jen ⭑

౨ৎ 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗹 𝗺𝗲𝗻 ౨ৎ ౨ৎ 𝟴𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 ౨ৎ

[yourauthorjen]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ i wasn’t born this morning, 18 would be just fine.

♬⋆.˚𝄞 JEN — she/her. infp-t. 8teen. wasian. marvel.

|| my inbox is open if you want to chat, or make a request!

|| ౨ৎ masterlist ౨ৎ wattpad ౨ৎ ||

© yourauthorjen | all rights reserved | no copying, translating, stealing, or reposting my work as your own |

[yourauthorjen]

REQUESTS

lowkey wanna write for tasm!peter parker so if anyone has any ideas feel free to drop them! sorry if ive been inactive but thank you to everyone whos been showing me support

we hit 100 followers!!! and i know its not a lot but thank you to everyone and as well as my readers who have interacted with my posts! (and shoutout to the silent readers thank you for reading my works too)

[moonlight-prose]

hey! im a photographer and i wanted to say i really love your theme of moons and stars. i also just wanted to share some of my photography as i just started taking photos, and i was reading your new joaquin torres fic and i just thought of these photos that i took:

just some silhouettes and the sky. :3

i love being sent pictures of the moon so this is incredible! and they're so beautiful babes. hilariously they give the vibes of a fanboy fic i've got stuck in my drafts. they're so whimsical. thank you for sharing your work. i absolutely adore it.🖤

[yourauthorjen]

thank you for viewing my photos im glad you liked it!

[yourauthorjen]

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. YOU'RE A MUSIC STUDENT WITH JOAQUIN TORRES

a/n: none of the lyrics are mine. all lyrics are from cups by anna kendrick from pitch perfect.

͙͘͡ ★

the pleasant tapping was sweet at first—reminding you of the soft pattering of rain, then the faint sound of needles clicking from knitting; but after a while, it became annoying. like hair pulling annoying.

you paused, pencil between your teeth as you stared at your third attempt of songwriting. it was infuriating, trying to chase the ideas while running on red bull and coffee, your brain somewhere between shutting down and the never ending plane of words scrambling throughout your head.

the tapping didn’t stop though; and when you finally squinted through the fairy lights and half-covered curtains, you spotted a shadow, dark and hovering, balancing on the narrow fire escape.

“sunshine?” the voice was muffled through the glass, but unmistakably familiar.

you dropped your pencil, scrambling off your chair and shoving the window open with a loud creak. the chilly air of the midst of the night swept in, bone-chilling and icy as you stuck your head out. 

“joaquin?”

he offered a crooked smile. “hey.”

your boyfriend hooked a leg over the window, one hand wrapped around his torso, the other clamped around the window frame like his body depended on it. nearly tripping, he stumbled halfway through before you caught him, arms under his and dragging his heavy weight inside.

but the second he was fully inside and the light hit his face, your stomach dropped.

“oh my god.” you reached for him instinctively, eyes wide. “what the hell happened to you?!”

he flinched as you touched his cheek, the bruise on his jaw dark and spreading like watercolor. there was a split on his lower lip, and his knuckles were red and scabbed, his jacket stained with what looked like dried blood.

“hey, hey,” he said quickly. “i’m okay—I’m fine, i promise. well, mostly, just a little dented.”

“you’re literally bleeding, joaquin!”

“it’s not actively bleeding,” he offered.

you glared at him, grabbing his wrist and guiding him toward the bed. “sit down before you fall down.”

“bossy,” he muttered with a grin, but winced as he lowered himself. you ignored him, instead kneeling in front of him, already rummaging through the drawer under your bed for the first-aid kit. “what did you even do to get so banged up?”

he didn’t answer at first, not until you cupped his chin, gently tilting his face toward you.

“joaquin.”

his jaw tensed under your fingers. “i might’ve taken a little detour.”

you narrowed your eyes. “what detour?”

he licked his lips nervously, closing his eyes. “don’t get mad at me sunshine, but i may have gotten into a teensy disagreement with my roommate.” 

“a disagreement?” you repeated slowly, staring into his amber eyes, “with your roommate?”

he swallowed, “he was talking shit about you and i… i kinda lashed out. said your music was trash, like every other basic girl with a guitar.”

you let out an exasperated sigh. “so you punched him because of that?”

“technically,” he said, sucking in a sharp breath as you finally pressed the disinfectant to the cut near his eyebrow, “he swung first. i just… followed through.”

you stared at him, your exasperation battling the sharp twist in your chest at the fact that he defended you—again. “that is the dumbest thing i have ever heard, joaquin. but honestly, i can’t even be mad because...” you sighed, gentler this time, “... because you’re such a stupid idiot in love that it’s kind of gross.”

his lips tugged into a lopsided grin. “you think i’m in love with you?”

“i think you punched someone because they insulted how i sound, so yeah, i’m gonna go ahead and say fully obsessed.”

“but you’re obsessed with me too, right?” he asked, cracking an eye open and giving you a wounded look. 

you tilted your head to the side, carefully pressing a finger to the bruise on his cheek, tracing the purple and green, blooming across his cheek. in return, he winced with a hiss, and you smiled sweetly, fingers sliding back to his jaw.

“careful,” he murmured, watching you from under his lashes. “i’m fragile right now.”

“yeah, and whose fault is that?” you said, though your voice was soft and teasing. “you crash-land into my room in the middle of the night looking like you lost a fight—”

“i won, technically.”

"you're lucky i love you," you muttered under your breath, with an amused twitch of your lips.

"i do," he grumbled, "it's why my roommate looks like someone shoved his ass into a garbage disposable unit."

"or you could've just used your words, like a big kid," you teased. "really, it's not that big of a deal."

instead of biting back with a smug grin, his gaze hardened, brown eyes sharpening like flint. "but it is to me."

you blinked, stunned.

"i don't care what people say about me. but not about you. 'cause they don't see the way your eyes light up with pride after you finish writing, even if it means staying up till three in the morning." he murmured, "he called you a basic girl with a guitar, but you're anything but basic." his eyes were shining now. "in fact, you're anything but basic. and that guitar? it’s the reason i fell for you in the first place, sunshine."

your chest turned warm, and your heart pounded hard in your chest, as his gaze flicked to your mouth. his jaw was cradled in your fingers again, and thumb brushing carefully over the side of his bruise. joaquin watched you with a soft and hopeful expression, like the one he always had when he wanted to ask you for something.

"so... you gonna kiss me now or are you gonna make me suffer more?"

you shook your head, laughing under your breath as you stood up and reached for your guitar.

“not until you’ve earned it.”

he groaned, flopping back onto your pillows again. “sunshine, i’m bleeding for you.”

“…no,”

he huffed out a breath, “fine will you at least sing for me then?”

you paused, half-expecting him to follow it with another dumb joke—but he didn’t. he was looking at you with those intense brown eyes, dark curls falling loosely over his eyebrows. "you always sing when you think i’m asleep,” he said. “you did it the night before when we fell asleep on your couch. i remember.”

you bit your bottom lip. “that doesn’t count.

"it does," he insisted. "besides, i wanna hear what you've been working on."

you hesitated, fingers brushing lightly over the strings of your guitar. the room had gone quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and joaquin’s breathing, which was slower and steadier, like he was starting to relax. his head was propped against the headboard of the bed, and you were sitting across from him, his eyes soft and floored onto yours.

“it’s not done,” you said softly.

“doesn’t have to be,” he replied, shifting slightly on the bed, wincing only a little. “just wanna hear it from you.”

you glanced at him, still sprawled out like a battered prince, all bruises and blood and an unwavering look of determination, something that always made your heart stutter.

so you sat on the edge of the bed, guitar in your lap, and started to strum at the bronze, voice shy and uncertain.

i got my ticket for the long way 'round, two bottle whiskey for the way and i sure would like some sweet company, and i'm leaving tomorrow, what'd you say?

joaquin’s hand started tapping against his thigh in rhythm. not loud, just a familiar three-beat pattern—tap tap clap—like muscle memory.

he smiled a little to himself, not even looking at his hand, just keeping it soft in time while his eyes stayed locked on you.

when i'm gone, when i'm gone, you're gonna miss me when i'm gone. you're gonna miss me by my hair, you're gonna miss me everywhere, oh, you're gonna miss me when i'm gone.

his head was still tipped back, but his lips were parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. you kept going anyways, though, your strumming slowed down a little.

i got my ticket for the long way round, the one with the prettiest of views. it's got mountains, it's got rivers, it's got sights to give you shivers, but it sure would be prettier with you.

you let the rest fade into silence, and by then, joaquin's finger had stilled, the last tap lingering like an echo. he didn’t blink.

“sunshine,” he whispered, voice soft like a prayer.

you didn’t answer, instead you just leaned down and kissed him—careful, gentle, and reverent.

he smiled against your lips.

“see?” he murmured resting his forehead against yours, “music heals.”

͙͘͡ ★

you're gonna miss me by my walk, you're gonna miss me by my talk, oh, you're sure gonna miss me when i'm gone. — cups, by anna kendrick from pitch perfect

[yourauthorjen]

꩜ᝰ.ᐟ YOUR CAMERA ROLL AS JOAQUIN TORRES’ GIRLFRIEND

⋆⭒˚.⋆

ever since joaquin had gifted you your first camera, the candid of photos never stopped. at first it had been a quiet gesture, something wrapped in brown paper and twine, placed beside your coffee cup one sleepy morning. you’d blinked at the unfamiliar weight of it in your hands, then up at him, confused and still halfway tangled in the blanket you had stolen from the couch.

he had bought it at the downtown store— the exact same one you had been eyeing ever since you saw it. now, you just stared down at the compact silver body of the camera, the weight of already fitting in your hands before you’d kissed him hard. the camera was pressed awkwardly between your chests, and he’d laughed against your lips, but your happiness was unmatched with your newfound joy to pass time.

after that, you took pictures of everything.the pattern of rain on the window, the soft curve of joaquin’s jawline, the way his face scrunched up in concentration when he read his file reports. it wasn’t hard to tell that he was your favourite photo subject— but he never complained. just let you click away, sometimes posing, other times just watching you with an amused expression.

"your camera’s gonna get tired of me," he teased one evening as you were sprawled out on the floor, trying to frame a shot of him stretching on the couch, hoodie riding up slightly, dim lamp casting golden light over his skin.

"that's a big fat lie," you replied stubbornly, "and we both know that."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

but that didn’t mean joaquin didn’t take his fair share of photos too.

at some point you had caught him fiddling with your camera when you had left the room, only to scroll through the roll to find several unexpected candids of you—you standing in front of a sunset, you shying away from the camera a hand covering your face, and several more of blurry polaroids of you all dressed up to go out.

he never admitted it though, just shrugged with a thoughtful smile on his face.

there were several more that night. you and joaquin had gone to a party hosted by a mutual, but several of your friends were there. one of them had taken a specific interest in your camera and wanted to take a few photos. eager to get rid of the weight of it sitting at the bottom of your bag, you handed it over and dragged joaquin onto the dance floor.

though, somewhere in the middle of that evening with drunk, neon chaos, your friend had captured a few precious moments of you and joaquin. a few shots of you playing beer pong, a few of you swaying together to the music, and your personal favourite— joaquin with his hands cupping your face as you mashed your lips against the sweet and toxic taste of his, while your fingers clung to his shirt desperate for more.

he had saved that one, tucking it into the back of his phone case.

but you adored it. you adored his smug little grin when you tugged him closer to kiss him, to feel his warmth radiate against your body, and you adored that he got you that little camera to save all the love and memories that you had together.

you cherished every photo, hanging them up on a thin pieces of string with clothing pins, and attaching it onto the wall of your living room. and sometimes joaquin would stand in front of it, admiring the row of plastic films with a small shine in his eyes. you would join him, squeezing his hand before he spun you around and pressed his mouth to your hair.

"loving you, is the best thing i've ever done."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

didn't read the note on the polaroid picture, they don't know how much i miss you.

i wish i could fly, i'd pick you up and we'd go back in time. — taylor swift, the very first night

[yourauthorjen]

| THE BEST DAY | — joaquin torres

MASTERLIST

| synopsis: | a dating couple, a bouquet toss, and a wedding. what could go wrong?

| includes: | joaquintorres x fem!reader, fluff, cliche, no use of, no use of y/n, teasing, wedding stuff, reader wears blue dress, really nosy relatives, manspreading

| word count: | 2.1k

| a/n: | inspired by the song the best day by taylor swift and like half a dozen bouquet toss reels on instagram. also i have limited knowledge on southern american wedding culture/traditions so if there is anything wrong please correct me!

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

IF YOU HAD known that an after party for a wedding could contain enough energy to fuel two Cirque Du Soleils, you would’ve worn sneakers instead of heels, jeans instead of a dress, and harnessed enough mental capacity to be tackled by Joaquin’s entire extended family before you even reached the reception tent.

You adjusted the soft blue satin of your dress, smoothing the fabric where it hugged your hips, feeling suddenly aware of the way it caught in the light. It was simple but stunning—a cowl neckline that shimmered with every step, and something you had spent eons debating on whether or not you should’ve gotten it.

But it was worth it, because you had barely stepped out of the car, before several aunties rushed over, each one of them in brightly patterened skirts and tops, all surrounding you and Joaquin in a flurry of hands and flower scented perfume wafted.

One by one, they pulled you into a hug, spewing question after question; and by the time one of Joaquin’s uncles managed to wrangle them away you had answered “are you going to get married?” one too many times.

Joaquin on the other hand, was no help whatsoever. He just stood there, all smug in his navy suit and open-collared shirt, cheeks flushed with pride. He looked devastating in the sun, and he knew it, too—but instead he just watched you get circled by half a dozen women who shared his nose, his smile, and his never ending enthusiasm for you.

But it wasn’t just the aunties that took an interest in you. Several of Joaquin’s little nephews and nieces had begun trailing after the two of you, half of them already covered in grass stains and mud, giggling and whispering behind your back with large, dutiful eyes.

One of the braver girls—probably no older than six, swallowed by a white dress full of pristine lace and an aggressively large bow—marched right up to you as you were nursing your champagne under the reception tent. Her shiny black shoes were scuffed to hell, and curls frizzed from the humidity as she stared at you with curious eyes.

“Are you his girlfriend?” she asked, pointing directly at Joaquin, who stood a few feet away, talking to his uncle.

You blinked in surprise, completely caught off guard. “Uh… yeah, I am.”

She narrowed her eyes at you. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you repeated, smiling a little. “Is that okay?”

She crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side in pure judgment. “But you’re way too pretty to be his girlfriend.”

Your jaw dropped with half a laugh caught in your throat. “Oh my god.”

“And he’s like… medium-handsome,” she continued with a shrug. “But you’re, like, really, really pretty.”

Joaquin turned just in time to catch that. “Did you just call me ‘medium-handsome’, Alejandra Luciana Torres?”

The girl ignored him, still studying you like you were an exhibit. “Are you also smart?”

“I—uh—”

“She is,” Joaquin interrupted, marching behind you before resting a hand on your waist. “Very smart and way out of my league. So let’s all be cool about it, okay?”

The little girl tilted her head up at him with still narrowed eyes. “Then how did you get her?”

“Great question,” you said under your breath, sipping your drink to hide your grin.

“I have charm,” Joaquin told her, pressing a hand to his chest. “And skills.”

“No,” she said flatly. “You have bad haircut.”

A loud “OHH!” rang out from the other kids, and one little boy collapsed onto the grass dramatically, while Joaquin’s mouth dropped open like he’d just been slapped in the face.

“What? My hair is fine,” he cried patting his loose curls resting across his forehead. “Your just mad that I look this good without trying.”

“Okay, Mr. Medium-Handsome,” you teased, “Let’s go before you end up throwing a tantrum.”

He sputtered, “I— you— you’re lucky I love you.”

You snorted and cupped his cheek, giving him a quick sloppy kiss to shut him up. The kids however, weren't as impressed. Behind you, a chorus of 'EWWW!''s rang out as you pulled away, and Alejandra— Joaquin's little cousin recoiled with enough force to make a rubber hand snapped. A few other kids screamed, one boy slapped a hand over his eyes while another started shrieking: "She's got Uncle J's cooties!"

Joaquin on the other hand looked completely smug. "See told I could get her."

The kids scurried away, as you rolled your eyes and patted his chest. "God, you're such a dork."

The sun had just begun to dip when the music started pounding over the speakers, and the soft afterglow casted a gold shine over the venue. You were halfway to the drink table, reaching out for a glass of wine when Joaquin slowed beside you, eyeing the growing crowd with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You raised your eyebrow at him with a suspicious look. "Joaquin, absolutely not."

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "What?"

"You're trying to convince me to dance, aren't you?"

"No..." he trailed off. "Well, okay, maybe I do. But y'know if you want to break a poor man’s heart—”

The words hadn't even left his mouth before you were already dragging him towards the sea of bodies, swishing their hips as Reggaeton blasted from the speakers, and cheers going up from the crowd. Music pulsed through your body, and Joaquin was already smiling. His moves were suave and easy, twirling you around like he’d done it a hundred times before. There was no resisting the way he moved with it, smooth and confident, one hand finding your waist, the other catching your wrist mid-spin.

Laughter bubbled out of you before you could stop it. It was impossible not to smile with him looking at you like that, especially with the scent of citrus and champagne drift in the air. Joaquin pulled you closer, cheek brushing yours for a beat, his voice low against your ear.

"Te estás divirtiendo?”

You blinked at him, caught between the rhythm of the song and the heat of his breath. “I have no idea what you just said,” you yelled over the music, laughing. “But I love you too!”

His grin was as wide as yours, shaking his head as he leaned in again. “That works.”

It didn’t take long before the layers started coming off. His suit jacket was the first to go slung somewhere over a chair between Suavemente and Chantaje. His tie was loosened, then vanished entirely, stuffed into his pocket after you pulled at it with a teasing smirk. And by the time he spun you into his arms again, the top few buttons of his shirt had popped open, sleeves rolled high up to his biceps, skin glowing under the lights and that ever-present grin stretched across his face like he hadn’t smiled in years.

His forearms flexed, and his face was flushed with a sheen coat of sweat. His hair was messy and fell over his forehead in a sweep, loose curls stuck to the back of his neck. You had barely noticed how long you’d been out there until he leaned down, your hips still swaying to the music as his lips brushed against your temple.

“Water?” he asked, voice warm against your skin.

“Please,” you breathed.

The two of you peeled off from the crowd, his hand slipping into yours as you made your way toward the drinks. You grabbed a glass of something cold and fizzy, pressing it to your cheek with a sigh, fanning your red cheeks.

When you glanced over at Joaquin, he was sprawled over his chair, legs wide open and hands tucked neatly behind his head. He looked far too pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded as he watched you with a lazy grin, shirt clinging to his chest from the heat, curls damp at the edges. It was infuriating, and you had to tear your eyes away from the beautiful sight beside you to keep your sanity.

Instead, you focused on the group gathering just several feet away from you, a swirling knot of women in heels and sundresses already jostling for position behind the bride. Laughter spilled from their circle, some crouching low with hands on their knees, others bouncing on the balls of their feet, all caught up in the buzz of anticipation.

“What are they doing over there?” you murmured softly underneath your breath.

Joaquin glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in with a lopsided grin. “Bouquet toss, you should go join them.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he said, nudging you playfully. “Don’t you want to fight a bunch of strangers for symbolic flowers?”

“Hard pass,” you said, trying to ignore the heat rushing to your cheeks, “Besides, I’m not that close to your family, I’d feel weird.”

But he was still watching you with a grin on his face like he knew something you didn’t. You narrowed your eyes at him, ready to fire back when suddenly a small thud sounded in your lap.

Your conversation halted, as your eyes widened at the soft bundle of roses and baby’s breaths now nestled against your chest. Your breath caught in your throat and your mouth turned into sandpaper, gritty and scratchy as you stared in shock.

It took you two tries before you could find your voice again, and by then the crowd had erupted like thunder. Applauds and wolf whistles sounded and several aunties squealed as they all rushed towards you.

You shot of from your chair and turned to Joaquin, eyes wide with horror, bouquet still clutched in your hands. “I— I didn’t—”

Joaquin looked stunned, before his mouth curled into a delighted, wicked grin. “Holy fuck.”

All eyes seemed to turn on you, digging into your back before then turning to Joaquin.

“Oh my God!” a voice shrieked as footsteps pounded towards you. “Mija! Oh my dear, I’m finally going to have a grandchild!”

Your jaw dropped as Joaquin’s mother stretched her arms out, eyes wide with joy as she swept you into a hug.

“I— no— no,” you tried, “It wasn’t—”

“You caught the bouquet!” his mother squealed, “This is a sign from the universe!” She turned towards her son. “You! I want two grandchildren with her pretty face and your eyes. Fate has already decided.”

“Mamá!” Joaquin nearly choked, eyes wide as he half-laughed, half-pleaded. “No one’s having any babies yet.”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, mijo,” she said waving her hands around. “Your father and I made you after a wedding—”

“Nope!” Joaquin clapped his hands over his ears. “We’re done. No. Shut it down.”

You stood frozen, bouquet still in your hands, heart pounding from the sudden storm of attention. Around you, a chorus of aunts and cousins began chiming in.

“I give it six months.”

“Ya gotta put the ring on it soon, J.”

“I’m willing to put 20 dollars that their wedding will be at the end of this year.”

“But she’s too pretty to marry Uncle Joaquin!”

Joaquin’s dad—thankfully, mercifully—stepped in saving the two of you from anymore unsolicited advice. “Okay, okay,” he said loudly, grinning as he herded everyone back toward the dance floor. “Let’s give them some air.”

He winked at you on the way past. “Congrats, kiddo, you’ve just got 100 more people added to your wedding guest list.”

You exhaled like you’d just escaped a house fire, dropping into the nearest chair, bouquet still clutched like in your lap. “God,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “I just wanted a drink.”

Joaquin dropped into the seat beside you, his collar crooked, and hair messier than ever. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone whose mother just tried to spiritually marry him off.

“You okay?” he asked, nudging your knee with his.

“I’m alive,” you muttered. “Barely.”

He chuckled, leaning back with a lazy sprawl. “They love you.”

“They terrify me.”

A beat passed as laughter, music, and the buzz of energy still lingered around the tent like fog. You were about to close your eyes when he leaned in, his voice low, warm, a grin in it even before he spoke.

“You know…” he murmured near your ear, “I wouldn’t mind if we had kids someday.”

Your head whipped toward him. “Joaquin.”

“I’m just saying,” he said innocently, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t mind seeing mini versions of us running around the house like maniacs.”

You swatted his arm—hard—and he winced with a laugh.

