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tfatwsbarnes · 5 days ago

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apartment 5c | bob reynolds

summary: one of bob’s roommates — johnny storm — brings home an unlikely guest

pairing: bob reynolds x stripper fem!reader

word count: 3.9k

content: au where pb&jj live together, reader is a stripper but not brought to the apartment for that purpose! the job itself is mentioned briefly. mentions of being homeless and violence. bob is #1 at being awkward around ppl he finds attractive, reader teases bob and of course, bob is immediately down bad

a/n: not proofread. i like confident women with bob. also all my bob fics 🤝 saying goodnight bob

Bob liked routine.

He liked to wake up at the same time, every morning, put his favourite slippers on that he had neatly positioned next to his bed and sit in the kitchen for at least an hour eating cereal out of one of the last clean bowls in the apartment since the three other men living there — Joaquin Torres, Peter Parker and Johnny Storm — hadn’t the faintest idea what a Scrub Daddy and some dish soap could do to their dirty dishes.

He would eventually clean them; but he’d let three days pass before the pink rubber gloves were yanked to his elbows and covered in soap suds.

Eventually, the three day time limit had reached its end and Bob stood at the kitchen sink, clad in hot pink gloves, scrubbing the remnants of a protein oatmeal off of the bottom of a bowl. His lips pulled into a thin line as he wrestled with the stubborn food, Bob silently cursed his roommates for their minimal skills in the dishwashing department — even rinsing the bowl out would suffice.

Regardless, Bob refused to live in squalor, and desperately needed a bowl for his cereal for the hour he would spend livening himself up for another day spent concealed in the confides of Apartment 5C. Away from people, away from the threat of something going massively wrong if he was met with an ounce of stress in the hustle and bustle of New York City.

Once the dishes were — reluctantly — cleaned, Bob perched himself on his favourite stool at the quartz island, his eyes trained on the orange tinged skyline from their fifth floor apartment. He sat with his cereal stewed in milk for ten minutes, the first spoonful almost passed the threshold of his lips when Joaquin Torres burst through the serene bliss Bob had been experiencing.

Joaquin practically bounded round to meet Bob, his arm slouched over his shoulder as he jostled his roommate around a little.

“I think we are living in an alternate universe, Bob.” Joaquin whispered.

Bob looked to his friend, “What?”

“You remember the woman, Johnny took home last night, right?”

How could Bob forget?

It was in Johnny Storm’s repertoire to bring new faces through the front door of Apartment 5C, flirtatiously tugged into his bedroom with a handful of kisses on the journey for a night tangled in the sheets. His best friend, Peter Parker, the Friendly Neighbourhood Spiderman — vigilante for medium — subtly turning the volume of the TV up and rustling his bag of popcorn obnoxiously to cover the banging of Storm’s headboard against the wall.

The night prior had Storm’s two of the three roommates scratching at their heads when his new face for the night had him dragging a hot pink duffle bag and a cabin suitcase across the threshold. The matter of fact was, Johnny’s one night stands never brought any baggage aside from a purse and an abashed smile if eye contact was made from prying eyes in the living room.

And you? The woman he brought in?

You were potentially the most gorgeous woman Bob had ever laid eyes on. Naturally, it didn’t go amiss that all of Storm’s one night stands were pretty, but you took the cake. You had met Bob’s curious gaze with a genuine smile that had his jaw slacken and his throat constrict; his mouth feeling like it had been stuffed with cotton. A shy wave was sent his way, and Bob almost whimpered.

Thankfully, your attention had been diverted to the poor decoration clash between the four roommates before you had disappeared into Johnny’s room with your sweet toned voice lathering the apartment up like it had been dipped in honey.

Bob, quick to clear his head, nodded, “Yeah.”

“J-Storm is sleeping on the couch.” Joaquin widened his eyes for the theatrical aspect of his storytelling, “I don’t think they—you know—fucked. Isn’t that super out of character for Johnny?”

A little. But who were they to judge.

As Bob mulled over his answer to Joaquin’s theory of an alternate universe where Johnny Storm didn’t sleep with the women he brought into their apartment, Peter Parker strolled in with his knuckles rubbing at his eyes and a large yawn elicited from the depths of his soul.

He flicked a web at the remaining, speckled banana in the fruit basket and peeled away as Bob answered.

“Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable after they made it back?” Bob reasoned, “And it would be kind of cruel to send her home at two in the morning.”

Joaquin scratched his brow bone, “Or—hear me out—the ladies man is actually attempting to lock this one down.” He looked valiant in his theory, “Chivalry isn’t dead, bro.”

Peter chimed in.

“Who are you talking about?”

In the time that Joaquin responded Storm, Bob had said Johnny.

