katya @pursuedbyamemoryy - Tumblr Blog

Sep 10, 2025

everywhere, everything

pairing: joaquín torres x fem!reader summary: being long-distance best friends with joaquín isn’t easy now that you’re on different teams. the more you talk, tease, and lean on each other, the clearer it becomes that friendship might not be enough for you anymore. tags: new avenger!reader, ex-widow!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, you and joaquín are children of the sambucky divorce warning(s): cariño used as a pet name, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy) word count: 9.5k note: WHEW this one has been a wip for a while and i finally finished it! title comes from the noah kahan song of the same name. also i’m not a native spanish speaker but my friend told me that cariño is an appropriate nickname for any gender, please correct me if i’m wrong 🩷

masterlist

Your phone buzzed with the kind of urgency that could only mean two things: either the world was ending again, or Joaquín had found another cursed meme he thought you needed to see at two in the morning.

QUINO 🪽: yo why are you on the news being announced as the new avengers lmao

You barely had time to process before the next messages dropped in.

QUINO 🪽: wait. hold on. is this for real???

QUINO 🪽: wtf???

Your stomach flipped. This was exactly the conversation you’d been putting off having with him. Because who doesn’t love a little light long-distance betrayal on a random Tuesday?

When his name lit up your screen with an incoming call, you hovered like a coward. It rang enough that you let it go to voicemail. When he called back, you decided you couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Heeeeeey, Quino,” you said, dragging out the greeting in the world’s least suspicious tone. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it—? What the hell is going on?” His voice crackled down the line, equal parts alarmed and offended. “Are you serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to answer, only for Alexei’s booming baritone to cut through the tower’s open-plan kitchen. “I was only trying to help!”

“Help?!” John snapped back, loud enough that you’d be getting noise complaints in a regular apartment complex. “You nearly set the oven on fire again!”

Ava’s dry voice chimed in. “Ten dollars says he’ll do it a third time by next week.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Yelena added, unbothered as ever. They shook on it.

Bob, poor soul, sat in the middle of it all on the sofa with a throw pillow hugged to his chest, swivelling his head back and forth like he was centre court at Wimbledon.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, hang on, I can’t— one sec.”

“...Are you in the middle of a family reunion right now?” Joaquín asked, incredulous.

You snorted. Joaquín knew you didn’t know anything about your biological family; the Red Room made sure of that. “Something like that.”

You ducked down the hall and made the now-familiar trek to your room. You’d requested one on the same floor as the common spaces because the other floors felt too empty. When you made it to your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and sighed in relief.

Blessed, beautiful silence. Now that you lived at the Watchtower, it was rarer than you liked.

“Sorry,” you said, sitting on the edge of your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. “It’s been a crazy day. Or, you know, week.”

There was a beat of quiet on his end. Then, softer, “So it’s true? You’re one of them now?”

You sank back against your pillows, staring at the wall like it might have the script you’d forgotten to study. “Yeah,” you admitted, exhaling. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Joaquín exclaimed. “You were supposed to call me if anything major happened. I have to hear about it on CNN?” His voice cracked a little at the end, like he was trying to sound annoyed, but worry slipped through.

Guilt tugged at your ribs. “I know. I wanted to, but it all kind of snowballed,” you confessed. “One minute Bucky’s dragging me along as backup, and the next I’m knee-deep in whatever Valentina’s mess is. Then Yelena showed up, and you know our history. I couldn’t just leave her, and… it just spiralled.” When Joaquín stayed silent, you quietly added, “I didn’t plan any of this, Quino.”

Silence stretched, heavier this time, though not unfriendly. You could hear the faint rustle of Joaquín shifting on his end of the line. He probably had you on speaker while pacing his room, running a hand through his curls like he did whenever he was stressed.

You picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “The thing is, I don’t feel like I can leave. Not now. They’re…” You stopped, trying to find the words. “They’re ridiculous, obviously. You just heard the circus outside. But they’ve sort of wormed their way into my heart.” You smiled a little. “Alexei’s trying so hard to be everyone’s embarrassing dad. Yelena and Ava—I didn’t know I could have friends like that. And with Bucky, this is giving him something better to hold onto than that whole congressman crusade. I can’t walk away from that.”

On the other end, Joaquín made a thoughtful humming noise, then said lightly, “I could put on the Falcon suit and come take you away in a few hours. Just say the word.”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t tempt me. You know we can’t.”

“I’m serious,” he teased. “No one would notice. I’d swoop in, whisk you out, and boom! You’re back where you belong. With people who actually own functioning smoke alarms.”

“Very funny,” you said, though your smile lingered. “But you know it’s not that simple. I love you, Quino. You and Sam are my family too. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you or make you feel like I’d betrayed you. But… I love them, too. The Thunderbolts.”

He went quiet. Long enough that you worried you’d overplayed your hand, or worse, confirmed some fear he hadn’t voiced yet. Then, “Who the hell are the Thunderbolts?”

There was a beat, and then both of you broke into helpless laughter. Yours came out wheezy, half-relieved, half-hysterical. Joaquín’s laugh rolled through the line warm and familiar, pulling you right back to every late-night hangout you’d ever had together.

When it finally ebbed into silence again, you were breathless, cheeks aching from smiling.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Joaquín said suddenly, earnest in a way that caught you off guard. “There’s nothing you could do that would change that. Not joining this team, not working with Bucky, not even— what did you call them? The Thundercats?” You knew he was teasing you.

“Thunderbolts,” you corrected him anyway, grinning into the phone.

“Sure, them,” Joaquín chuckled. “The point is, you’re stuck with me, cariño. No matter what headlines you end up in.”

The knot in your chest loosened. You pressed the heel of your hand to your eye, a little overwhelmed at how much lighter you felt just hearing him say it. “Thanks, Quino.”