“Marry me first,” you said, jabbing a finger into his chest, “before you even think about that.”

Joaquin grinned, rubbing where you hit him. “So that’s not a no?”

You groaned and sank lower in your chair, pulling a napkin over your face. “I need three years and a gallon of wine before we talk about that again, so my answer is maybe.”

He laughed, soft and slow, then leaned over and kissed your cheek anyway—careful, sweet, and just enough to make your stomach flip again.

“Three years,” he whispered. “That’s a deal.”

[lietogirlsss]

would people be interested in a pb&jj fic where they're in a band tgt but it's also a joaquin torres x reader???

[yourauthorjen]

you dont even have to ask. id fund my new born child into it

[danysdaughter]

(first off, i adored come home to me so much)

can u pls do one where bucky and the reader knew each other before the hydra thing, but they both ended up in hydra's clutches, and instead of completely dehumanizing the two, zola programmed them to be some form of ally/handler situation, so when they both break out of hydra's clutches it gets very angsty and they argue/hate each other because they don't know if their bond was them or hydra-made. and then the ending's up to you.

no srsly, ur writing is literal art. its like fantastic in ways i cant describe.

i can die happy if u'll take this idea.

did I go a bit overboard? yes. do i have any regrets? no. I really tried to make it as you described, babe, hope you enjoy 💕

The Soldier and The Vixen

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & winter!soldier x fem!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x reader

word count | 14k words

summary | Once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by Hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred.

Now free but haunted, they struggle to untangle love from programming, grief from guilt, and healing from the wreckage of who they used to be

tags | ANGST! ANGST! and more ANGST! graphic violence, torture, emotional trauma, brainwashing, PTSD, abuse, trauma bonding, psychological manipulation, non-consensual experimentation, abuse, power imbalance, gore, unhealthy attachment, angst/no comfort, miscommunication, mutual destruction (a bit too much?)

a/n | wowww, I am not gonna lie, I actually cried while writing this, also this fic explores dark themes with little to no comfort (we die like men)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

Village Outskirts, France, 1945

The earth was damp beneath your stomach. Rain must’ve come through earlier — you could smell it in the mud, the churned-up grass, the faint rot of old stone and war.

Through your scope, you watched two Hydra guards lounging outside a crumbling checkpoint. They were smoking and laughing about something in German, distracted, backs too often to each other. Sloppy.

You pressed the button on your radio once, holding it close to your mouth. “Movement. Two guards at the eastern entry. Smoking. Lazy. Easy targets.”

There was a short pause.

Then Bucky’s voice crackled through, “Fox, you always know how to sweet-talk a guy.”

You almost smiled. Almost, “Only the ones who talk less than they shoot, Sarge.”

A muffled laugh came through the line. Morita muttered something you didn't quite catch, probably teasing Bucky again. He was an easy target.

“You got him good,” Dum Dum grinned from somewhere behind you.

Steve’s voice cut in — level, steady. “Enough chatter. Fox, take the lead. We move on your signal.”

But you were already moving.

You didn't need backup for this. The hill rolled down into a slope that gave you full cover, and you slipped down it like water over rock. Quiet. Efficient. Knife drawn. You counted your steps with your breath. When the first guard turned his back, you were already there.

One sharp jab under the ribs. Drag him behind a crate.

The second didn't even turn in time.

Ten seconds. Two bodies. No gunfire.

You tapped your radio again.

“Checkpoint clear.”

As you were climbing back up toward the rendezvous, Bucky was waiting at the top of the ridge, crouched behind a low wall. He glanced at you, smirking.

“Miss me?”

You scoffed, brushing dirt from your sleeves. “I was gone ninety seconds.”

“That’s longer than I like you being out of sight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that concern, Sergeant Barnes?”

“It’s tactical observation, doll.”

There it was — the nickname again. You didn't bite. Bucky flirted with anything that had a skirt, and you were the only girl on the team. You’d learned not to take him seriously.

Behind you, Gabe whispered over the comm, “God, just kiss already.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Bucky turned sharply and pretended to check his rifle. He didn't say another word. You frowned, completely missing the flush rising in his cheeks.

You shook your head, then returned to the task. The rest of the unit fellin. You walked point. Bucky took his usual position at your flank, and the rest of the squad fell into formation like a well-oiled machine.

The village ahead was half-destroyed from past shelling. Stone walls broken down to the foundation. Trees blackened by fire. The kind of place where shadows hid snipers and death sat behind every door.

You spotted it first — a tripwire buried in the dirt, nearly invisible. You paused, raised your fist to halt the line, then rerouted them five feet to the left.

Dum Dum muttered, “You’ve got eyes like a hawk.”

“I’ve got better things to do than walk into obvious traps,” you muttered back.

You didn't make it twenty feet past the tripwire before you heard the explosion — further down, where another route would’ve taken you.

“Hydra knows we’re here,” you said into the radio. “Get to cover. Rooftops—snipers at twelve o’clock.”

The first shot cut through the air a moment later.

You hit the ground, narrowly dodging the bullet. Dust sprayed over your face. A hand grabbed your vest — yanked you behind a broken column.

Bucky.

He positioned himself between you and the direction the shot came from, body tense.

“I had it under control,” you whispered.

He didn't even blink. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

He was still too close. Too steady. His eyes flickered to you, just for a second, like he was making sure you were still in one piece. You didn't notice. You never noticed.

You moved past him before he could say anything else.

Firefight erupted in bursts. The unit scattered into cover, returning fire. You darted through the alleys, knife flashing when you came across two patrols rounding the corner. Your blade slipped beneath ribs and across throats. You didn't flinch. You’ve done worse.

Bucky caught your eye across the street — both of you ducked behind separate walls. You tilted your head. He nodded once. You moved again, clearing a side stairwell while he took the main door.

“Tech’s inside that chapel,” Steve said over the comm. “Fox, Bucky, with me.”

You kicked the door open first. Bucky was right behind you.

He tossed a flash grenade — you shielded your eyes, waiting for the burst, and swept left as soon as it cleared. Two Hydra agents — you took one in the leg, knocked his rifle away, finished it with your knife. The second one came at you with a baton, but Bucky had already taken him down with a clean shot to the chest.

When it was over, the silence was louder than the fight.

The tech was here — something glowing with an unnatural blue pulse. You didn't go near it.

You turned to Bucky instead, breathless. Dust in your hair. Blood on your sleeve.

“Think this’ll finally get me a promotion?”

He was looking at you differently. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Maybe it was the way the light hit your face. Maybe it was the fact you were both still alive.

“You deserve a medal, Fox.”

You grinned, wiping blood from your cheek.

“Only if it’s chocolate.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in the French Countryside, 1945

The mission had been hell, but tonight, the world was quiet.

The campfire crackled in the middle of a half-collapsed barn, broken beams overhead like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Outside, wind stirred through wheat fields. Inside, there was warmth — not from the fire, but from the laughter.

You sat with your knees pulled up, perched on an overturned crate. Your boots were still muddy. Blood on your sleeve had dried to a dark rust. Dum Dum had found a bottle of something vaguely alcoholic, and it’d been passed around in uneven sips.

Morita was telling a story — probably the fifth exaggerated war tale of the night — gesturing wildly with his hands.

“…and then this guy,” he pointed at Bucky with a dramatic flair, “says, ‘I got this,’ climbs onto the back of the Hydra truck barefoot, like a damn lunatic—”

“I didn’t think they’d be hot-wiring it in motion!” Bucky cut in defensively.

“That’s not even the dumbest part,” Gabe added, smirking. “The dumbest part is that he forgot the explosives.”

Laughter broke out around the fire. Bucky groaned and dropped his head back with a loud, sarcastic, “Thanks, fellas.”

You tried to hold in a laugh — and failed. He shot you a look, mock offended.

“You too, Fox?”

You shrugged, biting down on your grin. “Well. I was the one who had to double back and grab the damn charges.”

“She ran through enemy fire like it was a morning jog,” Steve added with a small, proud shake of his head.

Bucky nudged your shoulder with his. “Guess I owe you another one.”

“You’re keeping score now?” you asked, dryly.

He smirked. “Only when I’m losing.”

The fire cracked again, glowing warm across the faces of your brothers-in-arms. Everyone relaxed in a way they rarely could — backs against crates and sandbags, boots kicked off, dog tags clinking faintly as they leaned into one another’s stories.

Gabe tilted his head toward you, half-grinning. “Alright, Fox. What about you?”

You blinked. “What about me?”

“If you weren’t doing all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the barn. “If you weren’t dodging bullets and saving our sorry asses, what would you be doing?”

Immediately, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Cackling broke out around you. Morita leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, come on.”

“Not happening,” you said, waving them off.

“You gotta tell us now,” said Dum Dum. “That reaction alone just guaranteed it’s embarrassing.”

Bucky grinned beside you. “C’mon, Fox. We tell you our secrets. Like how Morita’s terrified of goats—”

“I am not—”

“—and how Dum Dum can’t wink without sneezing—”

“It’s a medical issue—”

“—so it’s only fair we get yours.”

You sighed, shaking your head slowly. “Fine. But if any of you ever breathe a word of this outside this barn, I will personally replace your shaving cream with gun grease.”

They leaned in, like children around a ghost story.

You looked into the fire, picking at the fraying seam of your glove. Then.

“I used to want to be a singer.”

Silence.

Then, chaos.

“No shit?”

“What kind?”

“Like on stage?”

“Do you have a stage name? Wait—please tell me it was Foxy somethin’—”

You groaned again, instantly regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

“It was just something I wanted when I was a kid,” you muttered. “Doesn’t mean I was any good.”

“But like, jazz club singer?” Dum Dum asked. “Torch songs?”

You didn’t answer. The heat in your cheeks did.

And then Gabe — bless him — decided to chime in, puffing his chest out like he had the perfect line.

“I mean… I just can’t picture you doing something that… you know. Girly.”

You turned your head toward him, slow and sharp.

“What?”

The fire seemed to go still.

Gabe blinked. “No—I mean—just like, you’re so good at, you know. The not-girly stuff. Like, killing people—uh—”

You raised a brow, voice flat. “So I’m in the military and that means I’m not allowed to be girly?”

Gabe opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No! That’s not—I didn’t mean—like, you can, obviously—”

The others had lost it by now. Bucky had his head buried in his arm, shaking with silent laughter. Morita was wheezing. Dum Dum was crying.

You nodded slowly, arms crossed. “Uh huh. That all you got?”

Gabe looked around like someone might save him. No one did.

“I just meant… you seem so… sharp! And you don’t… I mean you never… like, dresses—not that I wouldn’t like if you wore one—not that you need to—”

“Dig up, Gabe,” Bucky offered helpfully.

You shook your head and pointed your canteen at Gabe like a knife. “One more word and I swear I will make you run laps in full gear tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Gabe said, finally surrendering to his embarrassment. “Thank you for your service.”

Once the laughter died down, Dum Dum leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, Fox. Now sing us something.”

You stared at him.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just a few notes—”

“You’d have to drug me.”

“Well,” Bucky said, elbowing you gently, “I do still have some morphine left in my pack—”

You shoved his arm away with a scoff, but couldn’t help the flicker of a smile.

And as the boys erupted into more teasing, and Gabe tried to crawl under a tarp in embarrassment, you leaned back against the crate, warmed more by the people around you than the fire. You didn’t sing, not that night. But Bucky stayed next to you, quietly.

And he didn’t laugh when you said you used to want to sing.

He just looked at you like he really wanted to hear it.

────────────────────────

Moments After Intercepting Zola's Train— Alpine Forest Edge, 1945

The wind had sharp teeth.

It howled between the trees like it was mourning too. Snow swept across the ground in restless swirls, half-covering the train tracks already. Everything was white and still and wrong.

The wreckage lay behind you, steel twisted into the mountainside, black smoke curling up into the gray sky. Arnim Zola had been secured. Hydra’s tech recovered. It was supposed to be a win.

But Bucky had fallen.

The team stood in the brittle silence of it. Steve was turned half away, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. Morita and Dum Dum said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground. Gabe was pacing, too angry to stop moving, like stillness would make it real.

You stood near the edge of the embankment, where it dropped into a forest of pine and snow. Your lungs burned with cold, but you kept staring down, searching the white for anything — a shape, a shadow, hope.

Finally, you squared your shoulders.

“Cap.”

Steve didn’t answer at first. You stepped closer, louder now.

“Steve.”

His eyes flicked to you, red-rimmed and hollow. “What?”

“I want permission to go after him.”

Silence.

Then a bitter breath of disbelief. “Fox…”

“You know I’m the best tracker we’ve got,” you said, tone steady, firm. “I know how to read the land. If anyone can follow his path through that fall, it’s me.”

“There’s no way he—” Steve cut himself off. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “No one survives a drop like that. And it’s too dangerous. You can’t go alone.”

“I have to go alone,” you insisted. “A squad would slow me down. I’ll move faster on my own, quieter. Look—”

You crouched down in the snow and started sketching with your glove. “That ridge curves around. It’s a drop, yes, but if he hit snow, or an outcrop, or even slid—”

“Even if by some miracle he lived,” Steve said quietly, “he wouldn’t last long. Not in that cold. Not with the injuries he’d have.”

You stood again, breath quickening with urgency. “If he’s alive, he’s got a chance—but not if I waste time arguing.”

“Fox—”

“If I don’t, he dies. Hypothermia will set in fast — minutes, if he’s bleeding. I might not have long, but I might still have enough time. You give me two days. Just two. If he’s alive, I’ll bring him in. If he’s not…” your voice faltered, just for a second, “then I’ll bring his body home.”

No one spoke. The wind did.

You kept your eyes locked on Steve. Pleading without begging. Heart breaking but hands steady.

“I’ve gone on solo missions before. You know I can handle it. The Colonel trained me for it.”

His jaw flexed again. You could see the battle behind his eyes. Orders versus loyalty. Logic versus love.

And then his shoulders dropped.

“Two days,” he said hoarsely.

Relief hit you like a wave. You gave a quick nod, already reaching for your gear.

But Steve stepped closer, and his voice lowered — gentler, just for you.

“Keep safe out there… alright?” he said softly. “Seriously. And if you need backup, you radio. Doesn’t matter what time. Doesn’t matter what. I’ll come running.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The cold stung your eyes, but you didn’t blink.

“Understood, Captain.”

Steve looked at you for a long moment. Then, softer still — your name. Not your call sign.

“Come back.”

You stood at attention, gave a crisp salute.

“I will.”

Then you turned, and vanished into the snow.

────────────────────────

The snow had swallowed your tracks hours ago.

You ran anyway — boots crushing down through the icy crust of the forest floor, slipping sometimes, catching yourself hard against trees. Your lungs burned with each breath, white puffs turning sharp in the frozen air. You followed the slope of the mountain where the train had disappeared from sight — zig-zagging across ridges, checking every ravine, every indentation in the powder.

It was somewhere along a narrow ledge above a frozen stream that you saw it — the faint suggestion of disturbed snow, barely visible unless you were looking for it. A jagged slide mark. Something heavy had fallen.

Your heart slammed in your chest as you scrambled down the embankment, knees hitting ice, hands out to brace yourself. You moved quick, scanning, scanning—

Then you saw red.

You froze.

Blood in the snow — bright, brilliant, and far too much of it.

It streaked in uneven drags from the edge of a rock face down into the brush, and then—

Your breath caught.

Bucky.

He lay sprawled half on his side, unmoving. Snow clung to his lashes, his uniform soaked through. His left arm — what was left of it — hung at an unnatural angle, nearly torn from the shoulder. His mouth was parted like he’d tried to call out and never finished the sound. Blood had soaked the snow beneath him dark and wide.

You were moving before your brain caught up.

“Sarge?” you gasped, skidding to your knees in the snow beside him. “Sarge— Bucky—Bucky, come on—”

Your gloved fingers hovered over him for a split second, terrified to touch, terrified he’d be cold—

But his chest moved.

Faint. Shallow.

You pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, heart pounding as you felt it—

thud.

...thud.

Faint, but there.

Your voice broke with urgency. “Hang on, James. I’ve got you. You’re okay, you’re not gone—”

You dropped your pack, already pulling out your emergency wrap, trying to stem the bleeding. His skin was ice. His lips had gone pale blue. You leaned over him, shielding him from the wind, fumbling for your radio, trying to think past the adrenaline crashing like waves—

Crunch.

Snow behind you shifted.

You didn’t hesitate — one leg snapped out behind you hard, boot slamming into the weight approaching fast from your blind spot. You felt it connect — a grunt, a body collapsing in the snow.

You twisted, low and fast, grabbing your knife from your belt, coming up just in time to block the arm of a Hydra soldier lunging in. Steel clanged against steel. You shoved back with everything you had, pushing the fight away from Bucky’s broken form.

You ducked a strike, twisted the knife out of his hand, and drove your elbow into his face—

But then another set of boots crunched through the trees.

A second soldier tackled you from the side.

You hit the ground hard — snow exploding under you, your knife skidding out of reach. You twisted, managed to throw him off just long enough to scramble back toward Bucky—

Only for a third shadow to emerge from the trees. Then a fourth.

You swung out with your arm, striking one across the temple, disarming another. You were fast—a blur of movement, rage, and desperation—but even you had limits.

A rifle butt slammed into your ribs. You doubled over. Hands grabbed at you. You kicked out, catching one in the knee—

But something cracked against the side of your head.

A sharp, searing light burst across your vision— And then nothing.

Darkness took you.

────────────────────────

Hydra Facility — Undisclosed Location

Consciousness came back like drowning in slow motion.

First, the cold. It bit deep into your skin, sharp and metallic. Then, the ache — deep in your limbs, like your bones were filled with lead. And then the restraints.

Metal bands across your wrists and ankles. Another across your chest. Your head lolled to the side, sluggish from whatever they’d pumped into you — sedatives, maybe. Or worse. You blinked against the blinding fluorescence above, and the white ceiling bled into sterile silver walls.

Then you heard it.

A scream.

Your pulse lurched.

It wasn’t just pain. It was agony. The kind of sound that tore through a person’s throat, primal and ragged. The kind of scream that told you someone was being unmade.

Your neck turned slowly — every muscle protesting — and you saw him.

Bucky.

His body was arched against the restraints on a second slab just feet away from yours, eyes wide, back bowed, mouth open in a raw, broken scream.

There were wires threaded into his temples. Metal rods at his temples, at the base of his skull. Tubes and cables running into his chest. You couldn’t see what they were pumping into him — only that whatever it was, it was wrong.

“Bucky!” your voice cracked out of your throat, hoarse and half-broken. “James—!”

No response. He didn’t hear you. Or he couldn’t. His eyes didn’t see anything.

“Stop it!” you screamed at them instead. Your voice echoed against cold steel walls. “STOP—he’s not a test subject, you bastards, HE’S A PERSON—”

You thrashed, muscles seizing against the restraints, lungs burning, tears springing from your eyes without your permission.

Across the room, a man in a white coat calmly noted something on a clipboard.

A technician adjusted a dial.

Bucky screamed again — hoarse now. And then it broke off into choking. You watched his body convulse against the slab, chest heaving. His face twisted in confusion, pain, terror—like he didn’t know who he was anymore.

You didn’t care what they were doing to you. You didn’t care if your arms were bound or if the sedatives were still in your bloodstream.

You fought.

You fought like hell.

“Let him go!” you shouted, voice nearly gone now. “Let him go, you motherfuckers!”

Someone finally turned toward you — a man with cold eyes behind round spectacles. Calm. Curious.

Zola.

He stepped closer, glancing at your vitals on a nearby monitor. “Interesting,” he murmured in a thick accent, adjusting his gloves. “She is already… aware. So soon.”

“I will kill you,” you spat. “I swear to God—”

“Oh,” Zola said gently, “I think you will be quite useful to each other.”

And then the world tilted again.

Another needle. Another rush of cold in your veins. And the lights above you fractured into fragments.

The last thing you heard before the blackness swallowed you whole… was Bucky sobbing like a child.

────────────────────────

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It could’ve been days. Weeks. Months. You didn’t know.

All you knew was the burn.

Your veins felt like they were filled with acid — crawling fire under your skin, surging in waves that left your limbs trembling, your fingers twitching, your pulse racing like it was trying to outrun death itself. You’d stopped asking what they were putting in you. Every time they came near, you tensed out of instinct. But the sedation would hit before you could do anything.

They never said what it was.

You didn’t know it was the serum.

You only knew that afterward, your body would spasm uncontrollably. Your mind would short-circuit. You’d hear voices that weren’t there. Remember things that hadn’t happened. Feel your strength surge… and then vanish.

But worse than the pain… was him.

Bucky hadn’t spoken in days.

Maybe longer.

He lay still on the other slab, eyes open but unseeing, lips dry and cracked. His breathing was shallow. His face had gone hollow, sunken in the cheeks and under the eyes — like something was draining him from the inside out. They didn’t sedate him anymore. They didn’t need to. Whatever they'd done had left him... vacant.

His new arm — if you could even call it that — sat like a slab of cold iron where his left one had been. Crude stitches and blackened bruises ringed the place it had been fused to bone and muscle. You could see the puckered scars, raw and inflamed, where metal met skin. It looked like it hurt just to exist.

You doubted he could even lift it.

And yet… they’d called it a success.

Whatever that meant.

Now, finally — mercifully — the room had gone still. No needles. No voices over the intercom. No restraints being tightened. Just… stillness.

A few minutes. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Your throat was dry. Your body, sore and exhausted. But you shifted — weakly — on the slab beside him, head tilting just enough to face him. The cold of the metal table seeped into your bones, but you ignored it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, voice rasping out like broken glass. “Sarge… can you hear me?”

He didn’t move. His eyes stared at the ceiling, unfocused.

You didn’t care.

You turned more toward him, trembling slightly as your fingers strained to reach across the few inches of space. You couldn’t touch him — the restraints didn’t let you — but you reached anyway, as if the effort alone could bridge the gap.

“I’m gonna get us out of here,” you murmured, voice cracking. “I swear. You’re not gonna die in here. I won’t let them take you like this.”

Silence.

You kept talking. You had to.

“You remember the fire escape outside our barracks? That stupid thing that barely held two people? You used to sneak up there and fall asleep. Said it was the only place quiet enough to think.”

Your throat tightened.

“You promised me, one day, you’d go back to Brooklyn. Fix that bike of yours. Open a little garage. Said I could come help out if I wanted to. You remember that?”

No response.

You felt your heart break, slow and jagged, like a fault line cracking open.

“Please, Bucky… just—just look at me. Just one sign. I need to know you’re still in there. I need you.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “You saved me. You always did. So let me do it now. Let me get us out. Just hang on. Please.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t have the water left in your body to spare. Just dry eyes, raw throat, and a heart held together by frayed sinew and willpower.