Peter — knowing Johnny Storm best — shook his head whilst he took a bite out of the banana, “That’s one of his closest friends. They’re not hooking up.”

Bob and Joaquin snapped their heads to Parker who hadn’t noticed their stares until momentarily after the fact. Solely focussed on peeling the fibrous phloem bundles, Peter let his eyes drift to see the two men in unison with their perplexity.

“Then…Why did he bring her home?” Bob blinked, “In—Into his room?”

“Oh.” Peter threw the last of the banana into his mouth and chewed whilst he spoke nonchalantly, “She needed a place to stay for a bit. He’s set his room up for her and he’s taking the couch.”

Joaquin guffawed, “When was this going to be a group discussion? Peanut Butter and Jelly Squared? Imagine I walked out with my junk hanging out, bro.”

“Right.” Peter screwed his face up, “Because, you’re casually doing that anyway.”

Bob wrung his hands, “Does she feel safe enough to live with three guys? I—I mean, we are safe. Obviously.”

“Obviously, Bob.” Peter and Joaquin said in unison.

“Right.”

Bob looked back to his cereal swimming in milk, a peculiar relief settled in his bones that you were solely Johnny’s closest friend, and not someone he had taken in for a tangle in the sheets. Not that he’d ever act upon his immediate attraction to you.

Suddenly, his head already swarmed with the possibilities of having to interact with you. It wasn’t second nature to someone like him to excel in sudden human interaction with a stranger he just met — let alone a cute one. He could see it unfolding, in the hallway, side-stepping in the same direction, his face burnt with mortification.

His roommates would goad him for months.

Peter coughed, “Shit. I should probably take my mask off of the coat hanger at the door.” He stood as Joaquin nodded with a response of his wise decision to conceal his identity of the true face behind the mask of Spiderman. Peter saluted, “See ya, fellas.”

Peter left with a slight stumble over the corner of the thrifted rug, leaving Joaquin and Bob to their own devices in the kitchen. Bob picked at the threads of his navy sweater, his ears perked to hear your laughter from behind the thin wall — and what a symphony it sounded like.

“At least it’s a change from the headboard.” Joaquin noted with a laugh as he turned on his heel, “One more bang against that wall, and they would be fucking in the living room.” He yawned, “Training with Cap. See you tonight.”

Bob mumbled a farewell when Joaquin passed him with a firm pat to his shoulder. He remained seated, thumbs twiddled as he second-guessed taking his breakfast to the safe haven of his bedroom at the very end of the hallway, to minimise excruciating small-talk. Suddenly, he cursed his rare win on drawing the longest straw out of the four roommates to see who would get the room with the biggest floor space and best view.

As soon as the thought flew into his mind, the padding of bare feet against the linoleum blew his idea out of the water.

“Good morning.” You beamed as you rounded the island in the kitchen to get to the fridge. Bob almost malfunctioned. You had entered in an oversized tee that had succumbed to your own personal DIY — the collar cut so it slipped down one shoulder to expose bare skin. When Bob didn’t return any words, you shut the fridge and turned, “Oh. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.”

Bob — albeit hesitant — shook your hand as you spoke your name. He returned, “Bob.”

You sat down on the stool next to Bob, a glass of orange juice in hand and quick to explain that you were explicitly Johnny Storm’s friend and nothing more. Bob nodded awkwardly, you had thrown his morning routine for a loop. Pretty with a nice smile, immediate with pleasantries when Bob was so used to being skimmed over. And, as you settled in by reading the newspaper that had been amongst the junk mail for Apartment 5C; Bob didn’t miss the blossoming bruise painted across your left eyelid.

He wondered how you managed to score such a hefty contusion.

Unbothered by Bob — who had been practically vibrating next to you — you picked the corner of the newspaper, uninterested in the contents until you came across the Daily Horoscopes segment. You hummed in delight, straightening as you flicked out the newspaper for dramatic effect.

“What’s your Star Sign?”

“I’m sorry?” Bob mumbled.

“You know. The twelve symbols in Astrology? Your Zodiac?” You folded the paper in half to show Bob, shoulders touched as you leant in without worry for consequences.

Bob narrowed his eyes at the page, distracted by how good you smelt, “Oh. I—I think I am a Cancer.”

“Water!” You chimed in gleefully. Extending the gap between you both again, you began to read out Bob’s upcoming months as a Cancer, finishing the last sentence with a teasing hum, “The next twelve months could find you embracing new beginnings, with a chapter that sees you expanding exponentially.” You slapped the newspaper shut, “Now, I don’t plan on staying for twelve months — but your matching sign was mine.”

You were definitely Johnny Storm’s friend.

As if on cue, Storm sauntered into the kitchen, eyeing you sat next to his roommate who was tomato red from the neck upward. Amused, Johnny chuckled and shook his head; a warning look sent in your direction which you returned innocently.

