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geminiwritten · 17 days ago

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safehouse ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

notes: danny ramirez has me in such a chokehold, he made me write smut!!! kind of... upon reread, i feel like this might flop? and i'm a little extra nervous about it because it's my second first attempt at smut, so i hope it doesn't suck! please, please, please let me know what you think! i need feedback! and also, sorry if it's shitty, i'm so out of practice with marvel, i'm just feral for this man...

warnings: swearing, sexual tension (lots), mention of guns / weapons, very minor descriptions of violence, italics, mention of a toxic ex and toxic behaviour, very out of date marvel knowledge, super horny, and SMUT-ish? (masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 15295

“I’m going to do a quick sweep,” Joaquín says. “Make sure we weren’t followed.”

You nod once, doing your best to flash the hottest man you’ve ever seen a cool, easy smile.

“Copy,” Sam says as he walks further into the house. “Echo, you’re with me. Let’s clear this place.”

You roll your eyes and follow Sam deeper into the safehouse, forcing yourself not to glance back as Joaquín slips out the front door.

“That’s not my name anymore,” you mutter, sheathing a dagger in your thigh holster. “And would you slow down?”

Just an hour ago, you were waiting at a secret meet-up spot for Sam to fill you in on this special mission he needed your expertise for. You weren’t keen on coming out of retirement, but he’d practically begged you over the phone—and you had no excuse good enough to say no.

So there you were, waiting, when all hell broke loose. You don’t know who they were, but they came at you hard and fast, raining hellfire just as Sam—and his stupidly gorgeous protege—showed up. You fought your way out and found refuge in this safehouse. Now all you need to do is make sure you’re actually safe before figuring out what the fuck just happened.

“All clear,” you tell Sam as you return to the landing just inside the front door of the old townhouse.

He nods. “Looks like we’re good.”

You tuck your gun away and start fiddling with a strap on the sleeve of your jacket, keeping your gaze locked on Sam beneath a furrowed brow. You’ve always been particularly good at death stares, and if Sam was a lesser man, he’d probably keel over by now.

But instead, he grins. “What’s that look for?”

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter.

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap.

It doesn’t take long.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?”

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.”

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.”

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.”

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.”

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.”

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—”

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?”

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?”

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.”

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.”

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique.

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go.

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench.

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head.

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath.

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín.

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk.

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame.

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety.

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.”

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?”

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows.

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink.

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands.

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?”

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding.

All you do know is that they were after you.

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs.

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail.

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is.

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you.

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life.

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face.

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.”

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace.

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time.

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop.

You’re almost never in the house alone.

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep.

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.”

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy.

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has.

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.”

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?”

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.”

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass.

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words.

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible.

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.”

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.”

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought.

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.”

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?”

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.”

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you.

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?”

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle.

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.”

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.”

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.”

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate.

You arch a brow. “You think?”

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.”

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?”

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.”

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.”

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.”

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head.

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears.

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless.

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous.

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch.

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?”

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.”

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door.

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle.

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.”

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours.

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.”

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.”

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous.

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him.

Straddling him.

You both freeze.

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint.

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven.

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.”

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.”

“And?”

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive.

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.”

Your next breath shudders out of you.

And then the back door creaks open.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch.

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees.

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.”

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?”

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.”

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.”

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless.

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam.

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.”

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.”

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?”

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused.

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.”

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.”

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red.

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?”

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—”

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.”

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch.

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update.

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team.

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—”

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.”

He even throws in a wink for good measure.

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.”

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.”

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items.

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?”

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.”

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.”

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.”

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire.

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try.

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly.

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static.

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk.

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game.

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else.

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed.

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in.

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours.

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy.

That was the final straw.

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window.

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island.

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?”

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?”

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.”

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?”

You nod again, firm.

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.”

“Fine,” you mutter.

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove.

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.”

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.”

“Good.”

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it.

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.”

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?”

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.”

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body.

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low.

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…”

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?”

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust.

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous.

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.”

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.”

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?”

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.”

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.”

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.”

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.”

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames.

“Any other rules?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.”

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.”

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen.

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.”

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore.

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life.

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl.

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter.

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.”

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful.

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.”

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss.

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look.

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs.

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can.

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?”

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?”

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?”

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.”

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?”

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal.

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence.

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.”

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand.

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.”

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles.

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.”

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue.

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.”

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.”

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside.

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right.

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script.

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink.

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation.

“You sure?”

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.”

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner.

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried.

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back.

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?”

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply.

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.”

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm.

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.”

“How bad are we talking?” he asks.

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap.

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.”

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink.

“Good,” he says simply.

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when—

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink.

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles.

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—”

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.”

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.”

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge.

“Sit,” he says, voice low.

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide.

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table.

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.”

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care.

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist.

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…”

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it.

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you.

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought.

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win.

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous.

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his.

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you.

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game.

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests.

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable.

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull.

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.”

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.”

“Night, Torres.”

And then he’s gone.

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom.

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms.

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse?

To fuck you, maybe?

God, you hope so.

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room.

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam.

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress.

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager.

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when—

A groan.

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees.

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening.

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy.

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close.

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled.

Oh, God. Is this real?

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster.

Holy fucking shit.

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact.

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence.

Oh. He heard you.

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows.

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.”

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs.

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock.

It makes your thighs quiver.

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin.

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it.

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven.

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants.

You’re already close. So close.

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too.

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken.

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked.

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst.

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan.

It isn’t quiet.

It isn’t hesitant.

It’s loud. And it’s enough.

You break.

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing.

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy—

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind.

Fuck.

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid.

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you.

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night.

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively.

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night.

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall.

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen.

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter.

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?”

“Best I’ve had since getting here.”

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.”

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say.

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?”

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is.

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.”

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him.

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it.

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid.

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question.

“It’s hot,” you say simply.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.”

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug.

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.”

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting.

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow.

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?”

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body.

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him.

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you.

And God, doesn’t he know it.

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen.

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín.

Then it hits you.

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house.

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!”

You turn into the lounge room—empty.

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty.

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp.

You glance up. “What the fuck?”

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone.

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water.

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say.

He frowns. “Who?”

“Whoever’s after me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?”

He nods.

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.”

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental.

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—”

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts.

“Or he’d kill me.”

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.”

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.”

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.”

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.”

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.”

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack.

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him.

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave…

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.”

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?”

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.”

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?”

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?”

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—”

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.”

Joaquín chuckles.

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?”

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen.

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—”

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry.

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer.

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?”

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.”

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.”

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume.

“Something… kind of happened last night.”

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam—

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.”

Another pause.

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer.

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.”

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims.

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms.

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.”

“Then why did you?”

“You basically asked!”

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?”

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face.

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until—

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?”

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.”

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.”

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan.

“What?”

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—”

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in.

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor.

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.”

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.”

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat.

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats.

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—”

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful.

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.”

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.”

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters.

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache.

Then you hear footsteps.

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs.

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love.

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes.

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay.

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.”

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.”

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.”

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?”

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.”

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.”

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—”

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.”

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile.

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table.

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips.

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam.

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.”

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.”

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.”

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?”

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.”

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears.

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one.

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief.

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks.

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.”

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?”

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it.

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.”

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?”

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.”

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate.

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.”

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.”

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous.

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.”

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you.

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery.

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?”

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

“Are you?” Joaquín asks.

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.”

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.”

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop.

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.”

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames.

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask.

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.”

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile.

“Damn,” he mutters.

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.”

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up.

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps.

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge.

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch.

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you.

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little.

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen.

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze.

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll.

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.”

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight.

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.”

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral.

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.”

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high.

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug.

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped.

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.”

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder.

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink.

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger.

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you.

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth.

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection.

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver.

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat.

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin.

“This is torture,” he mutters.

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?”

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.”

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.”

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?”

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.”

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer.

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth.

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?”

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.”

He stops breathing.

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still.

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room.

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule.

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips.

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it.

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets.

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps.

Sleep evades you.

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening.

It’s too much. You can barely breathe.

You need to do something.

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release.

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer.

Of course it is.

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer.

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when—

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough.

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to.

But it’s his eyes that undo you.

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap.

You manage the smallest nod.

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt.

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless.

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.”

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper.

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?”

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?”

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat.

“Guess,” he says quietly.

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open.

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls.

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving.

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones.

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself.

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.”

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone.

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once.

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily.

Then he stills.

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent.

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face.

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker.

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting.

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks.

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.”

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then he’s on you again.

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive.

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan.

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle.

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you.

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast.

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing.

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous.

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.”

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind.

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?”

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.”

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw.

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer.

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?”

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.”

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is.

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty—

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet.

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his.

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.”

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound.

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel.

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.”

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.”

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall.

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?”

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.”

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door.

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move.

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it.

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.”

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again.

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked.

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night.

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly.

Dropping to his knees.

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly.

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move.

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach.

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone.

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again.

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten.

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast.

“I’m not trying to.”

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices.

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago.

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle.

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed.

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.”

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck.

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined.

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle.

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.”

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t.

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?”

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.”

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs.

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.”

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.”

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.”

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot.

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.”

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.”

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan.

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you.

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee.

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you.

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised.

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either.

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck.

“You hungry?” you ask.

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.”

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again.

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?”

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.”

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.”

You frown. “For what?”

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.”

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him.

“You have a location?” you ask.

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.”

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you.

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.”

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.”

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown.

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out.

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him.

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap.

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?”

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real.

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist.

“Really?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—”

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot.

His eyes go even wider. “Really?”

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.”

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.”

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him.

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh.

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.”

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch.

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.”

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel.

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.”

END.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #danny ramirez x reader #captain america: brave new world #joaquin x reader #falcon x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america #danny ramirez #falcon #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #oneshot #imagine

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fireinmoonshot · 3 months ago

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Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Summary: Since getting married, Joaquín has discovered he loves hearing you call him your husband. So much so, in fact, that he'll do almost anything to get you to say the word. Warnings: Mentions of food, gets a little spicy at the end (not the food). Word Count: 862 A/N: Another one where I've had the idea sitting in my notes for weeks. It turned out a little different to what I expected but I still love how this ended up so I hope you all love it too.

“Say it again,” Joaquin says, practically skidding into the kitchen where you’re cooking.

It’s a rare night where you’re making dinner instead of Joaquin. You found a new recipe online that you really want to try and Joaquin always loves when you cook – while he loves being the cook of the family, he also loves the food you make him.

There’s something he loves more than that though.

You spin around from where you’re standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. “What am I saying again?” You ask, a little confused.

Joaquin walks further into the kitchen, wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder. “You just called out to me and said husband, come and try this. Call me husband again.”

You huff out a small laugh. Ever since you’d officially tied the knot just over a month ago, Joaquin had discovered that he had a thing for hearing you refer to him as husband. It was like when you referred to him as your boyfriend or your fiancé, but better. And then there were the few times when you called him marido instead of husband, which almost made him weak at the knees on more than one occasion.

“Husband, will you try this and tell me if I need to add more salt?” You oblige, holding up the spoon a little and smiling to yourself as he leans forward over your shoulder and licks some off the spoon.

“Mmm,” Joaquin hums, right in your ear. “It’s delicious, angel.” He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. “It’s perfect, it doesn’t need anything else. But personally, I could do with hearing you call me your husband again.”

Rolling your eyes jokingly, you drop the spoon back in the pot and spin around in Joaquin’s arms. He loosens his grip on you a little so you can spin around easier. “Remember before we were married and I’d refer to you as Joaquin or baby? What happened to that? What is it about husband that makes you react like this?”

Joaquin shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t think it’s the word itself, it’s just hearing it come out of your mouth when you’re referring to me. Like the other day, when we were out for dinner and you introduced me as your husband to your new co-worker that we ran into. I’ve never been a husband before.”

“Oh, I’d sure hope not,” you laugh. “I did think this was your first marriage.”

He grins, leaning in and pecking your lips lightly. “First and last, actually.”

“Well, I’m honoured, husband,” you smile. The smile on Joaquin’s face grows even more as the word comes out of your mouth. “Now, will you let me finish making dinner? I don’t think I can keep cooking it unless you let me go.”

Joaquin groans, irritated at the thought that he has to let you go. He loves holding you, having his hands on you, and if he could all of the time, he’s sure he’d find a way. “If you call me husband again, I promise I’ll leave you alone until dinner is ready.”

“Husband,” you start, leaning in and pressing your lips to his. “Joaquin Torres, my husband, the love of my life, the man I married… making him my husband…” You milk it a little bit, knowing that Joaquin will enjoy every second of it.

It surprises you a little as you watch him literally shiver at hearing you say the word so many times in one go. Joaquin finds it incredibly hot, especially the way you say it with your mouth so close to his. If he leans forward just a little, he could capture your lips with his and kiss you senseless until he could convince you to say the word again.

“Angel,” he breathes, face still close to yours. “It’s a good thing you’re busy making dinner right now because if you weren’t, I would be picking you up right this second, putting you on the counter and making sure you know everything that comes along with the fact that I’m your husband now.”

It’s like a switch flips inside of you at his words – this time you’re the one having a reaction to the words instead of him. The fact that you’re mid way through cooking dinner is a thought that slips right to the back of your mind as Joaquins thumbs dig into your hips, his grip having gotten a little tighter after you called him husband again.