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll call me before you end up on the news next time,” he requested. “My heart can’t take that kind of shock.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list, right under ‘stop Alexei from burning the tower down.’”

“Good,” Joaquín hummed. “Although, one of those sounds slightly more achievable than the other.”

You snorted. For the first time since the whole Void and New Avengers fiasco, the weight on your shoulders felt a little easier to carry. You stayed on the line a moment longer, reluctant to let the comfort of your friend go.

It still amazed you how all of this had started.

You hadn’t been looking for new friends when Bucky Barnes had turned up on your doorstep with that gruff, awkward apology lodged in his throat. He’d braced for guilt, for explanations, for the familiar dance of trying to make amends the way his therapist wanted him to. Instead, you were the one who surprised him.

You’d told him plainly that he didn’t need to answer for the Winter Soldier’s crimes; not to you, not to anyone. Somewhere in the middle of his therapy checklist, you’d adopted him instead. Bucky became your grumpy older brother, reluctant uncle, and occasionally an exasperated grandpa figure.

You met Sam soon after, and he introduced you to his protégé. Meeting Joaquín had been game-changing. It meant having someone closer to your age, someone who didn’t see you as a broken weapon or a case file. He helped you become a person who could laugh, tease, and stay up too late eating takeout on a worn sofa.

It shifted something you hadn’t realised was stuck. He was a golden retriever puppy in human form, entering your life with boundless energy that made it very, very hard to keep the walls up. Before you knew it, Joaquín had woven himself into your life until you couldn’t imagine a single day without him.

When you’d moved to D.C. to help Bucky with his campaign—also known as keeping him from shit-talking his way into political disaster—being in the same city as Joaquín was a happy side effect. Close enough for coffee runs, late-night movie marathons, and the easy friendship that had become your anchor.

Sitting in the Watchtower a couple of hundred miles away, with Joaquín’s voice crackling through a line that already felt too short, you realised just how much you missed it.

“It’s really good to hear your voice again,” you admitted quietly. “Things got scary for a second there. I didn’t know what I was doing, or if I was helping or making things worse.”

Joaquín’s concern was immediate, voice softer than before. “Hey. Don’t say that. You can call me, you know. Anytime. I don’t care what’s going on. You can call until you’re absolutely sick of me.”

That earned a real laugh out of you, brighter than the earlier ones. “That’ll never happen. But fine, I promise I will. I’ll drive you insane with constant phone calls. Brace yourself.”

“I look forward to it,” Joaquín said, with a warmth that wrapped around you even through the static. Reluctantly, he sighed. “I gotta go. Falcon duties and all that.”

“Right,” you replied, though you clung to the moment until the call ended. “Talk to you soon.”

The screen went dark. You lingered in the quiet, phone still pressed against your ear, before finally dragging yourself back to the door. When you opened it, the chaos was still alive and well: John red in the face, Alexei defensive, Yelena and Ava gleefully egging them on.

You couldn’t help smiling. Yeah. You were in deep with these idiots.

Adjusting to life with the so-called New Avengers was a little like moving into a shared house where the neighbours were constantly on the verge of calling the cops. Which is to say: chaotic, loud, and kind of wonderful.

Alexei had decided, without consulting anyone, that he was the team’s fun dad. Which meant unsolicited pep talks, terrible jokes, and constant attempts to prove he could still do fifty push-ups in a row. He could not.

Yelena endured this with the kind of long-suffering eye-rolls usually reserved for sitcom daughters whose fathers embarrass them in front of their friends. You, however, found it hilarious. Every time he started a story with, Back in my Red Guardian days, you could practically hear Yelena’s soul leaving her body.

Then there was John and Bucky. Together, they were like an odd-couple reboot no one had asked for. Two grumpy boomer figures trapped in a modern world they didn’t fully understand. John still called memes picture jokes. Bucky had once asked you in complete seriousness what yeet meant. You almost choked trying to explain it to him.

“Are you texting Joaquín about what I just said?” Bucky demanded one afternoon after you’d ducked into the corner, phone in hand.

You froze, glancing up and trying to look innocent. “...No,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Liar.”

“Fine, yes. But only because he needs to know that you actually said the words ‘thirst trap’ out loud.”

To his credit, Bucky only sighed and muttered something about kids these days being such little punks. You grinned even wider as you hit send. Joaquín’s reply came less than a minute later.

QUINO 🪽: lmao tell him he’s officially 106 going on 200

Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava were nothing short of revelations. Positive female friendships weren’t exactly in rich supply in your line of work. Having two women who just got it, who didn’t flinch at your past and still wanted to gossip about the others during stakeouts, made something inside you settle. Yelena wanted to, but Ava only tolerated it with minimal threats.

You hadn’t realised how badly you’d needed it until it was right there, easy as breathing.

It wasn’t all sunshine. Training was brutal. Missions were worse.

You still called Sam once a week, trading updates and making sure he wasn’t mad at you for joining a team that wasn’t his. He wasn’t, of course. Sam Wilson had more patience than saints. But it wasn’t the same as being back at the compound, where you could wander into the kitchen at midnight and find Joaquín raiding the fridge.

Still, there were good days. Great days, even.

Days when Alexei’s antics made you laugh so hard your sides hurt. Days when Yelena and Ava dragged you into an impromptu game night, complete with verbal fights and everyone ganging up on John. Days when John and Bucky somehow managed to work together without yelling for a whole half hour.

You started catching yourself smiling at nothing, storing up tiny snapshots of joy like you might run out if you weren’t careful.

And through it all, Joaquín was never far away. Every ridiculous tower moment got texted straight to him. The time Alexei tried to skateboard down the hallway and nearly took out a vase? Recorded, sent. Bucky falling asleep mid-mission briefing? Snapped and shared.

Even the quiet moments, nights you chatted with Yelena about your past while Bob read a book upside down on the sofa, went to Joaquín. It was your way of keeping him tethered to your day-to-day, even when he wasn’t physically there.

