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importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 25 days ago

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Back When You Left Me

Jason Todd one-shot

Pairing: Jason x Reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW/

Tags: mutual pining, slowburn, childhood crush, age difference, mentions of abuse, class differences, glow ups, sexual tension, emotional smut, reunions, sex, thigh riding, first kisses, first time, virginity,

Episode 1 - Your Apartment

The malfunctioning fan at the corner of your living room rotated from side to side, occasionally providing a faint breeze in the heat.

Spring swept by in a blink, and June came in with full steam. Baby hairs that have fallen out of your braids were sticking to the sweat of your forhead. In your lap was your graduation gown, in your lips, a pair of pins. Needle held carefully in your fingers, you threaded the design of a flower onto the blue gown that once belonged to your older brother. There was no point in buying a new one. Almost everyone in your eighth grade class had an older sibling whose graduation gown was passed down to them. It was cheaper that way.

Every once in a while, you glanced at the tv screen, watching the pretty reporter sitting in an air-conditioned studio and announcing the latest updates.

Another building had been demolished. Third time this month. Purchased by a millionaire and destroyed to be rebuilt into his own luxurious complex. Its tenants displaced and sent to social services.

You recognized the building. One of your classmates, Rose, had lived there with her family. You wondered what was going to happen to her now. Would her parents find another place to stay? Should you offer yours? Doubtful. Rose had four siblings, and you barely had enough room with your mother and brother in the two-bed you shared.

Shawn dropped out of school to get a part-time job and help your mother with rent. When you offered to do the same, you were met with screams of "over my dead body" from both of them. So you did your best to keep your grades up. For their sacrifice.

A clutter came from the your ceiling, drawing your attention from the TV. There was screaming followed by a door slamming and footsteps heading down.

Your upstairs neighbour, Mrs. Todd must have been in another one of her moods. Either that or her boyfriend was on another drinking binge. Those two gems did all they could to rid the entire complex of any peace and quiet.

Sure enough, a moment later, your door opened and in walked mrs. Todd's son.

Tall, broad, and brooding as always, Jason gave you an acknowledging look as he headed straight for the fridge.

Your heart spiked the way it always did whenever he was around, but you schooled your features with a tight-lipped smile.

Jay was a junior like your brother. Short and messy black hair fell onto his forehead just so, above blue eyes you could see from across the room. His beautiful face was usually always cut or bruised, and he wore a piercing on his left ear.

Unlike Shawn, Jason didn't drop out. He had received a scholarship in his freshmen year and kept the grades to maintain it throughout. But that didn't mean he attended every day.

Like Shawn, Jason worked to help pay rent.

Standing by the fridge, he leaned down to inspect the contents.

"Ah," he said when he found what he was looking for, pulling out all bags of frozen chicken and plopping down at your kitchen table, holding it to his eye.

Grease stains clung to his rolled-up sleeves, the fabric stretched tight across arms you tried not to stare at. Tried and failed.

Your friends and classmates had already begun dating. And despite everyone at school knowing your brother's reputation and protectiveness, some had even asked you out. To no avail. You politely declined invites to dates, saying you weren't interested.

But really, they never stood a chance.

Since the first time you saw Jason stumbling into your apartment, all scraped up elbows and torn jeans, it was over for you. He got in a fight that Shawn pulled him out from and brought him to you to get stitched up so that he wouldn't have to go to the hospital.

Your hands had shaken too much. You were used to sewing clothing, not bleeding skin. Ironically, Jason was the one to calm you down.

There were two many people in the room, too much noise, he asked the to leave because they were distracting you. When it was just you two left, he spoke to you in a calm town, even though it must have been hard with his torn shoulder.

"You're okay, kiddo." He'd whispered to you, sitting up on the couch. "This is just like one of your designs. Same technique."

You'd sniffled. "I-i don't know, Jason. We should call the hospital. What if I mess up? You could get hurt–"

"You won't mess up. I've seen that bird you sowed onto that ugly French thing you like to pretend is a hat."

"The beret?" You blinked. "It is a hat."

"It can't be."

"Jason!" You giggled. "Don't make me laugh right now."

"You're right. You're right. Im sorry. Im nervous." He said, wincing as the wound on his shoulder pulsed with blood. "What I'm saying is I trust you. You can save me, darling, I know you can. Please try..."

You swallowed, staring at the wound. "Okay," you said, keeping his words in mind. "Okay,"

You did what you were used to, cleaning the wound and slowly, carefully stitched him up. By the time you were finished, Jay was pale, but his breathing had calmed. The bleeding stopped.

He took a painkiller as you wrapped gauze around his shoulder, and he eventually fell asleep from exhaustion.

Since that day, you developed a crush that held you in a vice like grip.

Jason played dumb, but it was a defense. You’d seen the glint behind his eyes when he solved problems. And he was kind. He tutored the neighbourhood kids and brought groceries to your elderly neighbours. He took care of his mom, even though she didn't deserve it. He worked hard. He cared about his friends. Enough to join a brawl for them, no questions asked.

Sure, he only saw you as his friend's little sister, and sure, each time he brought a girl home, it hurt like a punch in the chest, but some part of you hoped that one day...

"Ah!" He hissed, drawing you from your thoughts. You looked to where he'd placed the frozen chicken on the table, shaking his hand as if it he burnt it.

"Here," you stood up from the couch, setting your sewing kit on the coffee table and made your way to him, bare feet against the hardwood flood.

You wrapped the chicken in a paper towel and held it gently to his eye.

Even seated, Jason towered over you. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, leaning into your hand. This close, he smelled like a mixture of sweat and cheap cologne. He smelled like home.

You lifted the pack off his face and studied the damage. The skin around his eye was beginning to bruise. You pressed the cold towel softly to it.

"Jay," you spoke softly. "Did your mom–"

"Is Shawn around?" He cut you off. His voice raw, like he was holding back a growl. One look at his clenched hand confirmed he was trying to calm himself down. Before you could stop yourself, your other hand rose to brush his hair away from his eyes.

He stilled. But his hand unclenched, and he took a calm breath.

"He went out to the store earlier." You said. "He'll be back soon."

He hummed.

Your phone buzzed, the screen flashing with a message from your classmate.

Parlour tn?

You quickly grabbed your phone and shoved it in the pocket of your shorts. Maybe he didn't see it?

"So, you're going to the parlour." Jason asked.

"Yep." You muttered.

"You know people go there to drink and hook up."

You snorted. "Oh my god, what?" Then rolled your eyes. "Are you gonna tell my brother?"

"Of course I am."

You shook your head, grinning. "Whatever. You guys were my age when you started going there."

Jason was quiet. "Just be careful. All men are dogs."

"Not all," you grinned, your eyes catching a hole in his shirt. Right at the seam above his left shoulder. Was that new?

"Do you want me to fix this?" You asked, fingers brushing the ripped material.

"Nah, don't waste your threads." He gave you a smile, despite his voice sounding tired. He must have taken extra shifts at the shop. "I'll ruin it the next day anyway."

Your heart clenched from the exhaustion in his tone.

Of all the people who you knew at the slums, if anyone deserved out. It was Jay.

Episode 2 - The Parlour

The parlour was in full swing. The skate park was covered in neon graffiti. Discarded bottles and solo cups lay around as skatebords, bikes, and Rollerblades glided across concrete to rock music blasting from the speakers.

You sat on a ledge overlooking the river, enjoying the brush of summer wind against your skin.

Swinging your legs in the air beneath you, you hoped your jean skirt and t-shirt combo was enough to keep you warm.

You eyed the construction site a block away. A new condo was being developed. A month ago, it was another old apartment building.

"I wonder what the view would be from the top of that crane." You mumbled.

"Okay, that's enough of that." Your friend Emma giggled while taking away the bottle of... something wrapped in a paper bag you'd been holding. "I know you like climbing, but it's not exactly the tree in our school yard."

You chuckled.

As the night went on, you went from drink to drink, from person to person. You weren't sure how you ended up in the construction site, wandering your way to the crane.

You heard low voice behind you. "What the hell are you doing?"

You froze, turning around to see him. The bruise around his eye had lightened.

You closed your eyes, lifting your hand to your heart. "Jay, you scared me."

"You scared me." He folded his arms in front of his chest. "What are you doing at a construction site?"

"Don't know... ," Your gaze veered to your surroundings. "What do you think they're building here?"

He shrugged. "Who cares?"

You turned around. "I do."

He kicked a piece of debris, leaning against the side of the crane.

"And you do too." You informed.

His lip quirked up in amusement. "You know me that well, hmm?"

You took a step towards him. "I know you like to act like you don't give a shit."

His jaw ticked as you got closer.

When you reached him nervously and slowly, you lifted your gaze up at him.

Jason gazed down at you. His expression unreadable.

"I know you don't like the people that are kicking our friends out of their homes." You said. "I know you're a good guy. You punched Billy Vincent for saying his shoes cost more than our house."

He blinked. Blue eyes narrowing at you. "How do–"

"Shawn told me." You raised a brow, risking a step closer to him. Your hand lifted to his cheek–

He backed up. "Don't. Don't do this–"

"Why?" You asked. "Would it be so bad?"

"Yes!" He looked at you in disbelief. "You're your Shawn's little sister!"

"Who cares?" You argued. "I know what I want."

"You want me, then. Yeah?" Suddenly, he turned an interrogating gaze to you. "With all my baggage?"

"I do." You lifted your chin. You loved everything about him, why couldn't he see that?

Jason shook his head. "Trust me, you'd be better off with guys like Freddie Fletcher."

You were taken aback. What did this have to do with your classmate?

"Dont bother." Jason shook his head. "He told everyone the two of you slept together. Shawn almost killed him."

"He's lying!" Anger rose in your chest. "Nothing happened! I never even had my first kiss!"

"... you haven't?"

His smirk made your skin burn.

Folding your arms, you looked away from him and at a pebble on the ground.

"I mean, I could have." You kicked the rock. "Several guys at school have tried..."

You risked a glance at him, seeing the faint amusement on his smirking lips.

"But...?" he prompted.

"... But they weren't you." You admitted.

Ocean blue eyes wavered. Then he began walking towards you.

Your pulse spiked, breath catching as he got closer and closer.

For some reason, the silence felt suffocating, and before you could stop them, the words spilled out of your mouth. "I dont care what Shawn or anyone else thinks. I'd choose you over any of them–"

Then his mouth was on yours. Dry lips, soft breath, years of memories collapsing into a single exchange. You made a sound like a half gasp, half sigh — as your fingers threaded through his thick hair, tugging just slightly.

He tasted like cigarettes and gum.

When he pulled away, his breath hitched. Like he hadn’t meant to go that far.

His gaze was locked on yours, black pupils blown wide. You had to look away, afraid you’d say something too weird. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

"You are... not a good kisser." He chuckled behind you.

Seriously?

He was laughing at you?

After your first kiss...

You spun around, heat rising in your face.

"That's not what Freddie Fletcher said." You snapped.

His expression shifted. One brow lifted — not in surprise, but calculation. Like he didn’t like hearing that name in your mouth.

"You're right." He drawled, ocean blue eyes teasing. "Fletcher said you rocked his world. And now I know he lied."

Before you could tell him to go fuck himself, his lips covered yours again.

Episode 3 - The Batman

You were standing over the kitchen stove, stirring the contents of the chicken soup for your mother. She came home from work sick a few days ago, and since then, things haven't improved.

Your phone flashed with a text from Shawn.

Not gonna make it for dinner. Hitting up town with the boys.

You replied "Be safe."

While the food cooked, you cleaned up around the house, gave your mother medicine, watched some TV, and flipped the channels until you found a romcom to watch.

A few hours later, your front door opened, your brother and his friends stumbling in, sweaty, and breathless.

Jason wasn't with them, likely he went straight to his mom's.

You looked at them, confused by their disheveled states. "What the hell–"

Your brother turned to you, bewildered. "We saw him. The fuckin' Batman!"

Your mouth dropped.

You were little when rumors began. A masked vigilante man doing the work the police were too powerless to do. It made the people in your neighbourhood happy. Finally, someone was punishing Gothams criminals and gangsters. Maybe their children will have bright futures.

At the same time, though, you found him terrifying. You heard stories. Gang members beaten to a pulp and tied up for the police to find like presents, scarred and broken beyond repaid and too petrified to move.

"We were at the shop when we heard a crash. Went to see what happened, and it was him. Cape, bat ears, all that shit." He chuckled. "He made the whole gimick look badass. Oh! And he was in this huge, fucking tank of a car– holy shit you should have seen it!" Shawn shook his head.

"Anyway, he ran into Montana's convenience store– Apparently they're hiding guns for the Hell hounds–"

"What?!" You blinked. Aubrey Montana was one grade above you. Her dad always seemed so nice...

"Listen, listen!" Shawn urged. "The batman, he's busy fighting those guys, right? We all look at his car, then at each other. And we have the tools. So we get to work."

They what?!

Your hands shot to the top of your head. "Are you insane?"

"Okay, maybe we had a little too much beer." He laughed.

Not finding it funny, you urge him to tell you what happened.

"Jay figured out how the car worked — magnets or something. We tried to strip it, but Batman caught us mid-heist. He was pissed. I've never run so fast in my life."

"Oh god," your hands covered your mouth.

"But he shot us with some stun gun or something. Kept us there and interrogated us until someone confessed to figuring out the whole magnet thing in his car. We kept our mouths shut but then Connor, damned pussy, breaks out and cries that it was Jay."

You swallowed, listening with anxiety as he went on. You couldn't wait for this dumb story to end.

"Anyway, batman's threatening to keep us there til the cops show up and arrest us. But then Jay stands up and tells him he'll fix his car if he lets us go."

"... and?" You whispered, fearing the inevitable.

"He gave him this whole speech. ‘we’re not criminals, just poor’ blah blah. Batman looked like he might puke."

You don’t laugh. "So?"

"He let us go. Kept Jay."

That landed like a gunshot.

You urged. "Shawn. The atman kills people!"

"He does not."

"Okay, he doesn't. But he hurts them! Badly! We have to go after Jay!"

Something about Shawn's expression shifted.

"Relax," he sneered. "Your boyfriend's gonna be fine."

You stilled. "He's... not my‐"

"He told me you two kissed," Shawn muttered, bitter. "Guess I was wrong about you being smart."

You froze. "Excuse me?"

"Jay doesn’t stick around, you know. Not for anyone."

You considered his words, knowing they were cruel and that you shouldn't believe them. So wiping your nose, you ran into your room and closed the door behind you, not caring that you were acting like a child.

You weren't sure what kept you awake that night more. Your brother's words or your worry for Jason's safety.

Episode 4 - His Absence

Jason didn't come home that night. Or any night after. Everyone assumed the batman did arrest him. But no one actually knew what happened to him until months later, when he made his first appearance on TV as Bruce Wayne's new ward.

The rumor going around was that Jason went to Juvie and got out. Worked odd jobs until eventually scoring a gig at WayneTech.

It was really impressive, considering he only had a high school education.

You were partly relieved. When he didn't come back, you'd assumed the worst. So seeing him healthy and happy on TV, surrounded by heiresses and models, was... bittersweet.

You remained in the slums with your sickly mother and your brother, who was falling deeper into a life of crime.

It was clear Shawn resented Jason. Accused him of abandoning his best friend for the privileged life.

"You abandoned him first." You once reminded him, annoyed by his 40th rant of the week.

Shawn didn't like that.

"Or maybe he had nothing worth coming back to." He spat at you.

Your eyes swam with tears, and you stormed out of your apartment.

Years went by, and you got accepted into a good fashion program, worked to help provide for your family. But you soon realized that the pay wouldn't keep up with constantly rising rent.

Your friend helped you get a second job at a high-end bar uptown. The usual crowd were Wall Street types or rich college kids, so you earned more than your fashion internship from tips alone.

That's where you met Selina.

She was a beautiful woman, confident, elegant, and resourceful. She never paid for herself.