You turn your head and reach behind you to turn off the stove before looking back at Joaquin again. “Dinner can wait,” you mutter. “My husband is more important.”

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate to step to the side and lift you up onto the counter, away from the stove and your half cooked dinner. He steps in-between your legs, hands gripping at your thighs, and leans up to press his lips to yours again. The kiss is messy and passionate and everything he’s been wanting ever since he heard you first call out to him.

You think you should definitely call him husband more often.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america brave new world #falcon

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caxapthecat · 2 months ago

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STEVE ROGERS WOULD PUNCH THE SHIT OUT OF DONALD TRUMP!!!!!

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cosmicwavelengths · 4 months ago

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staring problem

pairing: avenger! bucky barnes x physical therapist! reader summary: you’ve been working with sam, joaquin, and bucky for the past few months, and you couldn’t help but notice how bucky just… stares. (based off of dialogue from the falcon and the winter soldier: “does he always just stare like that?” “you get used to it.” and “you’re doing the staring thing again.” + more)

a/n: hello and welcome to my first one shot! i saw captain america: brave new world last week and it was tremendous! i went back and watched the falcon and the winter soldier and it inspired me to write this fic. i've been pretty excited to share this, so i hope you enjoy! likes and reblogs are always appreciated forehead kiss

comments/tags: ca:bnw (spoilers!), fluff, bucky barnes is a 106 year old grumpy ass, bucky has a staring problem (quite severely), physical therapist/trainer f! reader, sam wilson, joaquin torres, bucky doesn’t hate joaquin here but he has a youthful energy that old man barnes finds mildly exhausting (sometimes), there’s technically a girthy age gap between bucky and reader (probably 60-80 years) but bucky can’t help that so we will collectively ignore it, strangers-to-lovers except bucky is just Confused, no y/n use

cw: mentions of alcohol (drinking, reader getting drunk), sebastian stan’s intense glare (swoon), kissing, language (bucky has a potty mouth)

wc: 3.9k | masterlist | ao3 ────୨ৎ────

In his 106 or so years, you were the first person who Bucky Barnes met that genuinely perplexed him. And he couldn’t exactly put his finger on why.

During his over-extended life, he prided himself on his ability to read people and understand their intentions almost immediately. Maybe he’s a cynic, but he finds it to be much easier to organize the recurring figures of his life into different areas of his mind. Of course, there’s the rare individual that Bucky genuinely likes, such as Sam. And with others he tolerates, like Joaquín. But you? He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt. And if Bucky was being honest with himself, it scares him.

Considering he already knows almost everything about you, it’s almost frustrating how little Bucky truly knows you. Sure, Joaquín sat you all down as a group to discuss their new physical therapist. Similar to Joaquín in age, graduated from college not too long ago,, has significant experience with working with service men. You’ve been working with them for nearly six months already, and Bucky has yet to properly assess where you sit in his brain.

Whenever you entered the room -- any room, you had a certain energy. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself, but you seem to have this natural ability to alter the space around you in some way. Your teeth and eyes seemed to sparkle, the way they open up so wide to greet him and the others at the beginning of each training session.

“Does he always just stare like that?” you inquire quietly, leaning over to Sam as you create a hamstring out of a roll of kinesiology tape. You subtly nudge your arm in the general direction where Bucky stood next to the weight rack.

Sam chuckles, “You get used to it.” You shrug in response, putting your head down and continuing to wrap the tape around his calf. “He might be a bionic staring machine, but he’s been through a lot. It’s just how he is, I wouldn’t take it personally,” he smiles down at you. Making a quick glance in his direction, Bucky continues to stare pointedly, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. Intimidating. You suppose any regular person would be skeeved out under such intense pressure, but it makes you rather demure. Even though you’re looking in his direction, he continues to look at you with his intense eyes. You’d think that most people would stop after being noticed, especially since you’ve caught him staring at you more than twice, but he continues with his piercing gaze anyways.

Since Sam had decided to rebuild the Avengers, you had been brought in as their physical therapist. If you were honest, you weren’t exactly sure why superheroes of all people needed physical therapy, with what cutting edge technology and medicine they have at their disposal, but it pays well and you can’t complain about that in this economy.. Since starting, you’ve already become relatively close with Sam and Joaquín. But Bucky…

…Well, judging by the way he’s practically staring through you, you’d be safe in assuming that he hates you or something. You’ve not really had a chance to have a full fledged conversation with him. You helped him stretch, applied kinesio tape when asked. Within your first few days here, you surmised that he was just a private person. But, you’ve seen the quick smiles he flashed at Sam and the occasional short conversation with Joaquín. You normally don’t take these things too personally, but the people pleaser side of you tends to rear its ugly head. Aside from that, there was something about Bucky that made you want him to like you at least a little bit. You’ve tried your best to be friendly to him during your brief interactions, but he didn’t seem to have much of an interest in conversing with you past exchanging pleasantries. Even though it hurts a little, it’s just how some of these jobs go, after all, you can’t expect to be friends with all your clients. But his nearly constant staring at you is… menacing.

“I just don’t think he’s taken to me that well,” you breathe, finishing the wrap on his quad and cutting away the excess tape with scissors. “He doesn’t seem to like talking to me… or like me, at all.”

“It’s not you,” Sam reassures gently. “Give him some time to open up.”

“Y’know, you probably scare her with how much you stare at her like that.”

Bucky re-racked the weights with much more force than he wanted, causing the weights to make a heavy clunk sound against the metal, making her and Sam’s heads snap over in their direction. Shit.

Bucky looks at Joaquín and frowns. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, you have something of a staring problem,” says Joaquín. “Do you know that? It’s important to us that you know that. You have zero tact.”

Bucky grumbles under his breath in response, turning back to the weight rack to select a heavier dumbbell. “At least say something to her when we go out later? You can tell it bothers her,” Joaquín offers with a smile. Bucky steps back from the rack, preparing for his next set. “Stay out of my business, Torres.”

“This seems like a very unnatural problem for someone like you to have. Maybe we should call Wakanda, tell them that our cyborg puppet has stopped working and is in urgent need of recalibration.”

“Fuck off.”

The bar is loud. Far too loud for Bucky’s taste as he enters the establishment with Sam. Had it been up to him, he would have picked his usual quiet spot near his apartment. But, it is her six month anniversary of working with the guys, and Bucky wasn’t going to miss a chance to drink for free on Sam’s tab. Bucky stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, scanning the many faces around the room. Keep an eye out for any potential threats…

“Well?” Sam asks, turning to Bucky and breaking him out of his concentration. Bucky’s jaw tightens, “Don’t you and Torres know better than to be in my business?” he says, crabbily. Sam shrugs his shoulders, hands out in defense. “Hey! I just want you to be happy, man. Just think about what Torres said, maybe?” He steps back from Bucky with a smile, clapping his hand against Bucky’s shoulder before approaching Joaquín at the bar. And there you are, sitting next to Joaquín, shining like the stars and moon… yet unsteady. Your warm expression grows upon seeing Sam, pulling him into a tight hug. What the hell, sure, Bucky ponders briefly before stalking up to the only open space in the bar and ordering a beer.

“Sam!” you answer excitedly, throwing your arms around him in a warm hug. He reciprocates in kind, saying a quick greeting during the embrace. “Wo-oah there!” Sam teases, “Has Joaquín here been filling you up with drinks here?” He gestures to the glassware that you and Joaquín collected, lightly crowding the bar surface.

“Hey, look, it’s a cheat night for all of us, and more importantly, her six month work anniversary!” Joaquín reminds Sam with a laugh. “Yes, tonight is all about me, guys,” you tease, smiling lazily at them. You generally don’t make it a habit to engage with clients outside of the gym, but Sam and Joaquín had truly welcomed you to the team with open arms these last few months. It was truly kind of Sam to pick up the tab tonight, and you’d feel rude refusing.

You settle back into your barstool as Sam and Joaquín begin a conversation. You scan the many faces around the U-shaped bar until you notice Bucky standing there, waiting on his drink. He’s of average height, about six feet tall or so, yet he stands out among the others around him. He wears his infamous scowl as he toys with his leather gloves. You took care in noticing how the light of the bar catches his upper cheek bone and the top of his jawline by his ear. His brooding blue eyes as they scan the area round him. So intimidating… yet..

He glances up at you quickly, incidentally locking eyes with you across the bar. Your eyes grow wide, feeling smaller than you’ve ever felt before. It’s almost eerie the way he studies you, as if he is trying to memorize every atom and particle of your facial structure. You almost freeze under his watch, sobering up a little as you sit up straighter. Properly. You cast out your usual friendly gestures, an invitation -- a small smile and a shy wave of your finger tips. Maybe it’s your alcohol-muddled brain playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn that the corner of his lips turned ever so slightly upwards.

It felt like time stopped when Bucky noticed you. The small wisps of your hair caught by the lowlights above the bar, reaching to the bow of the lips that once held a grin. Your wide eyes holding a sparkle of light. How he can see the way your skin flushes due to your alcohol consumption. Bucky finds it adorable the way you lightly smile at him, waving your hand gently. He sees the way you’re a bit wobbly, having to lean against the bar to keep things steady. He couldn’t help but be amused. His attention is torn away by the bartender setting down the beer bottle in front of him. Bucky fishes for cash in his pocket, setting it in the man’s hand and finally approaching the group.

He stuffs his beer-less hand deep into his jacket pocket as he stops next to Sam. He claps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder in greeting, Bucky acknowledges him with a slight nod of his head. “Bucky!” Sam exclaims, gesturing to the group. “Welcome. We were wondering when you’d show up!” Bucky looks at him with a tired expression. “Lost track of time at the gym,” he mumbles. “Likely story,” Joaquín laughs, before being cut short by Bucky nudging him sharply with his flesh elbow, using a bit more force than necessary.

Minutes pass. Then an hour. Two hours. Rounds of drinks later, you all lapse into steady conversation telling lively stories of the past, previous jobs, missions, interactions with other superheroes. You and Joaquín chortle together loudly at Sam’s seemingly endless stream of stories and jokes, while Bucky resigns himself to polite nods as he sips on his beer. The initial lively crowd of the bar had died down to the regular crowd, who’d delegated themselves to chatting amongst themselves, playing darts and shooting pool.

Several vodka cranberries in, your face and hands feel oddly numb, and the room spins more than usual. Shame on you for thinking you can match Joaquín drink for drink. Sam and Joaquín throw back the last of their drinks before heading off to the pool tables. Bucky stares off at them as they apply blue chalk to the tips of their cue sticks, ready to begin a match.

Turning towards Bucky, you prop yourself up against the bar, cheek in hand. You attempt to mock the way he stares at you, to make him feel how you’ve felt all these months.

“So,” you hiccup, interrupting yourself with a shy giggle. “What’s your deal?” You mockingly raise an eyebrow. “What’s your damage, Bucky? What is it about me you don’t like?” It slips out so easily. You should be embarrassed, but you’re far too gone.

Bucky sits up straight, giving you an unsure glance. That’s new. “I’m not sure what you--.”

“And you’re doing that staring thing again, that thing you do with me,” you comment, words slurring slightly as you gesturing unsteadily in Sam and Joaquín’s direction. “When you look at me like that, I can’t tell if ‘ya like or hate me!”

“Y’know, maybe I’m a people pleaser or sumthin’, but I-I really want you to like me, I think,” you sigh. Shrugging comically, you throw back the rest of your drink sitting on the bar. Leaning over, you clap your hand over his large gloved one. Bucky freezes, suddenly being hyper aware of what you’re doing and how small your hand feels compared to his. “And y’know what else? I don’t even mind when you stare at me like that. It’s almost as hot as it is intimidating.”

Bucky was warm -- not from the alcohol. He knows he can’t really get drunk anymore due to the serum, but he still feels the sweat from his palms against the smooth leather interior of his padded globes. And again, he states. Wide eyed at the flushness that cascaded down her cheeks to her collar bones. She fully lost herself in a fit of uncontrollable giggles, leaning against the bar again, not even knowing what you’re doing to him.

He wants to look everywhere all at once, eyes darting. Your bright, round lips stained with cranberry juice and the remnants of your lip gloss. The small beads of sweat by your temples and the crown of your hair. Your smooth thighs, sparkling in certain spots from the cold of your glass. Bucky was truly rendered speechless. Not that he usually speaks much. Not that he was able to get much of a word in with you beforehand. But this time, he feels truly stumped. So, naturally, he did what any former brainwashed assassin turned semi-normal guy would do. With every ounce of charisma and bravado that a man like him could gather, he took one last look at her and drank the last bit of his beer. “Excuse me,” he said with a voice he was unfamiliar with, and turned around to walk out of the bar. And kept walking. All the way home.

Sleep is elusive to Bucky, who had spent the previous night drifting in and out of light sleep. He usually takes this as a sign to get an early start of the day, maybe go for a long run or walk outside.

He rises, making his way to the bathroom.. Squeezing out toothpaste, Bucky couldn’t help but reflect upon the event of the previous night. The sound of your gleeful, drunken laugh. How the warmth radiated off of your body. He can just barely recall the ghostly weight of your hand on the back of his. Even through his thick gloves, you may as well have burned him.

As Bucky splashes water on his face, he concludes that maybe a run wasn’t what he needed. The subway station was right outside of the bar on East Houston Street, yet he elected to walk two hours back home to his apartment in Brooklyn instead. He’d hoped that walking over the Manhattan Bridge in the middle of the night would turn out to be somewhat therapeutic, yet he was still unable to shake the memory of you at the bar.

