudly professing my love for my friends. I love my best friend so much I’ll bring her up to other people because I love talking about her. Y’all need to learn to value platonic love.

[t1red-twilight]

Not trying to sound woke asf. But why can't fictional characters be regular old friends, teammates, co-workers or found-family without being shipped. (do y'all serial shippers don't have friends and people you care deeply about?)

What is this obsession with putting everyone together?

[t1red-twilight]

It’s not even about Yelena.

It’s what allos’ eagerness to erase her identity (with fanworks but far more importantly with a PETITION) says about what they really think about aspec identities.

We can exist as long as we’re invisible. As long as we don’t have rep who isn’t a side character no one cares about. As long as we can pass as allos—“aros and aces can want romance and sex!”

So basically we can exist as long as we don’t fight the status quo, as long as (some) allo people don’t have to look at themselves and confront their amatonormativity.

[t1red-twilight]

the worst part of the ongoing yelena discourse is people acting like this is the same as every other shipping discouse

i DONT CARE who you ship with whom

but when you purposefully and consciously erase the little aspec representation that exists you are doing something harmful and not “just having fun”