In return, Joaquín sent you snippets of his world. Sweaty post-workout selfies, breathless but grinning as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Attempts at TikTok trends that usually ended with Sam shaking his head in the background, muttering something about kids and their internet dances.

Joaquín always let you in on the more intimate parts of his life. A wide shot of the desert sunrise when his missions took him out west. A view from the cockpit, clouds stretching endlessly in every direction. His face when he turned the camera back around, softer somehow, like he knew you’d be saving it to watch later.

Sometimes, lying in bed after a long day of convincing Bob he should stop losing sleep over that time he went blonde, you let yourself wonder if you were leaning on Joaquín too much. But then your phone would buzz at one in the morning with a picture of his half-eaten pizza, and all the doubts would dissolve.

Once, though, you picked up your phone and it wasn’t Joaquín at all. It was Sam.

“So…” Sam’s drawl came down the line, already laced with that particular brand of mischief he reserved for teasing you. “You and my guy Joaquín are still glued at the hip, huh?”

You froze mid-step in the tower hallway, nearly colliding with Bucky, who was carrying five grocery bags in one arm and looked alarmed at your expression.

“I—what—no,” you spluttered, waving Bucky away. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh.” You could practically hear Sam’s eyebrow raise. “Look, I’m not here to pry. I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay out there.”

That disarmed you more than the teasing. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. It’s a lot, but it’s good too.”

Sam hummed like he believed you, but not entirely. “You know you can call me if it ever isn’t good, right?”

Your chest squeezed a little at that. “I know. Thanks, Sam.”

“Good. Now go back to pretending you and Joaquín don’t FaceTime more than most married couples.”

You groaned loudly, especially when Bucky snickered, clearly overhearing.

Another tradition you loved was your TV nights with Joaquín. It started innocently enough: a “Hey, let’s watch something together like we used to,” that turned into a full-blown ritual. Now you and Joaquín were three seasons into his favourite show, a messy blend of soap opera drama and superhero action.

“Okay, okay, listen,” Joaquín’s voice crackled in your ear, bright and animated. “This is where it gets good. You’re not ready for this.”

Your stomach did a strange swoop at the sound of his excitement. You eyed the screen, unimpressed. “I bet you five bucks the dude with the bad haircut betrays them.”

“He’s not— what? No! He’s loyal. He’s literally their rock.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sure enough, three minutes later, Bad Haircut Man pulled out a knife and stabbed his supposed best friend in the back. Literally.

You sipped your tea like a smug cat while Joaquín groaned dramatically. “You ruin everything, you know that? I was so excited for you to see that twist!”

“Twist implies surprise,” you deadpanned. “I saw that coming from a mile away. His hair alone was a red flag.”

“You can’t keep calling him Bad Haircut Man.”

“Would you prefer Traitor Mullet?”

Joaquín made a strangled sound, half-outrage, half-laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you replied knowingly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a little too long. Butterflies stirred in your chest before Joaquín rushed in with, “Okay, fine, maybe a little. But still! You’ve got to stop predicting everything. Just enjoy it.”

“I am enjoying it,” you said, shifting so you could lie back against your pillows. Your phone was set to speaker mode beside you. “I’m enjoying being right about everything, like always.”

He groaned again, but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep calling me,” you sang.

“Because I’m a masochist, apparently,” Joaquín said brightly, though he stumbled on the last word like he was trying too hard to keep it light.

That earned him a snort, which only made him laugh harder. It was the kind of laugh that was so bright you could almost see the way his face crinkled up with it. You could picture his warm brown eyes shining, and the curve of his mouth, and the image made your stomach dip again.

For a while, the two of you went back and forth like that, barely watching the show. You’d throw out another prediction to see Joaquín protest, and he’d respond with increasingly desperate defences of the show.

“You don’t understand, this episode sets up the entire season four arc!”

“Mm-hm, sure. Whatever you say, Quino.”

“C’mon, cariño,” Joaquín complained. The way he said your nickname this time was softer, though, almost breathless, and you had to clutch your pillow tighter to steady yourself.

Eventually, the TV faded into background noise, both of you too caught up in your own rhythm. It felt like he was right there on your bed beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him if you just leaned a little further into the sound of his voice.

“You’re quiet,” Joaquín said softly after a stretch of companionable silence. He was lying down now, too, you could tell by the muffled sound of his pillow when he shifted.

“Just tired,” you said, though the truth caught in your throat. Tired, yes, but mostly of pretending you didn’t miss Joaquín everyday.

There was a pause, then his voice came through, gentler. “I miss you.”

The words landed like a hand pressed to your sternum, grounding you even as your pulse kicked up. Joaquín always said things like that so easily, like it wasn’t a risk at all. Meanwhile, you had to wrestle your own honesty into submission before it could escape.

“…Yeah,” you finally admitted, words quieter than you meant. “I miss you too.”

Your ceiling blurred into soft shapes as your eyes stung, not with tears, but with the weight that had been building for weeks. On the other end, you pictured Joaquín sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, grinning that too-wide grin.

“You know what I’d do right now if I were there?” he asked suddenly, his voice dipping lower, hesitant.

You paused to consider it, your heart jumping into your throat. “Eat all the snacks I hid from Alexei?”

Joaquín laughed, low and warm. It came out a little breathless, almost shy, and the sound tangled with the butterflies already taking up permanent residence in your stomach.

“No. Well, maybe. But also—” Joaquín hesitated, and the pause stretched long enough to make your pulse race. Then, he barrelled on, “I’d bug you until you agreed to watch the next episode. In person. With popcorn. And you’d make fun of me the whole time, but I wouldn’t even care because you’d be here. Actually here, you know?”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Sounds annoying.”

“You love it.” He threw your words back at you, smug and playful, but you caught the tiny stumble after love, like he’d almost said too much.