“Is she bothering you, Bob?” He questioned, head in the fridge to locate his leftover pizza from two days ago. His voice muffled slightly, “Just let me know if she is.”

Bob was quick to jump to your defence.

“No. No, not at all.”

You spared him a wink, “See? I’m on my best behaviour, Stormtrooper.”

Johnny pulled at the cold pizza, cheek full of dough as he shook the slice at you, “She’s acting like this because she thinks you’re cute, Bob. Give me a safe word, I mean it.”

Bob couldn’t have prayed more for the ground to swallow him up whole. He hadn’t expected such a forward conversation to disrupt the usual 8AM blissful peace. The situation was chaotic, you and Johnny continuing your back and forth banter as Bob was still stuck on Johnny’s admission that you found him along the lines of cute?

If he read between the lines — which Bob tended to lean towards doing — that meant you saw him as the equivalent to a calendar with every month brandishing an image of a baby animal with wide eyes. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He’d take his wins where he could.

Not expecting any inclusion going forward, Bob stabbed at his soggy cereal was near the lines of dissolving into the milk. He wasn’t one for food waste, especially in todays climate, so he grimaced and powered through a spoonful at a time.

You and Johnny had began bickering over your inability to not scare off the introverts of society, switched to another topic that went over Bob’s head. It was unusual to have this many people in the kitchen at the specific time he would eat his cereal and watch the New York skyline from the broken window that lead out onto the fire escape; so Bob went elsewhere in his mind.

Nobody would think to include him.

“So, what do you think, Bob?” You cut through his own thoughts, concise in your intention to usher him into the conversation. He blinked at you, a bright smile on your face that met your eyes as you awaited his response.

Bob croaked, “I—I wasn’t listening.”

“Would you like to bar hop tonight?” You didn’t know him in the slightest.

“Oh…No. Thanks.” He offered a meek smile with his rejection, “Going out to drink isn’t really my thing. My roommates can tell you that.”

You almost frowned, “OK. We can stay in, if you would prefer that?”

Bob didn’t like being put under pressure. But, God, you were so unbelievably pretty. Surface level criteria, but he would love to get to know you more. Without the prying eyes of one out of the three roommates waiting on his answer.

Bob Reynolds had a terrible time at undoing the personality trait of a people pleaser. And, the way you were doe-eyed at him, he almost said yes to an out of character night swarmed in intoxicated New Yorkers who would stand on is toes and spill sticky drink on his favourite sweater.

No. This time; he would stand his ground.

“Cucumber.” Bob blurted out. He stared at Johnny Storm who furrowed his brow. Come on, Storm! “C—Cucumber.”

A look of concern crossed your features, “Did I break him?”

Johnny finally clocked onto Bob’s sudden obsession with the word cucumber when his roommate desperately flitted his brown eyes between him and one of his closest friends. Ah. Right. The safe word — Cucumber — that hadn’t been announced. Initially, Johnny had said it as a joke, but by the way Bob’s ears burned neon red along with the pulsating vein in his forehead; he had taken his offer in a literal sense.

Not wanting to fluster poor Bob further, Johnny gave a curt nod and guided you out of the kitchen by your shoulders, and leaving Bob to cool off from the prolonged encounter and eventually clean off the bowl of disintegrated cereal.

It had been hours since the 8AM kitchen debacle and Parker, Johnny, Joaquin and you had exited Apartment 5C in your best nightlife attire to hit a couple of bars. This had left Bob to his own devices, and clear from enticing out that side of him when under an incredible swell of anxiety. He was happy. Deep into a book for most of the night, the TV on the Bake Off show for ambient noise; he almost missed the jingle of keys and snickers behind the door to the apartment.

Four bodies stumbled in, Peter was able to flick a web, unbeknownst to you, to save himself and you from toppling into Joaquin and Johnny who had met the same fate of carpet burn on their elbows from hitting the ground.

Bob perked his head up over the back of the sofa to watch the commotion unfold — not missing the way his stomach sunk as you patted Parker’s chest as thanks for saving you.

He should’ve been a people pleaser.

First to beeline for the living room, you slumped next to Bob on the couch with a hazed look on your face. Makeup still intact, it was evident the bruise on your eye was no easy feat to cover as it shone through the glitter on your lid. Radiating warmth, you let out a deep exhaled of content with your head lolled onto the headrest as the three of Bob’s permanent roommates filtered in — Peter balancing four grease splotched pizza boxes on his head to prove a point to Joaquin.

“I get it, the balance of a. . . Spider.” Joaquin flashed his teeth in a knowing grin as Peter threw him a petulant look.

