retrosabers

[retrosabers]

A Breach in Reality

request: If you're taking requests ive been GNAWING for a joaquin x fem reader where they go on an undercover mission to a riiiiiiich ahh gala as a fake couple and they end up kissing to not get caught🤌

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: undercover trope, colleagues to lovers, internal angst/insecurity, kissing

wc: 1,572

an: these two are so adorable! thank you for sending in this request anon. I truly hope you enjoy <3

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The mission brief was simple: infiltrate the gala, extract the intel, get out without blowing your cover. The two of you had prepared well, going over your aliases, asking each other questions that someone might want to know, making sure all the gaps were filled.

What you didn’t prepare for is how tight and warm Joaquin’s hand would feel on your waist in the silky gown you’re wearing. Or how good he’d look in his polished suit, black and sleek. How good his cologne smells when you walk hand and hand. How his eyes seemed to roam a little more than usual; you brush that thought away easier than all the others. Of course he was looking at everyone, at you more closely.

He leans close to whisper against your ear as you walk up the marble steps of the venue. He has to say it because it’s true. “You clean up nice, princesa.”

You barely hold back a smile, rolling your eyes at him playfully. “You’re just saying that because I’m your fake date.”

Joaquin’s gaze is sincere. “I’d say it if you were my real one, too.”

You have to look away from his brown eyes because you don’t detect any dishonesty. But you know that you shouldn’t get involved with someone you’re working with, especially with how infrequent you see him. You don’t want to get attached to the idea of having him this way, even if your mind has forced you to dream about it once or twice before.

You value reality and protection of yourself, of your heart over everything. It’s why you haven’t let yourself go on a date in over 5 years. The last time you opened up in that way, you couldn’t remember who you were when it all finished.

The gala is all champagne flutes, soft jazz, and people with money to waste. You keep your arm looped through his, playing the role of the doting partner while you both scan the room for your target. He’s pressing you closer than necessary, his body heat seeping into your skin, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to.

What’s one night letting yourself feel the affection of someone else, especially when it’s already known to be a farce. No harm, no foul.

“Target’s heading toward the east wing,” you murmur, eyes trained on the man with the silver cufflinks. The pin on his suit indicates he’s exactly who you’re looking for.

“Copy,” Joaquin says smoothly. “Let’s move—”

“Un segundo,” you cut in quickly, pressing into him more firmly to stop him. “Su seguridad está mirando.”

Two guards in suits that linger just far enough to not draw attention to the untrained eye have turned to look directly at you both, eyes narrowed like they’ve seen something they shouldn’t. Like they see right through you.

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate. He shifts in front of you, hand sliding to your jaw like it belongs there. “¿Confías en me?”

You raise a brow at him, like he’s asked you a silly question. And he has, you wouldn’t have agreed to go on a mission with him if you didn’t trust him. “…I’m literally undercover with you.”

He grins mischievously, eyes glittering in the low lighting. “Close enough.”

He kisses you then.

It’s delicate and unexpected, and you’re too caught up in the perfect way his lips feel against yours to remember the mission for a split second. The reality you had just promised yourself you would stay in slips away. His hands stay gentle but sure, holding your face like you’re something fragile, like he’s been waiting for an excuse.

You melt into it—just for a second, just until the guards look away. At least that’s what you tell yourself, because the thought of breaking the kiss never crosses your mind.

It’s him who pulls back, leaving you both a little breathless.

“Convincing enough, yeah?” he asks, trying to sound casual but his voice is rough. He’s clearly affected, but you chalk it up to a natural response from the body.

You clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him. “Yeah. They’re uninterested.”

Neither of you moves. He’s still cupping your face, his thumb absentmindedly running over your cheek. And your hands that had moved to ground you during the kiss are still fisted in the fabric of his suit. The mission calls you forward, but something heavier hangs between you—hot, unspoken, electric.

You clear your throat again, loosening your hold on him, still not daring to meet his gaze. “Listas?”

He lets out a breath. “Listo.”