Your arm shook from the strain of keeping it extended.

And still, you kept reaching.

Even when he didn’t move.

Even when the silence stretched so long it pressed on your ribs like weight.

Even when your vision started to dim again from the drugs.

“I’m here, Sarge,” you breathed, barely audible now. “You’re not alone.”

The only sound was the soft hiss of the air vents above. The low electric hum from the lights. And the faint, hollow echo of two hearts still beating.

One stronger than the other.

But still alive.

────────────────────────

Hydra Conditioning Chambers – Months Later

You’d lost track of how many times they brought you in.

They stopped asking questions. Stopped pretending it was about compliance. This wasn’t interrogation anymore. It was reshaping.

It started with pain. Always pain. Electric currents through your skull, your spine, the base of your neck. Your nerves became war zones. Your teeth cracked from clenching. You screamed until your throat was raw, until the air itself tasted like metal and blood.

They were trying to make you forget. Rewire your instincts. Strip you of anything you and replace it with something Hydra. Something obedient.

Something empty.

It worked on Bucky.

At first, he resisted. He screamed. Fought. Raged.

But you saw the moment it broke him. You heard it — the silence that followed a round of electroshock so violent it left him convulsing, slack-jawed, frothing at the mouth. His eyes had gone glassy. His lips trembled, whispering things in Russian that made no sense to him — things they had fed into his brain on repeat. Words he didn’t understand but couldn’t stop.

“Зимний Солдат.”

Winter Soldier.

You heard the way they said it. Like it was sacred. Like it was done.

And you—

You were next.

But you wouldn’t break.

Not like him.

You bit down so hard during one session your molar cracked. They doubled the voltage. You passed out and woke up vomiting, body convulsing on the floor, your restraints slick with blood from split wrists. You couldn’t tell if the screaming in your head was yours or theirs.

Still, they failed.

Still, they couldn’t crack you.

You were fire in frostbite. And it drove them mad.

“Too resilient,” one of the German doctors muttered in frustration as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Willful,” Zola corrected. “It’s in her nature. A Colonel's daughter. Born to take orders, yet somehow defies.”

“And yet she will yield,” said the Russian operative beside them, arms folded, watching you with reptilian calm. “We will make her. The лисица will hunt for us in time.”

Vixen, they called you.

The name they gave your file: sleek, lethal, deceptive. Born to track. Built to seduce and eliminate. A predator with a soft face.

You were their ghost soldier. Their shadow. Their whisper in the dark.

But only if they broke you first.

That session, they left you strapped to the chair, soaked in your own sweat and blood, nerves twitching like wires cut loose. Alone. Left to steep in the pain. Like Bucky had been.

You lifted your head an inch. Just enough to glance across the room.

He was there.

Sitting still.

Not restrained. Just… motionless. Eyes forward. Breathing shallow.

He didn’t even look at you anymore.

They had him.

And you were next.

Your throat burned. Your eyes felt too dry to cry. You weren’t sure your vocal cords worked. But still, out of nowhere — out of a deep, primitive place inside you that remembered being human — you sang.

Softly. Shakily. Croaky and cracked.

“I’ll be seeing you… in all the old familiar places…”

“…that this heart of mine embraces… all day through.”

It wasn’t a melody anymore. Just broken notes wrapped around splinters of memory.

Home. Whiskey laughs. Bucky smiling sideways when you called him “Sarge.” Steve saluting you for the first time. Dum Dum tipping his hat. Warm fires. Rations shared.

“In that small café… the park across the way…”

Your voice gave out halfway through.

But you kept whispering the words. Just for you. Just to remember.

Because even if they hollowed you out — rewired you, broke you — they couldn’t take that. Not all the way. Not yet.

You were still Fox. Somewhere under the blood and static and numbness.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t… who would save him?

Years Later

They became Hydra’s ghosts. Whispers in the dark. Proof that monsters weren’t born — they were made.

When the war ended, and the world began to stitch itself back together, Hydra burrowed deeper. Quieter. Smarter. And in the vaults of ice and concrete beneath their hidden facilities, they began sculpting legends.

One of steel.

One of silk.

He was not subtle.

Where silence was needed, he brought screams.

Where compromise existed, he crushed it.

The Winter Soldier was Hydra’s enforcer, the blade they drove into the heart of history. He appeared across decades like a fracture — impossible to trace, impossible to stop. A phantom draped in shadow, eyes like glacier glass, grip like a bear trap.

He assassinated presidents. Ministers. Scientists. He sabotaged governments with the pull of a trigger. One shot — a bullet through a man’s skull, or through the spine of a nation’s future.

His missions were clean. Untraceable.

No witnesses. No evidence.

Only death.

Hydra rewired him with electroshock and Russian syllables. They hollowed out James Buchanan Barnes and replaced him with a weapon that did not question orders, did not feel guilt, did not hesitate. A ghost of a man with a new metal arm and no memory of mercy.

Cryogenic stasis kept him sharp, young, lethal. He lived in decades like they were days. A century’s worth of kill orders etched into his hands.

He never left survivors.

Unless Hydra told him to.

If the Soldier was Hydra’s hammer, the Vixen was their scalpel.

She bled behind enemy lines in silence, slipping through borders and barricades like a breath. She did not wear fear on her face. She did not leave blood in her wake — only secrets gutted open and missions left in ruin.

They called her лисица, the vixen, because she was cunning. Patient. Uncatchable. A whisper with teeth.

But it wasn’t always about killing.

She was Hydra’s infiltrator, a master of mimicry and seduction, of dismantling men without lifting a weapon. Where the Soldier brought force, she brought erosion — crumbling fortresses from within.

And to Hydra, she was a triumph of psychological warfare — what the Red Room would later attempt to replicate in their Widows. But she came first. She was the original phantom siren.

They used her face. Her softness. Her voice — when she remembered to use it — like a lullaby over a knife's edge. Where the Soldier was brute force, the Vixen was infiltration. Persuasion. Seduction when required, annihilation when ordered.

Her body was honed to perfection. Her mind, conditioned for silence and obedience — and yet, it never bent as cleanly as they wanted.

Not completely.

At first, it was small things.

Moments of hesitation. A flicker of something behind her eyes. The way her hands trembled after some kills — not with fear, but memory. Recognition.

She began humming to herself between assignments. Little songs from another life. She’d sit still in her stasis chamber before freezing, humming fragments of a tune they never taught her.

“We'll meet again, don't know how, don't know when…”

There were reports she disobeyed a kill order once. Let a target live because he had no evil in his eyes. They punished her for it. Re-conditioned her. Electroshock, isolation, more injections — but the slip had happened, and Hydra never trusted her fully again.

They realized she wasn’t like him.

The Soldier could be overwritten.

The Vixen resisted.

Not in screams or defiance. But in subtle, terrifying cracks.

Hydra scientists began to fear her — not for her violence, but her unpredictability. Her lingering humanity. That sliver of soul they couldn’t seem to carve out.

So they adjusted her protocol.

Where the Winter Soldier was deployed like a machine, again and again, the Vixen was locked away.

Preserved in cryo between missions. Thawed only when absolutely necessary. Only when no one else could do the job.

Only when they were desperate enough to risk the memories bleeding through.

They didn’t trust the leash they’d put on her. They only trusted the chain they wrapped around her throat.

And the serum? The serum wasn’t meant for kindness. It didn’t amplify goodness or nobility.

It magnified potential.

And under Hydra’s hands, that meant war.

The Winter Soldier's muscles knit themselves tighter. Bone density quadrupled. His reflexes reached inhuman speeds. Pain dulled. Healing accelerated. A shot to the chest became a stumble. A shattered femur became a limp for a few hours.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

The serum made sure of that.

And when paired with the metal arm — the marvel of Soviet-German engineering — the Winter Soldier became a force no one could match. Stronger than ten men. Faster than bullets. Unbreakable.

A walking extinction event.

He wasn’t meant to survive.

He was meant to erase.

The Vixen, however… she changed differently.

Hydra never expected the serum to work the same way. She was smaller. Lighter. Delicate in the ways he was brutal. But she was no less a weapon — just… sharper. More precise.

The serum didn’t bulk her up. It refined her.

Her muscles compacted into long, lean coils of strength. She moved like liquid shadow. Fast enough to vanish between blinks. Quiet enough that her footsteps could barely be heard on glass.

But it was her senses that changed the most.

Hydra didn’t know what to make of it at first — the way she would flinch at footsteps down the hall before they ever echoed. She could hear things miles away — the tick of rifle safety on a distant rooftop, the soft breath of a man in a hidden hallway. She could hear heartbeats. Lies. The subtle shift in someone's pulse when they spoke told her more than any interrogation.

They tested her. Over and over.

She could feel sweat in the air.

Taste adrenaline on a man’s breath.

Smelled metal, blood, gunpowder — emotions. Fear had a scent. Anger tasted like copper.

Her eyes could track the fall of a snowflake mid-battle. Her balance was inhuman. Her touch, so precise she could disarm a man without waking him.

Hydra called it a miracle. Zola called it evolution.

She was a new breed of operative — not just fast and strong, but impossibly aware. And that terrified them.

Because if she chose to disobey, to turn on them…

Even the Winter Soldier could not stop her.

They never told her she could overpower him.

They couldn’t risk it.

So instead, they bound her.

Psychologically. Physically. Systematically.

They paired her to the Soldier — not as an equal. As a subordinate. A tool under his control.

Her handler.

Her shadow.

Her leash.

When she failed a mission, when she hesitated, when she lingered too long near a song or a memory — he was the one they sent.

No guards. No scientists.

Just the Winter Soldier.

He’d enter the chamber where she sat — barefoot, arms folded over her knees, breath slow. She never ran. She never fought. Not unless she wanted it to be worse.

And he would carry out the punishment.

His face never changed.

His hands never trembled.

His eyes never closed.

Sometimes it was his fists.

Sometimes it was the silence between them — worse than any bruise.

They trained her to submit to him on instinct. A single word in Russian, a glance, a subtle shift of his body — she would obey.

But it wasn’t fear.

It was conditioning.

They had threaded her loyalty into his silhouette. Turned the man who once bled beside her into a god she knelt for.

The only one who could touch her.

The only one she responded to.

────────────────────────

Hydra’s underground compound groaned with the mechanical cold of concrete and fluorescent hum. Sterile, sharp. The air reeked of antiseptic and gun oil — a scent soaked into every slab of metal, every breath pulled through narrow lungs.

They’d returned just an hour ago from an operation in Prague.

The Soldier had gone first, dragged down the corridor by two guards, silent and compliant. They always processed him first — quick, efficient. He was easy. Slumped shoulders. Dull gaze. Programmed silence. The memory wipe rarely took more than ten minutes anymore.

But she had lingered.

Stripped of her weapons. Her boots left sticky with blood. Hands twitching at her sides like she didn’t trust they were done. Her pupils hadn’t shrunk. Her breathing hadn’t calmed. She stared at the floor like it was moving beneath her.

And when they reached for her—

When gloved hands touched her arm—

She snapped.

No scream. No warning.

The first man’s throat tore open before the others knew her fingers had moved. His blood sprayed up her face — red mist over pale skin — and she didn’t stop to see him fall. She pivoted. Fast. Precise.

A whirlwind of fists and sharp bone and snarled breath. The second scientist’s head slammed into the wall with a crack, spine folded in an unnatural twist as he slumped.

Then the alarms began.

Boots thudded down the hall. Gunfire stuttered from two directions — panicked, wild — and only some of it came from her. The rest came from soldiers firing before they aimed, hands shaking, watching Hydra’s most elegant weapon unspool into a beast.

It was like she could hear the triggers before they clicked.

Bang. Duck. Slide. Elbow to temple. Gun lifted. Two shots — center mass. Next.

She didn’t pause.

Not until there was no one left moving in the corridor but her.

Fifteen seconds of silence.

The floor gleamed with blood.

She stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, smeared head to toe in scarlet. Her jaw twitched. Her eyes — still dilated — flicked up, wide, unblinking. Animal stillness. No longer in a mission. No longer in control.

Something had broken. Fully. Utterly.

In the surveillance room, a handler shouted.

“Отправьте солдата. Положите Виксен. Сделайте это сейчас—”

(Send in the Soldier to put the Vixen down. Do it NOW—)

Metal boots struck the floor.

He came with no hesitation.

The Soldier entered the corridor through the main blast doors, smoke curling from the edges of spent gun barrels. His face was blank. Cold. His metal arm hissed as it flexed, fingers twitching from a reset.

He stopped when he saw her.

Standing there like a revenant. Covered in blood, chin lifted, hair matted and damp. A raw tremble in her shoulders. Eyes glowing with something ancient, something nameless.

She didn't kneel. She didn't bow.

She just watched him.

The room seemed to shrink. Lights buzzed above them like flies. The blood beneath their boots had not yet dried.

His weight shifted. Right foot forward. Arm lowering slightly — coiled, ready.

Their eyes locked.

Like wolves before the first bite. No orders. No speech. No false names. Just… waiting. A battle written in stare alone.

Then he moved.

And so did she.

He lunged — fast, brutal. A fist like steel screaming toward her temple.

She ducked, slid beneath it, spun her heel into his ribs. He grunted, staggered — not from pain, but from surprise. She was faster. Not more powerful — not quite — but she was sharper. Tighter.

They wove through each other like old ghosts dancing.

His hand gripped her wrist mid-blow, twisted. She hissed, kicked at his shin. He blocked, slammed her into the wall. Her breath shot out. His arm pressed at her throat — but she rolled, broke free, slammed her forehead into his chin.

Crack.

He blinked, dazed for half a second.

She struck again.

Hard. Violent. Chest to chest, elbow to his jaw, knee toward his side — he blocked, shoved her back. They breathed in unison, rapid and harsh. His hair clung to his forehead. Her lip bled from the inside out.

Still, no words.

Just eye contact — burning. Challenging. Grieving.

The stalemate lasted three heartbeats.

Then the blast doors behind him hissed open again — dozens of Hydra agents storming the corridor with tranquilizers, guns, electric rods. The spell broke.

He made the decision.

He lunged — again — but this time not to strike.

Her back hit the floor hard, her limbs twisted beneath her, wrists already bruising. He was on top of her, pinning her down with the weight of a machine, his metal hand locked around her throat, thumb pressed against the pulse of her artery.

Her chest heaved, sharp and slow, like breath was foreign now. Like she didn’t care if she took it.

He should’ve done it already.

Should’ve squeezed harder. Should’ve watched her eyes roll back and her body fall limp like the countless others he’d ended. His expression was carved from granite — unreadable. His face spattered with blood that wasn’t his. But inside, something shook.

His fingers trembled.

It was the first warning.

She didn’t resist anymore. No kicks. No sharp elbows or desperate knees. No flash of canines, no snap of a snarl.

Just eyes.

Looking straight into his.

Open. Unblinking. Empty.

As if she wanted this.

As if the idea of dying — under his hands — was better than returning to the dark. To the chair. To the ice. To the silence.

That was the second warning.

A part of him flinched. Something far beneath the code, beneath the frostbite of his brain, beneath the echo of the Winter Soldier. Something warm. Ancient. Like a bone-deep memory of summer.

He tightened his grip.

He really did.

Muscles flexed. Metal joints locked. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

Her skin was warm under his hand. Her pulse soft — waiting.

And she just kept staring.

Her pupils enormous. Dark. Not afraid. Not submissive. Just… ready.

A flicker of her lashes. A twitch in her lip.

And that was when he realized — she didn’t want to fight him anymore.

She didn’t believe he could choose not to kill her.

And she might’ve been right.

Because how many times had his handlers commanded him to hurt her? Punish her? And he had.

With precision. With obedience. With terrifying force.

They’d made him the hand that carved pain into her again and again. Bones broken. Breath taken. Blood spilled — by him.

And yet… she always came back.

Returned to her feet. Returned to him.

The punishments never took her away permanently.

She was still his. Not in name, not in language. But in the way gravity belongs to the planet. She was the only thing he’d ever hurt that didn’t vanish.

And now — he was supposed to end her.

To kill her.

And the Soldier — the one they’d broken, rebuilt, erased a thousand times — felt something crack.

His chest stuttered.

His other hand gripped her forearm like he was trying to tether her to the ground, to him, to something real. His breath began to shake — fast, shallow. His vision swam. He could see nothing but her eyes now. No blood. No ceiling. No walls.

Only her.

Her eyes were the only thing in the world he never forgot.

His fingers began to slip.

His breath rasped in his throat, caught between fury and anguish, and something deeper — something scarier.

His whole body trembled now. His forearm bulged with the strain of holding back. And then — like something finally snapped — he let out a guttural, choked yell, half agony, half animal.

He let go.

His hand released her throat.

He struck the concrete beside her head — hard — the ground splintering with the force, a web of cracks blooming under his fist. The shockwave trembled through her ribs. Dust curled into the air. His breathing was ragged, hoarse, chest rising and falling like a man who’d just outrun death and failed.

He didn’t look away from her.

He leaned down — slow, deliberate — and pressed his forehead to hers.

Not soft. Not tender. But grounded. Desperate.

Like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that still existed in his mind.

His forehead was burning.

Hers was cold.

They stayed like that — a tableau of blood and breath and failure. She didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.

Their foreheads touching.

Their eyes still locked.

Breathing each other in like that was the only way they remembered what it felt like to be human.

And for the first time in all the years Hydra made them into things — weapons, monsters, ghosts — the Soldier’s silence didn’t mean compliance.

It meant defiance.

He would not kill her.

Not her.

Never her.

Even if he didn’t know her name.

Even if he didn’t know his own.

He knew this.

Her eyes.

Her breath.

And her blood beneath his hands.

The blood hadn’t even dried when the reinforced doors slammed shut.

Alarms were finally silenced — but the aftermath echoed louder. Metallic clangs as bodies were dragged. Snapped bones. Severed limbs. The dead Hydra scientists were scattered across the floor like discarded parts. The walls dripped with their arrogance.

She lay on her back, still breathing.

Eyes wide, unblinking, staring at the splintered floor where his fist had broken through. One hand loosely curled at her ribs. The other slick with blood — hers, theirs, it didn’t matter.

He hadn’t killed her.

And that, to the watching Hydra handlers, was the most terrifying detail of all.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just knew she had broken. Completely.

She had killed without permission. Reacted without instruction. Moved through a room of trained guards and armed scientists like they were made of glass.

No trigger words had stopped her.

No handler had calmed her.

Not even him.

Only exhaustion had slowed her.

Only his mercy had spared her.

And that — that was unforgivable.

When they came to sedate her, he was already there. Standing over her like a specter, silent and immovable. The guards hesitated. The doctors murmured. Not a single one would meet his eyes.

His hands remained at his sides, but his presence was a warning.

Don’t hurt her. Don’t kill her.

They could see it in the way his jaw locked, in the way his body coiled like a tripwire. His programming demanded obedience — but something deeper, older, more human, was watching them with predatory stillness.

They kept her sedated through every moment. Through the wipe that never took properly. Through the muttered arguments in clipped Russian and panicked German about what to do with her. Through the decision that the risk was no longer worth the reward.

She wasn’t the Winter Soldier.

She couldn’t be tamed by words and pain.

She was something else. Something worse.

And he watched it all.

Not understanding why his chest hurt.

Not understanding why he remembered her face when everything else turned to static.

When they lowered her into the cryogenic pod, he followed. Shadowed them down the sterile hall without orders. The guards gave him distance — he didn’t look at them, didn’t need to. His eyes were fixed only on her.

She didn’t stir.

The inside of the chamber was lined with reinforced polymer. Her restraints were reinforced. But her expression was blank. Breathing slow. Completely still.

He stood just beyond the edge of the fog as the lid began to lower.

No commands came. He didn’t need any.

He simply stared.

As if some part of him knew that she was the only thing that ever made him hesitate.

The only thing that ever looked back at him — even when he hurt her — and saw him.

And now they were taking her away from him again.

Not killing her. But erasing her again.

He didn’t move until the hiss of the cryo chamber sealed shut. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there as the glass frosted over, her face vanishing into the white.

That was the last time Hydra made use of the Vixen.

1989.

Until they could find a better way to control her —

A better cage.

A better chain.

They put her back to sleep.

And that’s where she stayed — frozen, ghostlike, remembered only by the monster who’d once been ordered to destroy her.

2024

Rain lashed the cracked windows of the safehouse, a forgotten building on the edge of eastern Europe that smelled like rust and damp wood. The small desk lamp on the table buzzed faintly, casting long shadows over the spread of maps, photos, and red string that looked like a conspiracy board torn straight from a nightmare.

In the center of it all stood Bucky Barnes, his metal fingers clenched tight around the edge of the table, knuckles pale against steel.

Sam Wilson stood a few feet behind him, arms crossed, surveying the chaos.

“You really think it’s her?” he asked, voice low and measured.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on a blurred photo — a grainy, static-frozen capture from a destroyed security feed. A woman with a mask over her mouth and nose making her face obscured, walking away from a warehouse swallowed in fire. But her posture, the deliberate stillness of her movements — he knew it.

“I know it is,” he said finally, like a fact carved from stone.

Sam let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Buck, we’ve been chasing shadows for six weeks. People say this is a ghost story. Urban legend. Vengeance incarnate. You sure it’s not just... projection?”

“She’s alive,” Bucky said, without even looking up.

The words fell like weight onto the room, pulling the silence taut. Sam studied his friend’s profile — the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the way his mouth twitched with restraint, with desperation.

“You say that like you’ve seen her,” Sam said gently. “But that pod in Belarus was dead. Power was out for years. She came out confused, probably didn’t even know what year it was. You think she’s operating on logic?”

“No,” Bucky murmured. “She’s not.”

He thumbed through a series of photos on the table — each one more brutal than the last. A scientist dissected in Munich. A financier found hanging upside down in Prague. Every man in the stack had once had ties to Hydra. However minor, however indirect. And each death had been executed with surgical precision. Silent. Clean. Gone.

Sam stepped forward, pointing at a red pin on the map. “Bucharest hit. Three Hydra affiliates. No alarms, no signs of forced entry. Security feed glitched for thirty seconds.”

“She’s learning,” Bucky whispered. There was no pride in it — only awe. And dread.

“She’s not just surviving,” Sam said, his voice edged with something colder. “She’s hunting.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He nodded slowly, eyes flicking across the network of red thread. The ghosts of his past. And hers.

Sam hesitated before asking, “What if she’s not just targeting Hydra? What if she’s coming for you too?”

That stopped Bucky cold.

“She has every reason to,” he said after a long moment, the words thick with regret. “I hurt her.”