“Just sit down and give us the pizza.” Johnny clicked his fingers at the space on the rug next to him and Peter obliged, quick to throw the first box open and steal a slice. Johnny shoved Parker’s shoulder before taking the second slice of Pepperoni, “That was the biggest slice, Parker.”

Peter smacked his lips, “Mhm. And it tastes great too.”

“We all know Peter likes the big ones.” Joaquin added, his forearms up in a makeshift shield as Peter threw a hard punch his way for the unnecessary innuendo.

You sunk into the cushions, your hands splayed across your stomach that moved when you laughed at their antics. You were the first to acknowledge Bob, “Do you have to listen to this every single night when you’re trying to wind down, Bob?

Bob felt himself get hot.

“Oh, sometimes.” He cleared his throat to hide the fact his voice was a few octaves higher, “I’ve learned to tune them out.”

You laughed — Bob grinned.

“You’ll have to teach me. I swear my ears are ringing from them talking over each other rather than the club music.” You extended a hand out to take a slice of pizza from Joaquin, “Thanks, Jackie.” You took a bite and turned your attention back to Bob, “Did you have a nice night?”

He nodded, “Yeah. I watched some Bake Off.”

“Bake Off? I love that show. I was heartbroken when Mary Berry left.” You swallowed, “She was the best part of that show, you know that right?”

“A real treasure.” Johnny cut into the conversation with a teasing drawl.

“Shut up. I’m talking to Bob.”

Johnny held his hands up in surrender. Satisfied that your best friend was stepping behind the lines again, you shifted in your spot to fully face Bob; one leg tucked under your backside. You ran a thumb across the corner of your lips to remove the excess of pizza sauce, your lashes batted when you noticed that Bob flicked his attention down to your lips and back up to your face.

Oh. You had him.

There was a split in the atmosphere, thickened with a new tension that Torres, Parker and Storm had no business being in. It was suffocating, the waves of attraction palpable between both you and Bob — despite Bob missing that note entirely. Johnny slowed his chewing on the fourth slice of pizza he had managed to devour, his eyes going between you and Bob as you sat grinning like Cheshire cats at one and other whilst continuing your in depth conversation about the Saint: Mary Berry.

Napkin to his lips, he wiped the grease off and smacked Peter on his chest with the back of his hand. Unaware, Peter groaned and shoved at his friend’s shoulder whilst he tried to fight for the last slice of pizza in the box. Johnny was quick to grab the male’s bicep and haul him up.

“Hey—” Peter went to argue his case when Joaquin caught his attention with his finger pressed to his lips. “What…? Oh.”

The three men casually whistled their way out of the living room, the door cracked open three inches wide so they could eavesdrop from their respected rooms — Johnny in the bathroom whilst he waited for you two to clear his makeshift bed on the couch.

Bob sent an apologetic look your way, neither of you missing the theatrics of his roommates. Unfazed with an award-winning grin, you bent at the waist to fiddle with the strap of the heel that had been chafing a raw blister above your ankle.

“Do you need a hand?” Bob blurted in an almost plea like manner.

Unsure of what sort of brain-rotting trance he was under where his ability to remain stoic — albeit minimal — in circumstances such as this. If he was a dog, he’d ought to be howling.

Exhaling with relief from the loosened strap you tended to the other one, “I’ve got it, thank you.” You straightened your back once the heel was off of your foot, “I’m a pro at a heel removal. Although, rookie error on my behalf for not taking blister plasters with me.”

Bob thought to the drawer crammed to the brim with medicinal items, such as plasters, alcohol wipes and a few stragglers of pain-relief pills that had been accidentally popped into the drawer and left to rot. Quick to jump to his feet, he held a shaken finger up to you which translated to: Please don’t move. Before he slid to the exact drawer in his head and rummaged to the back of it for the blister plaster pack Parker had purchased for his chafed nipples.

Apparently being Spiderman had its cons.

Returned to the living room with plasters in hand, Bob blacked out the programmed shyness, and knelt at your feet to tend to your minor wounds.

“Oh—! You do not have to do that.” You exclaimed with a gentle swat to make Bob get up from his spot on the floor. When he waved you off, you knelt back on the palms of your hands and watched him carefully. Quick to strike up another conversation, “So, Bob. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m—I’m unemployed, you could say.” Bob swallowed the embarrassment he felt. He wasn’t sure of your character past the one conversation prior to the one you were sharing now, but he prayed that his confession of being jobless — in a regular civilian way — didn’t make your nose turn up in judgement. He smoothed the plaster against your skin and was quick to add, “How about you?"

You sighed. Oh no. You thought he was a bum.

“I was a stripper—Thank you for doing that.” You admitted quietly to Bob who remained unchanged to your confession as he stood and returned to his seat on the couch. You picked at the threads of your skirt, “I love to dance. My boss wanted me to do more than just dance when he saw me being requested more.”