Letting out a deep breath, he takes a moment to sit on the couch and put his boots on. Standing, he shrugs on his leather jacket and reaches for the gloves in his pocket. Gloves you touched, he recalls, feeling uncharacteristically giddy about it. Heading out the door, he hopes that this early morning workout will help him clear his head.

It is far too early to wake up today, especially after having a night out like that. You awake with a raging headache, an unsettled stomach, and an aggressive thought of what the fuck did you do. As you lie there, gazing at your slowly spinning ceiling fan, you start to feel each and every one of the drinks. Groaning, you sit up, clutching your stomach in an attempt to settle yourself and you are quickly reminded of the conversation you had with Bucky. At that, you shoot up far quicker than you should, running to the toilet to rid yourself of the contents of your stomach and regrets from last night. Sigh.

You couldn’t believe that you had said that, feeling waves of embarrassment. You normally wouldn’t push yourself that far with the drinks, much less with the boundaries of a client. Grimacing, you reach up to the counter, feeling for a towel to wipe your face of sweat and residual make-up. Turning on the faucet, you cup water into your hands to drink and splash your face with cold water. Approaching your closet, you preemptively mourn one of the best jobs you’ve ever had. Every fiber of your being begs you to return to bed and wallow in self pity, but you think it’s best that you get to the gym early for a quick workout. Sweat out the hangover, you think bitterly. Your head lightly pounds when you make a sudden movement. Bringing your hand to your forehead, you realize this is going to be one long day.

Entering the compound, you hear the sound of a treadmill running and rhythmic steps in accompaniment. It would be good to see Sam or Joaquín, figuring that one of them decided to work off the alcohol consumed last night. But since you are, evidently, not God’s favorite, running on the treadmill is someone you’d rather avoid right now. And there’s Bucky Barnes, shirtless and sweating as he jogs on the machine. Your eyes follow his dog tags dangling from his neck, bouncing rhythmically against his skin. He heaves gently, hair flopping with each step.

Even though you stopped in your tracks, he had already felt your presence and began slowing down. Bucky steps off the treadmill, collecting his water and patting his forehead with a small towel he brought. You figure it’s best to just talk and not dance around the topic. He didn’t seem like the type to beat around the bush. You breathe shakily before approaching him.

“Hi, Bucky,” you say, tone laced with nerves.. “Look, about last night—”

“Hey, it’s fine.” he interjects accidentally, cutting you off. He raises a gentle hand of reassurance. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

Your shoulders relax a bit, knowing that there was maybe a small chance that he wouldn’t tell Sam or Joaquín about your interaction. “Thank you, it’s just that I rarely go out with clients like that, nor do I drink that heavily.” You shift lightly on your feet, fumbling with your water bottle. “I didn’t mean to be unprofessional or cross any boundaries. I just hope that we could maybe move past this, pretend like it didn’t happen?” Smiling, you look up at the taller man, eyes filled with hope. He himself shifts on his feet, “Oh, I didn’t realize we were just clients to you.” You look down with embarrassment, searching for a response. “Uh, I didn’t mean any offense—”

“I’m just teasin’, sweetheart,” the nickname rolling smoothly off his tongue with a smile. A smile. “Did you really mean what you said, though? About me staring?” Drunk words are sober thoughts, he recalls to himself, having learned the phrase from Torres. You flush, suddenly taking interest in the top of your water bottle rather than the man in front of you. Him speaking with you, much less jokingly is more than foreign territory for you. “I-I mean,” you sputter out, self consciousness taking charge. “I wouldn’t mind being friends with you, of course, I try my best to be friendly with the people I work with.” He takes a step closer. “Now, you and I both know that that’s not the part we are talking about.” Your breath hitches. You take in how you feel crowded by him. He’s not exactly within your personal space. Yet.

“Really, I’m the one that should be apologizing.” Bucky says, loosening up. With a sigh, he starts: “I’m sorry to have kept you at arms length all this time. It’s rather difficult for ‘someone like me,’” he dramatically emphasizes with air quotes, “to ‘nurture friendships.’” So says my therapist, he thinks with an internal eye roll. “What’s wrong with me isn’t your fault. I’m just old and cynical.” He pats the outside of your arm in reassurance. You smile, feeling the spot grow warm under his touch. “For the record, I don’t exactly mind that you called me hot, either,” he casually notes. “It’s certainly better than the other reactions I tend to get.” You didn’t think it was possible to blush harder, feeling the warmth creep down your chest. Fuck, you were hoping he wouldn’t mention that part specifically, but you can roll with it. “Well, I do pride myself on being honest, I guess,” you chuckle nervously trying to play it off as cool.

“Y’know, since I had met you, I had been so confused on what to think of you. In all my life, I had never met anyone that was able to do that to me.” His voice darkens. “Care to clue me in as to why?” You feel stuck again, just how you felt last night when he was staring you down at the bar. You attempt to nervously mutter out a response, which instead leaves your mouth gaping open. He closes in on your space, you can feel his body heat radiating off of him. He glances down at your curved lips, light pink and glistening, then back into your doe eyes. “Please, sweetheart, it drives me crazy when you look at me like that,” he uses the nickname again, making your mind spin and your knees a bit weak. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

His eyes drop to your lips again as you stand there, stupefied. His eyes drift downwards to your lips and you almost feel like crumbling under the sudden pressure. He closes in again, sneaking his hands around your waist to pull you in closer. You’re both suspended in silence for a beat, and you think your heart would stop until he continues. “I don’t mean to make things weird, but maybe I like the way you fluster when I look at you. I’ve been alive for a long, long time, and you’re the first person I’ve met that’s made me feel this way.”

Before you were aware of his movements, he closed the distance. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the softness of Bucky’s lips, moving slowly and calculating over your own. His grip tightens on your waist, and you feel how the tips of his fingers press into your skin, making your mind go white. You press your body closer to him, breathing heavily as you press your lips against his. He pulls away when he feels your knees buckle gently, chuckling. “Careful, doll. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” You shake your head in an effort to come to and give him a response. “N-no, It’s fine, you didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.”

“Good,” he replies, voice darkening. He laughs again, causing you to giggle with him and lean in again.

“You do have a staring problem, though,” Sam chides through the speaker of Red Wing. Thecombat drone floats into your line of sight, hovering menacingly over Bucky’s shoulder. You jump back away from Bucky as if you were burned, feeling embarrassed. Bucky sighs exasperatedly, leaning against the treadmill and shaking his head. “By the way, thanks for finally taking our advice! I have all of that on camera, you know that, right?”

Bucky rolls his eyes with a huff. “Get out of my face, Sam, or I’ll break it.”

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pome-seed · 2 months ago

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All The Way დ Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: A late night with Bucky ends with him getting you to try something new. Aka, riding Bucky's face (w/ stubble)

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: 18+ Minors Do Not Interact. Riding Bucky's face. Oral sex (f receiving.)

Authors Note: Thank you to the Anon that requested this! (I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't write smut often, but I wanted to try out this request.) Minors and accounts with ageless bios will be blocked if you comment.

You giggle quietly against Bucky’s lips. His hands drag slowly down your back, curling under your knees. You yelp when he hauls you up, your legs instinctively locking around his hips.

“Bucky-” You pant, his tongue swiping over your lip.

“I gotcha, baby,” he groans, carrying you through the dimly lit apartment. Your heels make a soft clattering sound as they fall in the hallway.

You make clumsy work of tugging up your dress. Bucky’s stubble drags roughly against your throat as he kisses down your neck. The bedroom door thuds quietly as Bucky shoves it open.

Bucky drops you back onto the bed, then makes quick work of yanking off his shirt. You groan dramatically, sliding off the bed as you tug open his belt. “Jesus-” Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, his stomach tensing as you lick a stripe down his abs.

He curls his palm around the back of your head as you press open mouth kisses along his thighs. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers.

You drop your forehead against his hip, your lashes fluttering shut. He slowly steps out of his pants and pulls you back up to your feet. Bucky’s wandering hands slip your dress over your head.

“Cmere,” you whisper, tugging him back on the bed.

He falls onto you with a laugh. “Someone’s excited,” he teases, crawling over you. His knees push between yours, spreading your legs to make room for himself.

You drag your palms along his sides, appreciating each dip and curve. “Shut it,” you glare playfully as you tilt your head up for a kiss.

Bucky smiles against your lips, his facial hair tickling your cheeks. He hums softly, then slips his hands around your back. His warm fingers slip beneath your underwear and slid them down.

You wiggle your hips to help him get rid of the thin barrier. You expected him to slip off his boxers too, but he just crawls back over you. He nips gently at your stomach on the way back up to you. He ghosts his lips over yours.

You giggle to yourself as he flips you over, dragging you on top of him. You sit up in his lap, teasing your lip between your teeth in thought.

“I wanna try something,” Bucky whispers, his cold metal fingers dancing a path up your thigh.

From the look in his eye, you know exactly what he was thinking of. Something hot and nervous coils in your stomach.

“Buck, I don’t know-” You huff, your nails gently scratching down his chest.

He rolls his eyes playfully as he urges you to continue scooting up his lap. His hands gently guide you up his body, his intentions clear. A soft blush heats your cheeks as you move, now hovering over him, knees on either side of his head.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh.

“Are you sure?” You swallow awkwardly, a timid feeling curling in your gut.

His teeth scrape the tender flesh of your thigh. “Yes, I’m sure. Let me take care of you.” He gently stroked his rough palms down your hips.

You scoot up a little further. “I’ve never done this before.”

“It’s okay, baby, I’ll guide you.” His warm breath tickles your sensitive skin. “I’ll go slow.” You nod hesitantly. His large hands firmly grip your waist and slowly guide you down. You gasp as he presses a soft kiss to your cunt.

Bucky’s slick tongue strokes slow and careful against your folds. Your hips twitch above him, but his strong arms lock around your thighs and keeps you seated. Bucky hums against you, the quiet vibrations sending a shock through your body.

Your thighs shake as you struggle to not clamp your legs around his head. Your trembling hands slide against the headboard as you try to keep yourself up. Bucky makes a displeased sound from between your legs.

His lips make a wet sound as he pulls back. “All the way, sweetheart,” the soft pinch in his brow makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” you pant, timid about resting your full weight against him.

Bucky chuckles softly, his warm breath tickling your core. He looks up at you with a reassuring smile. “You won’t hurt me, baby.” He gently bit the tender flesh of your inner thigh. “So please, doll, just sit on my fuckin’ face.”

You groan, a sweaty hand slapping down your face. “Jesus, Buck-” You gasp, trying to catch your breath. “Okay- but if it’s too much, you’ll tap me to let me know?”

He softens beneath you, his thumb stroking you gently. “If it’s too much, I’ll move you, okay? Now stop stalling and sit down, before I pull you down myself.”

His strong hands press firmly into your hips as you finally lower yourself, resting your full weight on him. Bucky releases a deep, satisfied moan against you, his arms sliding to lock back around your thighs.

His jaw works slowly as his slick tongue strokes your clit. You gasp, rocking into him slightly. His rough stubble drags deliciously against your core, burning and tingling.

Bucky suppresses a smile as you start grinding down onto him. He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking gently. He hums again, and you almost topple over. The slick sounds of your core mix with the depraved groans slipping from Bucky’s throat as he devours you. Hungry, like a man starved.

His slick tongue dips into your soaked cunt, his stubble burning against your center. You moan softly, your palms sliding down the wall. Your eyes snap open when his fingers slip around your wrists, guiding your hands into his hair.

Your lashes flutter and your stomach tenses. His jaw opened wider as he tilted his head into you, his nose pressing firmly against your clit.

“Fuck-” You gasp, yanking at dark strands of hair.

Bucky’s metal fingers gently tap your hip, reminding you to keep your eyes open. You whine softly looking down at him as his tongue pushes inside you.

He groans quietly, each delicious drag of his lips and tongue making you shudder. He holds you down on him, face buried in your pussy. He sucks gently on your clit, then circles it with his tongue, only to trail down and flutter it against your throbbing cunt.

You gasp, back arching as you roll your hips. Your stomach coils and your thighs tense. Bucky groans softly as you ride his face, grinding and dragging your cunt over his tongue. He grips your hips tightly and guides your motion, controlling your pace.

You whine and tug at his hair, making his lashes flutter. You shudder, nearly sobbing as he latches onto your clit and sucks, with maintained pressure.

Over your own senseless moans, you hear him. Grunting and teetering on the edge, sucking in staggering breath as he worships you. He’s almost as lost as you are as he presses his face deeper.

You sob, rolling your hips against him. Your back arches, you fist his hair, your breath hitches in your chest. Bucky dutifully maintains his rhythm, dragging his tongue through your folds, then circling your clit with the flat of his tongue.

Your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, peaking and sweeping you beneath the current of pleasure. You roll your hips against his face as he moans against you, the vibrations wracking you with tremors.

“Fuck-” you gasp. “Bucky,” you pant, staring down at him.

Your thighs tremble, but he doesn’t seem finished with you. You feel the shift as this becomes less about you and more about him. About him needing to worship you.

He moans against you, his slick tongue dipping back inside you.

“Buck- fuck, I can’t,” you whine, your hips stuttering.

His strong arms keep you locked in place as he drags you into blissful overstimulation. Your head rolls back, your thighs helplessly clenching against him. He hums quietly, pressing wet kisses to your core.

“Please- fuck-” You whimper, your fingers raking back strands of dark hair.

He relents with a sigh, his firm grip on you loosening. He trails soft kisses from your center, down your inner thighs, his stubble dragging deliciously against your flesh.