“Maybe a little,” you echoed his earlier response. You rolled onto your side, hugging your pillow like it might stop your heart from thumping straight through your ribs.

“I mean it, though,” Joaquín said, voice stripped of all his usual bravado. “It’s not the same without you here.”

You closed your eyes, wishing you could bottle his voice just as it was in that moment. Hushed, intimate, a little frayed at the edges. You wished you could reach through the line and trace the shape of that smile you knew was lingering.

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Quino,” you managed, trying for lightness even as your chest ached.

“Too late.”

The two words hovered between you, more dangerous than any plot twist on his ridiculous show. You laughed because it was easier than admitting how much his words mattered. Easier than confessing that this—Joaquín’s voice in your ear, the soft cadence of his breath as he got sleepy—felt a lot like falling.

The credits rolled in the background, the show entirely forgotten. The line crackled gently beside you as Joaquín shifted again, probably stretching out like the overgrown golden retriever he was, all long limbs and restless energy.

“You’re gonna keep guessing plot twists next time, aren’t you?” he asked finally.

“Obviously,” you said, overly smug. “Unless the writing suddenly gets less predictable.”

Joaquín groaned. “Why do I put myself through this?”

You grinned. “Because you’d miss me otherwise.”

And though he tried to play it off with a mock-suffering sigh, you could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “Yeah, I would.”

The conference room was supposed to be a place of serious business. Debrief, strategy, updates. Instead, it had become a comedy club where the punchline was you and Bucky.

Everyone was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Shoulders shook. Snorts slipped out. Yelena had her face buried in her hands like she was praying, but her muffled giggles gave her away. John kept letting out little bursts of air through his nose, like an angry bull who couldn’t quite keep it together. Ava had her arms crossed, but her mouth was twitching dangerously at the corners.

And there you were, standing up front with your arms crossed beside Bucky, who looked like a dad dragged to a parent-teacher conference against his will.

“Stop it,” he said finally, gruff and unamused. “This is not funny.”

That did it. The room collapsed. Yelena wheezed, clutching her stomach. Alexei slapped the table. Ava actually let out a laugh, sharp and bright, like she couldn’t contain it anymore. Bob seemed to be holding back best, lips just slightly curved into a smile.

Through her cackles, Yelena managed to get out, “I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious that the tabloids think the two of you are dating!”

That just set everyone off again.

“Oh come on,” Bucky grumbled, glaring at them all.

Ava raised a brow, deadly calm but still clearly amused. “She’s not wrong. You’re literally old enough to be her grandfather.”

“Technically—” John started, but Bucky shot him a withering look that silenced him.

“Even if you go by his biological age,” Ava continued, ignoring him, “you’re still way too old for her. Not impossible, but kind of cradle-robbing.”

You had your arms folded tight. But honestly? Your lips were twitching too. Because you could totally see it.

Valentina had orchestrated the whole thing, of course. She probably thought pairing you and Bucky up in the public eye would soften your reputations or distract from less flattering headlines. So she’d whispered in the right ears, and suddenly three different gossip magazines had sources swearing you’d been together for years.

The articles came complete with a glossy little photo essay. A greatest-hits montage of every vaguely affectionate moment you and Bucky had shared since the Flag Smashers fiasco.

There was one of you walking side by side, shoulders brushing, both of you frowning like you were about to go punch something. The tabloids captioned it as STEELY LOVERS ON A MISSION.

Another was you handing him a sandwich of coffee after a mission. Innocent enough, except the angle made it look like you were gazing at him all adoringly while he took it. LUNCH DATE WITH NEW AVENGERS COUPLE, one magazine cooed, like you were influencers instead of international fugitives-turned-sort-of-heroes.

And then there was the pièce de résistance. The one that had everyone in stitches right now.

A few weeks ago, you and Bucky had ducked into a little coffee shop in disguise. Baseball caps pulled low, heads bent together, doing your best not to draw attention. Somehow, a photographer still caught the exact moment Bucky said something so grouchy that you’d lost it.

He’d tipped his head back, laughing so hard it looked like joy had cracked him wide open. And you? You were doubled over, one hand braced against his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you giggled.

It was completely platonic. Just a rare, stupidly normal moment between the two of you. But freeze it in time, slap on a raunchy headline, and boom—suddenly you were the New Avengers’ It Couple.

Was it mortifying? Absolutely. Did you understand why the public ate it up? Unfortunately, yes.

“I mean,” Yelena wheezed, wiping her eyes, “you two do look cosy. Look at this one.” She held up her phone, flashing another coffee shop picture across the table like she was presenting evidence in court.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

You felt your own cheeks warm, though whether from second-hand embarrassment or the fact that the photo really was ridiculously convincing, you didn’t want to think about it too hard.

“It’s not like that,” you tried to say, but your voice came out too defensive, which only made everyone snicker harder.

Alexei tilted his head, shrugging. “We know this, but the public does not.”

This was what Valentina wanted. She wanted people to buy the story because a little romantic intrigue always sold better than the complicated reality that Sam was insistent the Avengers title didn’t belong to you.

You sighed, slumping in a chair at last. “I hate my life.”

“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Yelena teased, making kissy faces at Bucky.

Bucky groaned audibly this time, and the team dissolved into another round of helpless laughter.

Later that night, your phone buzzed just as Bob declared John’s collard greens were “life-changing” for the third time. John, who was on cooking duty and surprisingly knew what he was doing, was too busy shooing him away from the cornbread batter to notice your quick escape.

You slipped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear before it could ring again. “Hi, Joaquín,” you said, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

“You didn’t tell me you were dating a grandfather,” he said without preamble. His voice was bright, teasing, but you could practically hear the grin through the line.

You groaned, rubbing your forehead with your free hand. “Not you too.”

“Am I supposed to act surprised? The whole internet thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Bucky.” You could hear the faux pout on his face when he said, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Do you want me to hang up right now?” you threatened. “Because I will. Don’t test me, pretty boy.”