Bob nodded along.

“I slept where I worked. So, when I said no, he fired me and made me homeless in one sitting.” You gestured to the purpled bruise spread across your eye, “And he gave me this shiner for good measure. A real charmer.”

“I’m sorry. For how he treated you.” Bob was genuine and that fed through in the tenderness of his words.

You smiled, “Not because I’m a stripper?”

“What—? No. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He affirmed, “I—In fact, I would love to see you dance.” Bob immediately paled at his choice of words. Mouth dried, in an attempt to save face, he stammered, “I didn’t mean—What I meant was—”

He was fighting a losing battle.

But, he couldn’t mistake the subtle shine in your eyes of — was it? — fondness. You let out a gentle laugh, your hands pressed to the cushioned base of the sofa, your body leant forward into Bob where you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth; which had Bob almost chasing you for more when you pulled back.

Expressing further affection, your thumb swept the gloss smeared on Bob where you had kissed him before running your palm to his unkempt hair and brushing the stray hairs away from his face.

You stood from your spot next to him.

“I like you.” You tapped your finger to your glossed lips, “I think I’ll keep you.”

“Safe word, Bob!” A muffled call from Johnny in the bathroom, “Remember the safe word!”

You rolled your eyes, “Goodnight, Bob.”

#🔖 koolie writes #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x fem!reader #thunderbolts fic #new avengers fic #bob reynolds #thunderbolts #marvel fic #i’ll write anything but my we can’t be friends fic

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tfatwsbarnes · 5 days ago

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gazes (joaquín torres x reader)

SUMMARY ››››› It's become increasingly apparent to Sam and Bucky that you and Joaquin cannot take your eyes off each other. Unfortunately for them, you two have decided to be Professionals and that means keeping your eyes, hands, and lips to yourselves. No matter how difficult it is.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,716

WARNINGS ››››› sexy times implied

A/N ››››› Ok so these headcanons y'all have been sending me are incredible. I read these two back to back and I just had to write something connecting them.

The kid had no tact.

Sam wasn't exactly sure why he expected more from the guy who'd led into his theory that Steve was on the moon by referencing vague internet rumors, but even despite that, he'd assumed Joaquin possessed some sense of subtlety.

Instead he was over at the leg press trying and failing not to stare at Y/N as she bent over at the middle to help Bucky push deeper into the stretch.

"You know she could hit you with a harassment claim for staring at her like that."

Joaquin jumped, the weights dropping suddenly with a loud clang. Across the gym, Bucky laughed as Y/N whipped around to face the two men. "Everything ok?" Her voice sounded genuinely concerned, and Sam couldn't help but smirk as Joaquin turned towards her, giving a little wave.

"Foot slipped," he answered, and she nodded, turning back to Bucky quickly.

"Foot slipped," Sam mocked.

"Dude, you scared the shit out of me."

"If you paid half the amount of attention you give to Y/N to your surroundings, you'd have known I'd been standing here for three minutes."

Joaquin gave a defensive scoff. "I wasn't staring at her--I was just--" he stopped, searching for an excuse, and Sam raised his eyebrows.

When it was clear Joaquin couldn't find a convincing enough lie to end the sentence, Sam shook his head. "You know, if you talk to her, she might actually let you take her out."

"I talk to her," Joaquin protested.

Sam shook his head, uncrossing his arms. "No, I mean talk to her. Chat her up. You've gotta have some game, right?"

"I've got game..." His sentence trailed off as he turned to look in her direction, finding her standing over Bucky's feet with her hands on her hips. "But like, we're co-workers, you know? I don't want to make things awkward around the gym or the compound or anything."

"Joaquin," Sam said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're already making things awkward."

"He's staring at your ass again."

"And you're trying to get out of stretching again," you quipped, moving Bucky's leg closer to his chest. The super soldier tilted his head as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of your accusation.

"Doesn't change the fact that I think you're about to give him a heart attack."

"I highly doubt he's worried in the slightest about my ass. He's probably zoned out."

"He's definitely focused in...on--"

"On my ass," you finished, shaking your head. You might have given Bucky's claim a little more credence if it weren't for the fact that Joaquin Torres had been anything but the consummate professional towards you. He was friendly and upbeat and welcoming, and one of the few genuinely good guys you'd ever had the pleasure of working with.

You'd never caught him staring once, and it's not like the boy was exactly known for subtlety. Last time Bucky had asked him to cover for him so you couldn't come down and teach him the right way to train his body, he'd told you that Bucky had left the compound to get you a thank you gift for all of your hard work. All while staring at the gym door.

The heavy sound of weights falling against each other echoed throughout the gym, and you spun around to face the sound. Sam hovered over Joaquin's shoulder, the latter no longer working the leg press but instead looking as if he'd just received the scare of his life.