The mission wraps up without a hitch. The target successfully caught, the intel procured. You’re back in the van peeling off your heels with a weighted sigh and trying not to think about the way Joaquin kissed you like he meant it.

Except, how are you meant to not think about it?

You’ve replayed it at least thirty times on the way back to the safe house, each one more embarrassing than the last. Because the thing is, it didn’t feel fake; not for a second. And now you’re stuck wondering if that was just him being good at the job, or if maybe it meant something. Something more.

That’s not a question you’ll let yourself ask though. Reality. Protection. You repeat the words to yourself multiple times.

You’re still in your dress, sitting stiffly on the couch while he moves around the tiny kitchen grabbing water bottles and energy bars like it’s any other mission night. Like he didn’t short-circuit your brain with one very public, very effective, very affectionate kiss.

He tosses a bottle your way without looking.

You recognize it for what it is; an interrogation tactic that the both of you have been taught. Meet a need no matter how small and the person is more inclined to give you the information you need.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Sure.”

You open it and take multiple sips, in an attempt to stall. But there’s nowhere for you to go. If you avoided the conversation tonight he would simply ask you in the morning with more eyes watching. At least here the two of you could talk about it alone. You won’t go down easily though.

He finally turns to face you, leans against the counter like he’s waiting for something. His expression is patient and no less warm than always.

“So,” you say, like it doesn’t feel weird. “Impeccable job out there, as always.”

He nods slowly. “You too.”

Silence.

The air’s thick with everything you’re not saying, and you start picking at the label on your bottle because suddenly you don’t know where to look.

Joaquin finally pushes off the counter and walks toward you. Not in a hurry, he’s calm and collected. Deliberate. His voice is soft when he asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. You pause, voice softer when you speak again, “I’m fine. Just… y’know. Debrief brain, long night, longer morning coming. I miss my bed, my cat, eating real food.”

He tilts his head. “It’s not the mission you’re thinking about, right?”

You go quiet, opening your mouth to deny his line of questioning but nothing comes out. You’re rusty when it comes to dating or feelings of any kind— almost feeling like an antiquated machine.

He steps closer, enough to kneel in front of where you’re sitting. His hand rests gently on your knee—not pushing, just grounding.

��I didn’t mean to make things weird,” he says apologetically. “The kiss. I didn’t plan it— I wasn’t thinking that it would make you uncomfortable. Pero, querida… fue real.”

You finally look at him, wide-eyed unsure of what to say. It was real. He meant it. He meant to kiss you.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while,” he admits, his thumb mirroring his movements from before, stroking the curve of your knee. “The op just gave me an excuse.”

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to. “Oh.”

He gives a breath of a laugh. “That’s all you’ve got?” he teases.

You blink. “No, I mean—yeah, I mean—I— well.”

He squeezes your knee in an attempt to comfort you, “Breathe, princesa. It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

At his urging you pause to take a breath, finally able to say, “It didn’t feel fake to me either.”

That earns you a soft, slow smile. Joaquin settles more firmly on his knees in front of you, ducking his head so that you have to meet his gaze. “So how about we try it again sometime,” he says, “no mission, no cover story—just us?”

You grin, a little shy. A little anxious. Isn’t this what you’ve been trying to avoid? Reality and protection. But this reality as far as you can tell. You look at him, your eyes searching, skimming through the depth of his brown eyes. You’re met with nothing but warmth, with reverence and hope.

“Are you asking me out, Torres? Really?”

“Damn right I am. If you let me,” he adds after a moment, voice gentler.

You let yourself look at him—really look—and for once, you stop fighting the warmth that blooms in your chest every time you’re with him.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay. I think I’d like that.”

He pushes up, hand cupping your cheek like before so that he can kiss you.

And this second kiss?