Sam was quiet. He didn’t need to ask what he meant. The history between them — the conditioning, the missions, the punishments — Bucky had carried them out without mercy. Not because he wanted to, but because they’d made him.

Sam hesitated before asking, “Then why keep looking for her?” His voice was soft, careful.

But something in Bucky snapped at that — not loud or explosive, just sharp. A quiet fracture under pressure.

“Because I have to,” Bucky said, voice low but rough, his hands bracing hard against the table. “Because she’s been frozen for thirty goddamn years, Sam.”

Sam blinked, standing a little straighter.

“I’ve been out for five. Five years free, and that’s not even counting the Blip. Or all the time Hydra dragged me out and used me,” Bucky went on, the words starting to slip faster, heavier. “And during all of that, I was hurting her. Again and again.”

His jaw clenched as he stared down at the mess of papers, eyes tracing her blurry silhouette as if it were some ancient ghost trying to speak back.

“She was always stronger than me,” he said, quieter now, almost like it hurt to admit it. “Mentally. She fought them. She never broke easy.”

He looked at Sam then, eyes rimmed in something not quite anger but something old and burning — a weight that lived in his bones.

“I owe her this,” he said. “I owe her the truth. And if she wants to kill me for it, I’ll let her. But I’m not going to stop until I find her. Even if she wants me to let her go, I will.”

But the truth was carved into his face. He couldn’t. He never would again.

────────────────────────

You sat on the edge of the couch like you didn’t know how to exist in a space this quiet.

Your eyes traced the seams between the floorboards, your hands folded neatly in your lap, unmoving. You hadn’t spoken more than a sentence since Bucky brought you there.

Not when he offered you a glass of water, not when he showed you where the bathroom was, not even when he—hesitantly—told you that you could have his room, while he slept on the couch.

You just nodded.

One, clean nod. Always polite. Always precise.

But not the way you used to be. Not the way he remembered.

In the 40s, you had fire in your voice. You had sharp comebacks, a cheeky grin that curled higher when you got under his skin. You could outrun, outshoot, outthink most of the Howlies, and still managed to hum a tune while cleaning your rifle.

Now, you barely ate. You hadn’t said more than a clipped “fine” or “okay.” You hadn’t looked him in the eye since you stepped inside.

Bucky still didn’t even know how he’d convinced you to come with him as he watched you from the kitchen, leaning his forearms on the counter, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His metal hand creaked quietly against the granite.

“You want me to put something on?” he asked, his voice low, worn. “TV, music… white noise?”

You turned your head slightly, the barest flicker. Your lips parted, like you might speak, then closed again. You shook your head, slowly.

He sighed. Not in frustration. Just... helplessness.

“You used to yell at me for humming off-key,” he said gently, like maybe a memory would draw you closer to the surface. “Said I could scare off birds from miles away.”

No answer.

Just your stillness. Just your silence.

And that ache behind his ribs grew sharper.

He stared at you, at your hunched shoulders and distant eyes, and for the first time, truly wondered if this was how Steve had felt.

Always reaching. Always hoping. Trying to pull someone he cared about out of the fog. Trying to bring Bucky back from the brink, even when Bucky had forgotten who he was. Steve had never stopped. Not when everyone else had written him off as a weapon. Not even when he’d fought against him on a damn helicarrier.

Now here Bucky was—on the other side. And he finally understood just how exhausting, how heartbreaking it had been. Watching someone you knew still existed beneath the wreckage, and not knowing if you’d ever reach them again.

He wanted to say something else, but then your voice cracked the quiet—raw, broken, hesitant.

“I remember… my father’s voice. Not his face. Just… how he said my name.”

Bucky went still.

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Your head tilted slightly toward the window, where the last of the day’s light bled across your cheekbone like gold dust.

“I used to hum while I tracked,” you said. “To stay human.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare move. He just listened.

“I think I forgot how to feel warm,” you murmured. “Even when I’m not in the ice anymore.”

Your fingers twitched once, like your body remembered the motion of a weapon, or maybe a tremor from a distant past. The moment was fragile, stretched thin.

Bucky’s throat tightened. God, he wanted to tell you everything—that you weren’t alone, that he would wait as long as it took.

But he knew better. You weren’t ready for comfort. Not from him. Maybe not from anyone.

────────────────────────

It was a quiet afternoon. The sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains in pale streaks, painting long bars of gold and dust across the wood floor of Bucky’s apartment. The television was on, low volume, something benign playing that neither of you were truly watching. A news segment passed with a fleeting image.

Your eyes tracked the screen, not really watching. But then a flash of red, white, and blue passed across it. A helmet. A shield.

Your voice was flat when you spoke, cutting through the silence between you and Bucky like a knife. “I remember seeing him on TV. Cap.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation more than you could see it. His body shifted from where he sat across from you—still, guarded. You finally turned your head toward him.

“Where is he?”

He ran a hand through his hair, the metal fingers brushing just behind his ear.

“He’s gone,” Bucky said eventually, voice quiet.

You blinked once. Slowly. Processing.

“Gone?”

Bucky sighed through his nose. “Steve went back… after everything. After we won.” He paused. “He went back in time. Lived out his life. Came back… older. Real old. He passed away earlier this year.”

You stared at him. Not blinking now.

“So he left you behind.”

The silence after your words was sharp. Bucky’s brow creased. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “He didn’t—he was just—”

“You mean he could’ve taken us both home,” you said, not cruel, just even. Hollow. “Could’ve brought us back. But instead we’re stuck here. In a world that doesn’t know us. Doesn't want us.”

Bucky shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“He gave up.”

“He didn’t give up!” Bucky’s voice rose, sharp with something he hadn’t meant to let out. “He gave everything, you don’t—he did what he thought was right.”

You looked at him, head tilting slightly. That same detached focus, the way your eyes pinned him—not with malice, but with cold fact. You weren’t being emotional. You weren’t attacking. That was what made it worse.

“He was selfish.”

Bucky stood now. Tense. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching by his sides.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered. “You don’t get to say that.”

You stood up too, slow, unhurried. “He left you. After everything you went through. After everything we went through.”

“Stop it.”

“He took peace for himself and left us with the ruins.”

“That’s not what happened—he thought I’d be okay—he trusted that I could—”

“That’s not trust. That’s abandonment.”

“Stop it!” Bucky snapped, voice rough, cracking, fists clenched so tight his knuckles—flesh and metal—strained. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how broken he was. What he lost. He earned that life.”

You didn’t flinch. Just stared at him, eyes dim but focused. “And what about what we lost?”

Bucky started pacing, running a hand through his hair like he could scatter the frustration from his scalp. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, tone still maddeningly flat. “What’s not fair is waking up seventy years after your last memory and realizing the only people you trusted are either dead, ghosts, or decided to stay in the past.”

You turned, already walking toward the hallway, not angry — just done with the conversation.

“Don’t walk away,” Bucky said sharply, stepping after you.

His hand reached out — not fast, not forceful — just to touch your arm. Something gentle.

You flinched before he even made contact. The shift in your body was instantaneous — reflexive. A dodge like a breath, like muscle memory. Your spine stiffened as your arm slipped from his grasp, your eyes suddenly sharp.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, voice cold and loud and carved out of something ancient.

Bucky froze. His hand still hovered in the air. He stared at you.

You weren’t looking at him anymore. You weren’t really even here. Your eyes had gone somewhere else, farther back. You were breathing too fast, too shallow. Your body stiff, locked down.

And that was when Bucky understood. Really understood.

It wasn’t about him.

It was about him.

The one with the metal arm who used to drag you through concrete floors when you disobeyed. Who'd wrap his hand around your throat when your eyes held too much rebellion. Who struck you, again and again, because someone ordered him to.

Even when Bucky had been free for years, the ghosts still lived in his hands.

And you… you still saw them.

His hand dropped. Guilt flooding every inch of his face.

“I didn’t mean to—” he tried, voice lower now, thick in his throat.

You didn’t answer. You just walked past him, through the narrow hallway, closing yourself into his room, he had given you, without a word.

Bucky didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there. One hand pressed flat over the other. Like he could keep himself from reaching again. Like he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

But the truth was branded now—burning beneath the surface of his skin.

He hadn’t earned your trust.

And maybe he never would.

────────────────────────

You didn’t want to go.

That was the first thing you made clear, arms crossed, jaw set, suspicious eyes watching Bucky like he might lead you off a cliff instead of down the D.C. Metro escalator. You hadn’t asked where he was taking you. He didn’t tell you, either. Just said, “It’s important.” You didn’t like the way that word made your chest tighten.

The museum was too bright.

Too open. Too filled with noise and breath and movement. Everything felt too fast and too slow at once. Your boots echoed on the polished floors, steps cautious and silent like instinct, like old habits that had never really died.

Bucky stayed near but didn’t try to touch you — not since that day. He led you quietly, nodding at the security guards like this was something he did often.

You hated how many people were looking. Even when they weren’t.

When you entered the exhibit, the air shifted. Cooler. Calmer. Reverent.

A bronze plaque on the wall read: Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Beneath it — sepia photographs. Names. Artifacts behind glass. There were curved helmets, worn boots, faded letters.

Bucky paused beside you.

“This was the first place I came after I got out,” he said, voice quiet, like it didn’t want to disturb the ghosts on the walls. “Didn’t know where else to go. Didn’t even know who I was, really. Just… remembered pieces. Faces.”

Your eyes traced the familiar ones. Dumb Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Montgomery Falsworth. Jim Morita. Happy grins and tilted hats and the smell of gunpowder you could almost still taste.

Then you saw it.

Your own memorial.

It was set apart, just slightly — not grandiose, but longer than the others. The image they’d chosen was one you didn’t remember being taken. You were young — about twenty two— perched on a wooden crate in fatigues rolled at the sleeves, head turned mid-laugh, hair slicked back but wind-loosened, fingers curled around a rifle too heavy for your frame. Your expression was too soft for war. Your eyes too alive.

You blinked at it.

Above the frame was your name, carved in brass. First Lieutenant, Tactical Reconnaissance. Grey Fox.

And beneath it, the words Presumed KIA, 1945. Missing in Action. Last seen on mission in the Austrian Alps.

You felt your throat tighten and couldn’t explain why.

“Why is mine longer than the others?” you asked, quietly, too still.

Bucky glanced over at you, then at the plaque. “Because you were a big deal.”

You gave him a look, skeptical.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Only woman in the Howling Commandos. One of the first women to serve actively alongside combat troops. You were kind of… a symbol. They said your service helped inspire the Women’s Armed Services Integration Act in ‘48.”

You scoffed, faintly. “So they threw me on a wall.”

Bucky smiled, just barely. “They honored you. You meant something to people. Still do.”

You stepped closer to the glass. The uniform behind it was familiar. Yours. The same patches, same leather. There was even your knife — the one Howard Stark had gifted you before that last mission. The one you lost in the snow.

You didn’t remember losing it.

Didn’t remember dying.

Your voice was flat. “They thought I was dead.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “They did.”

You turned to him. “Did you? After Hydra.”

Bucky didn’t look away. “For a while.”

Something in you curled tighter, like a spring wound too far. “When did you remember?”

He shifted, brow furrowing. “Not right away. It was all… fragments. Flashes. And even when I saw your face, I didn’t know if it was real. Steve had to tell me. He said you’d come after me — that the day I fell off that train, you went looking.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t—” you started. “I don’t remember that.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “I don't either.”

You looked back at the photo — that too-young version of yourself, all spark and reckless pride, before Hydra carved you hollow. You felt something stir in your chest — not grief, not quite. More like the shape of grief, wrapped around something else. Something you didn’t have words for.

It should’ve been easy to keep walking.

To follow the curved path of the exhibit, to drift past the tributes like a ghost among glass and old light. But your steps faltered when your eyes caught it — the photo.

It wasn’t a combat shot. Not a press photo or wartime propaganda. It was a quiet moment. Just the two of you. The Colonel stood in uniform, hat tucked under one arm, and you beside him, barely twenty. The background looked like the docks, water glittering, your dress hem catching the wind like a flag. He had one hand on your shoulder, firm but gentle. You were laughing — head tipped toward him, eyes squinting in sunlight, mouth open in mid-word.

Your stomach turned.

You hadn’t seen his face in decades. Not like this.

People always assumed a man like that — a military father, a colonel — would be stern. Emotionless. Cold. But he wasn’t. He was exacting, yes. Fierce when it came to protocol and discipline. But when it was just you and him? He was warmth and humor and the smell of clean shaving soap. The only one who called you by your full name and somehow made it sound like affection.

He was your favorite person in the world.

You reached out before you realized what you were doing — fingertips hovering above the glass, as though you could touch the edge of the photograph and fall through it.

Beside the picture was a framed newspaper clipping. A headline in bold type:

“Decorated Colonel Honors Missing Daughter in Public Address”

— November 3rd, 1945

Your throat clenched.

You hesitated. Then stepped back.

“I can’t,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to read it.”

Bucky glanced at you, then down at the plaque. “Want me to?”

You nodded once.

But He stepped closer, eyes scanning the plaque. His voice was low, a little rough.

“To say that I lost a soldier would be true. But to say I lost just a soldier would be a terrible injustice.”

“My daughter — the one you knew as ‘Grey Fox’ — was many things. A tactician, a tracker, a fighter more ruthless than most men I’ve commanded. She earned her place in the Howling Commandos not because of her name, or mine, but because she earned it. Day after day. Battle after battle. She was sharper than steel, braver than men twice her age, and she never ran from anything — not even fear itself.“

“She was stubborn from the start — wouldn’t follow the rules if she thought they were wrong, wouldn’t back down from any fight worth having. And yet she was kind. She was soft in the way only the strongest people are. She made people better just by standing beside them.”

“They’ll tell you she was tactical, skilled, a leader. All of that is true. But I want people to remember who she was when the orders were done. She liked swing music. Had too many pairs of shoes. And twice as many dresses. Spoke her mind without apology and carried a silver locket with her mother’s photo, that she thought no one ever noticed.”

You felt it then — the sting behind your eyes. The tears building, slow and traitorous. You turned your head away, lifting your hand as if the simple motion could shield you from what the words were doing to you. But they kept coming.

“And though the world may mark her as lost — let me be clear. My daughter is not forgotten. She lives in every fire lit in the dark, every brave voice in the silence, every young girl who believes she can stand in a place no one thought she should.”

“She gave everything to her country. And I don’t know how to say goodbye to her. I don’t know how to let go of my little girl—”

Then his voice cut off.

You waited. One breath. Two.

And when the silence stretched too long, you asked quietly, “Why’d you stop?”

Bucky didn’t look at you. He kept his eyes on the plaque, jaw locked. “That’s where it ends,” he said softly. “The article says he couldn’t finish the speech. He—” Bucky hesitated. “He walked off the podium, too choked up.”

You turned toward him slowly, scoffing.

“No,” you murmured, voice thick. “The Colonel never cried.”

It came out too genuine to be anything but memory. Something certain. Like gravity.

You shook your head, pressing your hand to your eyes as the tears spilled freely now, silent and hot, streaking down your cheeks without restraint. There was no sobbing. No sound at all. Just that kind of grief that closed in around the chest, so dense it felt like the world had narrowed to a pinhole.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, voice breaking on the edges. “For reading it. For bringing me here.”

Bucky stood beside you, hands flexing at his sides. He didn’t reach out. Couldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to — but because he knew you wouldn’t let him.

And maybe, in that moment, standing in front of a monument to a life you couldn’t remember and a love you’d buried somewhere deep — that was enough.

────────────────────────

You sat at the window again, the late morning sun slicing through the thin curtains like a scalpel. You didn’t feel it. Couldn’t, really. You were aware of the light, the way it bled over your hands resting on your knees—but it didn’t feel warm. Just… distant. Like everything else.

Bucky was in the kitchen, fumbling with something—probably another attempt to make coffee the way you liked. You didn’t tell him he never got it right. He tried too hard. He always had.

The silence between you two was the loudest part of this place. Even when he tried talking, even when he looked at you like you were a wound he couldn’t cauterize. It made your skin itch.

He thought he owed you. You knew it. That was what this was. This apartment, this half-life, these careful touches and softer tones—this was guilt. This was his penance.

You didn't know who you were anymore, not really. The world had moved on. Your war was over but still echoing in your blood. Bucky was the only familiar thing left, and even he felt warped—like a shadow of something you couldn’t remember clearly. You used to laugh with him. Tease him. Steal his rations and call him pretty boy. Now… you couldn't even meet his eyes for longer than a breath.

You weren’t stupid. You knew trauma bonding. You knew conditioning. You knew how Hydra twisted wires until they sparked like emotion, cracked whips until loyalty sounded like love. What the Vixen and the Winter Soldier had wasn’t a bond. It was survival.

This thing between you and Bucky—whatever it was, whatever it had once been—it was born in the dark, bred in pain, sharpened by orders and obedience. Hydra’s hands were all over it. You felt it every time he looked at you too long. Every time he brushed your arm and you flinched.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And he was too deep in his guilt to see it.

He was helping you because he had to. Because he’d hurt you. Because he'd bruised you in those white walls and watched handlers drag you by your hair. And this… this domesticity—it was the last bullet in his gun, a way to sleep at night.

So you stayed quiet. You stayed small. You tried not to think about the way he used to make you laugh just by cocking an eyebrow. You tried not to remember how you’d watch his reflection in puddles during missions, not because you were tracking him, but because you felt safer when you knew where he was.

That was all conditioning. It had to be.

It had to be.

────────────────────────

She sat at the window again. She always sat at the window.

Bucky stood in the kitchen, palms braced against the counter. The coffee machine groaned, spitting out something bitter. He didn’t look at it. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

Her profile was the same. Sharp. Still. But her shoulders—he remembered them being straighter. Her spine taller. Now they curled inward, like she was trying to fold herself into nothing. And it gutted him.

She hadn’t smiled in weeks. Not the way she used to. Not with that smart-ass grin that used to crinkle her nose and make the whole damn camp warmer. Back in the barracks, before the frost, she used to razz him about his hair. Called him “Sargeant Shampoo” once. He’d laughed so hard he dropped his tray.

That was real. It was. He knew it in his bones.

But she didn’t believe it. She thought he was helping her out of guilt. That their bond was a Hydra artifact. And Bucky could barely look at her without wanting to scream.

Because if that wasn’t real—if her laugh wasn’t real, if her hand in his wasn’t real, if the way she used to stay up for him when he came back from solo missions wasn’t real—then nothing was. Then he wasn’t real. Then everything he'd clung to in that white noise void of the Winter Soldier—every memory, every flicker of light—was a lie.

And goddammit, she wasn’t a lie.

She was the reason he didn’t put a bullet in his own head when the voices got too loud. She was the reason he hesitated in ‘89. The only one who ever fought him like an equal, and the only one who made him feel like he was more than just a loaded weapon.

She thought this was guilt.

Bucky had been guilty a long time. That was nothing new. He could live with guilt. What he couldn’t live with was this—this chasm between them, this damn wall she kept her heart behind. Like he was just another ghost from the operating table.

He closed the distance between them slowly, cautiously. She didn’t look up. Just stared at the sky, as if she was waiting for the war to start again.

“I know what you think this is,” he said finally, voice low. “You think I brought you here because I feel sorry. Because I’m trying to make up for what I did.”

She didn’t say anything.

“But that’s not why I’m here,” he continued. “I remember you. Not just in Hydra. Before. You—”

His voice cracked.

“You used to make fun of how I tied my boots. You once saved our whole squad by yourself. You—You were kind. Brave. And we were real.”

That made her flinch. He saw it in the way her fingers curled.

“I never hurt you because I wanted to,” he said. “I hurt you because I wasn’t me.”

She looked at him then. Her eyes were glassy, but not soft.

“And what if I’m not me?” she asked.

Bucky didn’t have an answer.

He watched her rise, walk toward the bathroom, close the door without a word. He could hear the faucet turn on, even though she never washed her face until after dark. He stared at that closed door for a long time.

And somewhere in his chest, something cracked.

────────────────────────

“This isn’t working,” you said, voice low, raw.

You stood in the middle of the living room, your arms wrapped around yourself as if you were trying to hold your own ribs in place. The quiet stretched, thick and suffocating, like it had weight. Bucky stood across from you, like always—close, but never quite close enough to make it feel real again.

He blinked, as if trying to make sense of the words. As if you’d just spoken in a language he forgot how to understand.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he already knew.

You didn’t look up at him when you said, “I don’t think we should be around each other anymore.”

The silence after that was devastating. You didn’t mean for it to sound like a kill shot, but it landed that way anyway. He staggered where he stood, barely, but you saw it. Like your words had stabbed him clean through and now he had to pretend it didn’t hurt.

His breath hitched. His jaw clenched. “We can still try,” he said, desperate, his voice cracking like splintered ice. “We’ve come this far. Don’t walk away now. Please.”

Your heart fractured. You wanted so badly to feel what he felt, to be what he needed, to believe this could still be something salvageable. But every moment you were around him, it was like being underwater—your body drowning in silence, your mind screaming against the weight of ghosts.

“I don’t know how to be around you without... without being afraid,” you whispered. “Of myself. Of what this is. Of what it means.”

“You’re not afraid of me,” Bucky said quickly, eyes wide with something that looked like grief. “You never were.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you corrected softly. “I’m afraid with you. I don’t know how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep waiting for the white walls to come back. For someone to scream an order. For the part of me that was me to vanish again.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

You looked defeated. Not angry. Not cruel. Just tired—of yourself, of this world, of the weight you both carried. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.

Bucky took one small step forward. Then another.

“Just stay,” he begged, broken. “I’ll be better. I’ll—”

You shook your head. “It’s not you.”

He stopped.

“It’s what’s left of me.”

And then—because you didn’t want to leave him without at least one last thing—you opened your arms.

You let him touch you.

His hands trembled as they slipped around you, pulling you in like you were something sacred, something breakable. Your arms went around his neck, slow, unsure. His chin rested against your temple. Your heart raced and calmed at the same time, a contradiction of longing and fear.

You stayed like that longer than you should have. And when you finally moved to pull away, his hands reflexively tightened around your back. You stilled at the pressure—not rough, not painful, just… desperate.

A sad, shuddering sigh left your lips as you rested your forehead against his collarbone. You let him hold you a little longer.

Then, when you pulled away enough to meet his eyes, you looked at him like you were looking through time. As if you saw the boy from the barracks, not the broken man standing before you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “that I couldn’t save you.”

Bucky’s eyes welled with tears, his throat working around something he couldn’t speak.

“I promised I would,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “Back when they took us. I swore I’d get us both out. And I didn’t.”

His hands loosened. Just slightly.