Bucky broke into laughter, and you smacked at his leg.

"Everything ok?" you called out, and Joaquin smiled, giving a sheepish little wave at you. "Foot slipped."

"It's a good thing he wasn't at the bench press. You might have killed him."

Your head snapped back to Bucky who was giving you a shit eating grin.

"You're an asshole."

"I'm right."

"Do you think if I ask nicely Wakanda will take you back?"

"So you know I'm right."

You chanced a glance back at Joaquin who was still talking to Sam before turning back around and placing your hands on your hips. "I'm calling Ayo."

You were running early.

Not to any event in particular, but just for the general course of your day. It was rare for you to wake up to your first alarm so completely refreshed, and with a fully awake brain, you found it much easier to navigate the morning. You were able to get dressed without crawling back in bed for a few more minutes, and didn't have to battle with sleepy indecision when choosing what you wanted to eat for breakfast.

One thing after another just continued to roll your way, leading you to the gym much earlier than usual.

And that's where the luck stopped.

Or maybe it didn't stop. But it definitely took a turn. Because while you fully expected someone else to be in the gym already, you hadn't expected just one person to be in the gym. And even if you had, you wouldn't have guessed that that one person would be Joaquin. And if, for some reason, you'd had the foresight to sense that, you definitely never would have pictured him to be running on the treadmill shirtless.

You stopped in your tracks, eyes falling to the bouncing dog tags on his chest and then lower to the well defined abs you'd somehow never seen before.

It felt like you'd seen just about every man in this compound shirtless. At some point, they all seemed to strip in the gym or during one of your group training classes you ran for those who weren't field agents. Bucky was shirtless half the time you worked together. It was so normal, you hardly even blinked an eye anymore. Seeing Sam without a shirt was more rare and quite the sight, but it'd never caught your breath quite like seeing Joaquin. Joaquin, who had never so much as worn a tank top in the gym, Joaquin.

And now here he was, chest bare and heaving, feet pounding rhythmically against the treadmill, hair still messy from his pillow and sweat. Your brain couldn't seem to function correctly, offering you images of the sight before you, only closer. Much closer. Hovering inches over your stretched out body as the headboard behind you rammed into the wall with the force of each thrust--

"Hey," Joaquin greeted, noticing you standing off to the side. You blinked, heat rushing to your face as he turned the treadmill down to a more leisurely pace. "Something wrong with my form?"

It was tempting to lie and offer to "help him fix it." Or to be completely honest and tell him you'd never seen a human form as perfect as his.

But neither of those responses were professional or even appropriate, and you needed this job.

You swallowed, shaking your head. "No, I was just wondering why you were wearing those," you said, gesturing to his dog tags, and allowing your eyes to fall to his chest once more. You followed a bead of sweat as it rolled down his body, heading to the waistband of his shorts. Joaquin reached to touch his tags, causing them to jingle together once more and pull your attention up to him.

"It's hard to let them go," he smiled, ruefully, hitting the button so the belt slowed even more. "I'd say it's a habit, putting them on, but at this point they're just like a part of me."

You nodded, wishing you'd taken this conversation anywhere but to the idea of dog tags and what they stood for. It wasn't so much a mood killer but a guilt inducer because instead of you feeling embarrassed and somber, all you wanted to do was grab them and pull him closer to you.

He must have read the conflict on your face because he gave a crooked smile. "Yeah, sorry, it's kinda morbid."

"No," you shook your head, clearing it of the daydream induced fog. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"No, nah, it's cool," his smile grew into grin, as the belt came to a stop. He leaned his forearms against the console, staring at you as if waiting for you to continue the conversation. Which you were not equipped to do with a smiling and shirtless and sweaty Joaquin Torres right before you.

"Well, thanks for being cool about it," you said with a nod.

My God, something was wrong with you. They were just abs. And sure, maybe the abs belonged to the man who not only found the time to moonlight as a superhero but star in your increasingly dirty dreams of late, but it was just a body party that you'd seen a million times.

But never on Joaquin.

You blamed everything your brain was doing to you on Bucky and all of his stupid comments about Joaquin's supposed fixation on your ass. You wondered what he would say if he could see you now. "And I thought I was half machine. I could practically see your brain short circuiting." or "If that's what you're like when you see him half-naked, how are you ever going to--"

"Yeah, of course," Joaquin said, still smiling, his eyes lifting up over your shoulder as the other door to the gym opened and Sam came in. "Hey," he greeted with a jerk of his chin.

"Hey," Sam said, drawing closer, his eyes on you. You forced a smile on to your own face, and lifted a hand, not trusting anything that was coming out of your mouth.

"You're here early," the other man said, stepping onto the treadmill next to Joaquin's, and putting his water bottle down next to the machine.