It’s slower, softer— more thorough with no eyes watching and all the time in the world.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

[retrosabers]

enough said i don’t think this requires elaboration

The Glasses Stay On

summary: a quiet evening turns into something far steamier when Joel catches you teasing him while he's wearing those damn glasses he swore he didn’t need.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

word count: 4k

content warnings: smut, no plot, joel keeps the glasses on, blowjob, face riding, pet names, no y/n used, no reader description, established relationship, teasing, banter, not proofread

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. i am feeling feral after seeing joel in glasses. it's my first time writing oral sex (blowjob) so...hopefully it's good? also inspired by elliespuns answer on joel asking for eye contact when he eats you out.

All thoughts scattered the moment you stepped through the door.

Joel sat at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, sleeves shoved to his elbows. He didn’t look up, too focused on the mess of metal and wire in front of him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his lower lip was caught slightly between his teeth.

But it wasn’t the project that caught your attention.

It was the glasses.

Thin, silver-framed and slightly crooked—he always refused to wear them around you, brushing off your teasing with a stubborn, "Don’t need ‘em." But here he was, home alone, caught in the act. A quiet, unguarded moment. And for some reason, it hit you low and warm.

His hands moved with surprising precision, thick fingers maneuvering the pliers with rough delicacy that made your mouth go dry. The edge of his brown jacket was rolled to the midpoint of his forearms, a smear of grease trailing across one vein-lined wrist. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t realize you’d been having.

You didn’t mean to stare. You certainly didn’t mean to feel like this—heart kicking up, thighs pressing together before you even crossed the room.

Your bag hit the floor with a soft thud. Shoes were toed off. You padded closer, heat rising up your neck.

“Well, don’t you look pretty,” you teased, voice lighter than you felt. Your smile curled slowly, eyes drinking him in.

Joel let out a low grunt, not lifting his head. “Don’t start.”

You chuckled under your breath, stopping beside the table. “But you look so cute,” you cooed, hand reaching out before you could stop yourself. Your fingers brushed his jaw, gentle but insistently coaxing his chin up.

He finally looked at you, his eyes slowly lifting just above the rim of his glasses. They were darker now, narrowed beneath furrowed brows, unreadable… but there was something there. A flicker. A tension. Heat coiled low in your belly at the sight of it.

His voice was low and hoarse, scraping at your spine like sandpaper. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “don’t distract me.”

Your lips parted, breath catching how he said it—gritty, quiet, like a warning—only made your pulse faster.

“Me?” you whispered, placing a hand against your chest with exaggerated innocence. “Distract you? Never.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh through his nose, shaking his head, but his hand faltered slightly as he adjusted the wire he was working on. You saw it—the smallest stutter in his movement. Not much. Just enough to know he wasn’t unaffected.

You stepped closer, just enough for your knee to brush the edge of his thigh under the table. His hand stilled completely.

He didn’t look up this time. Just exhaled slowly through his nose, nostrils flaring. A vein in his forearm twitched, like he was holding something back.

God, he was so handsome like this—jaw tight, lips pressed in a firm line, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. His shirt clung in places from the house's heat, damp at the collar. One more minute of watching him like this and you would lose it.

Your voice dropped, barely above a hum. “You know,” you said, tilting your head, “if this is what you look like when you’re focused, I might have to start leaving you little projects more often.”

He froze for a beat. Then slowly, he set the pliers down with a quiet clink.

Joel turned in his chair, eyes dragging up your body—deliberate, slow, heat simmering behind his stare. He pushed his glasses up with one finger, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he muttered, “and you’re gonna find yourself bent over this table ‘fore I even finish fixin’ this damn thing.”

You shook your head slowly, lips curling into a wicked little smirk. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sank to your knees between his legs.

“I’ve got other plans,” you murmured, voice silk-soft, threaded with heat.

Your hands found his knees first—broad, warm, solid beneath your palms. You slid them upward, slow and teasing, feeling the muscle tense beneath your touch as you traced the line of his thighs.

Joel’s breath hitched. Barely audible, but you caught it.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice gone gravel-deep. His hands flexed where they rested on the edge of the table. “You ain’t gotta do that, honey.”

He said it like a protest, but there was no weight behind it—no real resistance, just that familiar Joel reluctance, that soft spot he tried to hide behind rough hands and gruff words.