Grateful the bathroom walls muffled the deafening music, you washed your hands when silky voice spoke up behind you. "You should act more interested in what they have to say. It'll get you bigger tips."

You looked up at the mirror to see her standing next to you. Tall, athletic, and lithe, she filled out her dark blue dress perfectly. Instinctively, you straightened your back to tred to stand tall, but you were still quite scrawny next to her in your cheap black tank top and skirt.

"Is that what you do?" You asked.

Her lips widened into a grin, and slowly, she walked up to the mirror, reapplying her lipstick.

Your eyes were glued to her. Every movement was precise, almost artistic.

"The shade is called Royal Red. Dior." She said, puckering her lips. "And before you ask, no, I didn't pay for it."

You frowned at the comment.

The way it was phrased made you think she stole the product. But she most likely meant that it was a gift from one of her admirers.

Then she turned to you, raising the lipstick to your face. Caught off guard, you gasped, then stood still and let her brush the red across your lips.

When she was done, you turned to look in the mirror, your eyes widening. The deep crimson on your lips was enticing.

"Red looks good on you." She was smirking.

It did. You looked... kissable.

"It's about the fantasy," she was smiling behind you. "You dont have to do much. Just make them think you're interested. Attainable. And let them pay for the rest. Also, clothing goes a long way. The tighter, the better." She winked.

You nodded, marking her words.

The following day, you used your tip money on that months rent. And whatever was left you took to the fabric store.

If Shawn had a problem when the shopping bags you'd brought home, he didn't say anything about it. That evening, you pulled out your sewing kit and some old clothes and got to work.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror and experimented with different makeup and hairstyles.

The following night, you showed up to work in a tight leather skirt, knee-high boots with five inch heels, and a silk red top that clung to you like a second skin.

You felt ridiculous at first, but then the makeup and clothing almost acted like armor and a mask. The looks you got boosted your ego, and your movements and behavior came naturally with it.

You batted your eyelashes, bending over extra slowly when putting down drinks at a table with a bunch of businessmen.

Your tips tripled.

"Love the choker." Selina sat at the bar in front of you, sipping a martini.

Your hands rose to your neck, fingers brushing the velvety material of the collar-like necklace that had a single charm dangling in the front. It was shaped like a gun.

You smiled to yourself, and lowered to whisper to her. "I got it at hot topic."

She laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "As long as it's their money, you're spending."

You developed a new routine, working, spending time with friends, talking to Selina, taking care of your mother, avoiding your brother, and soon enough, Jason left your mind completely.

Episode 5 - Back When You Left

Strobe lights distorted your vision as speakers blasted techno from all sides. The effect was made to make everything seem like it was in slo-mo.

Used to it by now, you easily maneuvered your way through the crowd with your tray.

You suddenly clashed with a tall man in what looked like a brand new Armani suit. "Oh, im so sorry!" Your hands brushed his arms. "Are you okay?"

He blinks down at you, pupils dilated as they devour your dark red sleeveless top and matching colored skirt. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You made sure your voice was extra breathy. "I can be such a kluts when they turn on the strobes."

His eyes were soft when they landed on you. "Y-you're alright, sweetheart."

You offered him a smile before brushing past him, his expensive cufflinks safely hidden in your left palm. He was left none the wiser.

It was a game you and Selina invented when days were particularly uneventful. You competed to see who can get pickpocket the most expensive object. She usually won. But she was the master. It took you a few weeks to be able to tell high fashion from cheap knock-offs. And a few more weeks to learn slight-of-hand.

"You're not bad with your fingers," she once said. "It's good you know how to sow."

It took you some time to grow comfortable with the entire idea of stealing. But Selina said something that changed your mind.

"You think these guys care that their gold came with money they got from kicking people out on the treet?"

You thought of your friends back home. Your mother, brother. How they worked tirelessly to be abke to afford living in squalor. Suddenly, you lost all sympathy for Gotham's one percent.

The key was to move your fingers quickly while distracting them. Selina had taught you moves in her flat. Demonstrating on the clasp of a bracelet, she swiftly removed it from your wrist before placing it on her own for you to try. It took a lot of practice, but eventually, you got the hang of it.

You weren't sure what she liked about you, but you were happy she did. She was like the big sister you never had.

You quickly stashed away the cufflinks in a makeup bag of you keep behind the bar before you're called to table 5.

"It's a bunch of trust fund kids." The host, Felix, grinned at you before making a gesture with his hands like he was making it rain dollar bills.

You laughed and made your way over the booth, planting your hand on your hip. "Good evening, boys. What can I get you–"

You faltered when a pair of ocean blue eyes met you gaze.

The last time you saw those eyes was the night you got your first kiss.

He sat surrounded by friends, huddled over a game of cards.

He wore a white button-up with a gucci pattern. The top few buttons were undone, offering a view to the expensive silver chain hanging off his neck and down his pronounced collarbone. His breaches, Hugo Boss. Sleeves drawn up to his elbows, tanned skin contoured in muscle and scar tissue. The Rolex resting around his left wrist was the last accessory you registered before your eyes shot up to his face.

Sharper now. Angular. Almost aristocratic features. The black stud he used to wear in his ear was replaced with a small golden hoop.

He was bigger now. Not overly so, but definitely bulkier. Like he'd been regularly working out. Like he had a healthy diet.

You wanted to hate him. You should hate him. For stealing your first kiss, making you fall for him, and then abandoning you. No goodbyes, no explanations, nothing.

But you couldn't bring yourself to feel anything other than heartache.

He looked good. Happy and healthy. There were no bruises around his eyes or cuts on his lips.

Of all the people who you knew at the slums, if anyone deserved out. It was him.

Jason’s own gaze was wide with shock. Then, slowly, his eyes traveled from yours down your body.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks – hopeful it was hidden by your make-up.

It was ridiculous. You flirted with billionaires, playboys, and bachelors like it was a game. And yet, one look from him undid you completely.

Someone's hand was circling your waist drew your attention to your side. Jason followed the movement on your hip with a gaze that could burn his buddy's hand.

"Hey gorgeous," the trust fund brat holding you said. "I know my boy's quite the looker–" he tilted his head in Jason's direction, "–but I told you my order twice now."

You blinked. He did? When?

Trust-fund-brat put his free hand on his heart. "You're gonna break a poor man's heart like that, baby."

Oh, god.

You masked your grimace with a shy giggle.

Trust-fund-brat looked at your mouth.

"Sorry, I thought I recognized him from somewhere." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Glancing at Jason, you saw his dark brows drawn together in confusion. He was wondering why you had just lied.

"Please repeat that, handsome?" You asked the trust-fund-brat, and he repeated his order with a triumphant grin, then they all went one by one.

When it was Jason’s turn, he almost looked nervous. And he masked it by looking unhappy.

Hand rubbing the back of his neck, he cleared his throat. "Uh... Macallan 18."

Your heart ached once more a how he had changed. The Jason you once knew would beat up anyone with a pretencious drink order like that.

Nodding, you wrote down his order, meeting his eyes one last time before turning to the next guy.

He looked unhappy still.

Sweetly pulling out of the trust-fund-brat's hold, you promised you'll be back soon before heading to the bar.

"What the was that?" Selina asked, wide-eyed when you returned to mix drinks.

"What?" You mumbled.

"Don't play dumb. That boy with the Rolex had you practically drooling."

"It was a really nice Rolex." You lied.

Selina lifted her brow. "You know him, don't you?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't care if I went over there and introduced myself?" She raised a brow.

The thought of her going anywhere near Jason made your teeth vrind together.

You loved Selina like a sister, but Jason wasn't like one of those men she took advantage of.

Was he?

Something about your reaction made Selina laugh.

"Come on, who is he?" She asked, eager. "Your ex?"

"I have to work." You said, balancing the tray in your hands.

She popped a cherry in her mouth. "It's okay, I'll wait until your shift is over. I'm guessing he will, too."

Ignoring her, you headed to the booth and handed the drinks out without any more "drooling." It was quite easy, actually. All you had to do was avoid Jason.

The rest of the night, you were on high alert, feeling a weird vibration in your side, coming from that booth.

Eventually, your shift had ended, and you headed to the staff room to pack up. As you were getting your bag, you heard the door open and closed behind you.

Turning around, you froze in place. "What are you–"

"You," he rasped, voice gravel and heat, "What the hell are you wearing?"

You blinked, pulse thudding in your throat. "You’re one to talk." Your voice came out shakey. "I almost didn’t recognize you without the grease."

Jason’s gaze dropped, dragging along your body like it hurt him to look. "You’ve changed."

"So have you," you snapped, finding your confidence at last. And then, because you couldn't help yourself, you added. "I guess all those yacht parties with supermodels–"

He backed you toward the wall of lockers. Two fingers lifted your chin up before his lips claimed yours. You let them. You hated that you let him.

He pressed you back. His thigh slid between yours as he crowded into your space, making you forget the rest of your sentence.

Feeling an unbearable rush of need, you let your hands rise to his face, your fingers threading into his hair.

Jason let out a strangled breath, like he’d just been punched.

You understood the feeling.

His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the bench behind you. You parted your legs automatically to keep him close.

His thigh pressed up again, and you gasped. That felt good. You wanted to feel it again.

Pulling him back into a kiss, you leaned back on your hands, rocking your hips against him the way Selina once described.

But it wasn't perfect. It was clumsy. A little awkward.

Jason didn't tease you.

What he did surprised you even more. He cupped your face gently. "Slow down," his voice was quiet. "Let me show you."

Then he pulled you closer and guided your rhythm, hands firm on your waist, breath in your ear.

The friction was delicious. Maming your breathing uneven.

Is this how you take charge? You could almost hear Selina's voice chastising in your mind.

He was leading the whole thing.

And you liked it.

And that's when you understood. None of it mattered. All this time spent working, studying, enjoying life, and not thinking about him. It wasn't real. You had always missed him. He was entrenched in your skin.

The door pushing open had you two drawing apart.

With impressive speed, Jason maneuvered you to stand behind him, blocking you from the person who had entered the room.

"Oh! Sorry." You recognized the gasp of one of your coworkers, Stephanie.

"No, it's my bad," Jason let out a charming chuckle, hand coming to scratch his head in a shy gesture. "Thought my girl would find this type of thing romantic."

He tightened his hold on your wrist, leading you out the door behind him. You cast your gaze down, hiding behind the fallen locks of your hair until you two were in the safety of the dance floor.

Your heart beat louder in your ears than the beat of the music.

You tried to slide your hand out of his hold and escape but he wouldn't let you. Instead, he pulled you to his side, sliding his hand possessively around your waist, leading you around the room towards his booth.

Before you could ask what he was doing, Jason called out to his friend. "Montgomery, can you pass me my jacket?"

Your old friend, the trust-fund-brad, turned in Jason's direction, his mouth dropping oce he took in the view of you in Jason's arms.

You were in quite a shock yourself.

You risked scanning the room until a pair of Cheshire eyes locked with yours. Again, you attempted to twist out of Jason's hold, only to be pressed further against him.

Help-me you mouthed to Selina.

Dont-be-so-dramatic she mouthed back.

You turned back just as Jasons grabbed his jacket from a slack mouthed Montgomery, threw a bill on the table, and flashed his friends a wink. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

He didn't wait for their reactions, pulling you to the exit. But you didn't miss their laughter and cheer, and Montgomery's silence.

The next few minutes were a blur. You registered sitting in the passenger seat of a fancy red convertible. Jason drove. There was no conversation.

You remembered the entrance of a fancy high rise in a part of town you've only seen on pictures. Taking the elevator. Somewhere around this time, you seemed to regain some of your self-awareness.

This was Jason's fancy new apartment.

Smooth hardwood floors, leather furniture, floor to ceiling windows with a view of the harbourfront and walls with paint that didn't chip. Slack jawed, you stood at the entrance, taking it all in.

"Nice place," you finally found your voice.

His thumb brushed against your jaw like he was scared you’d disappear.

"I used to dream about you," he murmured, like it embarrassed him. "Every night. I’d see you in that pink dress. The one you made..."

"With the black stitching on the hem?" you asked, voice caught in your throat.

He gave a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That one. You’d wear it and… it was over for me."

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Even after everything, that tiny confession broke you in the best way.

"Jason what happened?" You asked him. "Did he arrest you? The batman?"

His gaze softened. "You could say that... but he also bailed me out."

"So then why didn't you come back?" Your voice broke.

"I couldn't, sweetheart." The admission looked like it hurt him to say, like he was reliving a bad memory. "She'd kick me out for getting in trouble... or hit me or I don't know. I couldn't go back ther–"

Unable to take the pain in his words, you rose up on your tip toes, claiming his lips.

It was slow. A little shaky.

Memories. Regrets. Longing. His hands were held your waist like it was a lifeline.

His lips were warm on your skin when he murmured. "You must hate me."

You shook your head. "I don’t. I can’t. I’ve tried."

Jason’s lips claimed yours again, lifting you in his arms like you weighed nothing. This kiss was more intense, deeper, with the intention to go further.

"God, I've missed you." He breathed. "You're the only thing that felt good back then. Still are"

You didn’t realize you were trembling until he pulled back and looked at you.

"Whats wrong?" he asked, brushing his nose against yours.

"Nothing."

A beat passed.

"Wait, Jason…" You felt your cheeks flush. "I’ve never…"

He froze. Just for a second. Then his brows softened. His voice went quiet.

"We don’t have to," he said.

"I want to," you whispered. "I just… thought you should know."

He smiled softly, looking at you like you were something precious. "I’ll go slow."

He kissed your forehead first, then your cheek, then the edge of your mouth. His hands moved to your back, warm and wide.

Clothes came off one by one. Not rushed. Slow. Just fingers finding zippers, mouths, and meeting skin. You were certain your heartbeat could be heard through your skin.

He pulled you onto his bed.

He looked like a boy sculpted into a man. Same messy blacm hair, same sharp jaw, same challenging gaze. But everything else is bigger. Broader. His chest was smooth planes and definition, trim waist, dark happy trail below the waistband of his jeans. You used to daydream about what was under his shirt. Now you were seeing it. And it was better than a dream.

When his mouth moved down your neck, your hands tangled in his hair.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," he whispered, lips against your collarbone.

You nodded, and he kissed your chest, wide shoulders flexing as he lowered to kiss your nipples, your stomach, your thighs. His actions were seductive but calming at the same time. Worshipful in a way. Like tasting your was a privilege.

Everything he did had your thighs rubbing together, moisture slowly building up in between.

He rose to hover over you, lining himself up, his eyes locked with yours.

"This okay?" he asked.

You nodded, heart in your throat.

But the moment he pushed in, your breath hitched. Your hands grasped at his sheets. The pain flared hot and bright.

You bit your lip from the pain. "Jason–"

"I know, I know," he whispered, kissing your temple. "I’m right here. Try to relax around me. Just breathe."

You whimpered, trying to follow his instructions.

His hand slipped down between you, moving in slow, practiced circles over your clit. You had become so sensitive, and the feeling his hands was... unbelievable! The distraction served you well. Slowly, your body adjusted to his size. Your hands came to clutch his biceps, grounding your in his warmth, his presence, his whispered reassurances in your ear.

"You’re doing so good, sweetheart," he murmured. "God, you feel so fucking good."

The ache gradually softened. Pleasure started to curl around your body like a rush.

You moved your hips experimentally, and Jason groaned low, his restraint weakening.

"Fuck," he rasped, "you sure you’ve never done this?"

"Actually," you said, breathless. "Now that I think about it, Freddie Fletcher–"

He laughed, forehead against yours, rolling his hips deeper.

You gasped. Not from pain this time.

That friction of his fingers on your clit. That stretch. That feeling of being filled and wanted and with him.

Your crimson painted nails clawed at his back, pulling him closer.

You just wanted him. Like you always did. Always would.

"Jason!" You cried as your body shook from your orgasm.

Jason’s fingers wrapped in your hair, tugged on it with a hint of desperation as his hips met yours, each movement had his hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars.

As exhaustion invaded your senses, you felt yourself held steady in his arms.