Joaquín laughed, high and delighted, like he lived for winding you up. There was something about knowing he could pull a smile from you, even miles away, that made him feel closer to you. “Relax, cariño. He does have that rugged, silver fox thing going on.”

You sighed, dragging the sound out dramatically. “Joaquín.”

“What? It’s a compliment. If I had half that man’s jawline when I’m pushing a hundred, I’d be thrilled.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched. “Technically he’s not a hundred. He was cryogenically frozen, remember?”

“Feels like it,” Joaquín teased. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. Bagging a war hero? Iconic.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, sliding your back down the wall to sit down. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me for it,” he declared.

That was the problem. Joaquín said it so casually, like it was just another joke tossed between friends. But your chest tightened all the same.

The laughter faded. Joaquín’s voice lowered, gentler now. “Look, it doesn’t matter what people think. Anyone who actually knows you knows the truth. He’s basically your weird adopted uncle.”

Relief loosened your shoulders. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“Always,” he promised.

But there was a pause. Joaquín hadn’t meant for the joke to stick in his throat, but it did. Because sure, he knew the rumours were ridiculous. He knew Bucku was family to you, nothing more.

And yet when the tabloids plastered those photos everywhere, Joaquín couldn’t stop looking. He couldn’t stop picturing a world where they were true, except he was in the coffee shop with you, not Bucky. Joaquín laughing with his head tipped back, your hand pressed against his chest, the whole world catching on camera what he’d wanted for months: that you were his.

Instead, they thought you belonged to someone else.

He’d carried his phone from room to room that day, scrolling past those pictures even though he swore he wouldn’t. Each time his stomach twisted the same way, each time his chest burned with the same ache. He wanted to hack the internet just so he didn’t have to see you leaning toward someone else, even if he knew it wasn’t real.

Joaquín tried to shake it off because that wasn’t fair. You didn’t belong to anyone. But the image dug into him all the same. He hated that it made him jealous. Hated that the distance between you made it worse.

He hated that he couldn’t reach out and be there. That he couldn’t press his palm to the back of your hand where it curled around the phone, couldn’t feel you laugh against his shoulder instead of hearing it through tinny speaker static.

All Joaquín could do was call, tease, and make you laugh until you sighed and softened. But at the end of the day, you were still hundreds of miles away, and the world was still convinced you were in love with someone else.

“I really do miss you,” you admitted quietly. The words slipped out before you could second-guess them.

On the other end, Joaquín’s breath caught, just for a moment. God, how he wanted to tell you he missed you so much it hollowed him out. That on some nights, he stayed awake replaying every single conversation, every shared joke, every spark of your voice in his memory, because it was the only thing that made the silence bearable.

Then he rallied, light again. “Miss me? Please. You’re probably just jealous no one here makes tamales like I do.”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound. “You don’t even cook.”

“I’d learn. For you, I’d learn.” The words hung there, playful but weighted. You knew Joaquín meant them.

And on his end, lying back against a hotel pillow in a city that wasn’t home, Joaquín shut his eyes and let himself imagine it. A kitchen, your laugh at his side, a life where you were his. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, and the wanting was its own kind of torture.

He listened to you breathe. He should’ve said goodbye, but every second he didn’t hang up was another second where he could pretend you were close.

“Still there?” you asked, a little tentative.

“Yeah,” Joaquín said. “I just don’t want to hang up yet.”

Your chest pulled tight, something tender and dangerous blooming there. You should’ve teased Joaquín, but you didn’t. You just let it sit between you, honest and unassuming.

Footsteps interrupted the moment. You looked up to see Bucky leaning against the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than it usually was when it was just the two of you.

On the line, Joaquín went silent. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Quino?” you prompted gently.

He cleared his throat, covering the hitch with a laugh. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” he teased, light and sing-song. Playful enough to pass as a joke. But underneath, you heard the thin crack in it.

You rolled your eyes, though your smile tugged wide. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Joaquín said, but softer this time, like the word was wearing something heavier than humour. “Talk soon, cariño.”

And before you could answer, the line clicked as he hung up.

You were perfectly content that afternoon. Curled up on the sofa with Bob pressed up beside you, his latest book splayed open in his lap. He gasped every few pages as though he hadn’t spoiled half the plot for himself earlier by reading reviews.

You were scrolling aimlessly through your phone, not really absorbing anything, until the familiar script of Joaquín’s name lit up your screen. Your lips curved before you even tapped the notification.

The photo loaded, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Joaquín. Shirtless, sweaty, muscles catching the light. But instead of sultry intensity, he was grinning like an idiot, hair mussed from a workout, a dimple cutting into one cheek.

QUINO 🪽: bet I can still do more push-ups than sam. place your bets, cariño.

You laughed a little. Only Joaquín Torres could make a post-workout selfie funny and platonic. Except apparently you were wrong about that.

“What is this?” Yelena’s voice landed over your shoulder, dry as ever. She’d just come back from Oregon with John in tow, dirt coating her boots. “Why is Falcon sending you thirst traps?”

Your phone nearly flew out of your hand. “It’s not a thirst trap!”

Bucky, from his armchair across the room, gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Nope. Not doing this. I hear that phrase one more time, I’m gone.” True to his word, he disappeared down the hall muttering something about needing quiet.

“Yelena,” you began, but it was too late.

She was already plucking the phone from your grip with ninja reflexes. “Ohhh,” she drawled, scrolling with deliberate slowness. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

John leaned over. “Lemme see.”

You lunged, but he was faster, bracing one big hand on Yelena’s shoulder as they both peered at your screen like it was evidence in a criminal case.

“Oh my god,” John said, half laughing, half stunned. “He’s obsessed with you. Look at this one! Morning stubble, pillow hair, abs in the background. That’s not friendly, that’s a man playing dirty.”