“I want to,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes. Your fingers were already at the button of his jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. “You just keep working.”

You winked, dragging the zipper down slowly. The rasp of metal filled the quiet space between you, and you felt the way his thighs tightened beneath your touch—his whole body coiled like a live wire.

Joel cursed again, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose, half in disbelief, half trying to hold himself together. But his hips shifted, just slightly, a silent surrender.

He still hadn’t looked down at you.

The challenge of it made your pulse race.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of his boxers, your lips lingering against the warm skin.

Joel’s breath came sharp through his nose.

“Keep your hands steady, handsome,” you whispered, your voice low and playful. “Don’t want you messing up that wiring.”

His answer came through clenched teeth. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

You weren’t in a rush.

You wanted to savor this—to savor him. Every slow, deliberate motion was part of the tease, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans and dragging them down inch by inch. The fabric scraped rough against your knuckles, and you could feel the heat radiating off his skin before you even reached him.

Joel’s breath came unevenly, his hands gripping the table's edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

When his boxers followed, his cock sprang free—already half-hard, heavy, and twitching slightly in the cool air. You let your eyes linger on him, licking your lips without shame. Then you wrapped your fingers around him, dragging your fist down the thick length once… twice…

Joel groaned, deep and guttural. His hips jerked forward against your hand like his body was acting on instinct, chasing more.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your strokes lazy, teasing. Just enough to drive him mad. You were in control now, and he was already starting to unravel.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back slightly, jaw clenched tight. “You’re gonna kill me.”

A smile tugged at your lips. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin beneath the head, then another to the base, watching the muscles in his thighs tense and flex beneath your touch.

You adored him like this.

Unraveling. Wordless. Tension bleeding out of that tightly-wound body because of you.

You dragged your mouth up the length of him, slow as sin, your breath hot and heavy against his skin. Joel’s hand shot out, fingers curling tight into your hair, but he didn’t push—just held, like he needed the anchor.

“I love watchin’ you fall apart for me,” you whispered against him, lips brushing the sensitive ridge.

Joel finally looked down at you, eyes dark and glassy, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven pulls like he’d just fought his way through a storm.

“Jesus,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You look so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The words hit you low and deep, lighting something hot inside your belly. You beamed at him, lips parting in a slow, satisfied smile because you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Knew he could barely hold himself together.

You leaned in and finally took him into your mouth without breaking eye contact.

The warm and heavy taste of him on your tongue made your thighs press together. You kept the pace gentle at first, hollowing your cheeks just enough, letting your lips glide over the sensitive skin as you drew him in.

Joel groaned—deep and rough—and his hips shifted, his body fighting to stay still. One of his hands was still tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding like he didn’t trust himself not to lose control.

You hummed around him, loving how he twitched against your tongue in response. His breath stuttered. Another soft sound escaped him—a whimper, barely audible, but it sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

God, you lived for this. Watching Joel come undone, letting you see the cracks in that hard exterior. Every ragged breath, every broken sound, was a gift—a secret he gave only to you.

Your hands gripped his thighs, fingers digging in for leverage as you took him deeper, the stretch making your eyes water just slightly, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You wanted all of him. Needed it.

His voice came out strangled, wrecked, and desperate. “Fuck—sweetheart, you keep goin’ like that, I ain’t gonna last.”

You pulled back just enough to breathe, letting your tongue flick against the tip before sinking again, taking him deeper this time, allowing your throat to relax as far as you could. His hips bucked, involuntary, a hiss tearing from between his clenched teeth.

Your hands smoothed up his stomach beneath his shirt, feeling his belly tensed under your touch. You could feel it—how close he was—the tremble in his thighs, the low groan vibrating in his chest, the way his fingers gripped your hair like he was hanging on by a thread.

You looked up at him again, eyes wet, lips swollen, mouth full of him, and smiled the best you could.

You wanted him to come apart. To feel it. To lose himself in you.

Joel’s voice cracked low and rough above you. “That’s it, darlin’... fuck.”