Episode 6 - Crimson

"So he disappeared just like that?" Selina interrupted you mid story. "No goodbyes, no nothing?"

You sighed, sipping your coffee. "Pretty much. He always wanted out of there. So when he saw his chance he took it."

"Leaving you behind."

"It's not that simple." Even now, the need to defend Jason was something like a second nature. "I was safe with a loving family."

"And Shawn." She added.

"Again, not comparable." Your head was shaking before she even finished speaking. "Shawn may be annoying and mean but never raised a finger against me."

Silena had a contemplative expression on her face. Studying you again.

"I'm extremely lucky." You added, feeling the need to fill the silence.

"Poverty can make people mature way before their time." She mused before raising her own coffee to her lips. "Anyway, I hope you gave him a tongue lashing back at his place..."

"Wel..." The back of your head felt suddenly itchy, the contents of your cup fascinating. Anything involved not meeting her gaze and admitting you let Jason take your virginity. And then make sure it was gone one more time that morning.

Selina was rolling her eyes when you risked a glance at her.

"Was it at least good?" She drawled, but there was a smirk.

You nodded eagerly, conjuring up images of last night. Grasping hands, sliding hips, lips on your skin, smoldering blue eyes.

"Oh my god, pull yourself together!" She threw a sugar cube at you, grinning.

"I can't!" You whined, your face dropping to the palm of your hand. "I've tried... it's him!"

Selina was quiet for a long moment. Peaking between your fingers revealed her looking out the window, reminiscing with a longing expression.

You cleared your throat. "You said you wanted me to repair something?"

That drew her out of her thoughts. "Correct." She pulled a black garment out of her bag and let it fall on your kitchen table. It looked like a bodysuit.

You inspected the material, taking in wear and tear. The material was strong... There were rips, dirt, ashes?

"What is this for?"

"Dont ask questions, darling." There was a glint in her eye. "Just name your price and do whatever you can to mend it."

That got a chuckle out of you. "Yes, boss."

As you got to work, Selina watched you carefully. The gears in her mind are already turning with ideas and plans.

One thing was for sure, if her color was black. Yours would be crimson.

#batman #batboys #smut #fluff #angst #nsft fic #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd fluff #protective jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #friends to lovers #age difference #emotional smut #batboys x reader #slow burn #mutual pining

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importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 2 months ago

Text

en español ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: after joaquín returns from a two-week-long mission things feel different, then he convinces you to go undercover with him where tensions rise—only for him to leaving you wanting more... until he stops by your office for a very intimate spanish lesson

notes: danny ramirez, the man that you are, holy fuck... like this dude has me in a chokehold??? what i wouldn't do for him (there's nothing, absolutely nothing)... i really hope y'all enjoy this! it was inspired by few different things and i had a blast writing it, so please let me know what you think! (p.s. i highly recommend watching the papasito music video and anthony vs. danny hot ones before reading)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, sexual tension, probably some very incorrect spanish (i'm apologising in advance), mention of guns / weapons, italics, lots of pet names / nicknames, SMUT (dirty talk, f oral receiving, unprotected p in v, semi-public-ish sex) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 19998

You fall into your desk chair, careful not to spill your fresh mug of coffee as you fumble for your headset. You’re late—just barely—but if you’re lucky, Sam won’t notice.

You slide the headset on and quickly sort through the programs running on your computer, eyes flicking across several screens. Then you take a deep breath, adjust your mic, and open the comms line.

“How’s my favourite flyboy today? Still got all your limbs attached and your pretty face unscathed?”

“Careful, hermosa,” Joaquín says, his voice smooth in your ear. “Sam’s on the channel. He might get jealous.”

You smile to yourself, tracking their positions on your middle monitor. “Please. Sam knows who my favourite is. He’s come to terms with it.”

Joaquín chuckles. “You trying to make me blush?”

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “If I wanted to make you blush, Torres, I’d be using more than just my voice.”

There’s a beat of silence, the soft crackle of the open frequency filling your ears.

Then Joaquín clears his throat, loudly. “Mission. Flying. No dying. Need to focus.”

You laugh quietly, watching his heartrate spike on a screen to the left. “You better be careful, pretty boy. Can’t show you how much I’ve missed you if you don’t make it home.”

“Show me?” Joaquín echoes, grin audible. “How?”

“Come home in one piece and you’ll find out,” you say, voice low, teasing.

His heartrate spikes even higher, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs. “Can you two at least try to be professional?”

There’s another beat of quiet—only brief—before, at the same time, both you and Joaquín say, “No.”

You can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. “Why the hell did I let him convince me to hire you?”

You grin to yourself, eyes still flickering across your screens. “Because unfortunately for you, Cap, you’ve never met a more skilled analyst who’d rather work seven days a week than have a social life.”

“Joaquín is your social life,” Sam mutters. “I unknowingly hired the two most annoying best friends in the world.”

“You forgot talented,” Joaquín pipes up. “Two of the most annoying and talented best friends in the world.”

Sam groans—loud, frustrated—but he doesn’t argue. Because unfortunately, you’re both right. You’re two of the best people he could’ve found for the job, and despite the never-ending banter and insufferable tension, he’d be lost without either of you.

You met Joaquín in the Air Force. You were first stationed together at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to get close. At the time, you were both lower rank, training in field surveillance, comms, and tactical ops before choosing your respective career paths. But even across continents and during off-grid missions, you stayed close.

Joaquín contacted you a little while after he first met Sam, asking for help tracking a super-soldier anti-nationalist group in Munich. You didn’t ask questions—you just helped—and after it all came to a head, Joaquín couldn’t wait to introduce you to Sam.

Long story short, you were quickly recruited, given an office and a ton of cool tech, and now you’re their guy in the chair. Sam probably only regrets it a little, considering you’re actually very good at being in the chair—which makes up for all the unprofessional banter between you and Joaquín.

“Eyes up, Torres,” you murmur, watching the live feed on your main monitor. “Two heat signatures ahead. Could be guards. Could be raccoons. Either way, I’d keep your pretty face out of sight.”

Joaquín exhales, amused. “You must really miss me, hermosa—the way you keep callin’ me pretty.”

Your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your spine, because yeah—you miss him. Like crazy. They’ve been halfway across the world for two weeks now, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working for Sam.

To say you miss him is a gross understatement. But he can’t know that—not really—because whatever this thing is between you two, it’s fun. Playful. It isn’t serious or deep. It’s not soul-crushing or gut-wrenching like the paralysing crush you’ve been nursing for years.

And there’s no way Joaquín needs to find out about that. It could ruin everything.

“Can you blame me?” you ask, keeping your voice light. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. What else is a girl supposed to do besides fantasise?”

You can almost hear his grin. “You fantasising about me now, baby? Damn. This suit just got a whole lot hotter.”

Then Sam’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Can we please focus? The place is crawling with armed hostiles and I’m not dying in a building that smells like asbestos and cat piss.”

“Noted, Cap,” you say, eyes flicking to his heat signature on your screen. “But for the record, Torres—you’re my favourite fantasy.”

It’s not a lie—and it makes his heartrate jump again.

“Oh my God,” Sam groans. “Why do I even talk?”

“You love us,” Joaquín says, voice low and breathless as he inches toward a door, slowly cracking it open.

“No, I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

You watch the hallway clear, two red dots vanishing from the drone feed. “All clear ahead. Turn left at the next hall. Intel says the artifact is in the records room—bottom floor, east wing.”

“Copy,” Joaquín says, his voice dropping as he reins in his focus.

You lock in too—eyes fixed on the screen, breath held, fingers hovering over your keyboard. As much as you love your job, it’s stressful. Especially when the people in the field are the ones you care about most. So you’ve made it your personal mission not to let anything go unseen.

You watch closely as Joaquín moves down the hall, turns left, and starts down the fire stairs. Sam is still working the perimeter, keeping out of sight and watching for any hostiles that might be closing in on Joaquín.

It’s taken them two full weeks to find this place—after a discouraging series of dud leads. The artefact isn’t even being hunted, just protected. And for what? None of you know. But from everything you’ve gathered, it’s intel that could open the door to disaster.

So Sam made the call to find it before it became a hot item—before someone could sell it on the dark web and hand a new villain the keys to world domination.

What he hadn’t expected was for the mission to take two whole weeks. Fortunately, things have been quiet enough lately that they could afford the time—but that doesn’t mean it’s been fun. You’re pretty sure Sam is one more questionable pizza topping away from leaving Joaquín in Jakarta.

A heat signature two floors above the records room catches your attention. Your eyes track it, nerves creeping up the back of your neck. You’re just about to say something when—

“Holy shit,” Joaquín says, voice low and a little breathless. “It’s actually here.”

You lean in, fingers poised over your keyboard. “Confirmed visual?”

“Uh… yeah. Package secure?”

Sam’s voice cuts in, flat. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious, man. It’s just… sitting here. It’s actually here.”

You let out a slow breath, tension easing from your shoulders as you watch the heat signature double back—moving away.

“No traps, no alarms…” you say, scanning the feeds. “Someone’s either cocky or stupid.”

“Or both,” Sam mutters. “Let’s wrap this up. I’m ready to never think about this city again.”

Joaquín chuckles softly, his smirk practically audible. “Bet you’re smiling right now, hermosa.”

“Maybe,” you reply, despite the very obvious grin on your face. “But you’re not out of the woods yet, pretty boy. Stay focused.”

Joaquín laughs again under his breath. “Focused. Right. That’s what I am.”

Your eyes flick to his vitals. “I can tell. Your heartrate’s through the roof again.”

“Can you blame me?” he says. “Your voice in my ear, calling me pretty and saying all this smart stuff… this whole situation’s a little distracting.”

You roll your eyes. “You forgetting the part where Sam’s one bad mood away from killing you?”

“No. Just ignoring it.” He pauses at a corner, scans, then moves. “How mad do you think he’d be if I said I’m only doing this to impress you?”

You lean back slightly, grinning to yourself. “He’d pretend to be annoyed. But secretly? I think he’s just relieved you deal with me so he doesn’t have to.”

“Deal with you?” Joaquín echoes, voice soft and teasing. “Baby, you’re the reason I get out of bed every day.”

Your heart lurches, but you keep your voice steady. “Keep talking like that and I might start hacking into your home security system.”

“Do it,” he says. “I’d sleep better with your voice in my ear.”

Your cheeks flush, breath catching.

“Still here,” Sam cuts in. “Still sweating. Still regretting every life choice that led me to this team.”

You glance at his vitals and smirk. “Vitals are solid, Cap. No cardiac distress.”

“Yeah, well, if Torres drops anything on the way out, I’m blaming both of you.”

Joaquín chuckles as he heads toward the extraction point. “Relax. We’re good. We’re almost out.”

“God,” Sam sighs. “I cannot wait to get home.”

“Hope you’ve got a hero’s welcome planned, cariño,” Joaquín says.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You want a medal or a kiss?”

“Definitely the kiss,” he replies. “Medals are nice, but they wouldn’t taste as good as you.”

You choke on nothing, face burning, pulse thrumming as you watch him move through the building toward where Sam is waiting.

There’s a beat of silence—a loud, charged pause as you scramble for a comeback.

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “Think you broke her, Torres.”

“Nah,” Joaquín says, smug as ever. “She’s just thinking about all the ways she’s gonna show me she missed me.”

You draw a sharp breath, one hand gripping the edge of your desk, the other white-knuckling your coffee mug.

“Alright, flyboy,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “That’s enough. Just get home safe.”

“See you soon, princesa,” he says, voice low and warm in your ear.

The next twenty-four hours are the longest of your life—you’re sure of it.

You try to distract yourself with work while Joaquín sends updates on their journey home, but you just can’t sit still. You’re too excited. You feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, except the presents aren’t going to be there when you wake up. No—you have to wait until six p.m. for Joaquín to be back.

Once you finish work, you head home to your studio apartment—the one you spend less time in than your office—and put on a movie. Then another. And another. Because you’re too anxious to feel tired. Eventually, you drag yourself to bed and lie awake for a few hours before giving up at four a.m. and jumping in the shower.

You take your time getting ready for work—doing your hair, a little makeup, picking your clothes, having a long breakfast. Then at six a.m., you’re out the door and on your way back to the office.

Only twelve more hours to go.

You settle in at your desk and try to review data from Sam and Joaquín’s mission, double-checking every log, every report—anything to keep your mind occupied. It feels like hours pass, but when you glance at the clock, it’s barely been one.

So at seven a.m., you get up for a coffee, moving through the motions slowly and deliberately.

By now, the office is starting to fill up. It’s never packed—Sam keeps the staff lean—but a few government liaisons, data crunchers, IT specialists, and engineers have started drifting in for the day. You know them all, and usually you’d be happy to have a little chat in the kitchenette while your coffee brews. But not today.

Today, you’re stuck in your head—counting down the minutes until Joaquín walks through the door with that stupidly handsome grin on his face.

God. You feel ridiculous. Missing him this much when he’s just a friend.

Except, he’s not. Not to you—hasn’t been since the day you thought you lost him on a mission in Seoul. That was the moment it hit you. The moment you realised how much he meant to you—how in love with him you really were.

He turned up hours later, a little battered and bruised but very much alive. And you wanted to tell him how you felt. Wanted to just blurt it out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because it wasn’t worth risking what you already had. So you kept quiet, buried the feelings, and went on being his best friend.

That was years ago. And now you’re so deep in the friendzone—so used to the playful flirting and easy banter—you couldn’t climb out if you tried. You’ve come to terms with it, of course. Accepted it. And decided that having even a small piece of him is better than not having him at all.

You spend the next few hours sorting through analytics and going over maintenance logs from the mission—nothing major. Just a few software bugs and one broken ‘feather’ because Joaquín clipped a wing trying some fancy manoeuvre Sam explicitly refuses to teach him.

By lunchtime, you’ve fielded a few queries from the engineers and booked in a meeting with one of the legal advisors about Sam’s passport renewal. It never fails to amuse you how superheroes still have to deal with the same boring admin as everyone else.

The afternoon slips by faster than the morning, hours ticking past as you lose track of time in a haze of meetings and emails. You’re finally heading back to your office when your stomach grumbles—loudly—reminding you that it’s probably well past your five p.m. snack break.

You swing the door open, mentally halfway to your snack drawer, when—

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Joaquín says, sitting in your desk chair with that stupidly handsome grin. “And here I thought you actually missed me. Was it all a lie?”

Your heart lurches. Your lungs seize. And instead of flashing him a smile or a snappy comeback, you just freeze. Everything in your arms hits the floor—your tablet, your phone, a folder you don’t even remember picking up—all crashing down with a clatter that makes you flinch.

Because it’s not just that he’s handsome. No—he’s unfairly handsome. Criminal, even. Dangerous to your health, your peace of mind, and your goddamn ovaries. Joaquín Torres, sitting in your desk chair like he owns the place—with a freshly grown moustache and goatee—is nothing short of lethal.

“You okay, hermosa?” he asks, grin fading as he leans forward a little.

“I told him to shave it off,” Sam says dryly, stepping in behind you. “He looks like an Antonio Banderas knockoff.”

Joaquín scoffs. “Please. I’ve got way more charm than that guy.”

“Than Antonio Banderas?” Sam says, incredulous. “You’re delusional, you know that?”

“I prefer endearing,” Joaquín grins.

You still haven’t stopped staring at him—at the facial hair that’s apparently capable of triggering a full-blown hormonal crisis.

“Delusional and endearing are not synonyms,” Sam adds, seemingly oblivious to said crisis.

Joaquín’s eyes flick back to you, brows drawing slightly together. “You breathing, baby?”

Your heart kicks again at the nickname you should be used to by now—and somehow, that’s what snaps you out of it.

“Yeah—uh,” you clear your throat, “I’m breathing. I’m good. I—welcome back! But isn’t it early?” You glance at your wrist, searching for a watch that isn’t there. “Shit. Where’s my phone? Oh.” You crouch down and grab it from the floor. “Oh. It’s past six. Huh. That meeting must’ve run long. I didn’t even realise. I—”

“Breathe,” Sam says, laughing softly as he drops a hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.”