“I’m also sorry,” you said, voice trembling now, “that I don’t know how to be okay.”

You leaned in, pressing a single kiss to his cheek—a soft, lingering goodbye that clung to him like a fingerprint burned in time.

When you stepped back, his arms dropped, slowly, as if his body refused to let you go even though his mind knew you were already gone.

And Bucky—he didn’t cry. He just stood there.

Frozen.

Watching you walk toward the door like he’d watched so many things slip through his fingers. Like he had all the strength in the world but none of it could stop the fact that this time, he was losing you not to Hydra, not to death—but to your own will. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

You left him standing in the center of that apartment. Alone. Still reaching.

Still waiting.

Still loving you like it might make a difference.

Welp, if you've actually reached the end and want to read something that will make you feel better, I recommend, Come Home To Me

also:

Part 2? Happy ending?

yes

nope, leave it here

Voting ended onJun 6, 2025

[yourauthorjen]

i have never cried over a fanfiction before and when i tell you i bawled my eyes out, this is a masterpiece

[yourauthorjen]

Joaquin military/airforce headcanons? (My fyp has been filled with AirForce videos and that js makes me think of Joaquin as an Airman more and more…)

i actually started writing a joaquin x reader oneshot thats like an airforce thing, which will now be my main mission to finish it!

[yourauthorjen]

|| ALL EYES ON ME (ii) || — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | l’appetito vien mangiando— in which apparently appetite comes with eating. yet it also seems to come with your clingy bodyguard who can’t seem to keep his hands off you. or the food.

| includes: | bodyguard!joaquintorres x italianmodel!reader, flirting, some suggestive content, steamy, fluff, clingy joaquin, grumpy reader x sunshine

| word count: | 1.7k

| a/n: | from this lovely request! thank you for this idea! can be read as a part two of all eyes on you or can be read as a standalone. inspired by the song viva la vida by coldplay. to add, i am not italian so if i do portray anything wrong please tell me!

THE SPATULA IN your hand quivered slightly as you watched Joaquin reach for the saucepan for the fifteenth time in a row.

Or was it the sixteenth time?

At this point you weren’t even counting anymore.

“Back off,” you snapped, smacking his hand with your wooden spoon. “If I see you look at that goddamn pot one more time I’m chopping you up into pieces and turning you into meatballs.”

Your bodyguard smiled with an awful lot of pride for someone who had just been threatened to be turned into traditional sicillian meatballs, raising his hands in mock surrender as the grin plastered to his lips widened.

“Just trying to help, sweetheart.”

“You can help,” you said, “By not touching that fucking pot every ten seconds.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to die happy.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled, sticking your utensil back into the simmering pot of red sauce tomato sauce, a dizzying aroma wafting to your nose in return.

“You like me,” he singsonged.

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re furious.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because your cheeks betrayed you and went warm as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

It had been two months now, since Joaquin Torres had strolled into your life as your new “babysitter”. Your old bodyguard, Clint, had left you in the hands of this big baby man to take care of his new infant, and now you were stuck with this big doofus who had an unseemingly large appetite for your cooking and had a really bad habit of walking around the house shirtless.

And now that the two of you were a little more closer than your PR team would’ve liked, he had become terrible at boundaries. He clung to you like a sponge, making sad puppy eyes when you so much as walked to the other room without inviting him, or he’d spend an hour lying in your lap without moving an inch, just for you to run your hands through his hair once.

Now he was leaning against your marble counter, watching you cook, eyeing the pan like a starved hyena.

“You know what you look like?” you questioned, turning around to face him properly.

“A hot, charming man, who happens to be your boyfriend?”

“No,” you snorted, “You look like those hyenas from Lion King— what where their names?” You snapped your fingers, trying to recall, “Shenzi, Banzai, and Ed.”

His eyebrows flew to his hairline as his mouth dropped open and his posture straightened. “Seriously? Not even Scar? At least he had some dignity.”

You raised your spatula like a pointer. “Scar didn’t beg for scraps.”

He grumbled underneath his breath, before positioning himself back against the counter, legs crossed and eyes glued back onto the saucepan.

For a moment, it was silent, just the soft sound of the bubbling sauce and the occasional clinks of the wooden spoon hitting the pot.

“Ahem.”

You turned back around eyes flitting towards Joaquin as he stared at the stove, before he inhaled deeply and opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not!”

“What?” he whined, crossing his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“You were going to ask if you could have a bite.”

“It could’ve been a compliment about you!” he defended.

You gave him an unimpressed look. “Oh yeah? What were you going to say then?”

He blinked, and you could practically see the gears in his head spinning. “That… your pasta smells like heaven and I’d risk my life for a bite of that stuff.”

“Exactly,” you said, stabbing your spoon into the sauce with emphasis.

Joaquin sighed. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are,” you snorted, “You’re six feet tall and built like a damn brick wall. You probably burn three thousand calories just existing.”

He smiled smugly, the one where his eyes glinted with mischief and his grin turned crooked— one you despised and loved at the same time. “So what you’re saying is you think I’m hot.”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“I didn’t twist anything,” he said, pushing off the counter and sauntering over to you. “You said I was tall, muscular, and hungry. Sounds like every woman’s dream.”

You raised your spoon threateningly, but he was already in your space, crowding you, forcing you to back you slowly up against the counter. His hands landed on either side of you, caging you in as you shook your head, trying to muster out the words. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point,” he murmured, leaning in, brushing his nose against yours. “I could distract you all day if you’d let me.”

“Joaquin—”

He kissed you before you could finish. Soft at first, just enough to steal your breath. Then deeper, with that usual confidence of his that always left your knees a little wobbly. His hands found your waist, then your thighs, and in one swift motion, he lifted you up and set you on the counter like you weighed nothing at all.

You let out a surprised noise, which he promptly swallowed with another kiss, all heat and teasing tongue and a barely restrained laugh between your lips. And with no place for your legs to go, you had no choice but to wrap them around his waist.

“Joaquin,” you breathed against his mouth, cheeks flushed, “The pasta—”

“Can wait,” he mumbled, lips tracing down your jaw, “This is my appetizer.”

Your brain turned into fudge— like the Italian fudge you used to eat as a kid, as his fingers grazed your thigh, absolutely wrecking your common sense.

He smirked against your mouth, messy and warm, as his fingertips ghosted under your shirt. God—why was he so good at this?

“Joaquin,” you tried again, more desperate this time, even though your fingers curled around his shoulders, “Seriously, the food—”

His eyes darkened as he cupped your chin, thumb brushing softly along your jaw. “Let it burn,” he murmured, voice low and rough with want. “You taste better.”

Your heart did a ridiculous flip as he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he had all the time in the world to savor you. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him, your legs parting instinctively as he pressed between them. You could feel his smirk widen against your lips when you gasped a little, warmth flooding every inch of your body.

At that point, you’re brain had turned into pure fog as his fingers tucked your hair behind your ear, and his mouth traced your neck. “This isn’t fair,” you grumbled, palms bracing against his chest.

“Of course it’s not fair,” he murmured, “You said I couldn’t have food. You never said anything about you.”

You groaned, half in protest, half in delight, tilting your head as he nipped at that spot just below your ear that made your knees tremble.

“Okay,” you panted, shoving him away. “No more of that, not until I make sure my food’s not burnt.”

He pouted, his lips tugged downwards. “You care more about your food than me.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed, “I’m just trying to feed your grumpy ass so you stop staring at the food and me, like a crazy hyena.”

“Too late,” Joaquin muttered, following you like a lost dog as you returned to the stove. His chin landed on your shoulder like dead weight, arms snaking around your waist as he swayed you side to side. “You’re all five courses and dessert.”

“Don’t you have security cams to monitor? Maybe a rooftop to patrol?” you said, dishing the chicken you had made for the secondo. “Or I don’t know—an actual job?”

“This is my job,” he argued, as you turned to the cupboard. “To make sure you’re not… doing anything dangerous in the kitchen.”

Rolling your eyes you turned and reached out to grab a cup, but by the time you had faced Joaquin again his mouth was chewing and his eyes were blinking too innocently. Beside him, a corner of your grilled chicken had dissapeared and when your brain finally clicked he had already swallowed.

“Che Dio ti fulmini!” you seethed, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at you. “Stop that!”

His eyes met yours, tawny coloured and wide as your brows narrowed.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Joaquin smirked, “But whatever you put in that chicken is really good.”

You whacked him with the nearest thing you could find— an oven mitt.

“Ouch,” he said dryly, rubbing his shoulder like you’d just hurled a brick at him. But his lips quickly formed into a delighted grin again.

"No dinner for you," you scowled, "Keep doing this I'll feed you solo pane secco for the rest of the week.”

"What's that?" he asked smugly, grabbing your waist to spin you into a kiss.

You rapped your knuckles onto his temple before your hands found his shoulder again. "It means if you keep touching my food like that I'll feed you dry bread. Now, go set the table before I make you eat outside with the pigeons."

He groaned, burying his nose into the crook of his neck. "You're so bossy."

You smirked, mimicking his forever cocky smile. "Yet you still love me."

[yourauthorjen]

Hello hello hello I’ve just stalked your entire profile (yeah I’m insane) can you pretty please write a bodyguard!Joaquin x reader where she cooks? Like but she’s not nice about it. Joaquin tries to help or steal food and he’s getting hit with the wooden spoon in her hand. Perhaps also with lil Italian phrases (yelled at him) if you can?? Almost like a part two to your first bodyguard!Joaquin fic? Would be very awkward and silly. No worries if not thank u if you pick this up!

oh my godd im so sorry for taking this long to write your draft. currently am in the process of editing, thank you for your request!

[yourauthorjen]

domestic head cannons w joaquin?

YESSS and when you walk into the kitchen, groggy, in the morning, there’s already two cups of coffee or tea sitting on the counter in some sort of flourish.

and of course there’s joaquin, standing in front of the stove, shirtless and hair an absolute mess, making whatever new dish he conjured up in his head the night before. his muscles are taught, catching the soft glow of the first light that shine through the window as he spins around a wide smile on his face when he sees you.

and as you’re still tiredly trying to process what the hell is going on, he sweeps you into his arms rambling about some crazy idea he had while he was flipping eggs.

weirdly, he’s also really good at folding laundry. it gets to the point where he’ll rearrange your entire closet because he was bored— colour coded and everything.

he does that for your books too.

you once walked in on him ankles deep in your pile of books, alphabetically ordering them onto the bookshelf. he had looked up guiltily, trying to defend himself, but you just kissed his nose and sat down next to him, helping him organize.

other times when your not at home, joaquin likes to drag you to the most random places around town— just because they “look cool online”.

sometimes he’ll take you to the middle of nowhere to have a goddman picnic. other times its a flea markert two towns over where he’ll spend forever trying to stubbornly convince you to buy some hideous porcelain figure because he thinks they’re special.

once he spent twenty minutes listing out reasons why the two of you should’ve bought an ugly frog statue, because joaquin thought it had a personality. you ended up hauling his ass out of the stand before turning back around almost immediately to let him purchase it, because he looked so sad.

when the afterlight rolls around, and the sun fades into the horizon, you always find yourself curled up in joaquin’s arms, legs tangled, blanket half on the floor with the steady sound of his breathing vibrating against your skin.

there are times where he’ll mumble something that sounds suspiciously like your name as he’s dozing off, before his hand finds yours.

it’s always sweet, being with joaquin, and you love it because he’s always there. and no matter the amount of times you’ve tried to convince him to take a break, he always just rolls his eyes and shakes his head saying, “there’s no such thing as doing too much for you.”

[yourauthorjen]

Someone tell me why I have 7 drafts and 7 requests still waiting to be finished and I’m out here coming up with more ideas.

Please make it make sense

[love-chx]

no promise of tomorrow | joaquin torres

summary: you and joaquin work together and have sex--two entirely separate parts of your lives. but when you suddenly as for more one day, joaquin falters. a week long mission where another man captures your attention makes joaquin regret the words he doesn't say. but does it really change anything?

warnings: mdni. joaquin’s pov, pre-established situationship, angsty and passive aggressive joaquin, commitment issues!joaquin, jealousy, one-bed trope but on the floor but also on the bed, lots of fighting, a bullet graze, injured!reader, cursing, an overall very angsty fic, lowkey not a happy ending bc the situationship!joaquin universe shall persist after this. barely proofread by me everyone say thank u @sortagaysortahigh for reading every part as i wrote for an entire week

smut warnings: oral m!receiving, dick riding, ass smacking, hand pressed to throat but not choking (f!receiving), missionary, fingering, nipple sucking (f!receiving), creampie.

wc: 15.1k 

gif credit: @optional

-

What a stupid decision, Joaquin thinks to himself. Jaw flexing, his finger trails the rim of the whiskey cup in front of him before downing the drink in one go. The shoddy, dimly lit bar was not where he wanted to spend his Saturday night and the stench of sweat and alcohol filling the air was somehow worse than some of the bases he’s been on. The worn leather is scratchy beneath his jacket, and he does his best not to focus too much on how his combat boots were sticking obnoxiously to the floor below him. Misery exudes off of him like a warning to any passerbyers. 

But he pays them no mind. His eyes are focused on you. 

You’re across the room, only a small distance away from him but somehow it feels like worlds. Perched on a barstool, your legs are crossed and one elbow rests casually against the bar, as if you were the most relaxed you could ever be. Joaquin’s eyes follow as you pick up a tall glass, fingers wrapping around the condensation before bringing it to your familiar lips. The carbonated, bright red liquid glides down your throat, and Joaquin’s lips part as he watches you swallow. 

It’s a mocktail, he knows this. The reminder of why you opted for some bubbly soda sickenly reminds him of what the pair of you were doing in this seedy town to begin with. Naturally, Joaquin’s gaze moves to the man across from you. 

CIA Agent Matteo Locke. 

Zero, he said his codename was. Joaquin scoffs out loud. Dumbass codename. His name is The Falcon. He has wings. 

Whatever.

Joaquin observes as your glossy wet lips spread into another wide smile, and his finger twitches in irritation at the way you throw your head back, hand landing on the bicep of the federal agent across from you. 

Your laugh was loud. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe no one else in the bar could really hear it over the loud of conversation and camaraderie, but Joaquin hears it loud and clear, ears picking up the melodic giggle through the busy room. But a bitterness chokes him at who you were sharing it with. 

He’s not that funny. Joaquin thinks to himself, eyes glued on your manicured hand that remains on his arm. Not that Joaquin would really know. They’ve only met five hours prior. Other than a brief introduction and a solid handshake once you and Joaquin were boots down in Arizona, which was truly the extent of his interaction with the man, Joaquin hasn’t really had the pleasure of getting to know him. 

That honor was all yours it seems. 

He’s brooding. 

At the recognition of his own behavior, Joaquin lets out a sigh, forcing his eyes away from your couple with much difficulty. Instead, they scan the room. He checks every exit, surveying all the patrons. Despite the task at hand, he still finds his mind wandering to you. 

You’re just trying to pass as casual customers, Joaquin reasons, that’s why you were so close to Locke. He hears you laugh again and grits his teeth.

He’s heard the laugh a million times, loved it a million more, but he can’t help the way his discomfort blooming in his chest at the idea that it may never be directed at him again. 

All because of a stupid decision. 

Two nights before you knew about the upcoming mission, you found yourself at Joaquin’s in the middle of the night. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, slamming his head back against the wall. It took everything in him not to push his hips upwards and he remembers the feeling of his thighs shaking in restraint. You seemed to enjoy his misery, as teary wide eyes looked up at him. Joaquin opened his eyes just a smidge, sneaking a peek down at you. He couldn’t help the shuddering breath that left his mouth at the mischievous gleam in your eyes. 

Lips wet with different liquid than the one you’re nursing at the bar now and spread wide over the girth of his cock, Joaquin thought you look absolutely mesmerizing. 

He brought a large palm up to cup the side of your head, swiping sweaty strands of hair away from your forehead. Joaquin was absorbed in the moment, feeling every time your cheeks suctioned inward, every swipe of your tongue over the slit of his head, every inch of him that you sucked him in deeper and deeper.  

With one hand, he gathered all of your hair, fisting it in his palm. A tight grip. But he didn’t so much as move your head an inch. Joaquin had let you take control and you had gone at your own speed until you found a rhythmic pace, his hand a simple accessory to your motions.  

He had let out another groan when your hand came up to stroke the parts of his shaft your mouth couldn’t fit, hips had thrust upwards to chase after the warmth of your palm. The sound of you gagging had only turned him on more, but he would never push you further than comfortable, and forced himself back onto the bed. 

But he eventually had enough, Joaquin needed more. 

His hand had let go of your hair and gripped your upper forearm, pulling you up to his chest with ease. Joaquin tried to not let your displeased whine get to his head, giving you a satiating kiss to the cheek, murmuring some complacent phrases as his hands roamed along the sides of your body, gripping and massaging your curves as he went. 

Joaquin remembers the way his fingers danced along the edge of your panties, your wet core grinding against his cock as one of his hands guided you back and forth. His head was spinning from pleasure, his cock aching to feel more of you. 

Skillful hands had gripped the back of your panties before a gentle finger ran along the seam pressed against your ass until he reached your hole. His large hand was stretching the fabric, and he prayed that you wouldn’t care, but you hardly seemed to notice at all. Joaquin had teased, pads of his fingers just brushing against your entrance before pulling back. 

At the sound of your moan and the feel of your hands fisting the curls at the back of his head, Joaquin finally pushed your panties to the side. He had adjusted his grip, each of his palms finding the flesh of your cheeks, his right palm pinning the thin fabric of your ruined underwear between his hand and your ass. 

Joaquin had let out a relieved sigh, guiding your hips down the length of his cock slowly. The initial push past your hole made him throw his head back again, eyes closed in pleasure. Inch by inch, you gripped him like a vice and he had let out a guttural moan at the feeling. 

Soon enough, in the dark of his room, salacious sounds had begun to fill the air. The two of you had found a harmonizing pace, a more than familiar one, as you worked in tandem to pleasure each other. 

A loud sound of glass smashing makes Joaquin snap back to reality. Some drunken himbos had gotten into a fight it seems, and Joaquin just leans back into his seat as he watches security escort them out. It’s a non-threat. 

He shifts uncomfortably in the booth, unsticking parts of his jacket from the patchy leather to adjust his pants discreetly. He shouldn’t even be thinking about this, should be focused on the whole reason they’re at the bar. But then his eyes find their way back to you. 

You lean back, letting out another laugh, but that’s not what he pays attention to this time. Instead, Joaquin watches the way your denim shorts ride up your thighs, and there’s nothing he can do about the way that his mind flashes back to that night again. 

In the glowing aftermath, Joaquin’s boxers rode low on his hips as he walked back into his room. Tangled in the sheets, you sat up at the sound of him returning, and he had passed you a cup of iced water without a word. Joaquin had sat on the edge of his bed, the cold of his gold chain pressed against his flush skin as he reveled in the silence. It wasn’t an unusual routine. 

But then you reached over, placed the glass onto his nightstand and said, “Joaquin, we need to talk.” 

His heart dropped in his chest. No good thing ever came from those four words. His lips had turned downward in a frown, and he rubbed a hand across his chest to ease the ache. You were making him nervous. “Alright, what is it?” 

Joaquin had watched patiently as you sat up, and though he forced his face to remain stoic, he dreaded the many possibilities of what you could say. Joaquin watched as you hesitated, and dread only seemed to sink deeper in his stomach. 

“I think…” Your brows knit together in what Joaquin perceived to be confusion. He gave you the time to find your words, unmoving at the end of his bed. “I don’t think we should keep doing this.” 

His frown deepened. The words rushed through his head and Joaquin wasn’t sure what to make of them. He’s not sure what in his expression gave it away his distress, but you rushed to continue before he could respond. 

“I mean,” you nibbled on your lower lip. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just need clarity.” 

“Clarity about what?” Joaquin replied, frown unchanged as he straightened. He had folded his arms, thinking maybe if he kept his body in control, then his mind would follow. But Joaquin’s stomach had twisted anyways, slow and nauseating, and he’d been in enough missions to know that one wrong move here and things would go sideways quick.

“This,” you had gestured, a frantic wave between the two of you. “Us.” 

“I don’t understand,” Joaquin had tiptoed. “I thought we were on the same page.” Things were going well, the two of you had a good thing going. One that you had already established. So what more did you want from him? He felt a lump form in his throat as he considered what you might truly be asking, and he had frustratingly hoped the conversation never came up to begin with. 

Your loud sigh had him panic, but he willed himself to sit still. His eyes simply watched as you pushed yourself out of his bed, reaching for your discarded clothes on the floor. You were upset, that much was obvious, and he hated seeing that, so he called out your name. 

You slipped your pants on before turning to look at him, shirt fisted in your hand as you sighed. “We are.” You replied before pausing. “We were.” 

Joaquin’s arms had dropped from their defensive position, and at your admittance, he had forgotten how to breathe. He remembers the way his mouth opened, and then shut again, because what was he supposed to say?

“I think I bit off more than I can chew with you, Torres,” you had told him, voice significantly quieter than before. The way his name sounded when it fell from your lips, soft and tired—Joaquin didn’t know what to do with that. “I like you.” 

He felt his chest crack wide open. All that did was remind him of why things had to be the way they were. Afterall, if he couldn’t handle how you sounded merely confessing, what would he ever do if he did pursue things? What would he ever do if it didn’t work out and he hurt you? 

Joaquin’s jaw had clenched, and nothing had come out. Not an explanation. Not the reassurance you needed. Not the confession he didn’t want to admit. He had wanted to reach out to you at that moment, grasp your wrist in his hand and pull you towards him and say, “It’s okay. I like you, too.” 

But his throat was tight. He felt his hand have the slightest of tremors, and all he could do was stare at the floor. Joaquin couldn’t trust himself. Not with you. You would matter too much and things could go too wrong. You work together, for Christ sake, there was too much on the line. He couldn’t lose you. 

So the room fell quiet. Too quiet. 

“Right.” He heard you say. Sounds of shuffling signaled to him that you were getting dressed and gathering the rest of your stuff. Still, Joaquin didn’t move. He had told himself that silence was the safest option here, knew that if he looked up at you he’d give in to you. 

Joaquin heard his bedroom door open and without looking, he knew you had paused there. “You know…I didn’t need you to say everything, Torres.” He tried not to wince at how distant your voice sounded, cold and at arm's-length, but still low. “I just needed you to say anything at all. But your silence said enough.” His door closed with a soft click. 

Joaquin felt like such a coward. 

He shouldn’t have started anything with you to begin with, because then he wouldn’t be here. But he was selfish. And stupid. So, very stupid. 