Heat crept up your neck, pooling in your ears. “No, he’s just— he always looks like that,” you defended your best friend. “He’s… naturally photogenic?”

Yelena snorted. “Photogenic? He’s flexing.” She tapped the screen, enlarging one of the photos. “See? Bicep angle. Classic.”

You flailed. “He’s literally just holding his phone!”

John wagged a finger like a teacher making a point. “Nah. Guys don’t send selfies like this unless they’re flirting. Trust me.”

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Joaquín, flirting? With you? Your stomach swooped, butterflies you thought you’d outgrown years ago suddenly alive and thrashing. You tried to smother but your pulse betrayed you, drumming in your throat as image after image passed under Yelena’s ruthless examination.

You caught glimpses of them too. Joaquín, half-asleep. Joaquín pulling a face mid-training session, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was on the cover of Men’s Health in every single picture.

Your mouth went dry. What if they were right?

Bob, who’d been suspiciously quiet, leaned over the sofa. His eyes went wide. “Oh yeah,” he declared without hesitation. “That’s a slutty Florida man who wants you bad.”

The room froze. You, Yelena, and John turned to gape at him.

Bob blinked, then flushed scarlet. “What? He does! Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

You burst out laughing, loud and incredulous, mostly to cover the way your heart had launched itself into your throat. Yelena cackled, clapping Bob on the shoulder while John doubled over, wheezing.

That night, sleep refused to cooperate. You were on your back in the dark. The ceiling was an indistinct blur above you, Joaquín’s selfies branded behind your eyelids like they’d been carved there.

Your teammates’ voices haunted you—especially sweet, unfiltered Bob’s.

You pressed your hands over your eyes, groaning into the darkness. What if they were right? What if those messy, unposed, grinning photos weren’t just Joaquín being Joaquín? What if you’d been too wrapped up in your own denial to notice that he’d been saying it all along without words?

Your stomach dropped just thinking about it, the kind of swoop that made you feel reckless and restless and half-sick with longing. Attraction, plain and simple, except you didn’t have the vocabulary to name it.

So when your phone buzzed across the nightstand, screen lighting up with his name, you didn’t even hesitate. “Quino,” you whispered, answering the phone.

“Cariño,” he answered, warm and teasing, mimicking your tone. “What? You weren’t asleep already, were you?”

“Obviously not. You know I never sleep before two.” You turned on your side and tucked your arm under your pillow. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was thinking about that mission briefing Sam gave earlier,” Joaquín said. “And then I started thinking about you, and— well, here we are.”

Your breath caught. Joaquín said it so casually, but now every word landed like a spark. After what Yelena and John had said, you couldn’t hear it any other way.

The conversation moved forward at its usual pace. Joaquín’s rundown of training drills, your sarcastic commentary about tower drama, but it all felt tilted. Each of his laughs sounded softer, more deliberate.

When Joaquín told you about racing Sam up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and losing spectacularly, you pictured the sweat on his chest from that selfie, the sun catching the edge of his grin. When he groaned about a bruised shoulder, you thought about how his biceps had looked, corded and flexed, and wondered how they’d feel if you traced the curve of muscle with your hand.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. And yet your chest ached with how much you wanted to believe it wasn’t.

“Are you smiling right now?” Joaquín asked suddenly, his voice suspicious and boyish.

You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

“Good. I like when you smile.”

Your heart skittered. Joaquín had said things like that before, but never had they felt so heavy. Confirmation bias, you told yourself. Except your body didn’t care about logic. Your body was all butterflies and fire.

The two of you drifted into a softer silence. Joaquín must have been lying down too, because his voice was lower now, the edges fuzzy with sleep.

“You know,” he murmured, “DC isn’t really all that far from New York.”

Your eyes opened, darting toward the ceiling like it could anchor you. “You’re kidding.”

“No, seriously. An hour and a half by plane, less than a half hour by Falcon-wings. If I had a free weekend…” Joaquín trailed off, hopeful in a way that made your chest squeeze.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your heart, like that could steady the gallop. “Valentina would kill me,” you whispered. “Especially now that Bucky and I squashed the dating rumours without permission.”

“I’d take the risk,” Joaquín said easily, without hesitation. “I’m pretty sure I can take her.”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t tempt me. Because I really, really want to see you.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. Then Joaquín let out a soft laugh, breathless, almost shy. “Careful, cariño,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And lying there, phone warm against your ear, you almost wished he would.

Some days just conspired against you. Today was one of them.

It started in the morning when Bob, in a burst of affectionate enthusiasm, high-fived you so hard you nearly somersaulted backwards. He looked horrified, apologising six times, but the bruise blooming on your arm didn’t care. You knew he was still getting used to his super-strength, and you weren’t badly hurt, so you didn’t hold it against him.

Then Alexei ate the last of your cereal. He didn’t even seem sorry about it. He just shrugged and said, “It is better fuel for Red Guardian,” as if that excused everything.

The tiny miseries stacked higher as the hours went on. You stubbed your toe on the sofa. Your phone slipped out of your hand and smacked you square in the face when you tried to read lying down. Yelena left a damp towel on your bed after using your shower since you had nicer-smelling shampoo. Even the vending machine betrayed you, spitting out a packet of chips that was so broken up it was basically dust.

By the time night rolled around, you were exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical. Just wrung out, fed up, convinced the universe was laughing at you. You sat hunched on your bed, scrolling through your phone with the distinct energy of someone hoping to be distracted.

QUINO 🪽: miss you today. there’s a package waiting for you in the quinjet hangar

You blinked at the words, frowning. A package? This late? And why had he written it like some secret spy dead drop? For a moment, you just stared at the message, heart ticking faster without permission.

Curiosity trumped exhaustion. With a sigh, you shoved your feet into slippers and pulled the sleeves of your sweater down over your wrists. The tower was quiet at this hour, the usual noise hushed down to a low hum as everyone relaxed in their rooms.