You inhale deeply, cheeks burning, and glance back at Joaquín’s stupidly gorgeous face again.

“So,” he says, mouth curling into a smirk that should be illegal, “you like it?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s… okay. Looks good, I guess.”

Sam snorts. “Oh, she likes it, alright.”

You turn around and smack him in the chest, shooting him a look that could kill—but he doesn’t flinch.

“Alright, then,” he chuckles, stepping back. “I’ll let you two get caught up.”

You roll your eyes and duck your head as you start gathering everything you dropped. You keep your gaze down, even when you hear footsteps and see Joaquín’s hands join yours, collecting papers that spilled from the folder.

When you’ve finally got it all, you stand and hug the pile to your chest, letting your eyes meet his again.

“So,” he says, still grinning as he holds out what he gathered, “about that kiss.”

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Forget it. You’re dreaming.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. But hey, I’m coming over tonight anyway.”

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

He leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Because my place has no food… and yours has food. And you.”

Your cheeks heat, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Maybe,” he says again, that grin going a little soft. “But you love it.”

You struggle to focus on wrapping up your work with Joaquín hovering around your office—ranting about the mission, touching your stuff, looking at you with that goddamn moustache on his face. What would normally take five minutes takes almost twenty, but by seven o’clock, you’re both in a cab on the way back to your apartment.

When you open the door and step inside, Joaquín walks in like he lives there too. He drops his duffel by the lounge and heads straight for the fridge, pulling it open to inspect the contents. You know him well enough by now to know exactly what’s coming next—he’s going to complain about your lack of ingredients, then insist on cooking anyway. And somehow, it’ll still be delicious.

“You know, cariño,” he calls, leaning deeper into the fridge, “most people throw milk out when it starts to smell bad. Let alone when it’s chunky.”

“I haven’t been home much lately,” you say, a little defensive. “My best friend was on a mission and I was busy making sure he didn’t die.”

“So you could kill me yourself with expired dairy products?” he asks, still wearing that ridiculous grin.

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile, choosing to ignore him while you kick off your boots. He keeps rummaging through the fridge while you make your way through the small apartment, closing blinds, turning on lamps, and queuing up the show you haven’t touched in the two weeks he’s been away.

“I’m going to shower,” you say, pausing at the edge of the kitchen.

He glances over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, brows raised. “That an offer?”

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “God. What was in the water over there? You’ve come back even worse than when you left.”

“Maybe I just missed you,” he says, stepping toward you.

The kitchen isn’t big—much like the rest of the apartment—but with Joaquín standing barely a foot away, it feels downright claustrophobic in a very specific, very dangerous way.

“You still haven’t given me my hero’s welcome,” he adds, eyes sparkling.

You tip your head, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Didn’t have time to get the medal minted.”

His grin turns wicked. “Guess you owe me a kiss, then.”

You don’t answer. You just step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it doesn’t matter at all—even though your pulse is in your throat. His brows twitch, surprise flickering across his face, but he doesn’t move. He holds his ground.

You tilt your chin up, rising onto your toes until your lips are just a breath from his.

His breath stutters, and you catch the sharp rise of his chest—like he forgot how to breathe. That cocky smirk slips away as your eyes linger on his mouth, then drop to that stupid goatee. Because of course he found a way to be even more ridiculously attractive.

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close that tiny gap and change everything.

But instead, your voice drops low—steady despite the way your nerves are buzzing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Torres?”

His pupils blow wide, cheeks flushing. You see it. You feel it—the flicker of nerves under all that swagger.

You drag your fingers lightly down the front of his shirt, watching him go still, revelling in the thrill that rattles up your spine.

His throat bobs with a swallow, and you know you’ve got him. For once, he has no comeback.

You smirk, dropping back onto your heels. “Didn’t think so.”

Then you turn and walk into your room, heart pounding, head spinning, but your steps still steady. You shut the door and fall back against it, covering your face with your hands to keep from screaming out loud because God, that was hot. And holy shit did it take every ounce of self-control not to just kiss him.

Eventually, you push off the door, strip out of your clothes, and step into the ensuite bathroom. You turn the shower on hot and wait while the water heats, wondering if Joaquín would notice if you took a little longer than usual.

Which... you do. Because that ache behind your hipbones is insistent, and if Joaquín is going to be here all night, you can’t just be sitting beside him horny as hell or you might end up doing something stupid.

So after a long, hot shower—and some quality time with the detachable head—you change into your pyjamas and emerge from your bedroom. The rest of the apartment smells like butter and garlic, and Joaquín is standing in front of the stove with a little crease between his brows as he flips what you assume is a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Grilled cheese?” you ask, leaning a hip against the counter.

He shoots you a sideways glare. “It’s the only thing I could think of with your serious lack of food. But it’s not just grilled cheese—it’s gourmet. With mozzarella—that I’m pretty sure isn’t off—garlic, caramelised onion, and basil.”

You lift a brow, nodding slowly. “I’m impressed. And hungry.”

He smirks. “And the tomatoes you had were too soft to put in the sandwiches, so I made a sauce.”

“Wow,” you say, turning toward the cupboard. “Sounds like I had plenty of ingredients for you.”

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as you get out a couple of plates and wine glasses, knowing full well that you might not have much food in the house, but you definitely have wine.

He finishes grilling the sandwiches and flips them onto the plates, garnishing them with something green that you hope is a herb and not something wildly out of date he found in the fridge. Then you pour each of you a glass of wine before taking your plate into the lounge room.

“Hopefully you won’t be able to tell how stale the bread is,” Joaquín says as he sits beside you, his knee knocking yours as he shoots you another pointed look.

You roll your eyes. “Please, sourdough doesn’t go off. Just gets chewier.”

He frowns at you, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s literally the definition of stale bread.”

You just shrug, taking a generous sip of wine before biting into your sandwich. And God, it’s almost inhuman how this man can make some of the best food out of the crappy ingredients you have.

“That good?” he asks, watching you with a smirk.

“It’s alright,” you mutter, mouth still full.

He chuckles. “That moan you just made says otherwise.”

Your eyes widen. “I moaned?”

He laughs a little harder, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches your cheeks turn pink. “Don’t be embarrassed, hermosa. I love the little noises you make.”

Your heart lurches and your eyes snap down to your plate.

“Wonder what other noises I could get out of you,” he mutters, low but just loud enough to catch your attention.

You swallow hard on the half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches on the way down your throat. You cough and reach for your wine, taking a long, burning gulp that only fans the heat spreading through your chest.

You cough again into your hand, struggling to catch your breath.

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín asks, light laughter in his voice.

“Fine,” you choke out. “I’m good.”

He laughs softly, clearly amused but too hungry to press you any further. You watch his profile as he takes a bite of grilled cheese, chews, and swallows—and damn if that doesn’t just deepen the wildfire of nerves and heat roiling through you.

Two weeks away from Joaquín, and every ounce of resistance you’ve spent years building up is gone. Shattered. Nowhere to be found. You feel like some virginal schoolgirl, wide-eyed and helpless, just watching his throat move as he swallows another bite.

His eyes flick toward you, brows drawn, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. You stuff the sandwich into your mouth and take a big bite to stop yourself from blurting out something dumb—like how insanely hot he looks when he eats, or how badly you want to know what that facial hair would feel like between your legs.

“Hear anything from the lab?” he asks, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods slowly. “Sam’s probably bugging.”

“Why?”

“Reckons it’s something big,” he says. “Something dangerous.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe something alien.”

“Nah.” You take another sip of wine. “It’s probably old data from some collapsed organisation. Looked more like a hard drive than an explosive.”

As if on cue, your phone lights up, buzzing on the coffee table beside your wine glass. You drop your sandwich and reach for it, tapping the answer button and pressing it to your ear.

“Doctor Chen,” you greet. “How’s it going?”

“The captain was right,” Maya—one of Sam’s lab techs—says. “This is dangerous.”

Your brows pull together as you lift the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker so Joaquín can hear too.

“What is it?”

“Old Stark tech. Data, to be precise,” Maya replies.

“Have you told Sam yet?”

“Not yet. You were my first call. I figured Joaquín was with you.”

Your cheeks flush. “Oh. Uh, yeah. He’s here.”

Joaquín meets your eyes and gives you a cheeky little wink, lips curving into a smirk.

“I’ll see you both first thing in the morning,” Maya says. “I’ll call Sam now.”

“Okay,” you reply, shoving Joaquín’s thigh with your knee. “Thanks, Doctor Chen.”

The line goes dead, the soft disconnect tone buzzing through the quiet room—Joaquín having paused the TV without you noticing.

“What kind of data do you think it is?” he asks, brow furrowed.

You shrug. “Who knows. Maybe something that’ll finally tell us how to shut you up.”

He scoffs, leaning in just a little. “Or maybe something that tells me exactly how to get you to kiss me.”

Your heart stutters, breath catching just loud enough for him to hear.

“Or,” he adds, eyes dancing, “I just keep saying shit like that until your brain short-circuits and you snap.”

You suck in a slow breath, trying not to smile. Trying not to give him the satisfaction.

“God,” you mutter, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re so fucking annoying tonight.”

He just grins wider and takes another bite of grilled cheese—completely unbothered, maddeningly smug. And of course, your traitorous eyes fall to the line of his jaw as he chews, which does nothing to help your situation.

“It’s not just old Stark data,” Sam says, standing at the head of the small conference table. “This hard drive contains preliminary code for the foundational architecture of Stark’s first AI.”

“As in J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Joaquín asks. “The computer that ran his house?”

“J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t just run his house,” you cut in. “He was integrated into the Iron Man suits, and he was part of Ultron and Vision. In the wrong hands, this data could be... catastrophic.”

“Right,” Joaquín nods. “So... we destroy it?”

“We can’t destroy it,” Milton—one of Sam’s more insufferable government liaisons—says. “Per federal protocol, all recovered Stark-origin assets are to be logged, quarantined, and transferred to a Level Four secure facility for presidential review and Congressional oversight.”

Sam sighs, visibly holding back an eye-roll.

“Quarantined for review?” you echo, incredulous. “Graves, this kind of data in the wrong hands could—”

“And what authority do you have to decide that?” Milton cuts in with his usual sneer. “Who’s to say you won’t use it to recreate this... jervis?”

Milton is easily your least favourite person in the office. He’s a stickler for rules, an arrogant idiot, and completely insufferable—but he does make a good target for your and Joaquín’s boredom-induced pranks. Like the time you rearranged his keyboard to spell something wildly inappropriate and watched him struggle to fix it for thirty minutes. Or when you convinced him that ‘Camo Friday’ was an official dress code.

Needless to say, he’s not your biggest fan. Or Joaquín’s. But unfortunately for him, you’re both basically Sam’s second-in-command.

“It’s Jarvis,” Joaquín says flatly. “J-A-R-V-I-S. Want help with the alphabet, or are you still stuck on the letter J?”

Milton’s lips curl, eyes narrowing—ready to fire back—when Sam steps in.

“We haven’t made a final decision about the drive,” he says firmly, glancing between Joaquín and Milton. “I’ll speak with the Department of Damage Control myself. Until then, it stays here, under full-time protection.”

Joaquín sighs. “Don’t tell me—”

“You’re not on protection,” Sam cuts him off. “I’ve got others for that. I need you somewhere else.”

Joaquín sits up straighter, head tilted. “Where?”

Sam glances at you and nods. You quickly plug your tablet into the display, and a second later, the intel you and the logistics team pulled together flickers up on the screen.

“Matías Navarro,” you say, zooming in on the mugshot of a stern-faced, middle-aged man. “Clean on paper, but deeply embedded in tech smuggling rings. Works through proxies, keeps his hands clean. No one knows where he gets the tech, and none of his buyers care. He’s been arrested a dozen times, but he always walks.”

You switch to a series of ledgers. “His name is tied to the building we found the hard drive in—not currently, but previously. He either sold it or abandoned it. Either way, he’s the last known owner.”

“So,” Joaquín says, “we find Navarro and… question him?”

You nod. “Exactly. He’s mostly dealt in weapons and arms. He might not have known what was on the drive—but if he did, or if he made a copy, we could be in serious shit.”

“Right.” Joaquín nods. “Where do we find him?”

“Club Calavera,” you reply, tapping your tablet until a picture of a dark brick building fills the screen. “It used to be a Latin dance club. Now it’s more like a networking spot for arms dealers and petty crime lords who like to salsa.”

“Navarro’s a regular,” Sam adds. “Every Saturday. Like clockwork.”

“Club Skull,” Joaquín snorts. “Subtle.”

“You should fit right in, then,” you say with a smirk. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a brick through a window.”

His eyes go wide. “Fit in? I’m going in? Like… undercover?”

You nod. “That’s right, pretty boy. You’re our distraction.”

“Distraction?” he echoes, brows shooting up.

“I need to talk to Navarro,” Sam says, “but I can’t just walk in—not with all the high-profile thugs that frequent the place. I’d be too easily noticed.”

“Hence,” you say, grinning at Joaquín, “our distraction.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between you and Sam. “Alright. What kind of distraction?”

Sam folds his arms, smirking. “It’s a Latin dance club, Torres. What do you think?”

“You want me to dance?” Joaquín asks, voice cracking.

“Oh, no, flyboy.” You lean forward, grin turning wicked. “We don’t just want you to dance, we need you to cause a whole damn scene.”

He swallows hard. “How?”

Sam chuckles. “Ever seen The Mask?”

“That movie with Jim Carrey?”

Sam nods.

“You want me to cause a scene in the middle of a club full of criminals big enough to distract every single one of them?” Joaquín asks, brows drawing tight. “I—I can’t. No one could. It’s impossible.”

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “You’re Joaquín fucking Torres. If anyone can cause a scene that big, it’s you. Plus, you won’t be alone.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You need a dance partner,” you reply simply, tapping your tablet.

The screen flickers before bringing up three headshots of three different women, each with a brief bio beside the names—abilities and all.

“Kate Bishop,” you say, enlarging the first photo. “Hawkeye-in-training. She worked with Clint for a while. Definitely has the social skills to work the room, plus charm and skill.”

Joaquín shakes his head. “No, she won’t blend in. Not in a Latin crowd, at least.”

“Okay,” you nod, moving to the next photo. “Ava Ayala, a.k.a. White Tiger. Fluent in Spanish and has the physicality to back us up if things go south.”

Joaquín considers it, tipping his head before shaking it again. “No, it won’t work. I’ve heard she prefers solo missions—might not adapt well to a cover role that requires dancing and mingling.”

You take a deep breath and move to the last photo. “Alright. Elena ‘Yo-Yo’ Rodriguez. She’s great at going undercover and knows how to stay cool under pressure. Plus, she can get you out fast if needed.”

Joaquín’s eyes flick from the screen to you, then to Sam, back to you, and then the screen again.

“I don’t doubt her skills,” he says. “But have you seen her operate in this kind of scene? Nightclubs and criminal networks require a certain… finesse.”

Sam sighs and pulls out a chair, dropping into it. “Well, you can’t dance alone.”

“I know,” Joaquín says firmly. “But I can’t walk into a club full of criminals and half-ass it with someone I don’t know or trust.”

“That’s the whole point,” you say, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “You’re supposed to go in, pick someone from the crowd, and make it look spontaneous. A big, passionate moment. If it’s too polished, too rehearsed, they’ll sniff it out.”

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I get that. But it still has to be someone I’ve got chemistry with. Someone I’m actually attracted to.”

You frown, glancing at the screen full of attractive women, then back at him—feeling your stomach twist, even if you don’t want to admit why.

“They’re all attractive. I don’t see the—”

“Sure,” he interrupts. “But what if there's no chemistry? This is a club full of Latinos. They’ll smell fake passion from across the dance floor, cariño.”

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair. “So what are you saying? You won’t do it?”

“Of course I'll do it,” he says, smirking now. “But I’ve got one condition.”