Joaquin sighs, shuffling in his seat in the booth again. Agitation crawls under his skin, exhaustion creeps in between the crevices. They’ve been here for so long and unlike you, Joaquin is not having a good time. Guilt sits heavy on his chest, dull and persistent, like an old bruise that aches when pressed. Rubbing his jaw, Joaquin relaxes it, realizing how tense it’s been from all the clenching he’s done. 

“Iago’s not coming.” 

His head snaps up, taking you in. One hand on your hip, the other presses flat against the table as you lean in towards him. Besides you, Agent Locke stands a bit too close for his liking, and Joaquin’s eyes narrow. 

“We got word that TSA did an unexpected search on him when he landed in the States and after they let him go, he fled. Chances are he’s laying low on the West Coast for a couple days before heading over here,” you relay to him. Joaquin just takes in your words, mind shifting into work mode. 

“So, he’s probably going to push the deal.” Joaquin’s voice is deep and horse, hours of not talking and alcohol doing a number on his system. 

“That’s what we’re thinking,” an unwelcome voice chimes in, and Joaquin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he keeps them fixed on you, and the two of you inadvertently enter an unspoken staring contest, neither of you refusing to break away first. 

Joaquin’s eyes are smoldering as he watches your movements. You reach across the table, picking up the empty glass sitting in front of him. Joaquin is silent as you bring it up to your nose. “Drinking on the job, Torres?” 

His posture is relaxed, leaning back into the cushion of the booth, but underneath Joaquin can feel every muscle taut with tension. It’s a performative calm as he reigns in his embarrassment of being caught by you. 

“How do we know he won’t bail?” Joaquin murmurs, deflecting. “He’s a cautious guy. What if he got spooked? Worried the Feds are onto him, and calls it off?” He waits for you to answer despite knowing you won’t be the one who would have that information. 

“He won’t bail,” an irritatingly grating voice responds. “This is a huge trade. He won’t let it go that easily and he won’t risk leaving and coming back. Chances are he’s not off U.S. soil unless he’s got eight million dollars tucked in his pocket.” 

Joaquin’s eyes don’t leave yours as he digests the CIA agent’s analysis. Despite his grievances, Joaquin has to agree with the man. With that realization, Joaquin’s lips press into a thin line. Still looking at you, he says, “Let’s get out of here, then.” 

-

Joaquin should’ve taken you more seriously. 

He swears that did in the moment, but Joaquin didn’t understand the gravity of the situation until now, as he lives in it.

The reality of your dynamic was one where he never asked you about your previous partners and never bothered to check if you had ones other than him. It was arrogance, he admits. Security in the fact that he believed you weren’t with anyone else, despite the non-exclusiveness of your relationship. But it was mutual. Joaquin would never disrespect you like that, and despite the ambiguity of your label, it was monogamous. He hopes you know that. He wouldn’t be surprised if you thought so little of him, though. 

Regardless, certainty he felt meant he never had to deal with this. Jealousy. 

The room is quiet as the two of you shuffle around each other, preparing for bed after a long day of travel and work. He hates that he’s uncomfortable in the silence now, a space that used to be filled with understanding now filled with hesitation and acute awareness of the other person. 

Joaquin’s mouth opens as he turns around, preparing to break the discomforting silence, but a quiet click of the bathroom door has him locking his jaw back into place. The sound of the shower starts to take over the quiet, and Joaquin forces his mind to think of something other than your soft, wet body naked in the small bathroom. 

With a shake of his head, he walks away from his duffle bag that sits in one of two armchairs, the other occupying your bag. He makes his way towards the nightstand, in pursuit of a pen and paper; might as well make use of the time and jot down some strategies. 

But his foot gets caught on the way, getting tangled. Looking down, Joaquin lets out a quiet sound of confusion. Blankets and a pillow are laid out on the floor, next to the bed, and Joaquin’s head whips back towards the bathroom door where the shower is still running. His initial confusion narrows into realization—you were planning to sleep on the floor. To create distance. From him.

He’s frozen for a second, the sting of rejection hitting him in the chest at your deliberate actions before it’s replaced with a quiet guilt. His own actions made you feel this way. Joaquin wonders if he should move the blankets back on to the bed, wonders if you’d even let him. 

“Hey.” Your voice is neutral, breaking Joaquin out of his trance. He instinctively straightens up, as if he had gotten caught snooping somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Turning around to face you, his mouth parts, getting ready to defend. But once he realized there was nothing to defend, he shut it. You point behind you, “Bathroom’s free now,” you alert him quietly. 

“Yeah, alright,” he replies hastily, breathless for some odd reason. His heart hammers anxiously in his chest at his discovery and at being caught making said discovery. Grabbing fresh clothes on the way to the bathroom, he passes you, the smell of vanilla body wash invading his senses. “Take the bed,” he murmurs before shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Leaning against the wooden frame, Joaquin lets out a sigh. He strips slowly, distracted and lost in thought by the events of the night. Despite the newly founded sexual avenue that the two of you have been exploring, at the base of it all was always friendship—one of the most important ones in Joaquin’s life. Working together for years, the two of you have always managed to ebb and flow so well. He shouldn’t have jeopardized it, should have been stronger.   

Hot water droplets hit his back, but it does little to relax him, his chest feeling a bit too tight. He keeps replaying your neutral tone, the space you made on the floor. It’s dumb of him to feel surprised—he’s the one who pushed you away—but stupidly he still hurts. 

He towel dries his hair with one hand, tugging his shirt down with the other. Stepping out into the room, his jaw tightens. You’ve already laid down. On the floor. 

You don’t even look at him as he enters the room and that makes it worse. 

Breaking the silence, Joaquin’s voice is low and frustrated. “You’re really sleeping down there?” 

The sheets ruffle, but you don’t turn to look at him. “Yeah.” 

“That floor’s gonna kill you. Last thing we need is you throwing your back out in the middle of taking down some bad guys.”

For a second, you don’t respond, and Joaquin’s heart seizes in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been this distanced from you, ever. 

Then you let out a small chuckle. 

Well…more like a huff of air. But it’s something. 

“Come on, get up,” Joaquin insists, tone softening. 

“Joaquin—” 

“No,” he demands. “Seriously, get up.” 

You turn over to glare at him, but Joaquin can feel the corners of his mouth lifting anyways because at least you’re looking at him. He’s patient as he watches you move at the slowest speed known to mankind. Snails have moved faster than you, he’s sure of it. Yet, he doesn’t dare utter a word, feet solidly planted near the bathroom entrance as you make you ascend from the floor to the bed. You’re stiff as a board, laying horizontally on the furthest edge of the bed you can manage, and Joaquin can’t stifle the snicker that he lets out this time. 

“Goodnight,” he says gently, flicking the switch for the both of you. Joaquin bends down to the floor, lifting up the thin sheet that you were planning to use as a blanket for the night before his head settled on the pathetic excuse of a pillow this motel offered them. He slaps the pillow a few times, doing his best to fluff it up, but he stops midway when he hears you shuffle to peer over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” you inquire, and Joaquin looks up at your scrunched up brows. 

“Uh,” he hesitates. It’s the most direct attention you’ve given him for the past few hours and Joaquin feels like he’s malfunctioning, cheeks warming under your gaze. “Just…thought if I smacked it enough times, it might remember how to be a good pillow.” 

He winces when your expression is unchanged and he’s disappointed in the fact that his joke may not have landed; he might have pushed the thin ice he was already on with you. 

“No,” you combat. “What are you doing down there?” 

Your clarification does little to alleviate his confusion. Maybe it’s the gaping expression on his face or maybe it’s the lack of a swift response, but you steam onward. 

“I’m not letting you sleep down there! Last thing I need is for you to throw your back out mid-battle. I’d never hear the end of it.” 

Joaquin sits up, hands braced behind him. A warmth spreads through his chest because the worst part of him loves to hear how you care, no matter how threadbare it truly is. Part of him feels a sense of relief that you’re speaking to him, but then he looks up at your narrowed eyes and his smile drops the slightest bit. Vulnerability slips through his usual confidence as he takes in your face in the dark room. The only light that comes through is a soft, distant glow from the large neon sign out front shining the word ‘Motel’. It frames you like a halo. 

He knows you made a joke of it, but he couldn’t help the honesty that bleeds through his words. “Figured it was only fair.” Joaquin’s eyes soften as he looks at you. “Didn’t want to push it.” 

Your lips part, and an unfamiliar expression crosses your face before it settles into a frown. “Just get up here.” It’s quiet, a mere whisper, and Joaquin’s heart throbs in his chest. 

“Relax,” he responds, voice significantly louder than necessary, intentionally breaking the ambiance. How soft you look, the concern in your voice—it’s too much for Joaquin to handle. So he reverts back to what he feels safe with—humor. “I’ve survived worse than some dingy one star motel room floor. Have you slept over on Sam’s couch? Not much better than this.” Joaquin lays back down and forces himself to turn his back to you, but his eyes stay open. He just stares at the carpet in front of him, and he hopes that you didn’t hear the crack in his voice. 

The bed creaks, and Joaquin’s eyes shut in relief, thankful that you’ve dropped it. He lets out a shaky exhale, but then he freezes. 

Familiar, warm skin brushes against his back. Not flushed, but close enough that he can feel the faintest kiss of your skin, and Joaquin tries not to jump that spark that dances along his back. He doesn’t dare move. 

“What’re you doing,” he whispers. 

You shush him. “Go to sleep, Torres.” 

And despite the hammering in his chest and the rush that he feels when your skin ghosts against his in the faintest of movements, Joaquin feels his eyes growing heavy anyways. 

-

Faint streams of sunlight shine through the small break in the curtains. Joaquin winces, blinking his eyes open with a slight groan. He tries to stretch his sore limbs, but instead finds himself restricted. Still in the midst of his dream and awake state, confusion floods him, until he starts to look around. 

Regaining his senses, Joaquin starts to feel it. A pressure on his chest, his arms trapped underneath something, and his leg pinned down. 

Holy—

Joaquin snaps awake, jolting in shock before forcing his body rigidly still. Steadily, he tilts his head downward until he sees you fast asleep. Arm slung around his waist, one of your legs hiked up over his, Joaquin melts at the attention. Your face is tucked below his jaw and your even breaths fan across his skin. 

He should move. Create space. 

But he hesitates. 

Your grip tightens unconsciously and Joaquin finds himself relaxing into you, the smell of your shampoo has him closing his eyes in comfort. In and out, he forces, willing his heart to stop its incessant thudding. You’re holding on to him like he’s worth holding on to, and it’s doing things to him. 

Joaquin’s eyes snap open. 

No. He can’t think that way, it’s too dangerous. 

But the feel of your body against his. It’s so…intimate. 

You’ve been so distant these past few days, and Joaquin can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to deserve this treatment now. Maybe you didn’t mean to end up wrapped in him last night, even more reason Joaquin should let you go now, but he can’t. 

A selfish hero. 

Yet despite the realization he remains still, laying motionless with his breathing shallow to prolong the moment as much as he can. 

His mind spins. The two of you have done a lot together, bodies wound in moments of primal instinct and heat, but never like this. Never lingering. 

It’s his own fault. Admitting that truth, Joaquin swallows hard. 

This isn’t sex. This isn’t a rushed need for physical touch. It’s simple closeness, the kind that terrifies him more than anything in this world ever could. 

And it’s undoing him. 

A soft groan below him makes Joaquin’s body stiffen before he forces himself to relax. In pure panic, Joaquin closes his eyes and forces his breathing to even out in a false illusion of sleep. It takes everything in him not to move as he feels you awaken. 

A soft hand on his chest makes Joaquin sigh, the feeling bringing him an odd sense of comfort. His ears strain as he listens to your movement, some confused muttering before you sit up and untangle yourself from him. He instantly misses the warmth. 

Joaquin hears you stretch, the loud moan you let out as you do so tells him all he needs to know. 

“Joaquin,” your groggy voice calls out. He doesn’t dare move. A sharp finger digs into his waist, and he bites down on his lower lip in response. Stretching, Joaquin lets out a fake yawn before blinking his eyes open at you. Sitting with your legs crossed, you’ve turned your body to look at him. He smiles softly at your bedhead, a grouchy expression on your face that consists of the cutest pout he’s ever seen. 

“Morning,” he bids you, pretending to rub his eyes. 

“We gotta get ready,” you say through a yawn. All Joaquin can do is watch you. 

You’ve been on missions together before, many times. And though Joaquins never admitted it out loud, one of his favorite versions of you is the one he’s looking at now. Early morning, fresh out of bed—you’re at your softest. God knows Joaquin has done nothing to deserve being on the receiving end of anything soft, but he cherishes the moment anyways. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a fallen strand of hair on your forehead. 

Instead he’s silent, watching as you get out of the makeshift bed the two of you shared the night before. Joaquin doesn’t even care when you rip the comforter off of him and drops it on the mattress where it belongs, simply thankful that you had enough consideration last night to drag it down with you when you joined him on the floor. 

“I’m g’nna go first,” you say, voice still shrouded in sleep, stretching up towards the ceiling. Joaquin wets his lips when your shirt rides up as you do so and the tiniest sliver of your belly reveals itself. He doesn’t argue with you, too entranced by the sight in front of him. 

You mumble something about your back, both hands placed on it as you head towards the bathroom, but when the door slams close Joaquin falls backwards flat against the limp pillow. Both hands run over his face, and he cups his mouth with a loud groan. 

Weirdly enough…Joaquin thinks he just had the best sleep of his life. 

-

Five days into the mission and Iago still hasn’t made a move to cross the Arizona border. After days of endlessly following Iago’s very bleak paper trail, endless debriefs in some fancy CIA building, and spending more time than necessary in an entire life with him—Joaquin’s patience is wearing extremely thin. 

“This guy’s good, I’ll give him that,” Agent Locke mutters from the bed. Joaquin’s side of the bed. 

After the development of the first night, you had insisted that the pair of you share the motel bed instead of the floor. 

“Don’t let it get to your head, but you might’ve been right,” you had muttered. “Damn floor might kill us before Iago even gets past border patrol.” 

Granted, the two of you hadn’t cuddled since, much to Joaquin’s chagrin. The line of pillows you built between the two of you each night was a clear boundary that wasn’t to be violated, and despite missing the warmth of your body, Joaquin never pressed for more. 

A container of takeout was held tightly in Locke’s hand, chopsticks sticking out as he uses his free hand to scroll through his computer. Joaquin scowls from his seat in the armchair, his own laptop going unattended. 

He hates the way you’re brushing against Locke, your arms pressed against one another as you peer over at his screen. Joaquin’s laptop is working just as fine, mind you. You could have easily shared with him. Instead, you sit at arm’s length away from him, biting your lower lip in concentration as you read whatever data Locke has pulled up. 

It’s distracting. How the hell is he supposed to get through any of the traffic cam footage if you’re over there doing that? 

Joaquin taps his trackpad, just to look busy, the blue glow of the paused video feed flickering over his face. His eyes keeps sliding over to the bed, over to you, and the way your head tilts ever so slightly toward Locke while leaning into him. Joaquin’s jaw clenches, forcing his gaze back to his screen and presses play. 

A car pulls up to the gas station. Not Iago. Don’t care. 

A low laugh from the bed draws Joaquin’s attention, fingers tapping frantically on the table. Joaquin’s eyes focus on the grainy footage in front of him but none of it is truly registering. Every few seconds, his focus drifts. Your shoulders are relaxed as they pressed against Locke’s. Your laugh was airy and unguarded, for Locke. Your smile is soft as you whisper something to Locke. Joaquin’s jaw clenches. 

You’re not together. That’s the unspoken truth. It’s not like he has a right to feel any sort of way, but it doesn’t stop the way his stomach twists and the ache in his jaw. 

Close enough to touch, always, but miles away from him. It’s all been polite conversation and civil reports and division by those goddamn pillows. 

He misses you. 

Not the sex—you.

Joaquin exhales slowly through his nose, his own share of the food going cold on the table in front of him. At the sound of another laugh, he snaps. 

The chair he’s in nearly flips backwards from the force of his standing, bumping loudly into the wall behind him. It has both yours and Locke’s gaze snapping up, but Joaquin avoids eye contact with you both. Instead, he slams his laptop shut and grabs his wallet. “Grabbing a soda.” 

He’s stepping out of the room before his thoughts can catch up to his actions, but he doesn’t miss the subtle, “I don’t think your partner likes me very much,” from Agent Locke accompanied by your giggle. It makes Joaquin slam the door shut in anger.

In the little nook to the side of the motel parking lot, Joaquin stands in front of the vending machine. Rubbing his nose aggressively, Joaquin lets out a loud sigh as the low hum from the machines fill the air, fluorescent light flickering above him. It’s dark out and cold, the whoosh of cars flying by on the nearby freeway could be heard, but Joaquin’s not paying attention to any of those things. Instead, he tilts his head back, closing his eyes to take a shaky breath. 

This is so much harder than he thought it would be. 

Huffing, he shakes his head and pulls out a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the cash slot. Only for it to be returned to him. There was a bent corner, and Joaquin did his due diligence in fixing it before putting the bill back in. It slides right out. Opening his wallet only leads to the discovery that he had no other small bills with him.

“Come on,” Joaquin grunts, forcing his only dollar back in. He groans in frustration at the sound of the bill being pushed back out again. Straightening the money against the denim of his jeans, Joaquin curses when the vending machine still refuses to take his bill. “Take the stupid dollar,” he yells at the inanimate object.

In the midst of his tantrum, Joaquin fails to realize that someone else has joined him, until a hand he knows like his own slaps him away from the machine. You insert your own dollar and it accepts on the first try. 

“Of course,” he deadpans. 

He feels your warmth against his back despite you keeping a careful distance from him, and it was so familiar that Joaquin doesn’t have the strength to turn around and face you. His deep inhale forces him to inadvertently inhale the smell of your sweet shampoo again, and Joaquin holds his breath, lungs squeezing painfully in his chest. 

You reach around him, pressing the code that has an orange soda tumbling against the glass before landing in the bottom compartment with a clank. 

Neither of you move. 

“That crap will clog your arteries before the age of fifty, you know that, right?” Your breath fans against Joaquin’s back, and it makes him shiver. 

His voice is low, almost lower than the hum of the lights as he mumbles. “I just needed a minute.” 

“What is going on with you?” you respond, matching his volume. 

Joaquin hates that he can hear the tone of compassion in your voice, knows that he’s done nothing to deserve it. Your kind nature is unmatched, and Joaquin doesn’t deserve any of it. Even in this moment Joaquin knows—what can he even say? The situation he’s in is the result of no one but himself, and despite how greedy he’s been about you, he’s not selfish enough to confide in you about having to bear the consequences of his own actions. 

But then a flash of you and Locke flashes in his mind, and his emotions turn into misguided anger. Afterall, how could you get so close to someone else in the aftermath of what happened? Did you truly mean so little to him? The hurt was too much for him, and instead bleeds into frustration. 

“Nothing,” his voice is gruff, jaw clenching. 

Your voice still carries the same tone as you state, “You were kind of being an ass in there.” Of course. Joaquin rolls his eyes. Is that what you were out here for? It sparks a flash of annoyance through him. Was he not being nice enough to Locke for your liking?

“Didn’t realize you noticed me there. Thought I was interrupting something.” It’s an obvious low blow, Joaquin should’ve taken better control of his emotions and kept it to himself, but he couldn’t stop the words from rushing past his lips anyways. 

He doesn’t have any time to feel regret before you scoff, though, and the sound has him turning his head over his shoulder to get a look at your face. You’re less than pleased with him, fairly so, but Joaquin had a hard time caring. Not when Locke kept touching you and looking at you, the two of you sharing laughs at his expense. 

You shake your head when the two of you make eye contact. “It’s called working, Torres. You should try it sometime this week instead of walking around like a brooding asshole.” 

“Yeah?” He challenges, licking his lips. “Looked more like flirting to me.”

A noise of disagreement strangles out of your throat. “You’re ridiculous.” It’s conclusive. You and Joaquin simply hold each other's gazes, both holding your own ground in this deliberate staring contest. 

It was you who broke away first, turning away from him with a clenched jaw. Looking back, there was something else in your eyes alongside the simmering anger, and all you do is reach past him to pull the soda out from the metal flap. A sniffle catches his attention, but you shove the drink into his chest before he can take a good look at you. “Don’t say I never got you anything.” Your voice is firm and decisive. 

With that, you depart, and all Joaquin can do is take in another breath as he watches your retreating figure. It was only when your shared room door slams shut that guilt begins to swirl in tendrils in his veins. The lights above him go out. 

-

That night, after Locke took his leave and confirmed that Iago’s been spotted at a nearby hotel, Joaquin merely watched in the corner of the room as you threw down an extra sheet and pillow onto the floor next to the bed before settling on the mattress. No words were exchanged, but it was clear: Joaquin was sleeping on the ground tonight—his metaphorical dog house. He took it in stride, laid down without a word, but his back wasn’t as prideful as him the next day. It certainly was not a good night's rest. And it definitely didn’t help when your foot landed on his stomach, using him as a stepping stone as you made your way to the bathroom the next morning. All he could do was groan and curl up on the floor, back and stomach now aching. 

Now, in the dark, dingy van, Joaquin shifts uncomfortably in his designated seat, body complaining from the events that took place. One hand rubs the crease in his forehead while the other taps against the armrest. His eyes remain locked on the various monitors in front of him. 

On the opposite side of the van, you sit just as tense and silent, working on the comms. 

For once, Joaquin’s glad Locke is there as a buffer, though the agent himself doesn’t seem to be too glad about it. It’s so apparently obvious and even without multiple years in the academy, anyone can deduce that things are tense. It’s palpable, and obnoxiously fills the already stale air in the tiny vehicle. 

To the right of him, Locke clears his throat, and Joaquin’s ears twitch in irritation. “So,” Locke drags. “Did something happen last night?” 

“No.” 

“Just focused.” 

Joaquin’s and your response overlap one another, answering Locke with haste in a stern tone. 

“Alrighty,” Locke sings, clearly unconvinced, but the message from both sides is clear and the man returns his attention to the same monitors Joaquin is watching. “Wait…” the CIA agent calls out, though all previous humor is devoid from his voice. The air shifts instantly, heavy with purpose, as everyone leans in. 

“Right there,” Locke’s finger comes up to tap on one of the screens, the grainy picture flickering slightly as he narrows his eyes. 

Following him, Joaquin’s eyes trail the screen, catching a small blurry figure peeking around a pillar before ducking into the building being surveilled, but not before turning around to look over their shoulder. Joaquin types quickly on his keyboard, the lens capturing the movement. The camera footage pauses, and Joaquin zooms in. “That’s him. That’s Iago.” 