You’re trembling above him, legs weak from straining. Bucky makes a pleased noise and lifts you off of him. He presses you gently into the mattress, then captures your lips in a wet kiss.

You moan weakly, tasting yourself on his tongue. The thought seems to turn him on. He pants into your mouth, his metal hand stroking soothingly along your side.

“Did so good, baby,” he whispers, peppering soft, slick kisses down your throat. You push your hand into his hair, tickling his nape with your nails.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you whisper, your eyes falling shut as he quietly showers you in his devotion. You feel him smile against your shoulder.

“Taste so good,” he mutters, snickering when you smack his arm. He glances up at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re so pretty for me.”

You groan, tugging him back in for a heated kiss. “Shut up.”

“Never.”

A/N: Minors do not interact. Ageless and empty bios WILL BE BLOCKED IF YOU INTERACT.

Thank you! (Aka, I will get uncomfy if someone comments and their bio doesn't make it clear they're an adult.)

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pixiexdusts-world · 4 months ago

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Nap time with you

Joaquin Torres x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Joaquin’s girlfriend can fall asleep anywhere, and instead of questioning it, he starts napping with her. Before long, it becomes their favorite routine.

Word count: 1012

Notes: no Captain America: Brave New World spoilers :)

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Joaquin Torres was used to high-energy situations. Missions, training, and keeping up with Sam Wilson meant he was always on the move. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for dating you.

Because somehow, despite all the chaos, you could fall asleep anywhere.

At first, he thought it was a one-time thing. The two of you had been hanging out at his place, watching a movie, when he felt your head slump against his shoulder. He glanced down, expecting you to be watching intently, but—nope. You were out cold.

“Hey,” he whispered, nudging you slightly. “Did you seriously just knock out?”

You let out a small sigh in response, nuzzling into his hoodie like it was the most comfortable pillow in the world. Joaquin blinked, staring at you, before laughing softly to himself.

Alright, maybe the movie was a little boring.

But then it kept happening.

You would doze off in the passenger seat of his car five minutes into a drive. You fell asleep on a rooftop once, mid-mission debrief, and nearly gave Sam a heart attack. You even curled up in a booth at a diner after breakfast, resting your head on your folded arms like it was the most natural thing to do.

Joaquin quickly realized: you could nap anywhere, anytime.

And, well… that was kind of adorable.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

One day, after a long week of missions, Joaquin found you sprawled across his couch, dead to the world. You had come over to hang out, but somewhere between waiting for him to get out of the shower and picking a movie, you had passed out completely.

Joaquin just stood there for a second, hands on his hips, watching the steady rise and fall of your breathing. He shook his head with a soft laugh.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.

Then, without really thinking about it, he grabbed a blanket, tossed it over you, and instead of waking you up—he joined you.

He had meant to just sit beside you, but when he felt how warm you were, the exhaustion from the past week caught up with him fast. The next thing he knew, he was lying down too, pulling you against him, his face buried in your hair.

And damn, this was comfortable.

Joaquin had never really been a nap guy. He always felt like there was something to do, somewhere to be. But being curled up with you, listening to your soft breathing, feeling the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest?

Yeah. He could get used to this.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

After that, it became a thing.

Joaquin stopped questioning it and just started joining you.

You crashed on the couch after training? He slid in beside you, pulling you close. You curled up in the Quinjet after a mission? He threw his jacket over both of you and knocked out too. You flopped onto his bed, stretching like a cat? Yeah, no, he was claiming his spot too.

“You know,” he said one afternoon as you both lay tangled together in his bed, “I think you’ve corrupted me.”

You blinked sleepily up at him. “Huh?”

“I never used to nap,” he admitted, running his fingers through your hair. “Now I’m out here dozing off at random times of the day because of you.”

You hummed, not at all guilty. “Not my fault you make a good nap buddy.”

Joaquin grinned. “Oh, nap buddy, huh? That’s all I am to you?”

“Mm.” You pretended to think about it. “And a pretty decent boyfriend, I guess.”

He let out a dramatic gasp. “Wow. So generous.”

You giggled, snuggling closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone. “Admit it—you love it.”

Joaquin sighed, kissing the top of your head. “Yeah. I really do.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

One evening, after a particularly long mission, Joaquin was the one who crashed first.

You found him sprawled across the couch, his arm draped over his face, still in his flight gear. His wings had been set aside, his boots lazily kicked off. He looked exhausted.

You should have woken him up, told him to change, maybe convinced him to eat something first.

Instead, you climbed right on top of him and curled up against his chest.

Joaquin made a small, sleepy noise of surprise but didn’t even open his eyes. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting against the small of your back.

“Mmm… stealing my move,” he mumbled.

“Shh,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Nap first. Talk later.”

He chuckled sleepily. “See? Corrupted me.”

But he didn’t complain.

He just held you tighter and let himself drift off, safe and warm in your arms.

#captain america joaquin torres #mcu joaquin torres #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres #joaquin marvel #joaquin x reader #the falcon x reader #captain america brave new world #captain america 4 #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel x y/n #mcu x you #mcu x reader #mcu x y/n

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backtothefanfiction · 4 months ago

Text

First Impressions | Joaquin Torres

Summary: the first time Sam introduces you to Joaquin

Warnings: flirting, fluff, playful banter

A/N: I fell in love with this man during Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Completely forgot about him until I watched the new Cap the other night. So here’s this little before going to sleep drabble. As you will quickly be able to tell I love the idea of a Carol Danvers niece reader given the whole air force thing. Hope people enjoy. May write some more in the future.

Joaquin was smitten the second you walked into his house. When Sam said he was headed over with “some new recruit” he hadn’t expected you. A roughed up baseball cap on top of your head, faded baseball jersey, baggy oversized jeans and sneakers, dripping from head to toe and almost shivering.

“What happened?” Joaquin asked Sam as you tentatively stepped through the sliding door, not wanting to drip too much on this strangers carpet.

“He dropped me in the lake.” Your voice blurted out, completely unamused, shooting daggers at the still newly appointed Captain America.

“Yeah, well, still better that than a 40ft drop onto hard ground.” Sam retorted.

“Or you could have just not dropped me at all?!” You stressed, hands raised in the air, still in complete disbelief over this turn of events. “That’s the last time I’m ever flying with you.” You muttered and you saw Joaquin let out a little chuckle over the situation.

That’s when you really took him in. The guy who Sam sung the praises of. His supposedly best recruit, not that he would actually tell him that.

“Come on, I’ll get you a towel.” Joaquin said, leading you upstairs and to the bathroom.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything I could change into, do you?” You asked him, as he handed you a couple towels.

“Umm, yeah, of course, I’ll just go find you something.”

You didn’t wait for him to return before you whipped off your clothes and immediately jumped in the shower to wash the murky lake water off of you. You were grateful that it was an old tub and shower curtain situation and not one of those see through glass cabinet shower situations, not that it didn’t stop Joaquin from blushing when he came back into the bathroom a few minutes later with some clothes in hand.

“Oh, sorry- I didn’t realise you were- I’ll just leave these- uh- yeah.” He rushed out before quickly shutting the door again.

He hesitated a moment as he stood with his back to the door, his brain fixated on the small glimpse he got of your naked back from behind the shower curtain. He could feel the flush in his cheeks. The smile that threatened his lips. He fought to hide it as he went back down to Sam in the kitchen.

“So who is she?” Joaquin asked as he grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and passed it to Sam before picking up his own previously discarded mug to finish.

“She’s a Danvers.” Sam said, as if the surname alone held a lot of weight, but Joaquin still didn’t bite. “As in Carol Danvers… Captain Marvel.” Sam said, walking him through it slowly until Joaquin’s face began to flicker with recognition. “Carol’s her aunt. Before she became Captain Marvel she was one heck of an Air Force Pilot. Kid saw what her aunt did and decided to pick up the mantle.”

“And she’s good?” Joaquin fished, a flame for the woman upstairs really taking hold as Sam kept adding more fuel to the fire.

“Yeah, she’s fucking great. Best female pilot I’ve ever seen.”

“So you looking to set her up with a pair of wings?” Joaquin asked, even though he had a hint of jealousy to his tone. He enjoyed being the only person other than Sam who had access to the now not so secret military wings, but he also couldn’t deny the new found need to go flying with you on a sunny afternoon and treat you to a picnic on the top of a mountain or something.

“We’ll see.” Sam said sceptically, but Joaquin knew from the way Sam had even brought you to meet him he thought you had what it takes.

“What are you two girls talking about?” You asked as you came striding back into the kitchen in a pair of Joaquin’s joggers and his old air force T-shirt. You were using a towel to squeeze out your hair and Joaquin couldn’t deny you looked right at home in his house, wearing his clothes.

“Lover boy here was grilling me about you.” Sam joked, taking in the way Joaquin looked at you.

“Was he now?” You asked feigning interest and playing up to the little bit in order to embarrass him, but as you sat across from him at the table and really took him in for the first time, you couldn’t deny he was handsome- and if the T-shirt he gave you had anything to say, you definitely had a lot in common to bond over.

“Uh- um- no- I-“ Joaquin began to stutter bashfully.

“It’s all cool dude,” you reassured. “I know he’s just messing. You really shouldn’t let him rile you up like that.”

Joaquin sighed before he leaned in closer to you, “How do you stay so calm around him?” He asked as if Sam wasn’t there and you had all the secrets.

“Eh, when you grew up being told about your badass aunt with actual super powers, some guy in a read white and blue bird costume is nothing.” You joked.

“Hey!” Sam pointed at you, “don’t you dare turn him against me or I’ll drop your ass in the lake again.”

“So you admit it! You did it on purpose.” You said, slamming your hand on the table animatedly.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. What are you gonna do about it?” He asked back, but you didn’t say anything more. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You rolled your eyes at him before fixing them on Joaquin instead as Sam’s phone began to ring. You both turned your eyes on him as he checked the caller ID. “I need to take this.” He said, before getting up and dismissing himself, stepping out the back door to take the call outside.

“Would you like coffee?” Joaquin asked to break up the silence the two of you were left in.

“Umm, yes, that would be great.” You said with a smile and he got up to pour you a cup full from the pot.

“It looks good on you.” He said as he came back over a moment later and handed you the mug.

“What, now?” You said confused.

“Uh, my shirt,” he said with a shrug, as he committed to the statement. “It looks good on you.”

You couldn’t help but blush slightly under his gaze. He was cute and confident and oddly endearing. “Thanks.” You smiled, as he sat himself back down. “I guess I’ll keep it then.” You joked.

“The only way you’re keeping that thing is if you were my girlfriend.” He replied, half as a joke, half as a way of informing you just how much that shirt meant to him.

“Well I guess you better ask me on a date then.” You smirked playfully as he took a sip of his coffee and he almost choked as he spat it back into his cup. But before he could say anymore, Sam came back through the sliding door.

“Alright lovebirds, you can stop having your meet cute moment now, we gotta go,” he said to Joaquin.

“And what about me?” You said indignantly, feeling a little put out.

“He’ll be back in time to take you out on a proper date later.” Sam retorted, marching back through the house to get his shit from where he’d left it by the front door.

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” You asked, completely brushing over the rest of what he’d said. “I don’t even live anywhere near here!” You stressed. “You just brought me here and now you’re gonna up and leave me here!” You said indignantly.

Joaquin froze in the middle of the hallway next to you, looking from his mentor and back to you as he tried to keep up with what’s going on. He felt conflicted. “I mean, can’t she just come with us.” He offered. “I mean, you brought her out here because you wanted to see what she could do. So I say let her.”

Sam looked between the two of you slowly, before he conceded. “Uh, fine. But if anything happens with her it’s on your head.” He warned but you were both smiling.

“So, is this technically our first date?” You ribbed him as he began to usher you out the door so he could lock up.

“We’ll see. Depends if you like it or not.” He mused and you had to admit, his cheeky smile did make you swoon.

“And if I don’t?” You asked with a playful twinkle in your eye.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured you with just as equal playfulness and innuendo, “you will.”

#joaquin torres #Joaquin Torres x reader #joaquin torres imagine #short #fluffy #mcu #falcon #captain america brave new world #captain America #Sam Wilson

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flowersforbucky · 6 days ago

Text

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 ♡

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eclipsedechoesofmywords · 3 months ago

Note

idea for joaquin:

i see alot of sushine x grumpy reader when ppl r writing joaquin fics but pls i need more sunshine x sunshine and its joaquin and reader being literal comedic geniuses on missions and flirting over comms 😫

"Ray Of Sunshine"

[Joaquin Torres x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: You and Joaquin are pains in Sam and Bucky's ass.

Warnings: Mild action violence, relentless flirting, and Sam Wilson contemplating a career change

Word Count: 831 words

A/N: I think we can all agree that bucky and sam are officially parents.

"We should get a team dog," you said, thinking out loud.

Three voices answered you at once through the comms. Two were a chorus of "NO!" The other, "YES!" You decided to focus on the latter.

"A small golden one…" you continued, ducking behind a concrete pillar as gunfire sprayed the warehouse wall behind you.

"We could name it Ray," Joaquin suggested. You could hear his grin.

"Ooh, like a Ray of sunshine!"

Sam's groan was so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of Bucky vaulting over a shipping container to your left. "Focus, both of you," Sam barked, his wings slicing through the air as he disarmed a guard. "We're in the middle of a mission!"

"And we are not getting a dog," Bucky added, firing at a henchman sprinting toward you.

"But imagine the morale boost!" you argued, popping up to toss a smoke grenade. The room flooded with gray haze, and you darted toward the server room, Joaquin's laughter in your ear.