You look at Sam, deadpan. “He’s got conditions now.”

Sam chuckles. “This guy.”

You turn back to Joaquín. “Alright, pretty boy. What’s your condition?”

“You dance with me.”

The room falls silent.

You freeze, breath catching. “M–Me?”

He grins. “You, hermosa. It makes sense. We’ve got chemistry, and all you have to do is follow my lead.”

You glance at Sam, half-panicked. “I’m not a field agent. I’m not—”

“Actually,” Sam says, thoughtful, “it does makes sense. The two of you could sell it. No extra variables, no risk of another agent blowing the op.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re not serious. I—I can’t even dance.”

“You don’t need to,” Joaquín says. “You just have to let me lead.”

Your heart is pounding now, nerves sparking like live wires, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. You’re not built for this. You’re the guy in the chair. The one locked behind bulletproof glass and a million firewalls.

“Joaquín, I—”

“It’s the only way this works,” he says, his smile infuriatingly smug.

“Kid’s got a point,” Sam adds.

Your eyes bounce between them, wide and overwhelmed. “I’m barely trained for combat. If something goes wrong, I—”

“That’s why I’m there, cariño,” Joaquín cuts in, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty—which you already do—and follow my lead.”

You’re running out of excuses. And Joaquín is looking at you with those big, stupidly pretty brown eyes that always get him his way. You don’t want to say yes. But you really don’t want to say no. Not to that face. Not to Sam’s, either—especially when he’s looking this hopeful and just a little smug.

“Fine,” you mutter, glaring at Joaquín. “But if either of us die, I’m going to kill you.”

He just grins—impossibly smug, unfairly hot. A walking wet dream with tight sleeves and a killer smile, practically glowing with anticipation.

The next few days are a whirlwind of intel, training, and—to your immense displeasure—costume fittings. Because you can’t just wear jeans and a top. No. You have to look like a part-time salsa dancer and full-time prison groupie, which apparently means a sparkly dress with a hemline that barely covers your ass.

But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that Joaquín refuses to practice with you. He won’t even show you a few steps. Because, like you said, it has to look spontaneous. It can’t be rehearsed or choreographed, or someone might clock it for the distraction that it is.

So he won’t dance with you at all—which is not exactly something you ever thought you’d be begging him for. Not unless you’re talking about the horizontal tango—because in that case, yeah, you could definitely see yourself begging.

“Ouch,” Sam mutters, freezing mid-step. “That was my foot.”

You scowl up at him, arms stiff where they rest on his shoulder and in his hand. “I told you, I don’t fucking know how to dance.”

“Relax,” he chuckles. “You’re not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. You just need to get through one song without crushing Joaquín’s toes.”

“If he doesn’t want his feet stomped on,” you snap, glaring across the room, “then he should be the one teaching me.”

Joaquín rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, tapping something on his phone to lower the music blaring through the overhead speakers. You’ve taken up residence in Isaiah Bradley’s gym for the past few days, using the open space—and the crash mats—as Sam attempts to teach you the basics of salsa dancing.

It’s not going great.

“You need to move your hips more,” Joaquín says. “Feel the music. Don’t fight it.”

“‘M gonna fight you in a minute,” you mutter.

Sam laughs again, clearly amused, as Joaquín steps in behind you—close—his hands landing firmly on your hips.

Your eyes go wide. Your spine snaps straight. Your fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder.

“Ouch,” he murmurs, wincing.

“Shut up,” you hiss.

He bites back a laugh.

“Okay,” Joaquín says. “Let’s move through the steps slowly.”

Sam nods and starts moving. You follow, trying to count through the steps you’ve half-memorised. Then—

Joaquín steps in even closer, chest almost brushing your back, and without a word, he guides your hips into the right position. Your feet falter. Your heart stutters. His hands are big, steady—thumbs pressing lightly into the small of your back as he shifts your weight, encouraging a more natural sway from your hips.

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’ve gotta loosen up, cariño.”

Then his hands trail—slow and deliberate—up the curve of your waist, just high enough for his thumbs to graze the underside of your ribs. It’s a fleeting touch, but it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And then, like it was nothing, he steps back—cool, casual, unaffected.

Your breath catches. Heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks, your brain short-circuiting as your body fights to stay upright and not melt into a puddle of incoherent desire. Sam watches the whole thing unfold with an amused grin, clearly not missing the way your knees nearly buckle.

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re lookin’ a little pink there.”

“I’m fine,” you snap.

Behind you, Joaquín turns the music back up and says, far too casually, “She’s just tense.”

Sam snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem.”

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath through your nose, summoning every ounce of self-control you have to not to completely lose it.

“Okay,” you mutter, “let’s go again.”

You take it from the top twice more before Sam’s phone rings and he’s called away for a meeting with logistics. By that point, you’re tired, sweaty, and still wishing you’d said no, but according to Joaquín, your hips are moving much more naturally.

You try not to think too hard about him watching your hips while you dance.

While you stretch and cool off—which mostly just means lying on the floor scrolling through your phone—Joaquín starts boxing with Isaiah. And holy hell if that isn’t making you thirstier than two straight hours of salsa dancing did.

You try to focus on the video of a puppy eating raspberries currently playing on your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the gym. To him.

Joaquín’s in the ring—gloves on, shirt off, moving like a goddamn dream. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles flexing with every jab and pivot, the line of his back carved like something out of a museum. Even his hair is damp, dark curls falling over his forehead—and God, you want to run your fingers through it, tug it just a little to see what kind of noises he’d make.

You swallow hard, watching the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, light and fast. Isaiah swings, Joaquín dodges, and you’re embarrassingly close to moaning when he ducks and throws a clean uppercut that lands with a satisfying smack.

Your imagination fills in the blanks way too fast. What those hands would feel like dragging down your body. What that mouth could do if it wasn’t behind a mouthguard. You’re picturing him pinning you up against the ropes for a very different kind of workout when—

“Enjoying the show?”

You startle, eyes flying up to find Joaquín leaning on the ropes, gloves resting on the top strand, smirk wide and knowing. His chest is rising and falling, skin glistening, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s seen every second of you ogling him.

You blink. “Nope.”

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Come here.”

“What? Why?”

He grins, pushing open the ropes. “Get in the ring.”

You frown. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he says, stepping aside so you can climb through. “You’re going undercover. You should know how to throw a punch in case something goes south.”

“I did a combat course,” you say, slowly climbing up and stopping in the middle of the ring. “A few years ago."

“And I haven’t eaten a donut since Tuesday. Doesn’t mean I’m in peak condition.”

Isaiah laughs from the corner, tossing Joaquín a towel. “Have fun, lovebirds,” he calls, hopping down from the ring. “Try not to injure each other.”

“I make no promises,” Joaquín says with a wink, then turns back to you, holding out a pair of gloves. “Hands up, cariño.”

You roll your eyes, sighing, but slide your hands into the gloves anyway. “If I get hurt, I’m suing.”

He steps closer to tighten the straps on your gloves, and you try—really try—not to stare. But his chest is right there, slick with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. Your eyes flick to the constellation of tiny moles scattered across his collarbone and up the side of his neck, and your brain starts wandering where it definitely shouldn’t.

Like how warm his skin would feel under your mouth.

How he'd taste.

Whether that facial hair would scrape or tickle.

“You spacing out on me already?” he asks, smug.

You blink hard and force your eyes back to his. “No. Just visualising how hard I’m going to hit you.”

His smile grows. “Hot.”

You scowl, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says easily, stepping back and raising his hands. “Alright, let’s start with a jab. Front foot forward, hands up, aim for my shoulder.”

You shuffle your feet and throw the first punch. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely not impressive.

And he dodges it with infuriating ease. “Again.”

You go again—harder this time—and his face lights up.

“There we go,” he says, circling you. “Now try a cross. Pivot your back foot a little. Twist at the hips.”

He moves around you slowly, correcting your stance, touching your elbow here, your shoulder there. Every brush of his fingers lights you up like a fuse. You try to focus on your footwork, your form, anything other than the way he’s watching you—like he’s memorising every move.

And when you land a solid hit against his open palm, his smile turns molten. “Damn. Maybe I should be worried.”

“You should always be worried,” you mutter, blowing a lock of hair out of your eyes.

He steps in close, lowering his voice. “You’re better than you think.”

You swallow. Hard. Because now he’s too close, and you can smell him—sweat mixed with something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cedar, and something darker, something dangerous. His eyes flick down from your face to your body, not even trying to pretend he isn’t checking you out.

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless.

He smirks. “So are you.”

The space between you shrinks, and suddenly the air feels thick—too warm, too charged.

“You’re dangerously close,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart beats like a war drum.

He leans in just a little more, hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “Close enough to hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s fast.”

Your breath hitches, and you force yourself to look anywhere but at his lips.

“Careful,” you murmur. “I might start thinking you want to spar for real.”

He grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve got moves that don’t involve gloves.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “That a challenge?”

“More like a promise,” he says, eyes darkening with mischief.

He steps even closer, just enough for your bodies to almost touch, the heat radiating off him setting your skin alight. Your hands twitch, itching to reach out, to feel the solid strength beneath those muscles. But instead, you bite back the impulse, take a breath, and jab forward, aiming a quick punch at his bicep.

He’s faster—too fast—and his hand catches your wrist, grip firm. “Not bad,” he says, voice rougher now. “But you’re getting distracted.”

You glance down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—strong and warm—then back up at him. “Maybe I like being distracted.”

He chuckles, low and throaty. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.”

Your cheeks flush, and suddenly the gym feels smaller, the world reduced to just the two of you—the thud of your hearts, the quick intake of breath, the heat humming beneath your skin.

He leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. “One more round? Winner gets to decide what happens next.”

You bite your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back to his gaze. “You’re on.”

You throw yourself into the next round, fists flying, breath ragged—but he’s relentless, every move calculated to push you harder, closer. He’s not holding back anymore; his feet are quick, his hands even quicker. You feel like you’re flailing, only landing punches when he lets you.

Then, without warning, he ducks a blow and catches you from behind, one arm wrapping tight around your neck. Not enough to choke—just to claim. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in, pressing bruises into your flesh. Your pulse spikes as your body freezes, caught between wanting to fight and drowning in the heat of him pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as you recognise the undeniable length of him digging into your ass—heavy and hard. His mouth hovers just at your neck, warm breath teasing, lips barely brushing. “Careful, nena,” he whispers, voice thick with something dark and urgent. “You’re playing with fire.”

Your hands tremble, heart pounding in your throat. Every second, every shallow breath drips with desperate hunger. His fingertips dig into your skin, pulling you impossibly close—his hips grinding slow and deliberate against your ass.

You want to say something, anything, but the only sounds are your uneven inhales and the thump of your racing heart. Then—just as your resolve begins to crack—

The gym door swings open, and Sam bursts in. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Lunch or more sparring?” he calls out, completely oblivious to the heat hanging thick between you two.

Joaquín straightens, sliding his arms away with a slow, wicked grin, eyes sparkling with amusement and something more primal. He moves off to the side of the ring, turning away from Sam—no doubt hiding the bulge in his gym shorts.

You’re burning up, cheeks flushed crimson, every nerve screaming as you struggle to breathe normally.

Sam quirks his head, brows furrowed. “You alright? Is he pushing you too hard?”

God. Something is too hard.

You shake your head. “N-No. Just... sparring.”

“Right,” Sam says, not sounding fully convinced. “Well, go clean up. I’m starving.”

After a shower—a very cold shower—a quick lunch, and several meetings, you’re back in your office combing through security tapes from Club Calavera, scanning for any familiar faces that might compromise tomorrow night’s mission.

You’re midway through last Saturday’s tape when Joaquín pops his head in the door, grinning like he hadn’t pressed his hard dick against you just a few hours ago.

“Sam’s hungry,” he says. “Again.”

You clear your throat. “Already? It’s—” You glance at the clock, brows lifting. “Oh. It’s nearly seven.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “He wants wings.”

There’s nothing overtly threatening about the way he stands in front of your only exit—but it still feels dangerous. Being alone with him in this tight little four-by-four office, with nothing between you but a desk and a couple monitors, feels very dangerous.

You’re not sure what changed while he was away on that last mission—all you know is that something did. And now, the tension between you is almost impossible to ignore.

“Wings,” you echo, dragging your eyes back to your screens. “Got it. The usual?”

“Yep,” he nods. “Extra ranch.”

You smirk as you open a new tab—typing in only a few letters before the URL auto-fills.

Joaquín frowns. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. He just stands there, back against the door, watching you order the food with his bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth.

“There,” you say, clicking submit order. “Death wings for Captain America, and a baby batch for The Falcon.”

His eyes widen as he tries—and fails—to fight another grin. “I knew you were laughing at me. It’s not my fault I was born with a spice intolerance.”

You lean back in your chair, rolling your lips to suppress a giggle. “I wasn’t. I swear.”

“I’m brave in other ways,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest.

“I know.”

You stare at each other for a beat too long. The air thickens, tension crawling over your skin, heavy and charged. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sharp slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow beneath that maddeningly hot little moustache.

Your fingers twitch over your keyboard, itching to touch him. To grip his shoulders. Tug his hair. Wrap around his hot, hard—

Bang, bang, bang.

Joaquín startles as Sam shoves at your office door from the other side.

“Move your ass, Torres,” he calls, voice muffled.

Joaquín exhales a shaky breath and steps aside—and you swear you see him subtly adjust himself in his jeans.

“Wings ordered?” Sam asks, pushing the door open.

You nod. “Death by buffalo coming right up.”

He grins. “Good. Now get your asses to the conference room. Tactical support wants to run one last debrief.”

“Ooh,” you say, jumping to your feet. “Do I get any weapons?”

Both men whip toward you—eyes wide, brows drawn—and in perfect unison say, “No.”

You sit in the meeting, pretending to listen, while mostly ogling the way Joaquín is testing out his gear. Without the wings, he’s going to be packing an assortment of easily concealed weapons, and something about the way he handles everything with practiced ease has you squeezing your thighs beneath the table.

His hands are sure and precise—strong fingers wrapping around grips, forearms flexing subtly with each flick and pop. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he inspects every piece, the kind of focused intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, brows drawing together just enough to highlight the sharp line of his cheekbones. It’s like watching a master at work—every subtle motion deliberate, effortless. The way his muscles tense and relax, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in his stance… it all speaks of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and how much power he wields beneath that calm exterior.

You can’t help but admire the rhythm, the flow, the way he seems to command the weapons almost as if they’re extensions of his own body. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the sinew in his forearms, the curve of his wrists, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by those hands—steady, confident, and undeniably capable.

“You need a napkin, or are you just gonna keep drooling on the table?” Sam asks, startling you out of your daydream.

You whip toward him, brow furrowed, one hand swiping instinctively at the corner of your mouth while the other smacks his bicep.

He chuckles. “Wow. I could call HR, you know.”

You roll your eyes. “Do it.”

“Actually,” he says, tilting his head, “I think Joaquín should call HR, with the way you were eye-fucking him across the table. But the boy’s too stupid to notice.”

Your eyes snap to the front of the room, expecting Joaquín to still be there—but he’s not. In fact, it’s just you and Sam left in the conference room. Even the weapons have been packed up and hauled off.

“Oh,” you blink. “Is it over?”

“Been over for a while,” he says with another soft chuckle. “My wings here yet?”

Your eyes go wide. “Shit. The wings.”

You jump up and dart out of the room, jogging down the hall to the front reception where you told the delivery driver to leave the food. Thankfully, it’s still there—and when you pick up the bag, it’s warm enough that Sam won’t kill you.

With a relieved sigh, you carry the wings back through the building, past the now-empty conference room, and straight to Sam and Joaquín’s office at the very back—the one with the giant, obnoxious Captain America symbol frosted onto the window glass.

“Special delivery,” you say, walking straight toward the table surrounded by low blue lounges.

You pull out the Styrofoam containers and start sniffing each one to determine which is which. Sam appears beside you with three cans of beer, and Joaquín flops onto one of the lounges, grabbing the bag to pull out a wad of napkins—because you always ask for extra.