Both of them were looking at you now, and it's not like you could handle staying in this gym any longer. "I came down looking for my water bottle. I think I left it here yesterday."

Sam raised his eyebrows glancing around the gym, and Joaquin stepped down off of the machine. "Do you want help looking for it?" he asked, and your whole body seemed to tense up at the idea, your brain transporting you to a future scenario where the two of you wandered around the room, Joaquin next to you or behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him, all the while searching for a water bottle that was sitting on your dresser.

"No." Your voice came out too high, but you tried to play it off, shaking your head. "I've already interrupted your workout enough. It's either by the weights or not in here."

"Alright," he nodded. "If you need any help looking around the compound though, let me know."

"Thanks," you said. And then you gave another stupid wave and beelined it for the weight racks because you had to get out of here.

You made a show of looking next to each section of weights, even bending over to check underneath of them as if it could have been knocked under somewhere. After you felt an appropriate amount of time had passed to be convincing, you straightened up, empty handed. You turned back to Joaquin and Sam, both watching you rather than continuing their workouts as you might have hoped.

"Not here," you called back with a shrug and then left the gym and headed straight up to your shower.

He was nothing if not predictable.

The minute Y/N bent over to check behind the weight rack, his eyes were glued to her. Or perhaps more accurately, the bright teal spandex shorts she wore. As she pulled herself back up from searching for her water bottle and turned to them, Joaquin quickly looked to Sam as if the two had been talking the whole time and then "casually" returned to her.

"Not here!" she said, shrugging and then walking out of the gym, her footsteps quick and purposeful as she left through the door Sam had just entered by.

"So, what'd I interrupt?"

Joaquin looked up at Sam as if remembering he was there. "What?"

"You know, when the two of you were sitting by this machine making eyes at each other? Did you actually say anything to her or….?"

Joaquin shook his head. "No, she just came in and, uh, we chatted for a second, and then…" he trailed off, as if not fully remembering any of the past ten, twenty, however many minutes.

"You just chatted," Sam repeated, the disbelief on his face edging into his voice.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded.

"Anywhere in this chat you finally ask her out?"

"Nah, it didn't feel right."

"It didn't--she was practically taking off the other half of your clothes with her eyes," Sam sputtered, gesturing to Joaquin's shorts.

The kid laughed and shook his head as if Sam didn't know what he was talking about. Joaquin moved to exit the gym as well. "I'll see you later, man," he said, leaving a very exasperated Sam behind.

Bucky Barnes was a motherfucking liar.

"Let's grab a drink on Friday," he said.

"Consider it me making it up to you for being such a pain in your ass," he said.

"I'll buy," he said.

Mothefucker.

This wasn't just you and your favorite co-worker getting a drink. This was a goddamn set up. Because one hour and three mojitos into the night, Sam and Joaquin walked in the front door.

"I fucking hate you," you said, glaring up at his stupid smug face.

"Well, what a surprise, he grinned, as you shook a finger up at him.

"I told you in confidence I'm a flirty drunk."

He snorted, giving you a look out the side of his eyes. "You told me you were a flirty drunk after you sent me several highly inappropriate drunk text messages about what you wanted to do to a certain Lieutenant, who," the self-satisfied smile was back on Bucky's face. "Is making his way over to us right now."

"When I get home, I swear to God, I'm buying you a ticket to Wakanda."

Bucky quirked an eyebrow. "You're not going to do it now?"

"I didn't bring my credit card because you said you were paying," you huffed.

Before Bucky could respond, Sam and Joaquin were next to the two of you, greeting Bucky with hand slaps and one armed hugs. Sam came around and wrapped an arm around you first before sliding into the seat next to Bucky, and Joaquin came forward, giving you a quick hug.

Which was a first.

More than the feeling of his back underneath your palm, or the way he seemed to emanate warmth, you were done in by how absolutely incredible he smelled. But before you could fully identify whether it was his shampoo, a cologne, or just him, he pulled away and took the only other available seat near the group--the one next to you.

"I see you started without us," Sam said, raising his eyebrows at the assortment of glasses that sat before you. Most of them were Bucky's as he downed beers faster than should have been humanly possible.

"Hard drinker, huh Y/N," Joaquin teased, shooting you a smile.

"Pfft," you dismissed. "Only three are mine."

"Three?" Sam asked, leaning forward to better look at you. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour," you said, completely unnecessarily leaning forward too.

Bucky shrugged. "I got the time wrong."

"Guess we better catch up then," Joaquin said, and you sank back into your chair, narrowing your eyes at him in challenge.

"If you can."

They did.