"Picture it, Buck—little Ray, tiny vest, teeny goggles," Joaquin said. You could practically see him miming the dog's outfit with his hands, even though he was three rooms away, hacking into the security system. "He'd be the best at fetch. And espionage."

"Espionage?!" Bucky snapped. A grunt, a thud—probably him body-slamming someone into a wall. "It's a dog."

"Exactly! No one suspects the dog!" you chirped, sliding into the server room and slamming the door shut. "Quin, how's that hack coming?"

"Already in," Joaquin said, smug. "You're welcome."

"Show-off."

"Admit it, that's why you love me."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Less flirting, more focusing," Sam cut in. The Captain America voice dialled up to 'I'm two seconds from drowning you both in a lake.' "Torres, any alarms?"

"Nope. Smooth as butter. Also, you do love me, right sunshine?" He didn't need to ask, he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, typing rapidly on the server's interface. "Keep dreaming, flyboy."

"Oh, I will. Vividly. With plot."

Bucky made a sound like a feral cat. "I'm begging you two to take this seriously."

"We are!" you and Joaquin said in unison, then burst into laughter.

The two of you had turned into an art form really: you'd crack a joke, he'd retort back, and somewhere between the banter and the bullets, the bad guys ended up in a pile, thoroughly confused about how they'd been beaten by a duo who argued about pizza toppings during a car chase.

"Got the files!" you announced, yanking the hard drive free.

"Great! Now get out before backup shows up," Joaquin said. "Also, duck."

You dropped to the floor just as a guard burst through the door, his weapon whirring over your head. Joaquin's voice turned sharp, all playfulness gone. "Three o'clock. Disarm and go."

You spun, sweeping the guard's legs out from under him and snatching his gun. "Thanks."

"Anytime. Now when do we get this dog?"

"NO DOG!" Sam and Bucky shouted in unison.

The second you spotted the scruffy golden retriever trotting through the lot on the way back to the quinjet, you froze. "Uh. Joaquin. Look."

He looked over to where you were pointing. "Is that…?"

"A literal ray of sunshine," you whispered, clutching your chest. The dog wagged its tail.

"No," Sam hissed.

"Yes," you and Joaquin breathed.

"Not a chance!" Bucky said.

But the dog padded toward you, cocking its head, and dropped a muddy stick at your boots. You gasped. "It's fate."

"Sam. SAM. They're adopting a street dog," Bucky deadpanned. "This is your problem now."

Joaquin scooped the retriever into his arms. "C'mon, Cap! Look at…his eyes. He's got the heart of a soldier!"

"Leave. The. Dog." Sam said.

"Too late!" you said cheerfully. "Ray's one of us now!"

By the time they got back to the quinjet, with the dog, Sam's eye twitch had reached apocalyptic levels. Bucky stared at the retriever, now sitting happily on your lap, and muttered, "If it pees on my gear, I'm shaving it bald."

Joaquin bounded down the jet's ramp, helmet off and hair adorably windblown. "He’s so cute, look at him!"

"He looks like a menace," Sam said, though the corner of his mouth quirked up as the dog lolled its tongue at him.

You scratched Ray's ears, batting your lashes at Sam. "C'mon, Cap. Every team needs a mascot. We'll train him! He can fetch grenades!"

"He'll fetch lawsuits," Bucky grumbled.

Joaquin plopped beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "Admit it. You love him."

Sam looked at the dog. At Bucky. At the two of you, grinning like idiots.

"...He's not getting a rank."

You and Joaquin whooped, high-fiving as Ray barked as if in victory.

"But he is writing the mission report," Bucky added, his amusement showing.

Joaquin leaned toward you, whispering, "Worth it."

"Next step: matching outfits," You whispered back.

His smile could've powered a city. "Already designing them."

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supersmashreaderz · 6 months ago

Text

Captain Falcon x Reader -

A Holiday Baking Spectacle

You and Captain Falcon bake Christmas cookies together and it gets a little spicy

(TW: it's a little Suggestive)

Reader is GN!

-----------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen was already bustling with the warmth of the season as you prepped everything for your holiday baking session with Captain Falcon. Bowls, cookie cutters, and festive ingredients lined the counter as you organized the steps to create the perfect batch of gingerbread cookies.

“Falcon!” you called toward the other room. “Are you coming, or am I doing this alone?”

“On my way!” came his booming reply, though he sounded oddly… mischievous.

You didn’t think much of it, continuing to mix the dough until you heard heavy footsteps approaching. Turning around, you were about to ask him to grab the eggs when—

Your jaw dropped.

There he stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, wearing nothing but his usual helmet, an overly festive apron that read "SLEIGH ALL DAY" and… his underwear.

“Ready to bake, babe?” he announced confidently, striking a heroic pose as the apron barely did its job of covering his well-sculpted physique.

“F-Falcon!” you sputtered, completely caught off guard. Your face heated immediately, and you instinctively covered your face with your hands. “What are you wearing?!”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence as he sauntered into the kitchen. “I didn’t want to get my good clothes messy. Plus, this gives me maximum flexibility for cracking eggs and flexing my muscles.”

You peeked through your fingers, and sure enough, Falcon was already flexing his biceps like a performer on stage. Despite your embarrassment, you couldn’t help but laugh—he was so absurdly over-the-top, yet somehow, it worked.

“Alright, alright,” you muttered, shaking your head but unable to hide the amused smile on your face. “Let’s just get started before you turn this into a full-blown show.”

“Too late for that,” he grinned, grabbing the eggs. “Step aside. I’ll show you the true power of precision!”

What followed was possibly the most ridiculous baking session of your life.

Falcon took every opportunity to turn the mundane task into a spectacle. He used his biceps to crack the eggs (a process that was far messier than it needed to be but undeniably impressive). He lifted the mixing bowl over his head like a trophy, spinning it theatrically before placing it back down with a flourish. He even made kneading the dough into an elaborate routine, flexing his muscles dramatically with every press.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, though your laughter betrayed your words.

“But you can’t look away,” he teased, winking at you as he sprinkled flour into the mixture.

He wasn’t wrong. Despite your best efforts, your eyes kept drifting back to the way his apron barely hung onto his frame, the confident smirk on his face, and the playful energy he brought to the kitchen. It was… distracting, to say the least.

“Focus, Falcon,” you tried to scold him, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Oh, I’m focused,” he replied, stepping closer to you with a playful grin. “Are you?”

By the time the cookies were ready to bake, the kitchen was an absolute mess—flour dusted every surface (and both of you), and your cheeks hurt from laughing so much. Falcon leaned against the counter, watching you slide the tray into the oven.

“And now, we wait,” he declared, crossing his arms and smirking.

“Let’s hope they turn out as good as your little performance,” you teased, wiping some flour off your face.

“They’ll be perfect,” he assured you, leaning down slightly so his face was closer to yours. “Just like this moment.”

Despite the chaos, he was right. As absurd as the whole situation had been, it was undeniably fun, and you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

When the cookies finally came out of the oven, they were… surprisingly perfect. You blinked in disbelief as you carefully set the tray down to cool. “Huh. I guess your dramatic antics didn’t ruin them after all.”

“Told you,” Falcon grinned, leaning against the counter with an exaggerated air of victory. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, though the smile on your face betrayed how much you enjoyed his antics. “Alright, Captain. Let’s decorate these cookies before you start flexing again.”

“Too late!” he laughed, flexing his arm as he grabbed the frosting.

The cookies turned out amazing, but the memory of Falcon’s apron-and-underwear spectacle? That was the real holiday treat.

------------------------------------------------------------

Merry Christmas, Readerz!

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nathanbatemanfucker · 3 months ago

Text

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!

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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and for us, it won't be long | joaquin torress x fem!reader | chapter two

summary: you and joaquin can't even order thai food in philly without flirting. a conversation ensues.

warnings: smut (minors dni) tooth-rotting fluff, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, swearing, use of she/her pronouns, one bed trope-adjacent, mentions of food, limited spanish, top gun reference, inappropriate mention of isaiah (poor guy he did not ask for this he's just training the youths of captain america!!), friends to lovers

word count: 5.7k

a/n: omg it's finally here i finally did it! i haven't written a fic in so long so if you're still reading this... thank you for your patience. this one is spicy! these two are yappy overthinkers who are so damn sweet on each other. i don't know how to explain it but... this is who they told me they wanted to be.

read chapter one here

It’s a very serious decision that you have to make—your final dinner selections—one that should never be taken lightly, and the sole reason you’ve found yourself inside of a Thai restaurant bickering like an old married couple.

“So… I say we do an order of egg rolls, a chicken pad thai, a curry, and maybe something else to share? Or is that too much?” you chuckle as you review your order, taking charge of the endless indecision that’s plagued the both of you.

“I think you underestimate just how much I can eat,” Joaquin shoots back, stealing a playful look at the mom and pop restaurant owners that wait, patient smiles plastered to their faces as the two of you fail to make a decision.

“It’s not a competition,” you tease him, side eyeing his flex.

“It won’t kill us if we get two pad thais. It’s kiiiinda my favorite,” he adds, while simultaneously, you interject with a, “Yeah, why not? We can have leftovers.”

“Okay, well, what if we just get one pad thai and then something else, but you can have most of it. I only want a few bites, I promise,” you reason with him, though you can’t promise it’ll be true.

“Bullshit.”

You laugh.

After all this time, he still knows you so well.

“Okay fine. I guess we could double up on pad thais or do you want to get another noodle dish and we’ll still share,” you suggest, bringing up your former idea again, this time expecting some kind of acknowledgement from Joaquin. You send an apologetic look to the restaurant owners—a silent, I’m Sorry—who, you can only imagine, are growing more and more impatient by the minute.

You both wait a beat, thinking it over before simultaneously coming to the conclusion that:

“No you’re right we should do that,” Joaquin agrees with a sigh, admitting defeat.

“No, let's do what you want! You just said pad thai was your favorite,” you concede, in complete harmony with your twin concessions.

You both laugh and the couple who own the restaurant share a knowing look.

“Well, what do you want to do?” you ask with a giggle, your eyes wide as you look to Joaquin. “Nah, you’re right. We should mix it up instead,” Joaquin reiterates, holding his ground.

“You sure?” you question, hesitantly.

“How about we give you all three noodle dishes, plus the curry…” the woman finally interjects, putting you both (and probably her and her husband) out of your misery. “...and a discount for the Falcon.”

“Your service to this country is much appreciated,” her husband adds with a curt, yet reverent nod.

Joaquin grins in response, and you’re not sure whether he’s celebrating his two-chicken-pad-thai win or the fact that he’s been recognized as an Avenger. He thanks both of the restaurant owners with a charming smile, before pulling out his wallet.

“Oh you are not paying!” you protest, panic in your eyes as you move to stop him. “Yes, I am!” he insists, shooting you a look. “At least let me go dutch with-,” you begin.

“Absolutely not!” he scoffs, shrugging your suggestion off like he’s almost offended. “You’re letting me crash with you anyway.”

“Joaquin!” “Oh honey, let the handsome boy pay,” the restaurant owner interjects once again, this time with a wink in Joaquin’s direction, putting yet another debate between you and Joaquin to an end.

“Let him pay,” her husband repeats firmly, his face serious enough to shut you up.

You’re speechless, so instead you let out an exasperated sigh, throwing up your hands in defeat. The couple shares yet another knowing look before tearing your order off of their notepad to give to their kitchen as they talk amongst themselves, switching quickly from English to Thai. You can only assume it means they’re talking about the two of you as they share a laugh, then a pointed look back to you and Joaquin, and you can hardly blame them. You’ve sure put them through it in the five minutes you and Joaquin have been here.

“Did you put them up to this?” you ask in disbelief, launching your mostly-joking accusation at your friend.

“Oh yeah. They’re paid actors,” he replies quickly, the wittiness and smugness evident on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest.

You scoff with a playful eye roll, trying your best to ignore how a familiar warmth fills you. You’ve missed Joaquin’s flirty banter, something that had always been there between the two of you, but never acknowledged. All these years you’d kept your distance, certain that you’d be a terrible army wife. You knew you’d be no good, sitting at home waiting for your husband to return from his deployment, and Joaquin had been intent on enlisting when the two of you graduated high school.

You wonder if it’s the only thing that held you back from ever taking your friendship with Joaquin any further. Not that anything has changed… he’s still active duty… and now he’s an Avenger. But after his accident, you’ve questioned your own stubbornness, unable to deny just how much his near-death experience scared the shit out of you.

The Thai takeout has been demolished, what’s left of it stored away in the fridge hours ago. You’re half asleep when the credits music of Matrix Reloaded—Joaquin’s request—wakes you. You blink your eyes open to see Joaquin half asleep on the other end of the couch, his feet kicked up, legs stretched out across the length of your incredibly comfy couch.

“Hey doofus. We fell asleep,” you whisper, nudging his leg with yours.

Joaquin groans, slowly beginning to blink his eyes open. His heart skips a beat as he wakes to you, making note of the fact that he really likes it.

“So much for our Matrix marathon,” he mumbles, sitting up a little taller from where he’s curled up on the couch.

“You should take the bed,” you suggest softly, noticing the way he shifts uncomfortably.

It hasn’t been that many weeks since getting out of the hospital. It makes the most sense and you don’t mind sleeping on the couch for a few nights.

“No, I’m fine. Really,” he brushes off the notion. “I just-. Well, you’re still technically recovering and-.” you begin making a case for your suggestion.

“But the couch is really comfy!” he grins, trying a little harder to convince you. “It is a comfy couch but I still think you should take the bed,” you reply, firmly.