“Shit. They forgot the wet ones,” he says, glancing up at you.

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, “we’ve got enough wet wipes to stock a preschool.”

Joaquín chuckles as you cross the room toward Sam’s desk, opening the middle drawer of the cabinet and pulling a fistful of wipes.

“God, I’m starving,” Joaquín groans.

You turn back just in time to see him sliding one of the containers toward himself. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing, and just before realisation hits—before you can say anything—he opens it and lifts a wing to his lips.

“Joaquín—!” you yelp, eyes wide.

His gaze flicks to you, confusion creasing his brow—then it hits.

His cheeks flush immediately, sweat prickling at his hairline and sliding down the side of his face. His eyes go wide, his body locking up—the wing still caught between his teeth.

“That’s Sam’s!” you exclaim, rushing over. “Spit it out, you idiot. You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest.”

“Wait,” Sam leans forward, eyes bright. “Did he just—?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“One of mine?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit.”

“Joaquín,” you say firmly. “Spit the goddamn wing out.”

He does, letting it drop back into the container with a wet plop.

“Gross,” Sam groans, sliding the container away from Joaquín.

“You okay?” you ask, biting back a grin.

He looks like he’s been pepper-sprayed. Face red, eyes watery, lips puffy, breath coming and going in shallow gasps.

“Uh uh,” he groans, shaking his head slowly. “Burns.”

“I know, baby,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. “I’ll go get some milk.”

He nods slowly, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

You let out another laugh—louder this time—as you run out of the room and jog down the hall, pivoting into the kitchen. You yank the fridge open, pull out the bottle of milk, and retrace your steps.

By the time you return, Sam is grinning like a demon, face smeared with sauce, and Joaquín is full-on wheezing, fanning his mouth with his hand.

“What happened?”

“He drank the beer,” Sam says, clearly very entertained. “Made it worse.”

“My god, Joaquín,” you sigh, dropping the milk in front of him. “Didn’t you smell the hot sauce?”

He shakes his head, already chugging from the bottle. Milk dribbles from his lips and down his jaw, sliding down the column of his neck—and suddenly, you’re having thoughts. Filthy ones.

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot.

Jesus Christ. Even watching him drink milk is hot now?

“I just don’t understand how your tolerance for spice is so bad,” you mutter. “You’re half-Mexican for crying out loud.”

He stops long enough to gasp for air—then burps like a frat boy. “That’s racist.”

“It’s not racist,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve been to your house. Your mama’s tamales are hot. And delicious.”

“Ooh,” Sam smirks. “Tell me more about his mom’s tamales.”

Joaquín shoots him a slow, deadly look over the milk carton as he continues drinking.

“His mom makes the best food,” you say, finally opening your own container of wings. “The rest of his family can handle heat just fine—but this pretty boy always gets a custom serving. Mild.”

“Wow,” Sam snorts. “Way to let the ancestors down, Torres.”

Joaquín finishes the entire bottle of milk—though it was only half full—before he’s finally able to breathe normally again. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp, but at least he no longer looks like he’s about to explode.

“Better?” you ask, smirking behind a half-eaten wing.

“You know,” he says, leaning forward, that stupid, smug grin back in place, “might help if you kiss it better.”

You raise your brows. “Your mouth?”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Probably a couple of places you could kiss that’d help.”

Your eyes go wide, pulse spiking. Across from you, Sam chokes on a mouthful of chicken.

“No,” he says between coughs. “Stop it. Both of you. I am not sitting here while you do your weird flirting shit. Leave me out of it.”

Joaquín just grins, completely unaffected, and opens his container of mild buffalo wings. It shouldn’t be sexy, the way he sinks his teeth in and tears the meat off the bone. Or how his tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Or the low, satisfied groan he lets out, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week.

But God, when it comes to Joaquín Torres, you are well and truly screwed—just not in the way you want to be.

Your heart is in your throat. Your hands are trembling. Your back is sweating.

Every step you take deeper into Club Calavera brings you one step closer to puking.

The inside of the club is soaked in red light and velvet, thick with smoke and perfume. Velvet booths line the walls, half-hidden in shadow, crowded with people who look like they have knives in their boots and secrets in their smiles. The bar glows low and warm on one side of the room, casting amber light across bottles arranged like trophies.

The music is bass-heavy, slow and deliberate, and the dance floor pulses with bodies moving close—too close. Everything sparkles—sequins, sweat, the occasional flash of a watch or the glint of a gun tucked just out of sight.

It’s the kind of place where everyone’s watching, everyone’s working an angle, and no one’s here by accident.

You feel completely exposed without so much as a headset or earpiece, but Sam insisted—strictly no comms. It’s too risky in a place like this.

Teddy from logistics is ‘in the chair’ tonight, doing what you’d usually be doing—watching live feeds, monitoring heat signatures, keeping an eye out for trouble. You all know the signals. The procedures. Where to meet if it all goes sideways. But none of that is making you feel even remotely safe in this den of criminals.

You take a slow, deep breath and continue weaving your way through the crowd, keeping your chin up—confident, not cocky. Your movements are measured. Deliberate.

You know where you’re going. You’re not nervous. You fit in.

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone murmurs beside you.

You offer a small, coy smile, then duck away, putting several bodies between you and whoever that was—for good measure.

The club is crowded enough to disappear in. You just have to make sure you don’t move too fast. Don’t draw too much attention.

Not that this goddamn dress is making it easy not to draw attention.

It’s gold and slinky, catching the light with every step, made from a breathable stretch-knit lamé mesh—fine metallic threads woven into silky, weightless fabric. The outer layer is a sheer gold sparkle mesh, densely packed with glittering micro-sequins that flash like fire under the club lights.

It’s cut obscenely short—the hem grazing your upper thighs—with a scooped neckline just low enough to tease, and long flared sleeves that shimmer from shoulder to wrist. It doesn’t cling—but it follows your shape with a sleek, deliberate grace that leaves no doubt it was tailor-made for you.

Beneath all that glitter, the bodice is reinforced with a discreet layer of ballistic fabric—a Kevlar-knit that’s thin and flexible enough to contour to your body, but strong enough to slow a small-calibre round or deflect a blade. So, as long as any would-be attackers aim for the dress and not your legs, you might just have a shot at making it out alive if things go sideways.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, voice low as you squeeze between two people who were definitely not excusing you.

You pop out of the crowd at the edge of the dancefloor just as the music shifts. It pulses low and slow at first, a sensual rhythm driven by a deep reggaeton beat. Then a plucked guitar winds through the bassline—sharp, teasing, almost flirtatious—while maracas and other percussion add a soft shimmer beneath it all, like heat rising off pavement.

There’s a slinky sway to it, like hips rolling in time with every beat. The tempo is deliberate, confident, impossible to ignore—each note coaxing movement, inviting bodies closer. It’s the kind of music that wraps around you like smoke, warm and heady, and refuses to let go.

You don’t see him at first—just feel it. That ripple in the air. A subtle shift in energy that tells you someone is watching.

And then you spot him.

Joaquín steps through the crowd like it’s parting just for him. He’s traded his usual tactical black for loose tan trousers that hang low on his hips, a gold chain draped from the belt loops. A crisp white shirt is thrown over a fitted tank, sleeves rolled up like he’s halfway between saint and sin. His hair’s slicked just enough to look intentional, a single curl falling over his brow, and there’s a glint of gold at his throat that catches the light every time he moves.

He doesn’t just look good—he looks dangerous. Not in the gunmetal, locked-and-loaded way you’re used to. This is softer. Smouldering. The kind of danger that tempts instead of threatens. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your knees weaken.

And he’s looking at you.

Head tilted, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been thinking about this all night. All week. About you in that barely-there dress. About what’s underneath it. About how many people are in this room—and how little he cares.

Your stomach flips.

Your whole body hums with anticipation. And you haven’t even touched him yet.

You're still catching your breath when he reaches you.

No words. No warning.

His hand slides around your waist, the other catching your wrist, fingers brushing the underside of your arm like a question. Your body answers before your mouth can—yes. Whatever this is, yes.

The music throbs through the soles of your feet as you move deeper onto the dancefloor. His hand drops lower, finding the curve of your hip. He steps in—chest to chest—warm breath grazing your cheek.

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re working. This is work. Just a distraction so that Sam can get to Navarro.

But right now, with Joaquín’s fingers splayed across your lower back, guiding you into the sway of the beat, your focus is wrecked.

And this doesn’t feel like work.

His body moves against yours with practiced ease—hips rolling slow and sweet. The rhythm is deep, deliberate, and he follows it like it’s stitched into his bones. His thigh slides between yours as he guides you, hand firm at your waist as you pivot together—tight, fluid, seamless.

You loop your arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, and his mouth is suddenly very close to your ear.

“Hola, mi vida,” he murmurs, “estás espectacular.”

You might not know much Spanish, but you’ve spent enough time around Joaquín to know exactly what he just said.

You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “So do you.”

He laughs under his breath—low, dangerous—and dips you. Hard. Your spine arches, body bending back over his arm, one hand clutching his shirt for balance. His mouth drops to your chest. Breath ghosting over your skin—warm, damp, too much.

He lingers there. Like he's waiting for permission.

Then—

His tongue darts out. Wet heat against your chest.

You yelp—then freeze.

The crowd around you stills. Heads turn. All eyes on you.

“Showtime, cariño,” he mutters, low and smooth, just for you.

He pulls you up again—slowly. His hand drags from your spine to your waist, fingertips digging in like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And if it weren’t for his grip, you’re not sure your knees would hold.

He doesn’t even glance at the crowd. He just smirks.

Because this was his plan all along. This is why he hasn’t practiced with you all week. Why he refused to rehearse.

Because Joaquín Torres knew exactly how he was going to play you—just like he’s about to play this entire room full of criminals.

The music builds again, deeper, filthier. That slinky reggaeton rhythm thickens with every beat, and Joaquín takes the cue. His hands slide down your waist, anchoring you as he rolls his hips into yours, slow and smooth—grinding to the beat like he’s got all the time in the world. Like no one else is here. Like the two of you don’t have an entire operation riding on this moment.

Your hands grip his shoulders, then slide up to the back of his neck. The world narrows to the heat between your bodies, to the heavy pulse of the music, to the way he leans in close and breathes against your skin.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just like we practiced.”

You snort—soft, breathless. “We didn’t practice.”

“Exactly,” he smirks.

He spins you suddenly, one arm looping around your middle to keep you close as your back hits his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you flush against him, and he starts to move again—grinding up behind you in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Filthy. Hypnotic. Perfect.

Someone in the crowd whistles.

You tilt your head just enough to meet Joaquín’s eyes over your shoulder. He’s looking down at you with heat, with purpose. Selling it for the crowd—but that look doesn’t feel like an act.

Your gaze flickers past him, scanning the shadows—and there. You spot Sam slipping through the crowd, unnoticed, just as planned.

Good.

You drag your eyes back to Joaquín and grind back into him, slow and intentional. He groans—quiet, but real—and dips his head to the crook of your neck. His lips skim your skin, his breath hot and shallow.

“Still working?” he murmurs.

You bite your lip.

“Because if this is just a mission…” He trails off, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw. “You’re the best actress I’ve ever met.”

You laugh—shaky, hushed, raw. “Shut up and dance.”

So he does.

He drags one hand down your thigh, slipping briefly beneath the hem of your dress, just high enough to make your breath catch. Then he spins you again, facing him, and pulls you back into his chest with a practiced flourish—showy enough to earn a cheer from the sidelines. The lights flicker like heat lightning across his face, casting gold in his eyes, sweat glinting at his hairline.

The air between you crackles.

Then—he leans in, voice low, mouth ghosting yours. “Tell me when this stops being a game.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because you’re not sure it ever was.

“Confía en mí, mi amor,” he murmurs—trust me, my love—and you barely have time to register the words before he spins you out with a flick of the wrist, one hand still gripping yours.

Your body twirls away from him, dress shimmering beneath the lights, the crowd around you gasping at the drama of it—and then you’re pulled back in just as fast.

He catches you tight.

One hand at your back, the other sliding low as he grabs your thigh and lifts—hitching it high against his hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. Holding you there. Staking a claim.

Your breath punches out of you, caught between the sudden closeness and the weight of his grip. His eyes are dark, gleaming with heat and purpose, and you’re not sure which part of this is still the performance.

His lips are inches from yours, breath warm, tension thick between you as the music pulses around your locked bodies—sweat, sequins, heat, and hands, everything glittering under low crimson light. And still, the crowd watches. Spellbound.

So you decide to give them something to watch.

You swallow hard, gather what’s left of your composure, and let your hand slide slowly down his chest—fingertips tracing the line of his sternum, dragging over warm fabric, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You sway your hips with the music, then pivot—smooth and deliberate—until your back is flush to his chest again.

His breath catches. You feel it.

You roll your hips back into him, slow and sinful, and his grip tightens on your hips.

Your hand snakes up behind you, into his hair, curling tight just enough to make him tilt his head. Then, with a smirk tugging at your lips, you twist to whisper against his jaw—soft, breathy, just for him.

“Papacito… ay, qué rico tú.”

You feel the way his whole body reacts—his inhale sharp, his fingers flexing against your skin, his composure cracking for just a second. Just long enough for you to feel victorious.

But then—he snaps.

He grabs your hand and spins you back around to face him, hard and fast. His grip is sure, his eyes burning. He’s flushed now, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like he’s trying to get a grip—but losing it. On you.

And then he drops.

Not suddenly—deliberately.

His hands trail down your sides as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours. Not until his breath hits your chest, lips ghosting over your damp skin.

His mouth moves lower—hot, open, dragging over the glittering fabric until it settles just below your navel. The pressure is maddening. More suggestion than kiss, but it sets your nerves on fire.

He rests on one knee. His breath is hot through your dress. His grip, searing.

You feel his nose graze along the line of your panties, the heat of him soaking through the fabric. He lingers—mouth parted, exhale shaky—and you know that if he moves even half an inch lower, you’re going to moan out loud.

Your knees almost buckle.

So you do the only thing you can—you throw your arms up, eyes fluttering closed, and let the music carry you. You sway to the rhythm, pulse thudding in your ears, hips shifting just enough to brush against his mouth again.

And when you dare to look down…

He’s still there. On one knee. A hand branding the back of each thigh.

Looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth getting on the floor for.

And God help you—you want him to stay there forever.

But after a few beats, Joaquín lifts his head slowly, mouth brushing over your dress on the way up, trailing heat with every inch. His hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, gripping tight as he rises.

You meet him halfway.

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your body moulds to his. Breath mingling. Lips so close—so heartbreakingly close—you could count the seconds before they meet. You can feel the heat of him, taste the want on his breath.

His mouth hovers over yours, a whisper away. The music fades. The crowd vanishes. It’s just him. Just you. Just this.

Then—he pauses.

His eyes flicker. Something cracks beneath the surface—heat, hesitation, hunger.

And he pulls back.

Not far. Not fast. Just enough to tear the moment in half. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and steady, full of something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or a warning. You’re not sure which—only that it leaves you aching.

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You blink up at him, dizzy, throat thick, trying to smile like it hasn’t cost you something.

He leans in again, lips grazing your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “Sam’s clear.”

You nod—barely, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the music.

Then he steps back, slow and sure, every muscle coiled like he’s holding something back.

You follow his lead, putting just enough distance between you to play the part. You sway with the rhythm—two agents, two dancers, nothing more.

But your body still burns.

And the ghost of his mouth still lingers, like a secret you’ll never know.

Eventually, Joaquín leads you off the dancefloor and toward the bar, his hand warm and steady at your lower back.

Eyes follow you—hungry, speculative. You feel them trailing over your thighs, your back, the glitter of your dress. Men watch like they’re waiting for their turn, like they saw the performance and think it was an invitation. But you don’t care. You’re too distracted by the phantom of Joaquín’s mouth, the ache of something unfinished still pulsing behind your ribs.