You were outpaced fairly quickly against the two soldiers and one super soldier. The rum-induced fuzziness around the edges of your brain was compounded by having Joaquin so close to you. At some point he'd pulled his chair a bit closer to yours so that he could better hear the conversation, and you don't remember when it happened, but his arm had also slid around the back of your chair. To your relief neither Bucky nor Sam seemed to acknowledge this. In fact, Bucky was positively quiet and normal all things considered. Everything was going better than you could have expected.

Until the music kicked up.

Sam was the first to be dragged onto the dance floor. He was Captain America. Of course he'd been targeted by the stunning girl in the red dress who'd only had to come up and ask "Does Captain America dance?" to succeed in pulling him off to the dance floor.

Bucky was next. Although he wasn't tugged onto the dance floor by his hand the way Sam was. It was the sight of the person in the tight black number that did him in, luring him away to the dance as if drawn by a magnet.

And then it was you and Joaquin, sitting at the bar. Alone. Together.

You looked up from your drink, pushing the straw down into the ice to stir up the clinking sounds, and he took a swig of his beer before putting the bottle back down on the bar.

"Alright, let's dance," he said, nodding with his head towards the crowd, and you let out a disbelieving snort.

"I don't know how to dance. I mean, I can dance," you attempted to clarify, although you had a feeling words were failing you at the moment. "But that's real dancing, and I can't do that."

"I guess you're lucky you have a really good teacher asking you to dance then," Joaquin grinned, holding out a hand. You looked down at his open palm, hesitating only for a second before you slid your hand into his and jumped down from your chair.

He led you out through the moving bodies expertly, dodging couples who were clearly more into the dancing than each other and couples where the complete opposite was true. The small bit of space he found you was closer to the center of the dance floor than you'd usually feel comfortable with, but when he turned towards you with that look on his face, any of your residual anxiety had vanished.

"Ok, come close," he said, and you took a small step closer to him, causing him to laugh. "Closer." He gestured, and you moved forward some more, Joaquin's hands finding their way to your hips and pulling you even closer. His hands rose, one finding its way to your mid-back, pushing your elbow up to rest on his, as the other took your hand and placed it over shoulder.

"This ok?" he asked, eyebrows raised, and you nodded, trying to keep your attention on him, his instructions and his words, and not the way that you could feel just about every part of him from the way he was angled against you. His right side was flush against your left, and his knee pushed between yours.

"Just follow me," he said, his head bent close to yours. Before you could even respond, he started to move, pulling you along with him through the dance. It was smooth and rolling and you'd never seen a guy able to roll his hips like Joaquin. He seemed to know exactly how to guide you, moving his body to push and pull yours along whenever you hesitated or felt lost, coaxing waves and movements out of you that you didn't know you could do. Each success was met with a small word of praise and a brilliant smile, as his hands shifted to hold you closer, and you wrapped your own hand around his neck to better feel and predict his movements.

It felt as if a fog had rolled in over the dancefloor, obstructing all else from view so it was just you and Joaquin, eyes locked to each other as you moved together, occupying the same space.

The song faded into the next one, and Joaquin stopped. You went to move backwards, to give him space and have him move on as many other of the more skilled dancing couples seemed to do, switching partners amongst each other. But he kept you close to him, hand sliding down to your waist.

"Now you can really dance," he teased, his eyes shining as they stared into yours.

"Only with you." It was supposed to be a self-deprecating joke, but it came out too quiet and earnest. Joaquin licked his lips, and your eyes followed the gesture, flickering between his mouth and his eyes.

You don't remember making the decision. You only remember, moving even further into his arms, and pushing yourself up to reach his lips with your own. He bent down to meet you, pulling you even closer and pressing his hard body into yours. His lips moved as slowly and sensually as his hips had, drawing you in and guiding you through a careful rhythm that promised much, much more.

Sam sat with Bucky at the bar. Joaquin and Y/N had disappeared somewhere amongst the dance floor, hidden amongst the crowd.

"You think it worked?" Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"If it didn't we're screwed," Sam shook his head, taking a swig from his drink.

As if on cue, the two emerged from the swaying bodies, hand in hand, sweaty and much happier than they had been when Sam had left them at the bar.

"We're gonna head back to the compound," Joaquin said with practiced casualness.

"Yeah?" Bucky asked, and Sam swore there was mischief literally glinting in his eyes.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded too fast and too many times. "Yeah, Y/N forgot about something there…"

"What'd you forget?" Bucky asked, turning to Y/N with a wolfish smile.

"Nothing. We're going to have sex," Y/N said, flatly, causing Sam to nearly spit out his drink. "And if you say one more word, I know a pilot who will fly you to Wakanda himself. No ticket needed."

Bucky mimicked zippering his lips into a smug look, and she rolled her eyes before tugging Joaquin out of the bar by his hand. And he followed. Eyes glued to her ass.

#i have been looking for this fic since i last read it #joaquin torres x reader

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