The sound of a camera shuttering fills Joaquin’s ears, and once Locke finishes capturing evidence, Joaquin zooms out. 

“Wait, hold on,” you call out. Reaching across, you point at a different monitor on Joaquin’s side to the left—a different figure entering the frame from the opposite side of the building. “There’s Monica.” The confirmed buyer. 

The trio watches as she moves towards the back entrance of the building, her signature confidence radiating off the screen. She’s flanked by two guards. “They’re armed,” Locke confirms in a grim voice. 

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Joaquin keeps his eyes on the screen until all parties disappear inside. “They’re both here. This is it.” 

“Hold on,” Locke demands, fingers moving with speed as he switches the feed to the cameras they’ve placed inside. “We need confirmation of the exchange,” he announces. 

Watching in tense silence, Joaquin keeps his eyes locked on the screen. 

The criminals move through separate parts of the building, and each one of you watches with intent, tracking them. Joaquin ignores the radio static of Locke’s comms, telling his team to hold their positions. 

When Iago and Monica finally meet, it’s in one of the back offices, and Joaquin holds his breath as the two shake hands. Monica’s guards part slightly, forming a perimeter in the small room that barricades the door. The flash drive glints faintly as Iago pulls it from his pocket, and Joaquin can only watch as the two mouth to each other, unable to make much out due to the lack of audio and the low-resolution footage. The two of them take a seat on opposite sides of a round table centered in the room. Under different circumstances, Joaquin would have rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but he knows better. Big fish like these have a knack for flare. 

“Wait. Something’s wrong,” you murmur. You reach over Locke, taking over the comms, shifting the camera away from Monica and Iago. Joaquin shouts your name in protest, but you simply ignore him. “There’s more,” you hastily rush out. “There.” You were right. With the change of perspective back to the entrances of the building, Joaquin sees it. More shadows. More shapes. 

There’s others. 

Joaquin counts five…six…eight others. Unmarked and heavily armed, surrounding the building from the inside. 

“What the hell…” Joaquin’s heart rate starts to pick up. 

“She brought extra backup,” Locke sounds distant, as though his mind was processing the information. “That’s too many bodies for a simple deal.” 

Everyone falls still, watching the men on the screen. “Iago’s the biggest black market tech broker we know. He’s hacked into the U.S government more times than we can keep track of. All operative information—Super Soldier data, blueprints for war plans…” you let the insinuation hang in the air. “Whatever Monica’s buying…she’s not sticking around after,” you quickly pick up. “After the handoff, she’s fleeing.” 

Locke overtakes the comms, switching it back to Monica and Iago, who are still sitting across from each other, a seemingly casual conversation taking place. “The target is Iago,” he states. “We wait for the handoff. Let Monica leave first, then we come in for him.” 

“She’s right.” Joaquin jumps in to agree with you. “We can’t wait. Monica’s going to kill him after she gets what she needs,” he shakes his head. “I’ve read her file. With this many men, she’s planning something big. She won’t leave any loose ends.” 

“We will get there in time. We need Iago to transfer the drive to her or we can’t get either of them. Right now they’re only crime is meeting up in an abandoned warehouse.” Locke insists, voice firm. “Let the exchange happen and we track Monica from there. Going in now just blows this whole thing.” 

Joaquin’s lips part, ready to disagree, but the slamming of the van door draws his attention. 

“She won’t wait that long.” You’re flying out of the van before anyone can process it, gear half on and boots hitting the gravel with a crunch. 

Joaquin’s stomach drops. “Wait,” he shouts, calling after you, only to hear you shout back, “I’m not letting anyone die on a technicality.” 

“Dammit!” Joaquin lunges towards you, but you’re too fast, and he hastily grabs his own gear despite the shouts and protest of Locke. “Fucking shit!” Joaquin curses, ankles ringing when he lands harshly on the ground. Joaquin chases after you, but you don’t look back once, and he keeps his head on a swivel as he locks his vest into place. 

The two of you sprint down the alley, Joaquin only a few steps behind you, as you near the distance of the warehouse together. Slipping around the side, you crouch low behind a dumpster near the loading bay. 

Joaquin’s breath burns in his throat, not from the sudden adrenaline rush, but from the fear that grasps him at the sight of you rushing into a scene without telling him anything. You’ve never done that before. Each inhale scrapes sharply against his ribs and muscle memory overrides the flurry of thoughts crashing in his head as he secures his weapons. He’s pissed—at Locke for his douchery and at Monica for ruining the fucking plan—but mostly he’s angry with you. 

But none of that matters right now.

Dropping beside you, his back pressed to the rusted metal of the dumpster. Grasping your shoulder, Joaquin forces you to look back at him. “What’s the plan?” His voice comes out calm and focused—the exact opposite of how he feels on the inside, where he wants to shake you and yell at you for your reckless actions—but he knows the two of you have to make it out of this first. He needs to trust you. 

When you turn towards him, your eyes are sharp, and he knows you’re where you need to be. “We go in quiet. Straight to Iago. If Monica gets even a hint that something’s wrong, it’s game over. Once we get in there, if she makes a move to kill him, we take all of them down. I don’t care what Locke says—we neutralize and extract, even if the exchange hasn’t happened.” Your eyes flicker down to the gun in his hand. “No gunfire.” 

Joaquin looks down before tucking it back into the back of his waistband. He nods, once. 

It’s a terrible plan. Ten people versus two. But Joaquin forces himself to push that thought away, it won’t do him any good on the field. Joaquin exhales slowly, steadying his pulse. He doesn’t say it verbally, but the two of you know—he’s with you. 

Peering around the edge of the dumpster, the back entrance to the warehouse is maybe thirty yards away. Next to it, there’s a cracked loading door spilling yellow light onto the concrete. He sees a shadow move past the gap—tall and armed. Then he sees another shadow, moving the opposite direction—smaller feet, but Joaquin doesn’t dare make the mistake of assuming they’re any less dangerous. That’s two out of eight, not counting Monica and Iago themselves. 

Joaquin feels you tap his arm once—ready? 

He gives you the smallest of nods. Let’s move.

You both rush out from behind the dumpster, feet barely making noise against the concrete as you huge the warehouse wall. The two of you duck low, passing the cracked loading door and Joaquin holds his breath as you do. 

Once your duo gets to the back door, Joaquin is quick to move to one side, flanking it, while you remain on the other, facing the loading dock. Reaching over, his palm grasps the knob and gives it a steady turn. All he can focus on is the rhythm of his breathing, eyes scanning you and your surroundings. One wrong move and they’re done. 

You glance back at Joaquin and he nods before pushing the door open. 

Joaquin slips in first, hunched low as he surveys the environment. The smell of oil and dust fills the air, and he takes in the wooden crates that surround the place. He tiptoes behind one for cover. When you slip past the door to join him, Joaquin signals you to move further in. You’ve yet to be discovered by the two guards, and Joaquin waits until you’ve found a safe spot, too. Both of your eyes are on the men pacing near the open door. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

One of them turns in his direction. 

Joaquin shrinks down, hidden behind the wooden crate, just for a second. He presses himself to the side and turns to look at you. Joaquin holds up two fingers, waving them towards you then towards the guards. Take them down. 

You give a single nod in return, eyes sharp. 

Joaquin moves first, circling wide along the stacked boxes, steps-feather light. He keeps his ears trained on the sound of the guard's footsteps as Joaquin closes the distance between them. He times it. One heartbeat. Two. 

Then he springs. Arms locked around the guard’s neck, the other reaching to grab the man’s weapon as he brings him down in one smooth, silent motion. He tosses the gun away and it slides smoothly against the floors. Joaquin’s face scrunches, quiet grunts leaving him as he forces the pressure of his forearm into the criminal’s neck, straining to keep a grip on the resisting man. His biceps burn as he presses down as hard as he can, dragging the man backwards with him. 

Joaquin lets out a small breath of relief when the body slumps, unconscious, and he moves quickly to conceal the man’s body behind some crates. Then, Joaquin reaches down, stripping the man of his comms. 

He places the earpiece in his left ear before turning around to look for you. 

Across the room, you’re still in motion. A sharp crack as your elbow connects with the guard’s jaw before he can shout. The large man stumbles, and you’re quick to press him against the wall, arms braced across his throat until his body goes limp and slides to the ground. 

Joaquin’s own silhouette glides through the room, reaching your side as he breathes fast and quiet. “Clear,” he whispers to you. 

The two of you look ahead into the stretch of the warehouse—the endless grid of crates and towering shelves is casting fractured shadows across the concrete floor. You both knew that beyond them, tucked into the far back corner, are the offices. That’s where Iago is. That’s where Monica is. 

But between where the two of you stand and there is large open ground—space that requires you to directly pass the front lobby—where the rest of Monica’s minions stand guard. 

Joaquin hears a crackle of radio static in his stolen earpiece, and he reaches out to grasp your upper arm with a serious expression on his face. With a flat hand, he gestures across his neck. Don’t move. 

“Alpha post, status report.” 

A pause before another radio crack floods Joaquin’s ear. 

“Clear at the front. No sign of movement. ETA on exchange?” 

“Ten minutes. Boss says no one comes in or out. Keep your eyes on the doors.” 

In the distance, Joaquin can hear the echoing of multiple pairs of shoes shuffling against the floor and the movement of fabric—they’re pacing, getting impatient. 

“Bravo post, check in.” 

Shit. Joaquin’s pulse spikes. That was their post. The two of you meet eyes, and Joaquin knows that you easily detect the trouble in his. Silence won’t go unnoticed for long

“Bravo, do you copy?” 

Joaquin raises a finger, ready to press the comm, but your hand quickly clamps over his wrist. You shake your head fervently, and the scrunch in your brows reading the clear words, Too risky. 

“Sir, heading to West wing to check on team Bravo now.” 

His breath stutters in his chest, body going still, save for the twitch in his jaw as tension floods his limbs like ice water. Your warm fingers wrapped around his wrist serve as a reminder to wait, stay hidden. But they’re cutting it close, too close. Joaquin can hear them now, two pairs of footsteps marching in their direction. 

“Bravo post, all clear.” The delivery is low and clear, an octave lower than his own voice, in his best attempt to seem inconspicuous. He holds the button for a second longer than needed before a shaky finger lets go. 

The footsteps stop. 

Joaquin feels your hand squeeze his wrist, but he can’t focus on it, mind still racing. If they don’t respond…

His eyes flickering over to you before seizing into knots in his stomach. A sour taste of worry settles in his mouth as he takes in your slow blinks, watching him with intense focus. Despite his efforts to keep a sharp mind and despite all his trust in you, if anything happens—

“Copy that, Bravo.” 

Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, but the tension doesn’t leave him. He can’t take his eyes off of you, the close too close for his liking. At the realization that you’re waiting for an update, Joaquin mentally shakes his head of any previous fearful thoughts before giving you a singular nod. Then, one tap to your arm. With both hands, he holds all his fingers, relaying his intel. You nod back in understanding. 

You’re in a time crunch now. Ten minutes to get in and out with no casualties. 

But your problem still persists—open ground between where you stand and where you need to be. Wooden crates and shelves can only provide so much cover. But then Joaquin watches as you point upwards, head following your movements. 

Overhead. A narrow catwalk runs through the length of the warehouse. Even from below, he can see how old and rusted it is, hanging on with metal wires that look ready to snap. Joaquin frowns. But it’s intact. And it gets you directly to the back offices without crossing free space. 

His eyes flick to you. Smart. 

Together, you rush over to the shelves lining the warehouse wall, climbing in quick, practiced motions. 

Just a second after yours, Joaquin’s boots land on the metal in a quiet stomp as he pulls himself up. The steel groans under your shared weight, but Joaquin suspects that a gust of wind would have the old catwalk making the same noise. Straining his ears, Joaquin listens to the way the guards continue to pace, none the wiser. 

Looking ahead, Joaquin watches how fast you move, low and silent as you make your way down. He follows your lead. 

The whirling of vents overhead fill the air, and shadows from flickering lights cut across your forms as the two of you make your way towards the back offices. Focused and stealthy, being extra careful when you come into view of the lobby. 

Four gunned men. Just as you had figured when you did your recon. 

Soon, the back offices come into view and despite the multiple rooms in the row, you and Joaquin easily spot Monica and Iago’s location, for the small window on the door spilling yellow light into the hallway gave it away. 

The two of you crouch down, watching the space from directly above for a few seconds. Turning to each other, you hold up a four with your fingers. Four people. 

“How are you going to take them down? They’re all armed.” Joaquin’s voice is merely above a whisper, the hum of the vents blanketing his words. 

But you don’t answer with words. 

A mischievous gleam in your eyes makes Joaquin’s narrow in suspicion. When you pull a small metal bolt from your belt, some leftover scrap you picked up from the warehouse floor at some point, Joaquin shakes his head ‘no’. This time, it’s his hand clamping your wrist. “That’s a terrible plan!” he doesn’t hesitate to speak out this time, still whispering. 

He looks at you as you raise your brows innocently, accompanying it with a slight shrug. 

Joaquin’s gaze snaps back to the office door, and the counting he’s been keeping track of in his mind reminds him they only have so much time left. Shoulders tight, Joaquin’s teeth grit as he lets you go with a huff. The second he does, you toss the bolt over the catwalk, and the two of you watch as it clatters to the floor below, rolling. 

You both duck back into the shadows. 

Inside the office, one of the guards steps out with his gun in hand. He stands barricaded by the door, only peaking out to look back and forth down the hallway. Joaquin tenses, worrying that their plan backfired. Every line in his body is alert, gaze locked on the man’s movements. His mind is spinning as he calculates other options. 

But then you reach into your pocket again, this time pulling out another bolt. 

Joaquin’s hand shoots out, “Wait—” he hisses. 

Too late. 

The second small piece of metal sails down just as the guard begins to step back inside, landing directly at his feet. This time, the guard steps out, squinting upward in the direction the bolt came from.

You jump forward and drop.

Joaquin jerks with a sharp inhale, one hand gripping the edge of the catwalk as he watches you plummet downward. You land on top of the guard, hard, knees braced on his back as your arms snake around his neck before he can react. The two of you hit the ground with a loud thud. The man’s gun, strapped across his chest, slams into the concrete floor. 

His heart lurches into his throat, the sharp echoing crack of your bodies hitting the ground was loud and unmistakable. 

Shit.

He grips the catwalk’s edge tighter, knuckles going white as he grinds his teeth. Every instinct in his body was telling him that this is it—this is the moment where everything falls apart. Joaquin’s eyes snap to the left, panicking at the idea that the other four guards would head in their direction. They were running out of time. 

When his eyes rush back to the hallway, the second guard is bursting through the office door, gun already halfway raised. 

“Fucking dammit!” he curses. Joaquin doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe. 

Before his mind can catch up, Joaquin is already halfway over the railing. In one smooth, desperate motion, he launches himself off the catwalk. His body flies through the air, a blur of dark clothing and braced limbs. Joaquin feels the wind whip past his ear, pulse pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. His breathing is caught in his chest, and when the guard’s face tilts up and Joaquin’s boots crash into his shoulder. 

The two of them hit the ground hard, launching away from each other from the force and trajectory of Joaquin’s fall. Despite the wind knocked out of his lungs on impact, Joaquin wastes no time. Pure adrenaline rushes through his veins, and he jumps back up to his feet before he can even process it. 

Joaquin’s ears tune in to the way the guard groans, but before the man can reach for his weapon, Joaquin is already there, grabbing him by the collar and slamming his head into the floor. Releasing one hand, Joaquin swings his arm back before striking his fist into the side of the guard’s face. Once. Twice. Until the struggle stills. 

He sucks in a large breath, knowing silence was no longer a necessary cover, and Joaquin blinks to focus his blurry vision from the sudden drop and adrenaline. Sweat beads along his brow, and his hands are shaking. 

Whipping around, Joaquin searches for you. 

You’re still struggling, pinning your opponent down with your knees as he thrashes beneath you. Joaquin’s stomach twists when he sees a smear of red along your sleeve, but there’s no time to check. Rushing towards you, Joaquin’s leg is already cocked, and he slams his boot into the man’s shoulder, kicking him to weaken his struggles. The man howls in pain, and Joaquin watches as your grip tightens. With the full use of your body weight, you slam the man’s head hard enough to knock him out. 

Silence. 

It’s heavy and shallow. 

Joaquin's hands are shaking, and he kneels down to check on you. Hand brushing against your back, he asks if you’re alright. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, chest heaving. 

He doesn’t believe you, but there’s no time to argue. 

Both your heads snap up at the sound of screaming voices, coming from inside the office. Instantly, you’re both back up on your feet, and Joaquin reaches towards the door to swing it open. 

You both freeze. 

Monica is on the other side of the table, the furthest distance she can be from the door in the small room. Her arm is locked around Iago’s neck as she drags him backwards—a pistol is jammed into the underside of his jaw.

Joaquin takes the time to scan her and he feels his blood freeze in his veins. She’s steady with sharp eyes and face devoid of any sign of fear. His eyes flicker to the gun in her hand. Safety’s off. Finger on the trigger. Whatever she’s planning…Monica’s not bluffing. 

Iago is breathing hard, eyes flickering between the barrel and the two of you. His hands are raised in surrender, and Joaquin winces at his split lip, the blood dribbling down the collar of his shirt. 

“Nobody move.” Her voice is calm. 

Joaquin raises his hand in surrender and from the corner of his eyes, he sees that you do the same. “Easy, Monica.” 

The hardened villain doesn’t so much as flinch. Her grip in Iago stays tight, pistol unwavering. “The only way this ends is me walking out of this building unharmed.” 

Neither of you answer her. 

Taking the gun off of Iago, she waves it in the air to make her point, “I have men crawling all over this building. Even more outside. Snipers, runners, you name it.” 

The gun lands back against her captive, and Joaquin’s eyes train on him. He’s shaking like a leaf. “I walk out.” Monica proposes. “With him.” She flickers down to Iago, letting out a ‘tsk’ as she does, as though he was an afterthought. “And no one dies. Simple as that.” 

Joaquin takes a step forward, just enough to show her that he’s not scared. “I can’t let you do that.” 

From behind him, Joaquin hears you speak up, too. “Why do you want him?” 

Monica’s eyes flicker towards you, and heat burns at the pit of Joaquin’s stomach at the idea of her attention on you. 

“Want him?” She lets out a small laugh, though it sounds less than humorous. “Sweetie, I don’t want him. He just happens to be the unfortunate bastard who knows too much.” She slides the gun further down the column of Iago’s throat, and the man swallows harshly. 

“It’s a shame,” fake sympathy laces her voice. “We could’ve done so much together,” she sighs. “But I can’t work with cowards who reach out to people like you.” 

Iago parts his lips to protest, but before he can get a word past, Monica moves at lightning speed. She redirects the barrel of the gun in your direction with a whoosh, and a deafening, unmistakable crack of a shot flies through the air.

Before the echoing can finish ringing out, Joaquin’s body is in motion. “Get down!” he shouts, diving with all the strength he has towards you. His arm latches around your waist as he drives the two of you backwards, falling into the hallway behind you. 

You crash into the floor in a tangled heap. 

Joaquin tightens his grip on you when he hears you let out a strangled sound. A gasp or a cry, he can’t be sure, but then he feels it—warmth. He’s scrambling off of you in an instant, taking in your scrunched expression. 

Panic rockets through his chest, clenching around his heart. “No, no no,” he’s muttering over and over, both hands pressing against the bloom of red on your shoulder that’s starting to stain your clothes. “Shit,” he cries, hands starting to shake. Joaquin doesn’t know where to start, what to do. You’re groaning beneath him, face scrunched in pain with gritted teeth. 

His lungs start burning, and Joaquin realizes he’s been holding his breath. He lets out a stuttering exhale, fingers clenching against the wound. Whispering numerous desperate apologies, Joaquin continues to apply pressure despite your cries. 

“Joaquin,” you grit, “Joaquin, stop.” The hand from your non-injured side comes up to grasp at his forearm, nails digging into skin. He hears your ragged breathing, the struggle in your voice as you tell him, “Graze. Just a graze.” 

“Don’t move,” he shushes you. “Just…just wait, hold on—” He swallows hard, vision swimming for a second and Joaquin’s head starts to hurt, the way his brain is struggling to catch up. 

“Joaquin,” your nails dig further, but he can’t register the feeling. “I’m fine. Monica,” you gasp. “Go.” 

But it’s not fine. You’re not okay. You were nearly shot. 

“Joaquin, go!” you scream. 

He wants to argue, wants to scream at you for pushing him away because all he wants to do right now is keep you safe—the thing he should’ve done to begin with—and you’re not letting him. 

But then—

A clattering behind him. A muffled grunt. 

Joaquin’s head snaps around just in time to see it—Monica dragging Iago down the hallway. The man’s legs are failing and she’s got a grip on his collar, yanking him like dead weight, moving fast as her head occasionally snaps back to look at you and Joaquin. 

She’s getting away. 

He turns back to look at you. Beneath him, your face is twisted in pain, and the fabric around your shoulder only continues to darken with the passing time. His own hands are covered in your blood, fingers trembling. Your lips are parted, drawing in short, shallow breaths. 

But then he looks in your eyes, and all he sees is sheer determination. No panic or fear. 

Joaquin gets your message loud and clear: Trust me, you were saying. His heart constricts so sharply in chest, he aches and Joaquin blinks the tears in his eyes away. Slowly, he lifts his trembling fingers away from your shoulder. It’s the scariest thing he’s ever seen—the blood on your shoulders—but he wills his fingers to stop their shaking and clenches his jaw in resilience. “I’ll be back,” his voice is hoarse, and the words come out a bit choked up as they force their way past the lump in his throat. “You hear me? I’ll be back.” 

He drops lower, just long enough to reach you, and Joaquin cradles your face in his blood soaked hands. A brush of his thumb over your cheek is the only moment of solitude he can give you before Joaquin presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s rushed and apologetic. 

Then Joaquin’s gone. Running down the hallway, he doesn’t turn back once. He can’t. 

If he does, he won’t be able to leave.

-

The door creaks open on its old hinges, the sound echoing through the small townhouse. Joaquin steps in first, multiple bags slung over his shoulders as he holds the door open for you. The weight of them burns, and internally Joaquin wonders if you packed ten pounds of rocks for your mission, but the thought quickly evaporates when you step in and his eyes land on your bandaged shoulder. 

Joaquin watches as your eyes flicker to him on the way in. “I could’ve carried my own bag, you know.” He can hear the stubbornness in your voice, and all Joaquin can do is give you a sharp glare. 

After making sure he locked and deadbolted the door, Joaquin drops the duffles onto the couch with a dull thud. Huffing, he places his hands on his hips as he looks around. 