At the bar, he flags the bartender down with a subtle nod and orders for both of you—something cold and sharp that might steady your nerves. You rest your hands on the counter, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel too much.

“Pretty bold dance out there,” a voice says beside you, too close.

You turn your head to find a stranger leaning in, all confidence and cologne, eyes skimming your neckline like he owns it.

“How about a private encore?”

Before you can respond, Joaquín shifts. Not aggressively. Not even visibly angry. But his body angles between you and the guy with a quiet finality, one arm draping casually across the bar behind you.

“She’s not available,” he says, voice low but pointed.

The stranger laughs like he’s not threatened—like he hasn’t realised the mistake he's made. “Didn’t look like that a minute ago. Looked like she was auditioning.”

You barely see Joaquín move. Just the way his jaw tenses, the slight twitch of his fingers curling at the bar, the heat rolling off him in waves. But it’s enough.

You touch his arm gently. “We should go.”

He doesn’t look at you right away, not until the guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath as he fades back into the crowd. Then Joaquín turns, his gaze softer now—but his hand is still tight on your waist.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let’s go.”

Getting out of the club, into the night, and down the street is all a blur. Your feet move, but your mind is still back on that dancefloor—on Joaquín’s wandering hands, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes burning.

Your chest aches at the memory of his mouth hovering over yours. Close enough to taste. Close enough to make you believe. He could’ve kissed you. He should have. He was going to. But he didn’t.

And you can’t stop asking yourself why.

By the time you reach the van parked a few blocks away in a shadowy side street, you’re grateful one of you is paying attention, because you don’t even remember the walk.

Joaquín opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re breakable—like you’re something valuable that needs securing. He reaches across and buckles you in, knuckles brushing your thigh in the process, lingering just a second too long.

Then he’s gone again—door shut, around the van, into the driver's seat. He jams the key in, turns the engine, and starts reversing slowly out of the alley. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just nearly shatter years of friendship in a single, heated moment.

You stare out the window while he drives, lost in your thoughts and the lingering warmth of him on your skin—sweat, spice, and something that feels specifically made for you. Something that makes your heart race and your knees weak.

“Where did you learn that?” he asks suddenly, voice low and rough.

You frown, turning to face him. And God, is it a sight. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp skin, eyes glittering even in the dark.

You clear your throat. “Learn what?”

“What you said to me,” he says, glancing at you before turning back to the road. “When we were dancing.”

“Oh.” You shift in your seat, dragging your gaze away from him. “Just one of those songs you always play.”

“Right,” he mutters. “Do… do you know what it means?”

There’s a beat. Only the soft hum of tires on asphalt fills the silence.

Then you murmur, “Daddy, oh, how delicious you are.”

His breath hitches. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel.

You wait another beat before adding, “That’s right, yeah?”

He nods. “Right.”

He shifts in his seat—subtle, but telling—and you don’t dare let your eyes drop to his lap.

He clears his throat. “The—uh—the pronunciation was good. Accent could use some work.”

You snort—sharp and dry. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to pencil in some extra Spanish practice.”

“Let me know if you need a tutor,” he says, smirking now.

Your heart thuds—heavy, too hard. You want to tease back. You want to slip into the familiar rhythm, the easy banter. But you can’t. Because now you’re confused, and a little wrecked, and everything feels off.

“Oh, you don’t have time for that these days, Falcon,” you say, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “I’m sure Gabe or Ceilia would be happy to give me lessons.”

Two of the engineers you’ve often heard Joaquín arguing with in lightning-fast Spanish.

“Gabe or Ceilia?” he repeats, tone unreadable, eyes fixed on the road.

You don’t answer. You’re not sure what you could say.

So you just turn your head back to the window, watching the quiet city blur by, willing yourself not to cry. Not yet.

Not until you’re alone.

You wake up to a bright streak of sun slashing across your face.

Your eyes are sticky—thanks to all the tears—and your body aches. You stretch your legs out and roll onto your back, careful not to slip off the couch cushions you curled up on last night.

After regrouping at the office, both Sam and Joaquín offered to drive you home. You declined them separately—telling each you’d already agreed to leave with the other. It took some careful phrasing and a few weirdly timed trips out the front door, but it worked. And eventually, you were left alone.

You stripped out of your dress and showered—because of course Sam has a shower at the office—before changing into a spare set of clothes you keep in case of emergency. Which, as it turned out, meant an old pair of loose gym shorts and one of Joaquín’s worn Air Force shirts.

Then you settled in front of your computer and worked until it felt like your eyes were bleeding. You filed mission reports, checked maintenance logs, combed through security footage, and even tried digging deeper into Matías Navarro. But by four a.m., you were in Sam and Joaquín’s office, curled up on the low blue lounges and crying yourself to sleep.

Partly from exhaustion.

Partly from heartbreak.

Mostly because you have no idea what to do about Joaquín Torres now.

The sound of your phone vibrating against the table forces you to sit up. You rub at your eyes, yawn widely, and reach for it, flipping it over to see Joaquín’s goofy caller ID photo lighting up the screen.

You stare at it, gnawing on lower lip until the call ends. Then a notification pops up—missed call from Joaquín—followed by a flurry of texts asking how you are, where you are, and if you want to hang out today.

It’s Sunday. Which means usually, you’d be dragging him to a market or a movie—something sickeningly wholesome, the kind of thing real couples do on their days off. But you’re not a real couple. You never were. And you really need to remember that.

So you slip the phone into your pocket without replying, deciding to do it later—when you’re less raw.

With a heavy sigh, you push off the couch and head for your own office, pausing only to start up the coffee machine on the way. You wake your computer, rubbing at your temples as the screen flickers to life. While you slept, it’s been classifying intel, parsing Navarro’s comms for patterns, links, anything actionable. And surprisingly, it’s found some.

Good. Now you have something to show Sam so he doesn’t kill you for working all weekend.

You skim the new data for a few minutes before deciding that no amount of international weapons trafficking can be dealt with without caffeine. You’re halfway out your office door when—

The alarm blares.

You flinch. “Fuck!”

Then you jog down the hall, push through the doors into reception, and swing around the desk. You punch your code into the alarm panel and silence the sirens—leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears.

The system has been glitching for weeks—tripping randomly, resetting itself, spamming your phones with false alerts. But still, you drop into the chair and run a security check just in case, scanning for any open doors or tripped sensors.

Once you get the all clear, you sigh and head back to the kitchen—now in desperate need of that goddamn coffee.

You spend the next half hour glued to your screens, sipping coffee like it’s oxygen and stretching your sore back every five minutes. You’re so deep in the data that you don’t even hear your office door open.

Not until—

“Did you sleep here, cariño?”

You jump, knocking your chair back a couple inches and sending your coffee mug clattering across your desk.

“Shit, Joaquín,” you mutter, reaching for the tissues.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, stepping in and snatching the box before you can.

Luckily, the mug was nearly empty. There’s only a small puddle to mop up—which he does for you, dabbing at the spill with a clump of tissues, careful not to let anything touch your electronics.

“There,” he says, tossing the wad into the bin. “Now, are you gonna answer me?”

You frown. “Answer what?”

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of your desk, invading your space and flooding your senses with the sharp, fresh scent of his cologne. He’s clearly just showered, and God, it’s almost rude how good he smells.

“Did you sleep here?”

Your cheeks burn. “Maybe.”

His smile fades, eyes narrowing. “You told me Sam was taking you home.”

“And I told Sam you were taking me home.”

“So you lied.”

You shrug. “Embellished.”

He groans, tipping his head back. “Por Dios, me vas a matar algún día.”

You squint up at him, lips pursed. “Something about God and dying?”

He looks back at you, amused now. “You really need those Spanish lessons, mi amor.”

“Well,” you sigh, dragging your eyes back to your screen, “I’ll try to squeeze it in, but I’m a field agent now. My time is valuable.”

He chuckles again, low and warm, and shifts on the desk—just enough for his body to inch closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough to make your skin heat and your heart race.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” you ask, forcing yourself not to look at him.

“The alarm went off,” he says, holding up his phone. “Then I checked whose code turned it off and saw that you’re working. On a Sunday. You know Sam’s going to kill you, right?”

You frown at your screen. “So if you figured I was working… why are you here? To watch me type?”

He pauses, eyes fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, even as you refuse to meet his gaze. He knows something is off. He’s not stupid. He probably knows you better than you know yourself—and this? This isn’t normal. Not your usual rhythm. Not your usual banter.

“Actually,” he says, sliding off the desk. “I’m here for your Spanish lesson.”

That gets your attention.

You glance up, brows pinched. “What are you talking about?”

He moves toward the small whiteboard on the wall beside your desk and plucks the marker from the tray.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, spinning in your chair to face him. “I don’t want a Spanish—”

“Ah,” he cuts in, brow raised. “En español.”

You give him a deadpan look. “I don’t know it en español.”

He smirks. “Then it sounds like you really do need a lesson.”

You exhale hard and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms and then your legs. “Go on, then. Maestro.”

His eyes light up. “Muy buena, cariño. Now you’re getting it.”

You don’t reply. You just stare at him, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line.

He turns to the whiteboard and scribbles a phrase. You try not to look at his forearm as it flexes with each stroke of the marker—but God, it’s hard not to.

“Alright,” he says, turning back with a smirk. “Go on.”

You squint at the words, digging through years of memories—listening to Joaquín talk, watching him text his mother, the cheeky little notes he used to write in your birthday cards.

“Estás... muy... guapo... hoy,” you say slowly.

He chuckles, stepping closer. “It’s not ‘ess-tass.’ Loosen your tongue, cariño. Eh-stás. More breath. Less bite.”

You roll your eyes, but try again. “Estás muy... guapo... hoy.”

“Don’t chew it,” he says, folding his arms—and Jesus, do his biceps have to be so distracting? “It’s not gwaah-po. It’s cleaner. Crisper. Guapo. Let the ‘g’ glide. The ‘o’ is round. Like your mouth when you—”

He stops—and laughs quietly, eyes gleaming.

“Never mind. Try again.”

You scowl at the board, determined not to let his arms—or his mouth—throw you off.

“Estás muy guapo hoy.”

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you. Then that slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face.

“Eso, mi amor,” he says. “You’re getting it.”

Your lips twitch, but you don’t let him see it. You roll them together and raise your brows instead—quietly daring him to give you the next one.

He turns back to the board and quietly writes out three more phrases. Each scribbled letter winds the tension tighter, threading the air with heat and anticipation—but you don’t know why. Not yet. You recognise some words, sure, but you can’t piece together the full sentences.

“Me vuelves loco,” he says, overpronouncing it like a smug high school Spanish teacher.

You sit up a little straighter, arms still folded tight across your chest, and echo, “Me vuelves loco.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Bien. De nuevo.”

You know he’s just told you to say it again—more from the look on his face than his words.

“Tell me what I’m saying first.”

He grins, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You drive me crazy.”

Your breath hitches, pulse spiking—but you manage to keep your cool.

“Me vuelves loco,” you repeat.

He nods. “Very good, cariño. Next one?”

You drag your gaze away from his stupidly handsome face—ridiculous facial hair still perfectly intact—and squint at the next phrase. You don’t recognise it.

“Ponte… de… rodillas?”

He chuckles—low, throaty—and steps forward, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s not a question, mi amor. Say it like you mean it.”

Your brow furrows as you look past him at the board.

“Ponte… de rodillas.”

He moves closer, voice dropping. “The ‘r’—you’re swallowing it. It should roll. Just a little. Ro-dí-llas. You’re saying it too flat.”

You try again. “Ponte de… rodillas.”

He tsks. “Softer on the ‘ll’. It’s not rod-ee-yas, it’s ro-dee-yas. Let it melt. Let it glide off your tongue.”

You give him a look. “If you think I’m going to get turned on by grammar—”

“Not grammar,” he smirks. “Just me.”

You roll your eyes—but he’s stepping even closer now, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that same reckless hunger he wore last night.

“Say it right,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll listen.”

“Listen?”

He nods once. “Maybe I’ll do what you’re telling me to do.”

You’re breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling beneath crossed arms. Your legs feel heavy, unsteady—too tense to stay crossed—so you shift in your chair, uncrossing them as Joaquín watches every movement like a predator tracking prey.

“Look me in the eye,” he says softly. “Say it again. And mean it.”

You clear your throat and meet his gaze. “Ponte de rodillas.”

There’s a beat—one, long charged second where he just stares.

Then—he sinks to his knees.

His hands slide up your thighs as he settles between them, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He looks entirely too pleased with himself—and something else. Something darker.

“See?” he murmurs. “Estoy de rodillas por ti, mi amor.”

Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding like a war drum. It fills your ears, thrums beneath your skin. Every nerve ending burns where his hands rest—just above your knees—like he's branding you.

“Next one,” he murmurs, leaning in.

Your voice catches before you can speak. You’re frozen, eyes locked on him as he lowers his face between your thighs, gaze fixed at the apex.

You force yourself to look away—back to the board—blinking until the letters come into focus.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Just try it, baby,” he says, breath hot against the tender skin inside your thigh.

You swallow, voice shaking. “N-Necesito… sentirte… adentro.”

He draws a sharp breath, jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands slide higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts.

Your whole body tenses.

“Joaquín, I—”

“Uh uh.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to make you ache. “Dilo de nuevo.”

You blink down at him. “What?”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, dark eyes dragging up to meet yours. “And I’ll reward you.”

Your head spins. He’s still there, between your legs, looking at you like you’re something holy and wreckable all at once. This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real.

But the heat is real. The ache. The want.

“Necesito,” you say slowly, breath shaky, “se—sentirte adentro.”

He groans low, sliding his hands higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your panties.

“Better,” he mutters. “But I know you can do it right, cariño.”

You clutch the arms of your desk chair, grounding yourself, trying not to move. Trying not to beg.

“Necesito sentirte… adentro.”

His hands move again—slow and sure—one hand pushing your shorts aside, the other tracing down your centre, teasing along the fabric of your panties. He lets out a deep sigh before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, moving higher with each wet press of his lips.

“Better,” he mutters against you. “But it’s not ‘sen-teer-teh’—you’re flattening the ‘i’. It’s sentir—longer. Feel it in your throat. Let it roll.”

His thumb drags gently along the crease between your thigh and your core, teasing the elastic.

“You want it?” he whispers. “Say it right.”

Your grip tightens on the arms of your chair. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and try again—voice lower now, weighted with need.

“Necesito… sentirte adentro.”

A sound escapes him—almost a growl—and he dips lower, mouthing you through the fabric. You gasp, hips twitching. The heat of his breath, the shape of his mouth—it’s overwhelming.

“Good girl,” he says softly, lips dragging over you. “Almost perfect.”

You whimper, your body arching involuntarily. “Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me how to say it.”

He chuckles against you, the vibration sharp and sinful. “You’re rushing it. Slow down. Let me hear you want it.”

His hands are steady on your thighs now, anchoring you open as his mouth hovers just above your pussy. Breath hot, cheeks flushed, dark eyes locked with yours—waiting.

You draw a breath, forcing your voice to steady, and say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

“Sí,” he groans. “Eso es todo, mi amor.”

Then his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and shove it aside. His mouth is on you just as quick, tongue hot and slick and merciless as he finally rewards you—lapping at your wetness like a man starved.

You break—letting out a broken cry. One hand flies to his hair, threading through the curls, while the other grips the edge of your desk. Your hips lift into him as his broad tongue licks a slow stripe from entrance to clit. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine.

Your thighs shake, breath coming hard and fast, but Joaquín doesn’t let up. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles around your clit—just light enough to drive you insane, just heavy enough to make you twitch with every pass. Then he flattens it and licks up again, long and firm, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking—slow, purposeful, obscene.

“Así,” he growls into you, voice low and ruined. “Así me gusta verte.”

Your hips buck. Your fingers tighten in his curls.