Joaquin searches your expression for any kind of retreat, realizing that you’ve clearly made up your mind. And he knows what that means.

Once you’ve made up your mind, there’s no changing it.

But he doesn’t love the idea of kicking you out of your own bed either.

“Why don’t we just go halfsies?” He suggests so casually, as if he’s suggesting the two of you split the bill he insisted on paying earlier. “Not like we haven’t shared a bed before. Doesn’t have to be a big deal or anything.” “You do have a point,” you drag out slowly, your breath catching your throat. But you know you’re going to have to sell it better. “Right, yeah. No big deal.”

He’s technically right. You’d had plenty of sleepovers as kids, and had spent many a class overnight field trips in sleeping bags next to each other.

“Just like last time,” Joaquin adds, caution in his voice this time.

Last time.

“Last time” had started the way they always do. After returning from the blip, you and Joaquin reconnected and had gone out to catch up, dancing into the early hours of the morning, fueled by a few too many tequila sodas in downtown Miami. It was a night to remember—except for the parts you’re not sure he does.

You’re not even sure you remember correctly.

You remember the next morning, waking up in the same bed as Joaquin, and having to explain to both sets of your parents that you’d both had a little too much to drink and crashed at Joaquin’s because it was safer than going home.

It was harmless.

Just a night of fun and old friends after five years of being gone.

Nothing happened, you both insisted, much to the unconvinced looks on both of your mothers.

Except… if you remember correctly… there was a kiss.

A few kisses, actually.

But you’d never talked about it and both you and Joaquin had been drunk, so you assumed it wasn’t worth talking about, an event of the night swept under the rug so seamlessly you figured it clearly hadn’t mattered to either of you.

“Right yeah. We should… share the bed. Totally makes sense,” you finally agree, plastering a fake smile on your face like you haven’t just had a mini-existential crisis.

“What?” Joaquin asks, searching your face for a reason you’re suddenly acting so weird.

“Nothing,” you’re too quick to defend. “That’s not a nothin’ face,” he points out, unconvinced. “I-, it’s nothing!” you shrug, your voice higher in pitch, telegraphing that it really is okay. “No, what’s up?”Joaquin asks, this time much more concerned as he begins to back off his suggestions. “I don’t have to share the bed if you-.”

Had he pushed too far? Should he not have brought it up?

“Joaquin, it’s fine, it’s just-.” you interrupt, wishing you had just done a better job lying in the first place.

Joaquin chuckles, “You’re a terrible liar. You know that?”

You roll your eyes, because you love and also hate how easily he recognizes the look on your face.

“I-,” you start, giving yourself one last chance to back out of telling him the truth. But you know there’s no use. He already knows something’s up.

“It’s just-. Well last time…. Listen, it wasn’t a big deal or anything, and we were really drunk and I had just gotten back after being gone for five years so there’s that but-,” you stammer out, tripping over how awkward and uncomfortable this conversation is about to be.

He waits patiently, a softness in his eyes that lets you know that whatever’s on your mind is okay to share.

“I take it you don’t remember…” you sigh with a nod.

It’s not like you’d been holding out for him to bring it up, that you thought he’d been holding on to the memory ever since, just waiting for the right time to confess his love, but you’re surprised to find yourself disappointed as you accept that he really must’ve not remembered.

“...Well, there was sort of… a kiss between us. That night. You know. Last time.”

“Oh, uh,” Joaquin begins hesitantly, wanting to tread as carefully as possible. “I uh. Yeah I-, I know.”

Oh.

I know?!

Your heart skips a beat.

It’s not exactly the reaction you were expecting.

“Wh-?” you begin to ask, caught off guard by his admission. “I-, I didn’t think you remembered.” “I didn’t know if you wanted me to,” he admits, earnestly.

You have to stop yourself from letting out a laugh.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, a laugh following as you feel a warmth in your cheeks.

“I-. You didn’t say anything the morning after and, like you said, we had both been drinking the night before so… I don’t know. I didn’t say anything because you didn’t,” Joaquin explains, almost shyly, catching you off guard even further.

It’s your turn this time to say:

“Oh,”

“Yeah,” he lets out a sigh. His eyes nervously search yours, trying to get a read on you.

“Listen, this doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’s-, it’s not a big deal!” you deny, trying your best to get things back on track. “I think I just… I don’t even know why I brought it up. Maybe just so it wasn’t awkward when we-. You know. Address the elephant in the room and get it out of the way, you know?

You know you’re rambling, but it’s as if your mouth’s run away from you and taken on a mind of its own. “But…” Joaquin trails off, as he decides to tumble off this cliff with you, uncertain whether the risk will pay off. “... doesn’t it feel like it? I mean, this feels weird, right?”

You take a breath.

A beat.

“A little,” you admit quietly, as the two of you exchange nervous laughter.

Yeah. A little, being an understatement.

You try your best to gauge any kind of reaction from Joaquin, wondering why the tension between you feels so charged, especially considering how many times you’ve insisted that this was so not a big deal.

An idea crosses your mind, and you think you might be going insane, but you’re not sure you can fall asleep feeling this weird about things.

“Okay, well, before we jump into my bed together… I think we should… resolve this,” you begin, deciding to take charge.

“What do you mean?” Joaquin asks, hesitantly.

“I-. I don’t know. It doesn't seem like talking about it is getting us anywhere. And… well, shit. I brought it up in the first place so. Sorry for that,” you continue to ramble on nervously. You take a deep breath before suggesting what you think might be a terrible, terrible idea.

“Maybe we should just… get this out of our systems? So we can prove to ourselves that it’s totally not weird at all and just… not even a big deal.”

Joaquin processes, going over and over in his head what he thinks you’re trying to say. “You mean… kiss again?” he finally asks, a hope in his eyes he prays isn’t too goddamn obvious. “Maybe. Yeah. I don’t know. What do you think?” you ask, shakily.

A beat.

“Fuck it. This is a terrible idea and I-,” you begin to backtrack, shaking off how silly that way.

“No, it’s not!” Joaquin is quick to interject, inching a little closer. “But… I mean. You sure?”

You nod slowly, contemplating what you’re agreeing to, before finally deciding on:

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” You both exchange nervous laughs, before shifting just a little closer to each other. “So should we just-, I mean are supposed to just-,” you giggle, awkwardly, gesturing towards the man.

Why was this so weird?

Joaquin grins, another small laugh falling out of his mouth as he leans in closer to you.

“Oh my god! Joaquin, what’re you doing?” you gasp, your voice quiet as his lips are inches away from yours, as if this weren’t your idea.

“Well, you said we should just go for it,” he teases gently, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I know but. It’s weird. This is-, it’s weird, right?!,” you giggle again. It’s as if your mind wants to pull away, but your body betrays you, as your heart skips a beat, reminding you to learn forward this time too.

“Mhmm,” he hums, with an aplomb you certainly do not have. He lowers his voice, and almost as if he’s warning you, he adds, “I’m gonna kiss you now.” You nod, just a little, before replying with:

“Okay.”

He chuckles.

“Okay.”

Joaquin takes his time, almost teasingly, before brushing his lips against yours. You’re taken by surprise by the fact that it doesn’t feel like enough. He pulls back just enough, before pressing his lips to your with full force this time. You inhale him, this moment, and the feeling that everything is about to change as you kiss him back, meeting him just as deeply as he’s met you.

It’s not like you’d never wondered what this would feel like, but thinking about kissing Joaquin had just a thing of your childhood fantasies—something you’d thought you’d long forgotten. The way his lips move against yours feels like the fucking Fourth of July, explosions going off in and outside of you.

“Joaquin?” you murmur against his lips, hanging onto the last threads of self-control you have (which, you think should come with a gold medal, considering especially the way he’s kissing you right now).

“Hmmmm?” he hums against you, his hand coming up to cup your face, with no intention of stopping any time soon.

“Yeah, so this kinda feels like a big deal,” you reply, in between kisses. “Uh huh,” he sounds in response, before sucking on your top lip. You gasp, more than happy to keep going, but he wants to make sure you feel the same.

Joaquin pulls away just momentarily, his hand still cradling your face. He’s inches away from you once again, his gaze matching the seriousness of his tone as he asks, “We don’t have to keep going. If you don’t want to. We can stop.”

“No!” you practically cry out, eliciting a small chuckle from his lips. The ones you very much wish to be kissing again.

“Dimelo. Tell me what you want,” he says softly, and you’ve never felt safer with anyone. You’re actually not sure how you’ve managed to keep it together, ready to melt off of the couch and into his arms. “You wanna keep going?”

“Uh huh,” you nod, this time closing the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips against his. “I wanna keep going.”

So much for this not being a big deal.

He takes your ‘yes’ as a sign to keep kissing you, as you shift for your body to face his. You’re wrapping your arms around his neck, and he’s licking into your mouth so that his tongue can tangle with yours, the two of you surrender to whatever this thing is between the two of you. It’s as if you can’t get close enough to him. His hands are cautious, his fingertips grazing your arms, before hesitantly trailing his hands over your waist. You lean into him, wanting to be even closer, and on your cue, Joaquin pulls you onto his lap. With your knees on either side of his hips, you straddle him, pressing your body to his chest as his tongue teases yours.

You pull away, only for a moment, your eyes telling him that you need to explore more of him. You begin to kiss along his jaw, then down to his neck, leaving kisses along the column of his throat. As you begin to travel outwards, you notice the scarring along the back of his neck and shoulders from the accident, surprised at how quickly the skin has healed.

It’s gotta be some kind of super-medicine, you think to yourself.

His eyes search yours as if to ask, Is it okay?

His scars, he means.

You begin to kiss along the tops of his shoulders, his collarbone, and where his shoulder meets his neck, as if to reply:

They’re beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

It’s more tender than you’re ready for, caught up by surprise by the moment, so you lift your head, meeting his lips once more. Joaquin’s hands are less cautious this time, pressing you against him as you wrap your arms around his neck, continuing the passionate makeout.

Holy shit.

You’re making out with your childhood sweetheart.

The one you swore you’d never date.

But right now, you could care less, because he feels too good, and he kisses you like you’re his favorite thing. It’s all soft sighs, gentle hums that turn into moans, and hands all over. You could really lose yourself in this as you feel Joaquin’s hips buck up into yours, causing you to let out a moan.

“Joaquin, wait,” you pant, using all the willpower you have left in you at this moment, as you break the hot and heavy makeout session that’s gone on between you.

Because it feels too good.

And because you want this to go where you think it’s going.

“If we keep going… this-, we- we can’t unring this bell,” you pause, your eyes searching his for confirmation that he wants this just as much as you do.

“I don’t wanna,” he replies, with the utmost sincerity and admiration in the way he looks at you. “I don’t wanna unring the bell. No take backs.”

You giggle with a nod, “Okay. No take backs.”

It’s innocent and hot all at once. He pulls you back into him, his kiss tender as he smiles against your lips.

“Hold on,” he rasps, his order direct and sure.

Before you know it, he’s standing up, and you’re clinging to his strong form with your legs and your arms letting out a laugh as soon as you realize what’s happening.

“So does this mean you wanna share the bed or-?” he teases you, knowing very well that that’s your only plan for tonight.

You chuckle in response, shaking your head, “Take me to bed or lose me forever, Torres.”

“I love that movie,” he smiles. “I know you do,” you smile back.

“But I mean it. Take me to bed, baby.”

Baby.

He likes the way it sounds on your lips, and he likes the fact that it’s you calling ‘baby’ even more.

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, as you hold onto his body, feeling every step towards your bedroom.

You’re grateful for once, that your apartment isn’t that large, as Joaquin reaches your bed before you know. He lays you down gently, hovering over you as he removes his shirt.

“Oh my god!” you gasp, as he approaches the bed, this time shirtless. You cannot get your hands on him fast enough, feeling each plane of his superhero body against your hot, hot hands. “Please remind me to thank your personal trainer.”

“Oh that’s Isaiah. He-,” Joaquin begins to explain, smirking as you chase his lips.

“I really don’t want to think about Isaiah right now,” you interrupt him, taking your shirt off for good measure.

Joaquin is on you in seconds, kissing you like he’s kissed you a million times before. Were you really going to do this? Were you about to have sex with your best friend?

Before you can overthink it, Joaquin begins to leave kisses down your neck, returning the favor from earlier. His hot, wet mouth feels incredible, and all you can do is feel every single nerve ending in your body ablaze. You moan as he nibbles on the sensitive skin just below your collarbone, and you can feel him smile against your skin. He takes his time, making his way to the very top of the bralette you wear, leaving delicate kisses as he looks up at you.

“May I?” he asks.

He’s met with an eager nod from you, his large hands coming up to pull the fabric down, just enough to expose your breast to him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he sighs out.

Before you can respond, he’s wrapped his mouth around the peak of your breast, and you’re crying out in response.

“Oh my God, Joaquin,” you sigh, feeling the way his tongue begins to circle your nipple.

This is so not how you expected this evening to go, but you let yourself enjoy it anyway. Joaquin makes his way over to your other breast, giving it the same attention and reverence as the former.

As he pulls away, you’re practically tearing the bralette over your head and onto the floor, tossed somewhere you won’t worry about till tomorrow morning. Joaquin’s mouth is on yours for a brief, smacking kiss, then he’s making his way down your body again, allowing your mind to wonder what else he can do with his mouth.

You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Before you know it, he’s removing your PJ shorts and panties, and leaving teasing kisses along your inner thighs.

“Fuck, you’re wet, baby,” he practically moans as he gets closer to where you need him.

“Hmmmm, yeah. Well, someone likes to tease,” you let out on an exhale, unsure of how you’re able to make a joke at a time like this. “You want my mouth? That it?” he asks you, nibbling on the soft skin.