When you reached the far end of the bar area, you paused, drawn to the wall of glass overlooking the city. New York at night never failed to take your breath away. The whole city pulsed with restless life, and from up here, you could almost believe you were just an observer floating above them.

When you stepped out onto the hangar, the air was sharp and cool against your skin. But you hardly felt it, because there—standing with his wings tucked close, helmet off, green Falcon suit catching the floodlights—was Joaquín.

His head lifted the second you appeared, and his smile lit up brighter than the skyline behind him. Open, radiant, all warmth. Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might burst.

You didn’t think. You didn’t worry about who might be watching or what rules you were breaking. You just ran.

By the time you reached him, you were already laughing, already breathless. You launched yourself forward, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms locked behind his neck. His hands caught you without hesitation, steady and sure, like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to throw yourself at him.

“You’re here,” you breathed, words muffled into his shoulder. You didn’t even care that your voice shook. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Joaquín answered, laughing a little, but his arms tightened around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go. “God, I missed you, cariño.”

The admission hit you like a wave. You pressed your face closer, eyes stinging, and whispered back, “I missed you too, Quino.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held on, greedily soaking up Joaquín’s warmth, the faint smell of soap and jet fuel clinging to him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his chestplate. Months of phone calls, teasing texts and pixelated video chats melted away.

Joaquín was here, actually here.

When you finally leaned back, you found his face only inches from yours. His eyes were wide, dark and searching, and you could see every ounce of what he felt written plain across them.

Neither of you spoke, but the tension thrummed between you like it had its own heartbeat. For months, you’d skirted the edge of this moment. Too careful, too uncertain, too far apart. But now, with Joaquín’s hands still firm at your waist and your fingers still curled into his hair, there was no more pretending.

You both leaned in at the same time. The kiss was everything and nothing all at once. Not dramatic, not cinematic, just inevitable. Joaquín’s lips were soft, insistent but devoted, like he’d thought about this a thousand times and still couldn’t quite believe it was real. You sighed into him, the sound swallowed up as he kissed you deeper.

“Took us long enough,” he murmured when you broke apart. Joaquín kept his forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky, grin unstoppable.

You laughed, nudging your nose against his. “Tell me about it.”

You reluctantly unwrapped your legs from around his waist, pressing a few delicate kisses to the corners of Joaquín’s mouth as if trying to memorise every curve.

He shivered slightly in the night air, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found your hips again, steadying you, and he bent his head, burying his nose just beneath your ear. You felt his warm breath brush against your skin, and then a quick peck at the hollow of your neck made a soft sigh escape you.

You pulled back enough to look at Joaquín, brushing your fingertips lightly over the curve of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and bright, and for a heartbeat, all you could do was stare.

It was the kind of look that made you forget words entirely. You swallowed, heart thudding, and led Joaquín towards the Watchtower’s interior. The wind cut through the open hangar, tangling your hair and biting at exposed skin, and even through your sweater, you could feel the chills.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging him gently along. “It’s freezing.”

Joaquín let himself be led, gawking as you walked through the communal bar and kitchen area. His eyes were wide, taking in the lights, the clutter of mugs and plates, the cosy chaos that was life here.

“Wow,” he breathed, “this place is… It’s like a spaceship apartment or something. I love it.”

You grinned, feeling that familiar swell of affection that always accompanied his awe. “Yeah. It’s still homey, somehow.”

You guided him down a couple of hallways, past the living room, and finally to your door. Inside, the air was warmer, the light softer.

Joaquín paused at the threshold, taking it all in. Shelves lined the walls, filled with novels, a small stack of notebooks splayed on your desk, and a few mementoes from missions and friends. It was you, exactly you, and it hit him visibly.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning your room until they landed on a framed photo. He picked it up gently, cradling it as if it were fragile. It was the two of you from almost a year ago. You’d taken him to one of his rehab sessions and stayed the entire time to offer him some support. The two of you were laughing in a rare, unguarded moment.

“I have this exact picture in my room,” Joaquín said softly, reverently. “It’s… it’s always there, you know? Every time I look at it, I feel like you’re right there with me.”

Your chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heater.

He turned the photo in his hands, gaze lingering on your face before he met your eyes. “I like having a piece of you near me,” Joaquín murmured. “Even when I can’t actually be with you.”

Something fluttered low in your stomach, deep and insistent. You could feel your pulse in your throat, remembering the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours, the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

Joaquín stepped closer, just enough to close the distance. “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling so homesick, and I just had to see your face.”

You swallowed, nodding, letting yourself lean into him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel every small inhale, every micro-movement of his adjusting just to be closer. You pressed a quick, delicate kiss to his jawline, then his temple, and Joaquín hummed softly.

You both sank onto the edge of your bed. Joaquín’s grin was wide enough to make your heart ache.

“I still can’t believe you kissed me back,” he whispered, voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “I mean, you want me the way I want you?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “You’re dramatic,” you teased softly, brushing a curl from Joaquín’s forehead. “Of course I feel the same way.”

He let out a breathy giggle, head tipping back slightly. It made your chest feel like it could explode. “Wow,” he murmured, voice low, “so I’m not imagining it? You actually, really want me?”

“Maybe,” you said, letting the word dangle teasingly in the air. “Depends on the night. And the lighting.”

Joaquín leaned closer, nudging his forehead against yours. “I’ll take what I can get.” His thumb brushed across your cheek, light and deliberate. “Because I’ve wanted this for months. You don’t even know.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. The truth was, you did know. Or at least, you had known in fragments, tiny flashes of realisation that kept you awake on nights like this one.

“I’ve wanted it too,” you admitted quietly, voice almost lost in the hush of the room. “Probably for just as long.”

Joaquín’s lips curved into a soft, contented smile, and he leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re a little terrifying,” he said, breath warm against your skin. “Independent, mysterious, and somehow perfect at winding me up and making me feel like I could fly.”