“Joaquín—”

He slides one hand higher, fingertips trailing over your inner thigh before gliding straight to your entrance. He drags two fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, torturous—coating them in your slick, collecting the wetness, then finally pushes in. One knuckle, then two, sinking deep into your heat, his breath catching as he feels how ready you are.

You gasp—sharp and high-pitched—and he groans into you like the taste is making him drunk.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “Mierda.”

You whimper something incoherent, every nerve in your body screaming, and he curls his fingers just right—hooking them inside you, hitting that spongey spot that makes your thighs spasm and your mouth fall open.

And still, his tongue doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and flicks, lips wrapped around your clit like a prayer, and when he groans into you—low and wrecked—it sends a full-body shudder straight through you.

“Say it again,” he pants, fingers pumping deep and slow. “Say it. Dímelo otra vez.”

You’re half gone—hips jerking forward, body sliding closer to the edge with every wet, filthy sound echoing between your thighs.

You choke on your breath, trembling as you manage to say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

He growls—honest-to-God growls—and his fingers speed up, curling faster, thumb brushing your clit just as his lips close around it again.

“Buena chica,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you cum with my mouth, with my fingers—todo lo que me pidas.”

Then he sucks—hard. One long, deep pull with tongue and fingers working in tandem, filthy and focused and fucking lethal.

You cry out, hips bucking, the hand on his hair holding him against you as you grind on his mouth.

He groans into the mess he’s made, lapping it up like it’s sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue traces lazy, hungry circles.

Your body shakes. You grip his hair like a lifeline, breath shattered.

“Joaquín,” you pant, tugging on his curls. “Joaquín, I need—I need—”

“Gonna cum, baby?” he murmurs, curling his fingers again. “Gonna cum on my tongue?”

You let out a strangled moan as he licks you again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as his fingers pump in and out with an obscene squelching sound.

“Joaquín,” you say again, firmer this time.

His eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“Necesito sentirte adentro.”

He freezes. Everything stops. His fingers stop mid-thrust and he just stares at you, lips glistening, eyes wide.

“Joaquín Torres,” you say, breathless, chest heaving. “I need you inside me. Right fucking now.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up at you like you’ve broken something in him—something sacred.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he pulls his fingers from your body and rises to his full height.

You whimper, aching at the loss, feeling hollow.

His face is flushed. His lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked, staring down at you now with wide eyes and an expression so raw it makes your chest tighten.

“Are you sure, cariño?” he asks, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to. I—”

“I’m in love with you,” you say, rising from your chair to stand in front of him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “And I’d really like it if you fucked me right now.”

He just stares. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Brows drawn like he’s trying not to cry or laugh or do both at once.

Then, slowly, his lips curl into that familiar grin. The one you know too well. The one you love more than anything else on Earth.

“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Oh, did you now?”

He nods, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why do you think I just gave you the best head of your life?”

Your brows lift, and a laugh bubbles from your throat despite yourself. “Of my life?”

He nods again, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze dipping to that stupid moustache—still glistening with your slick, making your thighs clench. “I didn’t even cum…”

His grin drops, and he growls. A deep, guttural sound—low in his throat and hot on your skin—as his hands flex around your waist. Then in one fast, fluid motion, he twists your bodies and slams you back against the desk.

You gasp, hands flying to grip the edge for balance. But before you can speak, his mouth is on yours.

And fuck.

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s years of holding back, years of wanting, all pouring out in one searing, breath-stealing kiss. His lips crash against yours, tongue demanding entry, teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’s angry he waited this long.

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between you but heat and desperation. He kisses like he wants to devour you—like he’s trying to rewrite every second you spent not doing this.

His hands fumble at your waist, tugging at your shorts, pulling them down as you shift your hips to help. Once they fall to the floor, he starts yanking at his belt with shaking fingers.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long—”

You reach down to help, fingers brushing his as you undo his fly and push his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking against his stomach.

Your hand wraps around him on instinct—hot, hard, pulsing in your grip—and he curses again, burying his face in your neck.

You stroke once. Twice. Just enough to hear him moan against your throat.

Then—he pulls back, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he grabs the base and drags himself over your still-covered core. Nothing but the soaking wet scrap of lace left between you.

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what you do to me.”

He pushes again, the thick head of his cock dragging over your clit through the soaked fabric, the pressure maddening. Your hips jerk, mouth falling open.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the tip down your slit again. “You’re so fucking wet.”

Your hand grips the desk, the other tangled in his curls as you breathe out, “Joaquín—please—”

He looks at you like a man on the verge of losing control. Then he nudges your nose with his, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes blazing.

“Say it again,” he breathes. “One more time. Necesito sentirte adentro.”

Your breath shudders as your eyes lock on his, your voice barely more than a whisper—raw, pleading. “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

He groans—low, filthy, possessive—and grabs your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the desk so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. Then his hands are under your shirt—palms searing as they skim your stomach, over your ribs, until they find your bra.

Without hesitation, he shoves it up—then your shirt—baring your breasts. He groans, deep and guttural, eyes locking on you. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice reverent and wrecked.

His mouth latches to your chest, hot tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips wrap around it and suck—hard. His other hand is already at your soaked panties, pulling them to the side again, and you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance.

“Please,” you gasp, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his bare back. “Joaquín—now.”

He lifts his head, eyes burning, forehead resting against yours again.

“You want me?” he asks, cock dragging along your folds. “You want every inch?”

You nod, breathless, trembling. “Yes. I want you to fill me up. I need to feel you inside.”

He curses under his breath, grips your waist, and thrusts forward.

All the air leaves your lungs in a strangled cry as he slides inside—slow, thick, relentless. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, your bodies pressed tight, his mouth open against your throat.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. So warm. So tight. So perfect around me.”

You whimper, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper—closer. He starts to move, hips rolling forward, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before driving back in with a filthy, wet sound that echoes in the office.

“Fuck,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Not until you scream my name. Not until everyone in this damn city knows you’re mine.”

His hand slides up again, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as he pistons into you—faster, deeper, every stroke hitting that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges.

“You’re gonna cum for me now,” he pants, “and I’m gonna feel every second of it. You hear me?”

You nod—wild, breathless—but it’s not enough.

He thrusts hard, dragging a moan from your throat. Again. And again. Every push deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your head tips back, your hands scrambling for purchase—on the desk, on his shoulders, anywhere.

“Fuck, Joaquín—” you gasp, already so close.

But suddenly, he stops.

Buried to the hilt and breathing like he ran a marathon, he stills, chest heaving.

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand catching your chin and forcing your gaze to his. “I said look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, dazed and wide, vision blurred.

“I fucking love you, cariño,” he says—raw, desperate. “So fucking much. You feel that?” He rolls his hips, just once, dragging a broken sob from your lips. “That’s what love feels like. Me, inside you, losing my fucking mind.”

You whimper, thighs trembling around his waist, and he doesn’t wait. He starts to move again—deep and punishing, hitting every spot that makes you see stars.

“Tell me you love me,” he growls, one hand sliding up under your shirt again to squeeze your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you're writhing. “Tell me, baby. Say it.”

“I love you,” you gasp, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Fuck, Joaquín—I love you—I love you—”

“That’s it,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours, fucking you like he means it—like he needs it. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

His mouth crashes to yours mid-moan, swallowing the sound as he pounds into you, the desk rattling beneath your ass, every stroke sending shocks of heat down your spine. You can feel it building—tight and dangerous—coiling deep in your core like a spring about to snap.

“You gonna cum for me, mi amor?” he rasps, lips dragging along your jaw as his thrusts start to stutter. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”

Your entire body is shaking, one hand in his curls, the other clawing down his back as you choke out, “Yes—yes, I’m so close—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked. “Not until I feel you lose it. I want it all, baby. Cada maldita gota.”

His hand slides down your torso, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles in perfect rhythm with his hips. The pressure hits you like lightning—sharp, electric, blinding.

“Oh my God, Joaquín—"

You break.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm hits with devastating force, tearing through you in waves, pulsing around him as he groans—loud, low, carnal. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills inside you with a harsh, broken shout of your name, spilling deep as he holds you close like he’ll never let you go.

You’re both panting, chests heaving, grinding slowly to ride out the high and clinging to each other in the aftershock—sweat-slicked, breathless, totally undone.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses a soft kiss to your temple and stays buried deep inside you.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts,” he whispers.

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half disbelieving—and tip your head up to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you stupid. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you murmur.

He grins, still inside you, still pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest.

“Good,” he says, smug and a little dazed. “Means I did my job.”

You smack his shoulder, giggling now, and he catches your wrist—pressing a kiss to your palm, then the inside of your elbow, then the curve of your jaw.

“You’re such an idiot,” you say, fingers carding through his curls while his lips assault your neck.

His nose nuzzles into your skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m your idiot.”

“God help me,” you mumble, smiling into his shoulder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression so open it makes your stomach flip. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and sincere. “Not just physically—I mean, really.”

You nod, heart suddenly so full you feel like it might burst. “Yeah. I’m better than okay.”

His smile softens. “Good. Because I’m not pulling out until I get at least one more necesito sentirte adentro.”

You bark a laugh, head falling back. “You’re insatiable.”

He shrugs, hips shifting just enough to make you gasp. “And you’re going to be fluent soon.”

You tip your head forward, looking at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

“God,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “Vas a ser mi muerte.”

He rolls his hips again, and you suck in a breath—he’s still hard, still thick and hot, dragging through your slick with maddening pressure. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair as you lift your chin and kiss him—hard and soft all at once, pouring everything into it.

But then—

You stop. And pull back.

That sharp little ache flares behind your ribs, reminding you why you were in this office on a Sunday in the first place. Why you cried yourself to sleep. Why you weren’t even sure you could look at Joaquín today, let alone fuck him.

He blinks, brow creasing. “What’s wrong, mi vida?”

“Last night,” you murmur, eyes dropping to where your hand is fisted in his shirt. “Why didn’t you kiss me?”

He gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “On the dancefloor?”

You nod slowly.

“I didn’t kiss you on that dancefloor in front of a hundred criminals because I didn’t want our first kiss to be undercover,” he says softly. “Didn’t want you thinking it was just for show.”

“Oh.” Your lips twitch into a smile.

He chuckles, soft and low. “Is that why you were upset? Because I almost kissed you and didn’t?”

You nod again, slower this time. Cheeks burning, heart thudding.

“Oh, mi amor,” he sighs, voice warm with laughter. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Well,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter in his hair, “you could start by fucking me again.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His lips are back on yours in a second, hips rolling forward, his hard length pushing into you with the most delicious stretch. You moan against his mouth, hiking your legs up higher around his waist to feel him deeper.

His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, searing fingerprints into your skin—marks you know will make you squeeze your thighs every time you see them.

And then—

Ping!

The sound of your phone cuts through the soft whisper of skin on skin. Neither of you can help but glance at it, sitting screen-up on the desk right beside where Joaquín is fucking you slowly.

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

“Just a motion alert,” you reply. “I set it up a while ago when I was working a lot of weekends because Sam would come in and scare the crap out of me.” You look back at him, eyes trailing over his face so close to yours. “Doesn’t help though. I didn’t see the notification when you came in.”

He frowns. “So it alerts you when someone enters the building?”

“Yep.”

“Right.” His eyes flick to the phone, then back to you. “So... someone just entered the building?”

Your eyes go wide. “Fuck.”

You grab the phone and unlock it with shaky fingers, bringing up the security system app and quickly flicking through the camera feeds until you find movement.

Your breath catches. “It’s Sam.”

“Shit,” Joaquín hisses, pulling out so quickly it leaves you winded.

You let out a pathetic little whine, and he can’t help but chuckle as he fumbles with his pants.

“Later, baby. I promise,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But Sam is going to be here in a few seconds, and he’s going to know what just happened in here if we don’t—”

Knock, knock, knock.

“You in there, kid?”

You both whip toward the door, seeing Sam’s blurred silhouette through the frosted glass.

“Quick, cariño,” Joaquín whispers, helping you off the desk.

You scramble into your shorts, yank your bra and shirt into place, then turn to Joaquín, raking your fingers through his wild curls—both of you stifling laughter like love-drunk fools trying to clean up a crime scene.

Knock, knock, knock.

“I can hear you.”

You clear your throat, nod at Joaquín, and step around the desk toward the door. As you grab the handle, you glance back—and spot a little pool of evidence on the desk.

“Joaquín,” you hiss, pointing at it.

His eyes go wide, and he quickly sits on it, trying to look casual—as if he hadn’t just been buried inside you right there thirty seconds ago.

Then you yank the door open, plastering on your most innocent smile.

“Hey, Sam!” you say, probably a little too brightly.

His hand was poised to knock again, but he drops it slowly, eyes narrowing as they bounce between you and Joaquín.

“Hi,” he says, slow and suspicious, stepping into the room.

You shuffle back toward the desk, sliding in beside Joaquín, praying to any god that might listen that Sam can’t read the Spanish on the goddamn whiteboard.

“What are you two doing?” Sam asks, brows raised.

“Working,” you both say, in perfect unison.

Sam cocks his head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? On a Sunday?”

You nod. “Yep. I was running data on Navarro all night and found a few leads. He frequents this deli in Washington Heights, owned by—”

“Why does it smell weird in here?” Sam interrupts, sniffing the air like a police dog.

“Weird how?” Joaquín asks. “I came straight from the gym, so if it’s sweat, that’s probably—”

“Did you two have sex in here?” Sam exclaims, eyes wide—locked on that fucking whiteboard.

“No,” you say quickly. “I was learning Spanish. Joaquín was teaching me—”

“I know what that says,” he cuts in, pointing at it, brows drawn and lips pursed like he’s trying not to gag.

“I was just being funny,” Joaquín says, tone light. “Nothing happened.”

Sam raises a brow. “Oh, okay. So if I check the security footage, it’s not going to show anything?”

Your heart lurches, your cheeks burn, and you turn toward Joaquín, burying your face in his chest with a groan.

You hadn’t even thought about that stupid little security camera in the corner of your office.

“I knew it!” Sam cries. “I can’t believe you two. This is a place of work,” he goes on, already climbing onto his high horse. “You just violated my trust—and the trust of everyone on this team. This is an environment for professionalism, not sex. I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless, so—”

“Didn’t you bring a date back here the weekend after we started operating?” Joaquín asks suddenly, brows raised.

You lift your head, blinking. “Oh my God. You did! What was her name—Kylie? Casey?”

Sam freezes. His expression drops.

“You know,” Joaquín continues, turning to you, “we could probably find the footage from that night. I think I remember the date.”

“Wouldn’t take long,” you add, grinning now. “Could scrub through it before we erase ours.”

“Okay!” Sam blurts, throwing up a hand. “Okay. You heathens win.”

Joaquín grins, wide and smug, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

“Go through the cameras,” Sam instructs, already backing toward the door. “Delete the footage. Both incidents.”

“No offense, Sam,” you mutter, grimacing, “I really don’t want to see that.”

“I’ll do it,” Joaquín says cheerfully. “I’m actually a little curious about how Captain America—”

“Enough,” Sam snaps, pointing at Joaquín—but the twitch in his lips betrays him. “Do it. Go home. Take tomorrow off. Hell, take the whole week if you’re going to be all over each other like this. Just don’t defile any more government property.”

Then he’s gone. Out the door and down the hall, muttering something about kids these days.

Joaquín hops off the desk and wraps his arms around you, smiling like a sinner who just got a free pass to heaven.

“You think we should keep a copy?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “I bet it’s hot.”

Your thighs clench instinctively, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Oh, definitely. And Sam’s too—for blackmail. Just in case.”

Joaquín laughs. “God. Could you imagine if Captain America’s sex tape got leaked?”

“Might boost his approval rating,” you snort, moving to slide into your chair.

He stands behind you while you pull up the security system app, his arms around your shoulders, lips brushing over your hair again and again.

He murmurs it at first—I love you, I love you, I love you—until the words melt into Spanish, growing filthier, hungrier. You can’t understand all of it, but it doesn’t matter.

Because you’ll make him teach you.

Slowly. Thoroughly.

Between your legs. All fucking night.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

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