You moan, your hands tangling themselves in the thick locks at the back of his head.

“Yes, baby. I want your mouth. Please.”

Please.

He never thought a word could sound so sweet, but coming from you, here, between your legs, as he’s wound you up enough to make you beg him? He’s lost all shreds of self-control he has left, unable to deny you nor him any longer.

You cry out as soon as you feel the warmth of his mouth on you, parting you open with his tongue.

“So wet,” you hear him groan into you before beginning to devour you.

His tongue is everywhere, licking broad stripes up to your clit, drawing abstract shapes like he’s Matisse, then dipping into you over and over again. It’s not until he slides a finger, and then two into you, his tongue focusing on your clit, that your pants of pleasure have turned into a string of moans.

“Holy fuck, Joaquin!” you cry out.

“I think I’m gonna-,” you stammer out, feeling the coil inside of you ready to snap. “Don’t stop, babe. Please. Fuck. I’m gonna come.”

He’s relentless, his tongue on your clit and his fingers inside of you, bringing you up and over your peak till you break like a wave. Joaquin takes his time, slowing down the ministrations of his mouth while he cleans you up with his tongue.

“How was that?” Joaquin asks, a mischievous smirk on his face as he stares up at you from between your legs. You look just as wrecked as you sound, and he can’t help but feel accomplished.

You let out a laugh, “Holy shit. Was the screaming of your name not enough?”

His smirk turns into a grin, and he’s moving up to kiss you as he answers, “I think I could hear it again.” You can taste yourself on his lips as you kiss him back.

“Then you’re gonna have to make me come like that again,” you’re quick to parry back, as if it’s a challenge.

“I think that can be arranged,” he replies. “You have condoms?” “Mhm,” you reply, before sitting up.

You promise you’ll be right back, and anything said after that is lost on him as he watches your naked body move around the room. As you return to him from your quick trip to your nightstand, condom in hand, he can’t get over how beautiful you are.

“Looks we still gotta get you naked. And do not bring up your personal trainer again, my God,” you groan, earning a laugh from him. You place the condom down on the bed beside you, before pulling Joaquin towards you.

He kneels on the bed, his knees on either side of your legs as he begins to pull his sweatpants down. You’re not sure if you’re nervous or excited to see him completely naked as your heart flutters. Joaquin clumsily makes his way out of his sweatpants, the two of you exchanging nervous laughs, before he’s kneeling over you again, completely naked.

He’s thick, and just long enough that you’re glad you’ve had a solid night of foreplay so far. You reach for the condom, handing it to him. Freeing up your hands, he takes it, and you slide one hand around his cock because you just have to feel it.

Joaquin hisses in response, shooting you a warning look.

You giggle, allowing him to slide the condom on first, before returning to you.

“We don’t have to-, you know. Right away. We can do some more of this,” he says, as he kisses you, slipping a hand between your legs.

It’s insane how your legs fall open for him without hesitation. You moan as he drags his index finger along your heat, earning a soft moan from. You allow him to tease you for just a little longer, the kisses shared between the two of you are long, patient, and passionate.

This is it. The point of no return.

As if he can read your mind, he slots himself between your legs, and you’re making room for him instinctively.

“You sure?” he asks you, almost as if he’s giving you one last time to back out.

“I’m sure,” you answer confidently, this time, reaching down between your bodies to line him up with you.

Joaquin hisses once more, the feeling too good as you drag the tip of his latex-covered cock up and down your sex.

“Baby, please,” you say, as if you know they’re the magic words.

“Oh my god,” Joaquin groans, because he can’t take it anymore.

Slowly, he pushes just the tip in, the two of you moan at first contact. He pulls away just enough, before pushing in again, deeper this time. It goes on like this, each thrust bringing him deeper into you till he’s full seated inside of you. Joaquin pauses, allowing the two of you just to feel. You breathe each other in before he kisses you with a passion and fervor that takes your breath away.

Joaquin begins to move his hips, giving you a few experimental thrusts.

“Feels so good. You feel so fucking good,” he whispers in between kisses.

“You feel good too, ‘Quin,” you whine, as he begins to pick up the pace.

You cry out, because you can feel him so deep, and because he feels so goddamn hard and so goddamn good inside of you. It’s as if your bodies take over, and before you know it, Joaquin’s fucking you into the mattress, pressing your hands above your head, tangling his fingers with yours, and making you come on his cock for the very first time.

He watches you come down from your high, and he thinks he could do this forever, because you’re so damn beautiful when you come. There’s something about it—knowing it’s him that’s making you feel this way—that makes you feel this good.

“Switch with me,” you order, pulling him from his thoughts.

“What?”

“Let me get on top.”

He must have the dopiest smile on his face as he does, laying back against the mattress and watching you crawl on top of him.

This can’t be real.

Could this be real?

It feels really fucking real as he feels you slide down over him, your head thrown back in pleasure, taking him inch by inch.

“Dios mio, baby,” he sighs, his hands moving instinctively to your hips as you ride him.

He lets you set the pace, moving your hips slowly at first, settling into a rhythm as he admires your naked body. From the way you tangle your hands in your hair, the way your breasts bounce as you ride him, the way your hips swivel every few thrusts, he’s never seen a more magnificent sight. You take your time, just enjoying this, enjoying each other, with no rush or care in the world.

Joaquin can’t take his eyes off of you.

It’s just you and him and the way you feel.

With one hand on his chest, your back arched, your hips working up to a feverish pace, you can feel yourself on the verge again. He feels too good: Joaquin, your childhood best friend, the one that, just hours earlier, you thought would forever just be your friend. But now that you know how he kisses, what his tongue feels like, what his cock feels like, there’s absolutely not going back.

You let out another moan, an offering to the gods, because all you want is more, more, more.

“Holy shit! Why didn’t we do this sooner?” you gasp, the pace of your hips quick, chasing your high. “You said you didn’t want to be an army wife,” he pants in return, his thrusts meeting yours.

“Well, I’m currently reconsidering because-. Oh fuck!” you cry out, and you know you’ll have to bake apology muffins for your neighbors later this week.

There it is. It’s there.

You’re so close.

You can feel it.

“If you’re still talking, I don’t think I’m fucking you good enough,” Joaquin teases you.

“Well then, put your money where your mouth is, Torres, and make me cum.”

It’s meant to sound like a challenge, but you wonder if it just comes out as desperate as you feel.

Joaquin pauses, and before you can complain, you feel him shift so that he’s sitting upright. You both moan as she sinks just a little deeper. He kisses you deeply, his thrusts starting out slow before quickly moving to something with much more intention. He knows exactly what he wants from you.

With your face buried in his neck, he’s set a blistering pace, and you’re meeting him thrust for thrust. He really meant it when he said he’s fuck you even better.

“Fuck. Yes. Right there, right there, right there. Oh my god,” you shout into his neck as he hits that spot inside of you.

“I’m not gonna last long,” Joaquin grits out, and you can tell how much he’s holding back. “With you squeezing me like that. Fuck.”

“Then don’t,” you beg him, before your orgasm takes over you one last time. “I want you to come, baby.”

All you can do is hold on, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, moaning into his neck as you come again. He fucks you through it, his thrusts getting more erratic and sloppy with each one. It’s the way you pulse around him, how tight you’re squeezing him, milking all remnants of self control he has left that brings him to his high. Joaquin follows shortly after, because you just feel too good coming on his cock.

He comes with a strangled moan, stars exploding behind his eyes, followed by sharp pants as he tries to catch his breath.

You stay like this for what feels like forever, and not long enough.

“Holy shit,” you say, lifting your head to look at him.

“Uh… yeah,” Joaquin breathes, as the two of you share a smile. You leave gentle kisses along his shoulder as the two of you breathe together, enjoying your last moments like this. “Just uh, give me a second.”

You nod, careful as you let him slip out of you, allowing the both of you to collapse on your backs.

“So…” Joaquin drags out, looking over at you. “Still think we should share the bed?”

You laugh, pressing your lips together before answering with:

“You’ll be lucky if I let you out of this bed this weekend, Torres.”

“Mmmm I think I like the sound of that,” he grins, rolling over onto his side.

“Me too.”

#joaquin torres x reader #captain america brave new world #danny ramirez #joaquin torres #marvel mcu #mcu fandom #marvel fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #the falcon #the new falcon #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres smut

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fireinmoonshot · 4 months ago

Text

soft hearted | joaquin torres x fem! reader

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: You're not the type of person to go clubbing – but Joaquin is pretty good at convincing you to come along with him when he goes. Yet, when an interaction with another man at the club goes badly, Joaquin is there to pick up the pieces and make sure you're okay. Warnings: Mentions of drinking/clubbing/eating/food as well as a guy at the club being creepy and physically grabbing the readers wrist, causing a bruise. Word Count: 4.1k A/N: Here I am with another Joaquin fic! I really love how this one turned out. I honestly wrote it just this afternoon in a few hours, I started it and I couldn't stop working on it. I'm really happy with it so I hope those of you who read it enjoy it, even though it's longer than my last Joaquin fic! Please let me know if you liked it and if you'd like to read more Joaquin from me! 💗

“Did I ever say thank you for coming out with us tonight?” Joaquin says, placing a hand on the small of your back to help guide you as the two of you make your way through the crowd, heading back to your booth where your friends are waiting for their drinks.

He’s been texting you all day trying to convince you to join them tonight – but you are the one member of your friendship group that isn’t into partying and clubbing. It’s always difficult to convince you to leave your house once you’re there.

It never stops Joaquin from trying though. He always enjoys clubbing more when you come out with them. Even just being in your presence is something he loves – whether he’s at a club or anywhere else.

“Oh, just about ten times,” you flash him a grin, trying to avoid bumping into anyone and spilling the drinks. Your friends had been waiting long enough considering how busy the club was.

Joaquin laughs, the sound audible above the loud music in the bar. It’s a familiar sound and one that instantly comforts you despite your unease at being in such a crowded place. “Definitely room for me to improve, then, angel. What do you think?”

“I think, pretty boy, that you could probably benefit from inviting me out somewhere other than a packed club sometimes, simply so I can talk to you without having to yell!” You joke, flashing him a look as you finally get back to the booth where your friends are waiting, placing the tray with all of their drinks on it on the table. They all take their drinks, yelling thank you’s at you and Joaquin as you take your seats again.

“You guys made it!” One of your friends, Cruz, yells out at the both of you.

Joaquin meets your eyes from across the table with a grimace. Cruz is incredibly drunk by the sound of his slurred voice. Joaquin is only a few drinks deep and he’s nowhere near as far gone as Cruz is. You both share an amused smile as Joaquin takes a swig of his beer.

Clubs are not your thing, never have been. It just so happens that you’ve befriended several people that love them – Joaquin being quite the enthusiast. He’s dragged you out to many clubs over the city in the time since you’ve known him. If it were anyone else, you were pretty sure you never would’ve gone… but with Joaquin, you don’t mind it. His presence is comforting, even in such a busy and chaotic atmosphere.

Joaquin is the kind of guy that all the girls and guys in clubs like these like, and on nights like this, you can understand why. The way he looks, a smile on his face as he laughs at something one of your friends says, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead from the warm air. He’s effortlessly attractive to anyone that looks at him. He’s so comfortable here. You’ve always found Joaquin attractive, but even you can admit that he looks even more attractive when he’s in a place like this – if that’s even possible.

You take a long sip of your drink – water, having decided early in the night that you were gonna be the designated driver for your friends so that they could all enjoy their night properly.

“I’m just going to the bathroom, okay?” You lean into your friend, Katy, sitting beside you to tell her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll take my phone with me if you need me!”

She nods, a little pre-occupied in a conversation with the guy beside her – someone she’d met earlier in the night at the club and had been with you guys ever since. Your eyes fall on Joaquin briefly, still laughing at something he’d heard, as you stand from the booth.

It’s difficult to make your way through the crowd without Joaquin guiding you, making you feel safe with his hands on you, but you manage. When you see the door to the bathrooms you almost let out a sigh of relief. They’re empty when you finally make your way inside – another relief. Girls at clubs can be nice, but they can also be the entire opposite and it’s nice to have a moment completely to yourself to have a second to breathe.

Once you’re done, you take another long breath before leaving the bathroom, preparing yourself for the walk back through the crowd of people dancing so you can get back to your friends. You walk past the bar first, finding it to be a little less crowded than the dance floor.

It’s louder over this side of the room, the music thudding and thumping since you’re closer to the speakers. It’s probably the reason you don’t hear the voice of someone beside you at the bar trying to talk to you as you attempt to make your way past. You only realise when a hand grabs your wrist, tugging you backwards. You stumble a little, bracing yourself on the edge of the bar, eyes falling on a light haired man sitting on a stool at the bar. The way he’s looking at you already makes you feel uneasy.

“Do you often ignore people who are trying to talk to you, honey?” He says, voice raised enough for you to be able to hear him.

“I’m sorry?” You furrow your eyebrows. “If you said something before, I didn’t hear it. It’s pretty loud in here.” You point towards the roof of the bar where the speakers are.

He laughs, a sound completely opposite to the sound of Joaquin’s earlier. This mans laugh immediately unsettles you and if he wasn’t still holding onto your wrist, you would be gone. But he has an uncomfortably tight grip on it and you doubt he’s planning to let go.

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffs, then picks up his drink and takes a long sip of it. “Listen, I don’t appreciate being ignored, okay? I put myself out there to talk to you, so I’d appreciate it if you gave me the same energy in return.”