“I’m aware,” you murmured, letting a laugh slip out, low and soft. “You’re not exactly subtle either.”

He leaned back just slightly to look at you, eyes sparkling. “Subtle is boring. You, on the other hand, keep me guessing. It’s amazing.”

“So, do we… admit how badly we both want this?” you asked softly, teasing but earnest.

Joaquín chuckled, a warm, low sound that vibrated through you. “Maybe we should whisper it. Make it official. Even if the whole world can’t know just yet, I’ve been craving you.”

You let the words settle between you and whispered back, “Me too. Badly.”

He nudged your shoulder playfully. “So, now that we’ve officially confessed, does this mean I get to make you watch my TV shows forever?”

You smirked. “You can certainly try. But fair warning, I’ll be spoiling all the predictable plot twists.”

Joaquín leaned in closer. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin widened into a smirk. Joaquín leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. Your body reacted before your brain could even register it, arching instinctively into him as he hovered over you, fingers threading through the silky softness of his dark curls.

His hands braced himself on either side of you, sinking into your bed and positioning his knees between your parted legs. Your hands roamed over his shoulders, memorising the feel of him, the slight tension in his muscles from months of holding back the want you both now released.

Joaquín groaned softly, lips brushing against yours again and again, each one leaving fire in its wake. Your heart hammered in your chest, heat pooling low in your stomach as his tongue traced along your lower lip. The push and pull of it all felt at once new and achingly familiar.

Your hands drifted to his back, pressing him down against you. Joaquín’s careful weight was comforting, possessive, and thrilling. Your arms slid up and around his shoulders as your hips shifted, seeking more contact, more of the electric friction that had been building since the moment he’d arrived.

You broke the kiss only to gasp, shivering from the mix of cold air and heat radiating between you. Joaquín’s eyes were dark, glimmering with the same need that made your chest ache. He arched into you as you dragged your mouth across his face and to his neck, leaving gentle, needy kisses, nipping softly in a way that made his knees weaken.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Joaquín murmured, breath ragged. He tilted his head to give him more access. “You have no idea.”

“I think I do,” you replied, grinning as you kissed along his jaw. Your fingers dug into the hard shell of his Falcon suit, tugging him closer as if you could somehow bridge all the months of distance in that single motion.

Joaquín groaned, a low, rough sound that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid from the bed to the small of your back, pressing you into him with an urgency that made your knees shake. You tilted your head back, letting him take the lead, lips and tongue moving against yours.

Every kiss, every press of lips, every soft brush of teeth carried the electric thrill of new territory. You could feel the rapid thrum of Joaquín’s heartbeat against your own, matching your own frantic pulse, and it made your stomach flutter. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands wandered over your back, brushing against your sides.

The taste of him, the faint tang of sweat from the day, only sharpened the sensation, making every inhale, every sigh, send sparks through your body.

Joaquín tilted his head, lips dragging down your jaw. You whispered his name, and he caught it in his mouth, murmuring yours back with a breathy groan. You tested boundaries you hadn’t dared before. Joaquín nipped your neck, and you responded in kind, teeth and lips and whispered moans overlapping in a rhythm all your own. It was messy and perfect.

“Cariño,” he groaned into your neck, voice rough. “I— fuck, I can’t believe this is happening”

“You better believe it,” you breathed back, pressing your lips against his shoulder, tracing the slope of his neck, memorising him again in every way you could.

The sound of the door swinging open didn’t give you time to react. “Hey, do you know why the security system keeps flagging something in the hangar—” Bucky froze at the sight of Joaquín on top of you, still wearing his Falcon suit.

The three of you stared at each other, eyes wide. After a moment, the surprise on Bucky’s face melted into something amused. He stood there, arms crossed, the sheer deadpan of his expression making your stomach flip between mortification and humour.

“I’m too old for this shit,” Bucky said flatly, voice cutting through the haze of heat and adrenaline like a guillotine. He blinked, clearly weighing his life choices.

John’s voice rang out from the hallway. “What’s going—” He gasped in a scandalised tone, opening your bedroom door wider and taking in the image before him. You were below Joaquín, your arms still tangled in his hair, while he had red marks littering his neck and jawline from your efforts.

Ava barreled past John, phone already raised. “Wait! Hold up!” She snapped a picture without a second thought, capturing Joaquín perched on top of you, grin wide, completely unfazed.

Bob shuffled in next. “Finally,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. You shot him an offended look that said you’re just as bad as the others, and he gave a little shrug.

Yelena followed, arms crossed, deadpan as ever. She looked at Joaquín and tilted her head, eyes scanning him like he was a puzzle she’d just solved. “Golden retriever,” she declared, nodding once. “Of course.” Her dry amusement made Joaquín grin sheepishly, and you groaned, covering your face with your hand.

Joaquín, however, didn’t flinch. Lips still swollen, jaw marked with your tender kisses, he stood up and waved at your team. “Hi! I’m Joaquín. Pleasure to finally meet you properly,” he greeted cheerfully, voice bright and undeterred. “I guess you already… uh… know of me?”

Bucky put his face in his palm. He gave a single, exasperated groan from the doorway. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You sank further into the bed, using your blanket to cover your face as the rest of the team filed out, giggling. Joaquín leaned down slightly.

“Don’t mind them,” he murmured, pulling the blanket from your head and brushing his lips against yours. “They’ll get used to me eventually.”

“I don’t know if ‘get used to’ is the right phrase,” you whispered back. You peeked up at Joaquín, who was still grinning like a fool. “Well, I guess the secret’s out.”

He leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Just the way I like it.”

#saved the day!#gonna get sticky!#kinda #THIS IS SO CUTE 😭😭#i love joaquin torres so so much omfg i’m kissing him so hard #and i love the thunderbolts & their dynamic #this had me giggling and kicking my feet #joaquin torres x reader