It’s nicer than the dump you’ve been holed up in the past week. Clean. Modern. A couch (his back is already thankful for it). Definitely a step up from the mildew and cigarette scented cardboard box you’ve been calling a room the past week. 

Although it’s only a place to rest for one night before you catch your flights back to Washington, Joaquin’s thankful for the rest stop nonetheless. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sam had someone stop by to clean up the place before the two of you stopped by. A smile graces his lips at the thought of his friend, looking forward to being back home already. He’s been on much longer missions, but God knows this one has taken the most out of him.

Joaquin’s eyebrow twitches in irritation, smile dropping the slightest bit. He can feel you looking at him again.

It’s been like this the entire ride over. 

He knows it’s wrong, knows that he should’ve been so much nicer to you considering the turn of events, but, simply, Joaquin is struggling. His usual optimism is locked in a chamber deep in his heart, unable to see the light of day, with the way his body is so busy aching over the reality that that mission could have gone a hell of a lot worse. 

He’s been counting your breaths in the long silence that stretches between you two as a way to remind himself that you’re there next to him, that you’re okay. But it’s little consolidation. It’s a sense of loyalty masked by the frustration of not being able to protect you, Sam had said, noting the way you lingered awkwardly in the background during Joaquin’s debrief with him. You make him not himself.

Joaquin thinks it’s bullshit. He’s mad himself, that much he can recognize on his own. But he’s also mad at you. 

You’re still looking at him, and it takes everything in him not to look back. Joaquin is sure that you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. Of course he does. All he does is notice you—how your hand kept ghosting over the center console towards him during the car ride, how you’ve been wincing and rotating your shoulder when you think no one’s looking, how you nervously picked at your fingers when the med tech cleared you hours ago despite wearing a stoic look on your face. 

The reminder makes his face tighten, resolve hardening as he recalls the words “it could’ve been worse.” Locke meant it reassuringly, but all it did was anger Joaquin. 

He’s being a dick. But he does it anyway, because what else is there for him to do? 

It’s safer, Joaquin reminds himself. Simpler, because if he keeps the space between the two of you wide, he won’t start unraveling everytime you so much as squirm in pain. It’s what he’s been working towards all this time. There’s so much space, truly, as you toe the line between coworkers and more. So much potential. But even with the distance and without ever crossing that thin thread, Joaquin is already so undone. 

He’s barely surviving you. 

And this accident—no matter how much everyone around him keeps saying that it was fine, nonfatal—has been stabbing at his already bleeding heart. Joaquin is shook in a way that he isn’t proud of, because he knows he should be stronger, but everytime he closes his eyes all he he’s is you on the ground, blood blooming dark through your gear, and everything inside him screams. 

He can’t be what you want, because caring about you like this? Risking feeling even more? It scares him in a way he can’t even begin to understand. If this is how hard he’s falling now, when nothing between you is even real…Joaquin doesn’t want to even imagine how much it might hurt one day if you might slip through his fingers. 

“I’m g’nna hit the showers,” he murmurs in your general direction, the heat of your stare burning at the side of his face. Joaquin manages to take only a few steps away when you call out after him. 

“What’s your problem?” Your voice is loud, echoing through the small living room. “Seriously, Joaquin, what is your issue?” 

“I don’t have a problem.” 

“Yes, you do!” you protest, voice getting louder. 

Joaquin clamps his mouth shut, confident that silence is the only solution here. But you come up behind him, taking him by surprise when you shove him in the back. It hardly does anything, Joaquin leaning forward in surprise more than anything, but it pisses him off nonetheless. Whipping around, he meets your furious eyes, but still, he’s silent, opting to simply glare. 

“Well?” you shout. “Joaquin, say something!” 

“You’re my problem!” The words burst out before he can stop them—sharp and heavy with everything he’s been holding back. As soon as the words come out, Joaquin regrets them. He recoils, shocked by the weight of his own anger and the volume of his voice. He’s never yelled at you, never so much as raised his voice, but he knows it’s too late to take it back now. 

“You don’t get it,” he shakes his head, hand running over his face. “You don’t—”

“Is this about Agent Locke?” your tone shrouded in disbelief. 

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Asshole!” Joaquin can’t help but shout, but he quickly turns around to take a deep breath. He’s never been this way with you before, but God does that name rub him in all the wrong places. 

Joaquin barrels forward, and though his voice grows quieter, it’s just as firm as he grits his teeth. He turns to you. “You getting hurt? That’s my problem. You bleeding out in some dark, crappy warehouse while I left, completely useless to you? That’s my fucking problem.” Heat crawls up Joaquin’s back, and his chest starts to rise and fall rapidly as he tries to rein his outrage back. Fists balled at his sides, his nails dig into his palm to remind himself to stay calm. “You were so reckless!” he accuses. 

“Hey! That was the only chance we had—” 

“I don’t care!” Joaquin cries, hands coming up to hold his head. He can’t believe the two of you are even having this conversation. Why don’t you understand? Why were you being so stubborn? His voice is cracking, exasperation seeping through every word. “The only thing that matters to me is that you got hurt.” He steps forward, forcing you closer to him as if somehow that would make you understand him better. His heart is pounding in his chest, louder than his thoughts. 

“Before we ran in there, we weren’t even—” Joaquin pauses, jaw clenching as he forces himself to look away from you. He sniffles, once, to compose himself. “You wouldn’t even look at me in the van.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Joaquin continues. “I was still mad. And then next thing I know, I’m holding you and you’re on the floor bleeding—” 

Before he can finish, your hand grabs the front of his t-shirt and yanks him forward. He barely has the time to register what’s happening before he feels your lips on his. It’s urgent and fierce, and instinctively, he kisses back. His hand finds your waist, gripping them tightly because it’s the first time he’s touched you in days. Starving for it, he pulls you flush against him. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck as he kisses you with everything he’s been holding in. 

Frustration, fear, guilt—it all drains into the kiss, making it messy and hot. 

You finally pull back, but Joaquin can’t just yet. He’s desperate, he needs more. So he trails his lips down the side of your throat, leaving sloppy kisses down the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your throat, and it’s less finesse than he usually has, but there’s not much he can do about that. Not when it’s driven from grief more than lust. 

Your moan makes his pants start to tighten, but hesitation starts to swirl in his mind. But then you throw your head further back, your hand coming up to grip the back of his head, pushing his head further downward. He takes the encouragement greedily, lips finding your clavicle as he bites down gently, licking the skin soothingly when you let out a small his. 

Joaquin’s hands don’t stop moving, brushing up and down your body and squeezing in various places. He needs to feel you, a physical reminder that you’re here and you’re okay. 

He’s busy pressing kisses against the column of your throat again when he hears you whisper. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” you say quietly, even though your fingers are scratching at the back of his head, twirling his curls. 

The words burn him, snapping him away from his hungry daze momentarily. Though your voice is low, the words are louder than everything around him—the sting of your nails, your ragged breaths. It echoes past everything. His lips still against your throat, and for a second Joaquin hates that you’ve said it out loud. Hates even more the fact that he knows he needs to hear it. 

This isn’t forgiveness or peace. 

The realization makes Joaquin’s hand grip your waist tighter, but his kiss against your neck is soft as he whispers back, “I know.” 

He ignores the way your hand soothes the back of his head, twisted in his curls in a shameful act of comfort. It makes his stomach sink in the worst of ways. 

So Joaquin does the only thing he knows how to do with you. 

His hands move quick, finding purchase at the junction between the bottom of your ass and the top of your thigh as he presses hurried, wet kisses to any surface his lips can reach. Joaquin squeezes the flesh there, letting out a satisfied groan before pulling you up. Ignoring your squeal of surprise, Joaquin forces your legs around his waist as he carries you through the townhouse. 

Blindly, he carries you around, occasionally peeking around you to watch his step but his focus rarely strays from you for more than a few seconds at a time. Your body is warm against his, and your legs around his waist has your core pressing against his hard cock in a way that is growing increasingly distracting by the second. 

Every part of him was trembling with urgency, and the way your breath is hot against his ear makes his knees buckle. Joaquin presses a kiss to your jaw, biting again, before finding the corner of your mouth in a feverish tenacity. 

“I need—” he groans, words getting tangled in his throat when you press yourself closer to him, grinding against him over the denim of his jeans. He doesn’t bother to finish his sentence, instead, he rushes you further down the hall until he reaches a random door. Everything in him prays that it’s the bedroom door as he fumbles with the knob, letting out a curse as you gently nip at the lobe of his ear. 

Joaquin pinches your ass in warning, and he marvels in the way you let out a surprised squeak. But his satisfaction is short lived, turning into annoyance as his shaky hands struggle to get the door open. 

The second it swings inward, Joaquin all but stumbles in. Though his instinct is to press you against the wall and strip you of your clothes with you dangling on him, he’s hyper aware of your shoulder and slows his movements. Instead, Joaquin walks the two of you further into the room, feet searching for the bed frame before laying you gently on the mattress. 

The movement makes your shirt ride up, and when you look up at him with plump, glossy lips, eyes hazy with lust, Joaquin feels his dick throb. He lets out a shaky exhale before climbing on top of you, palms reaching for your exposed skin like a man desperate for water. 

“Take it off,” you demand from him, tugging at his shirt. Joaquin obliges with no complaints, peeling off the tee that was growing increasingly unbearable with his rising temperature before undoing his pants as well. He reaches towards you, nimble fingers grasping the bottom of your shirt before his eyes flicker upwards with permission. 

You nod, and despite his previously ferocious movement, Joaquin works slowly, dragging the fabric upwards and pressing kisses along as he did. When he gets to your shoulder, Joaquin frowns at the white bandages. The sight punches the air out of his lungs. They’re so stark against your skin, so out of place beneath his hands. 

His breath hitches, lips hovering just above the wounded area but not close enough to touch. It’s too much. Another reason to not cross that line. 

So Joaquin swallows it. 

Ripping your shirt off, his mouth is on you again. Harder, deeper this time. His tongue parts your lips like he’s pushing away the foul memory on his tongue, and Joaquin’s hands start to palm at your breast. They slide away to reach down your thighs, peeling off your pants in one swift movement that only has Joaquin parting from you for a second before he’s back. 

This time, his lips trail down your chest. Undoing your bra with an expertise that typically would have him making an annoying comment, Joaquin throws it onto the floor into the pile with the rest of your clothes. 

This is familiar. This he can do. 

It’s not love, he denies to himself, just pure need. And right now, Joaquin needs you a lot more than he needs to feel okay. 

His mouth finds your erect nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a pleased groan. Joaquin’s tongue moves in precision, licking in smooth circular motions around the nub while you moan underneath him. His free hand comes up to grab your right tit, pinching the nipple while his mouth works on the left. 

Joaquin’s being greedy with the way he’s touching you; sucking on your tits brings him more pleasure than it does you, he believes, and he grinds his leaking cock against the sheets of the bed. But he knows that you feel good, wouldn’t do it if you didn’t, from the way you moan his name. It drives him insane. When he lets go, a thin strand of saliva connects his lips to your nipple, and it makes him lick his lips, effectively breaking it. 

Bites to your chest ensued until he was satisfied, the splotches of red blossoming on your chest the only red he’s comfortable with on your skin. For every nip his teeth imprint, several wet kisses follow. Then he’s dragging downward, following your smooth skin until he’s settled between your thighs. 

Any other time, he would have teased you, love feeling you squirm beneath him as breathy complaints fall past your lips. But this time, Joaquin wastes no time. In one flat, long motion Joaquin’s tongue licks you from your hole to your clit. The taste of you splashes against his taste buds in a way that has him groaning into you and the vibration has you mewling. 

Joaquin moves fast, heeded with motivation, but his movements are precise no less. Two fingers prod at your hole, working you open as his tongue sucks gently on your clit. You’re so wet, he preps you easily. It soaks his hand, your arousal pooling into his palm as he fingers you. 

Once Joaquin thinks you’re ready, he’s lifting himself up to line his aching cock against you. Licking your slick off the palm of his hand, he uses the moisture to stroke himself. The mixture of his spit and your wetness was more than enough to act as lube, but the precum dribbling from the head of his cock provided additional help as well. 

When he first breaches past your hole, Joaquin groans. The feeling never gets old, and the way you cling to him makes it all the better. The tension that’s been coiling in his chest for days finally snaps, unraveling in one sharp gasping exhale. You’re warm and tight, so impossibly wet around him, and it makes his eyes flutter shut. His forehead drops against yours, shaking as he struggles to keep himself up. It’s too much. 

But Joaquin knows it’s not just the feeling of you clenching around him as he pushes deeper and deeper into you, your body pulling him in. It’s the feeling of being able to hold you, feel that you’re there beneath him, because here, he can protect you. 

He tries to hold still and memorize the feeling of being inside you, the way your body curves around him. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” Joaquin whispers. It’s a reminder for himself, the words falling in a quiet cadence as his hips meet yours. He forces them out like acid burning his throat, heart clenched painfully in his chest.  

But you don’t know that, and you respond all the same, gasping out, “I know.” 

The admission makes him groan out your name, and he shakes his head in denial. Joaquin starts to move with urgency, not from lust, but from fear. He starts thrusting into you, gripping your thighs like they were the only thing anchoring him in the moment. Joaquin feels the sting of your nails in his back, the slick from both your bodies molding the two of you together. 

Joaquin’s hips stutter when you clench tightly around him, and he bends down to grasp one of your bouncing tits in his mouth again. His movements are fast-paced, and the way you’re a babbling mess beneath him only spurs Joaquin further. 

Broken groan falling past his lips, Joaquin’s teeth grazes over your nipple before pulling back just enough to look at you. You’re flushed—lips parted, eyes rolling back with his marks all over your skin. Fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts. 

He can feel you getting close, your moans turning breathy and uneven. Your thighs begin to tremble where they’re wrapped around his waist and Joaquin slips one hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles quickly, messily, focus divided on keeping his hips moving at the same pace while pressing the right amount of pressure against your sensitive bud. 

His free hand comes up to your throat, holding either side in a soft grip. Not a tight one. But equally possessive nonetheless. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he pants, eyes drinking you in without a blink as your moans grow higher in pitch. “Yeah? Just needed me to fuck you?” He’s being so mean, Joaquin realizes this, but the words are the only shield he has against you. Your moans in agreement have him concentrating harder on getting you to reach your orgasm. His teeth bite down on his lower lip, fighting to keep himself from cumming, but your wet grip was slowly dragging him under. 

“Come on, cum for me,” he urges you, before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. 

And you do. Your whole body aches into him as you let out a shattered cry against his lips, muscles clenching around him so hard that it knocks the air from his lungs. 

“Shit,” he curses, speeding up his pace. He’s working through your orgasm, but he can’t help the way he chokes out your name. Joaquin buries himself deep, hips shuttering as he spills inside of you in long, shuddering waves. His fingers tremble against your hip, his jaw going slack as his strokes turn into small, gentle ones. 

Waves of aftershock tremble throughout Joaquin’s body, and he feels you shake in a similar way. He’s heaving, trying to catch his breath with his forehead pressed against yours. Even when your spasms subside, Joaquin doesn’t move. Instead, he stays buried in you, chest pressed against yours. 

You make no move to push him off either. 

Not even when Joaquin shifts your position, hands bracing themselves against your back and your thigh to flip the two of you over so that you lay on his chest. Despite the readjustment, Joaquin keeps his cock inside of you. Silently, the two of you lay together, slicked with sweat as heavy breaths fill the air. 

You won’t talk. Not tonight. 

Afterall, you both promised each other: this changes nothing.

-

hellur this fic took me forever to finish </3 pls show some love and lmk what u think :) and don't worry, situationship!joaquin will be back..

[yourauthorjen]

crazyy i loved this

[yourauthorjen]

| THE AVENGERS | — my dream team for the avengers

|| led by sam wilson/captain america

with… - clint barton/hawkeye - shang chi - thor odinson - joaquin torres/the falcon - scott lang/ant man - kate bishop - shuri/black panther - peter parker/spiderman

a/n: this is just my personal opinion btw

[yourauthorjen]

| OCEAN EYES | — joaquin torres

(moodboard + drabble)

masterlist

the current was a magent. something that always managed to get you swept up in joaquin’s arms, hands gripped tightly on your waist.

whether it was your first date together, where you had clumsily tripped and collapsed into his arms, or it was just the two of you, watching the sun fade into the horizon, as his fingers caressed your skin softly, his arms always managing to find a way around your body, engulfing you with warmth.

today way no different as the waves lapped around your ankles, a grin plastered to your face as you watched joaquin now waist deep in water a few feet away from you. his chest was bare, the few beads of water on his body catching the rays of sunlight, making him look like some greek deity , carved from the sea itself.

you swore the ocean loved him almost as much as you did, with each wave curling higher, pulling him in, just to shimmer against his skin again. it was hypnotizing, watching his eyes sparkle from the soft glow of the sun, and it was even more beautiful when his lips tugged into an amused smile as he watched you stare.

you barely had time to step back before he was wading towards you, a sly smirk on his face, the one that always drove you insane.

“like what you’re seeing?” he murmured softly.

you shook your head, as you pointed a finger at him. “don’t even think about it, torres.”

he paused, his hands raised in surrender but his eyes glinted with mischief. “think about what?”

you laughed before leaning down and scooping a handful of water, then tossing it at him with terrible accuracy.

it hit him in the shoulder, as he let out a half sputter and half sound of surprise, his mouth dropping slightly. “oh, you’re asking for it now,” he warned as he stalked towards you, eyes narrowed.

you squealed, turning to run, but the waves slowed you down. his arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet with a laugh that echoed across the shore as he slung you over his shoulder. your stomach flipped—half from the sudden movement, half from the way his hand curled into your thigh, firm and possessive like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“joaquin!” you screeched, smacking at his back. “put me down you bastard!”

he laughed, the sound vibrating through his body, against your skin. “why? you not enjoying the view from down there?”

you reached out and pinched the thick muscle of his back in retaliation, earning yourself a hiss through his teeth.

“jesus—okay, okay,” he said, still holding you in place. “that was undeserved.”

“you kidnapped me,” you countered, but it was hard to sound convincing when your face was pressed against his bare skin the smell of sun and salt ticking your nose. “and this is a public beach, joaquin, put me down you goofball.”

“but there’s no one here,” he whined, finally setting you down to gesture at the small patch of sand the two of you had claimed. “it’s our little island.”

you giggled at his sad pout, before his hands strayed back to your body. you tried to protest but they stayed at your waist. one had found the small of your back, the other found your hip, pulling you close until your bodies brushed, skin to skin beneath the sun.

“my sadness isn’t something you should laugh about,” he complained tracing lazy patterns on your side with his thumb.

your breath hitched slightly as you tried to keep a straight face. “oh i’m sorry, should i comfort you?”

“you should,” he agreed, leaning in. “like you could let me kiss you here.” he brushed his nose along your jaw. “and here…” his lips skimmed your neck, just barely, but enough to make your knees weak with betrayal.

“god, joaquin” you huffed, as his lips hovered dangerously close to your collarbone. “there’s people here. you’re gonna traumatize some poor child.”

he groaned, unrepentantly, but his hand didn’t move. if anything, it slipped just a little higher beneath the thin fabric around your chest fingertips brushing your bare skin.

“i’m being so respectful right now,” he muttered against your neck, the heat of his breath doing absolutely nothing to help your resolve. “you have no idea the restraint I’m showing.”

“you’re not showing any restraint,” you whispered back, his hands tracing the curve of your spine now.

“well i could’ve had you flat on this sand five minutes ago,” he said, and the smugness in his voice made your skin flush. “but I didn’t, because i care about public decency, and small children, and sand in places where it shouldn’t be.”

you swatted at his arms, but they curled around his biceps instead. as much as you wanted to feel the sweet taste of his lips and the warmth of his finger tips on places other than your waist, you could see the glint in his eye, that teasing challenge that never ended well for your self-control.

“you smell so good,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, fingertips still tracing slow, torturous circles at the base of your spine. “do you know what that does to me?”

“apparently it also makes you forget how to behave in public,” you breathed, tipping your head back when he kissed the corner of your jaw again.

he chuckled, mouth curved against your skin. “say the word, and i’ll behave.”

“behave,” you managed to say, but it came out more like a plea than a command.

he rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to your forehead but still didn't pull away. “this is me behaving now.”

your lips tugged against your will, into the exasperated smile that always seemed to be reserved for him. one part fondness, two parts helpless surrender. you didn’t say anything, just watched him stand in the water, memorizing the way the sun shone on his broad figure and how his brown eyes crinkled under those dark lashes. his curls were still sopping wet at the ends, beads of saltwater clinging to him like the ocean couldn’t quite let the softness of him go, just like how you couldn't either.

[emeraldserenade]

Cupid's Chokehold ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Joaquín shows off your photo at any chance he can get.

tw: fem!reader, none? barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request (inspired by this post)

I'm moving the tag list to the replays for this post to see if it will show up on the tags I've added.

➽──────────────❥

It wasn't a surprise to anyone that Joaquín would be utterly devoted to his girlfriend once he got one. He was a lover boy at heart and everyone who crossed his path ended up learning your name.

You had the habit of taking pictures on your shitty digital camera for fun. You would print out your favorite and give them to people who were in them. It's how Joaquín ended up with a photo of you and him pressed into each other, your lips on his cheek and his smile wide. It was one of the two photos of you he kept in his wallet, the other was taken off the polaroid camera your friend got you for Christmas.

Joaquín had borrowed it and taken a photo of you, his favorite of all time. You were in a pretty sundress with the wind blowing your hair in the perfect way. You were giving the camera a smile and you held a flower in your hands.

Joaquín proudly showed it to anyone who would look, he would explain why he loved you and how he took extra care to get the perfect angle. He especially loved to show anyone who tried to flirt with him.

"What's a cute guy like you doing alone?" A girl approached Joaquín as you were in the bathroom.

"I'm not alone," he mumbled, trying to be polite but the idea of being with anyone that wasn't you was distressing.

"It looks like you are," she pressed closer and Joaquín reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet.

"Here, take a look at my girlfriend. She's the only one I got," he proudly pointed at both pictures. The girls eyes rolled before she left Joaquín alone, muttering under her breath.

"Hey," you greeted Joaquín as you got back, missing the whole interaction. "Anything interesting happen?"

"I showed a girl the photos I have of you after she hit on me," Joaquín proudly told you and you laughed.

"Awe, you poor baby," you joked, smiling as Joaquín gently shook his head in amusement.

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Masterlist | Requests

[yourauthorjen]

THANK YOU SO MUCHH FOR TAKING ME REQUEST OMLL ILYY