You swallow, heart in your throat, and attempt to take a deep breath. This is not good. Why had you gone to the bathroom by yourself? Especially on such a busy night in a busy club.

“Okay,” you start. “If you let go of my wrist, I’ll sit down here and we can talk for a bit.” You figure it can’t hurt to try and bargain with him, even though you have every intention of trying to get as far away from him as quickly as possible when he lets go.

“How can I be sure you won’t run away? Nah, I don’t think I will let go.” He adjusts his grip on your wrist, pulling you a little closer to him. Your heart starts beating faster as the fear starts to set in.

You risk a glance across the bar in the direction of your friends booth and feel your stomach drop as you realise you can’t see them from here, meaning they can’t see you either. Surely Katy would notice that you hadn’t come back yet and would come looking for you… you aren’t too far away from the bathrooms, so there’s a chance she’d see you on her way… but you know that she’s too occupied with her new man to come looking for you.

This is why you don’t like coming out. This is why you always say no when Joaquin or your other friends ask you to come out with them. And the one time you say yes, this is what happens. You should’ve told Joaquin where you were going as well but you figured it’d be okay – it was just a quick trip to the bathroom, what could go wrong?

Panic starts to rise in your stomach and you try your best to push it down and not let it get the better of you. You know you need to keep yourself calm in a situation like this, especially around a man like this, or things can go south quickly.

“I promise I won’t run away,” you lie, trying not to let your nerves come through in your tone of voice. “But you’re actually really hurting me right now, so I’d appreciate if you let me go. Can we make a deal? I won’t run and you’ll let go.”

You can tell by the look in the mans eyes that he isn’t going to give up this easily. The longer he keeps holding your wrist, the more your breathing starts to get heavier. How can you get out of this situation when he’s not willing to make this deal with you?

A hand gently lands on your lower back and you flinch, just as you hear a soft voice in your ear. “It’s just me, you’re okay,” Joaquin whispers, calming you immediately.

It’s impossible not to let out a breath of relief as your eyes fall on him. He’d come after you. He’d noticed you were gone or Katy had told him you hadn’t come back yet. He’s here. You’re not alone with this man and you know Joaquin isn’t going to leave you.

Joaquin’s hand gently rubs up and down on your back.

“What you’re gonna do right now is let go of the ladies wrist,” he says simply.

You watch as the mans eyes flicker towards Joaquin but then fall back on you, his grip still tight around your wrist. You attempt to step a little closer to Joaquin but it’s impossible to move with him still holding onto you.

“Hey! Eyes over here, man. Not on her.”

The man sighs. “Listen, man–”

“No, you listen to me,” Joaquin steps in-between you and the man, his voice forceful and loud above the music. “What you are going to do right now is let go of her wrist or I am going to break yours right here, right now. And that won’t be all I break either.”

“Okay, sure. You definitely look strong enough to do that, pal,” he scoffs.

You inwardly wince. You know Joaquin is strong enough to do that and worse. He’s a Captain in the Air Force and he’s The Falcon. You’re pretty certain that he could inflict a lot more damage than a broken wrist.

“You wanna find out?” Joaquin asks.

The look on Joaquin’s face must be intimidating because the man finally relinquishes his hold on your wrist. You immediately wrap your other hand around your wrist, holding it to your chest and trying to ignore the pain throbbing through it from his grip.

The man throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes before standing and walking away, further into the crowd of people. Before he’s even disappeared from your view, Joaquin has turned around, his hands moving to take your arm and carefully examine your wrist.

“It’s already starting to bruise… that bastard,” he mutters, his eyes dark. You can hear every word despite the loud music around you simply because of how close he’s moved into your space. “You okay? I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I only just noticed you were gone a few minutes ago and Katy mentioned something about the bathroom so I went there straight away but I couldn’t find you.”

The fear and panic in your stomach has gone, now replaced by nausea. You can feel yourself starting to shake, the adrenaline of everything starting to wear off. “Can you take me home?”

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around your waist, hold you close and leading you out of the bar. He figures he’ll just text your friends once you’re both safely in a cab to tell them where you’d both gone – that and he’s a little annoyed at Katy for letting you go to the bathroom alone. He’s annoyed at himself for not noticing sooner that you’d disappeared.

“I’d drive you home myself but I’ve been drinking, angel,” Joaquin says as the two of you wait for a cab on the sidewalk just up the street from the club. His arm is still wrapped around your waist, holding you close. It’s comforting to you, helping you to remember that he’s still there beside you, not going anywhere. “My place is closer, but we can go to yours if you feel up for a longer cab ride.”

You shake your head. “Your place is fine.” You’ve stayed over at his apartment before, several times, both alone and with other friends. His bed is much more comfortable than your own, you’ve learned, since he never lets you sleep on the couch.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing your back gently as the cab pulls up in front of you.

He lets you in first before sitting beside you and telling the cab driver his address. One of his hands holds yours, his thumb gently sweeping back and forth over your skin in an attempt to help calm you down. He can see how uneasy you still feel after it all. Why had he not gotten to you sooner? Not realised you were missing sooner?

The cab ride back to his apartment is silent, as is the elevator ride up to his floor. You wait beside him, arms crossed over your chest as he unlocks his front door and lets you inside first.

“You wanna shower or something?” He asks, closing the door behind you.

“Yeah, I think that’d help,” your voice is small. The sound of it makes Joaquin’s heart hurt.

“You remember where I keep my clothes? You can help yourself, angel.”

You nod, reaching over to gently squeeze his hand again before heading towards his bedroom to get some of his clothes to change into before heading into the bathroom just off of his bedroom.

While you shower, Joaquin kicks off his shoes, steps into the kitchen and starts working on making you something to eat. Something warm, something comforting. He’s become a pretty decent cook over the past few years and cooking for you is one of his favourite things to do. He’s always inviting you over for dinner, which is exactly the reason why you know where he keeps his clothes – you eat, you stay late talking, Joaquin refuses to let you go home when it’s so late at night and he has a perfectly comfortable bed.

His heart almost stops in his chest as he sees you walking out of the bathroom, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and a shirt. “I know I’ve said this before, angel, but you look damn good in my clothes,” he flashes you a grin.

You teasingly roll your eyes at him as you walk into the kitchen, arms crossed over your chest as you try and suss out what he’s cooking you. “Bet you say that to all the friends you let stay over and borrow your clothes, Torres.”

Joaquin snorts. “Bold of you to assume I have other friends staying over.”

He doesn’t. Even out of your friendship group, you are the only person who’s stayed over in the last several months and especially the only person he’s let sleep in his bed and borrow his clothes. He’s not willing to admit to himself what that really means. Not yet.

“What are you cooking?” You ask, peeking inside the pot on the stove.

“Pozole,” he says, coming up beside you, his hand resting on the small of your back. He’s apparently incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he’s worried about you. “It won’t be ready for another hour and a half at least, but I figured cooking you something comforting and warm might be nice. I was already gonna cook it for dinner this week so I had everything in the fridge ready to go.”

“Joaquin, you didn’t have to do that,” you glance over at him. “Really, I would’ve been fine with a cup of tea or a pack of cup noodles. And it’s so late.” You mean it honestly, even though the fact that he’s been prepping everything for this while you were showering sits heavy and meaningful in your stomach. No one ever does things like this for you… except Joaquin.

He shrugs his shoulders and moves away from the stove, hands on your waist so that you move with him. He directs you over to the couch, waiting till you sit down before he puts a blanket in your lap and attempts – badly – to tuck you in.

“What are you doing?” You can’t help but laugh.

“You are gonna sit here for the next hour and a half, till the pozole is ready, put on a movie or something, and just try and relax. And I am gonna sit beside you, once I get changed out of these sweaty ass clothes,” he says, standing back up straight. “I’ll be two minutes, angel!” He calls out, hurrying away from you towards his bedroom.

You smile to yourself as you grab the remote to the TV and try your best to curl up under the blanket. It’s amusing, how quickly things can change. An hour ago, you were in the club with Joaquin, who was having the time of his life, and now here you are, curled up on his couch in his clothes. Your eyes drift down to your wrist, where a bruise is already starting to form, and you wince. That’s going to be painful when it fully forms.

Joaquin comes back out a few minutes later, wearing a similar pair of sweatpants and a muscle tank that causes you to focus on his biceps for much too long. You barely even notice that he’s carrying something in one of his hands.

“Uh, what’s that?” You ask, motioning to the tube.

“It’s cream that’s meant to help bruises,” he says, lowering himself down onto the couch beside you. “I forgot I had it but I bought it for myself not long after I became Falcon. Will you let me put it on you?”

You nod, letting him take your arm in his gentle grip. He squeezes some of the cream onto your wrist and gently massages it in. It hurts already, even with just the slightest bit of pressure, but you try your best to ignore it and focus on the look of concentration on Joaquin’s face. He looks up at you afterwards, catching you staring.

“See something you like, angel?”

You look away, a little flustered, and pull your wrist out of his grip. “Thank you.”

He grins and stands up, heading back towards the bathroom to put the tube away and wash the cream off of his hands. He knew it might not be the right time to be teasing with you, but he had to be – this was the Joaquin you knew, and he could tell that right now, the last thing you wanted was for him to treat you like you were something breakable, like what had happened at the bar was something you couldn’t move past.

“All right, what are we watching?” He says as he walks back to the couch, climbing over the back of it and settling down next to you, resting his arms up on the back of the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “You pick somethin’ good?”

You surprise him by passing him the remote. “You choose. I can’t find anything.”

He almost freezes solid when he feels your head lean down on his shoulder. He lets his arm fall around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest so you can rest comfortably.

“What if I pick something you don’t like?” He asks, trying his hardest not to stare at the top of your head and hope to hell you can’t hear how fast his heart is beating, even though you’re laying on the opposite side of his chest.

“Nah, you won’t,” you say. “I like everything you like.”

Joaquin clears his throat and huffs a laugh. “Yeah, what if I put on The Conjuring or something?”

“You wouldn’t,” you mutter, knowing him well enough to know he’s joking.

“What if I’m being serious, angel? What if all I want is to put on a scary movie so you get all frightened and have no choice but to cuddle up to me in search of safety?” He grins.

“Joaquin, I’m already cuddled up to you.”

He pauses. “Okay, well that’s true.”

“Just pick a movie, Joaquin.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You’re thirty minutes into the movie by the time you speak again. Joaquin is invested in the story but the second you speak, his entire attention is on you.

“Thank you for saving me tonight, Joaquin,” your voice is quiet.

Joaquin gently rubs your shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. You don’t have to thank me for anything, angel. You know that, right? I should’ve noticed and come after you as soon as you left. Katy should’ve never let you go to the bathroom alone either.”

He can’t help the bitterness in his tone.

“I didn’t meant to ruin your night, Joaquin,” you mutter, seemingly ignoring everything that he’d just said to you.

Joaquin is quick to sit up straight, making you move from your spot on his chest. You look at him, eyebrows furrowed at his sudden movement. He gently cups your face in his hands.

“Ruin my night? Angel, you did not ruin my night. Did you not hear anything I just said? In fact, you probably made my night even better than it already was. I mean, c’mon, pozole and being curled up on the couch watching a movie with you is a hell of a lot better than being out in that club without you,” Joaquin admits, his honesty getting the better of him.

You frown a little, eyes clouding with tears. Joaquin is quick to wipe one from your cheek after it falls. His heart hurts at the sight of the tears in your eyes.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you into his chest again, wrapping his arms around you and letting you cry into his chest. Your arms wrap around him, gripping the material of his shirt. One of his hands rubs up and down on your back in an attempt to relax you. “I always ask you to come out with us cause I enjoy it more when you’re there. I thought you knew that. And I know the clubs aren’t your scene, but I figured you didn’t hate them that much if you said yes to me every now and then. I promise I won’t ask you again, angel. Especially after what that prick did tonight. I almost knocked his jaw in then and there.”

He smiles as he hears something that sounds like a sob like laugh come from you.

“If I ever see him again, I can’t promise I won’t break his wrist, believe me.”

“No, you won’t,” you mutter, pulling away from his hug.

His hands immediately move to your face again, clearing the tears off of your cheeks.

“Maybe I will,” he shrugs.

“You’re too much of a sweetheart for that, Joaquin Torres. I mean… look at everything you’ve done for me tonight. You telling me you’re not a soft hearted person?” You ask.

Joaquin smiles to himself. “Angel, I’m just soft hearted for you,” he confesses. “Now, I’m gonna quickly go check on this pozole okay?” He stands up from the couch, stretching his legs and padding over towards the kitchen – mostly just to make it so you don’t feel obligated to say anything in return.

He’s standing in front of the stove, stirring the pozole with a wooden spoon, when he feels your arms snake around him from behind, surprising him with a back hug. “Uhhh, what’s happening right now?” He asks, pausing his stirring.

“Thank you,” is all you offer in answer.

“Angel, what’s going on?”

You remove your arms from around him so he can turn around and face you again. He’s about to ask you what you’re thinking when you lean up and press your lips to his cheek before bounding back over to the couch without another word. Joaquin stands, staring after you in shock. He feels like his cheek has been burned – in a good way, if that’s even possible.

“Hurry up and finish stirring that pozole, pretty boy!” You call out from your spot on the couch. “I wanna finish watching this movie and my pillow has gone missing.”

Joaquin lets out a small laugh, gives the pozole another small stir and starts walking back over to you. “I suppose I’m the pillow?” He asks, shaking his head. “I’m comin’, angel. I’m comin’.”

#marvel #marvel x reader #captain america #captain america brave new world #joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #falcon #falcon x reader

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