His hips jerked, shallow and restrained at first, but then a little deeper and needier. He was trying to hold back, trying not to thrust too hard, but his control was fraying with every flick of your tongue, every slow pull of your mouth.

You let him. 

You welcomed the way he started to fuck into your mouth, hips rolling forward in time with the wet slide of your lips. He was breathing hard now, one hand clenched in your hair, the other braced on the table behind him—his whole body taut, vibrating with the effort of staying upright.

“Shit—sweetheart, I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he gritted out, voice low and broken. “Fuck, you feel too good…”

Your hands smoothed under his shirt again, fingertips brushing his stomach, feeling how it flexed under your touch. You moaned around him, soft and encouraging, and that was it—that did it.

Joel’s breath hitched, his thighs tensed beneath your hands.

“Fuck—fuck,” he choked, voice strangled as his hips snapped forward one last time, his release hitting hard and fast. You felt the twitch of him on your tongue, the warmth spilling into your mouth as he gasped your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

You didn’t pull away. You took every bit of it, swallowing around him lazily, like you had all the time in the world.

When you finally drew back, a thin string of spit still connected your lips to the head of his cock. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, blinking up at him with that same wicked smile.

“You’re trouble,” Joel rasped, still catching his breath, voice thick and rough like gravel. “Sweet, dangerous fuckin’ trouble.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking up to where his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose with a slow, satisfied smile. Your fingers gliding down the inside of his thighs—just to feel the aftershocks still buzzing beneath his skin. He was flushed and sweaty, chest rising and falling, shirt clinging to him in all the right places. The sight of him like this—flushed, undone, still wearing those damn glasses—made your smirk deepen.

“You should wear your glasses more often,” you teased, dragging your nails lightly along his thigh. “Kinda makes you look like a professor with a filthy mouth.”

Joel huffed out a weak laugh, head tipping back against the chair with a groan.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You just about killed me and now you’re lookin’ to finish the job.”

You pushed yourself up between his knees slowly, hands braced on his thighs as you leaned in close—so close your breath tickled the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I haven’t even started yet,” you whispered, lips brushing barely against his.

His hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb stroking slow against your jaw. The heat in his gaze had shifted, less wrecked, more focused. Grounded. Dangerous in a different way.

“Is that so?” he murmured, voice still low but steadying, a challenge creeping back in. “Guess it’s my turn, then.”

You opened your mouth to protest—to tell Joel he didn’t have to, that he could sit back down and finish whatever project had his attention before you rudely distracted him.

But then he gave you that look.

That smirk. That slow, knowing curl of his mouth paired with eyes that dragged over your body like he was undressing you.

“Don’t act like you don’t want me to make you feel good, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice all gravel and heat.

His words alone sent a spark straight through you—low, heavy, and impossible to ignore. Your thighs pressed together, the aftershocks of your earlier teasing still lingering between them.

“Joel, you don’t—”

He didn’t let you finish.

Instead, he stood up, towering over you, then bent just enough to hook his arms around your waist. You let out a startled laugh as he lifted you clean off the ground and slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Joel!” you squealed, half laughing and breathless, but your protest died when your eyes landed on the sight before you—his ass—still exposed from where you’d dragged his jeans down earlier.

You grinned, biting your lip, but the amusement twisted into something hotter the moment Joel’s palm came down in a firm, playful smack against the curve of your ass.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice low, barely above a rumble. You could feel it against your stomach where your body pressed against his.

Then, almost to himself, more thoughtful than teasing. “What should I do for you, honey…”

You shivered at the question—not because you didn’t have answers, but because it came out like a promise. Like he wasn’t just thinking about giving you pleasure—he was planning it. Mapping it out in that careful, deliberate way, Joel did everything.

As he carried you toward the bedroom, your fingers curled into the hem of his jacket, nails scraping lightly against his lower back.

“You’re such a caveman,” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed. But your voice came out breathy, wrecked with anticipation.

Joel chuckled, one hand sliding up to grip your thigh.

“Yeah, but you like it when I drag you off like this,” he said, shouldering the bedroom door open. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way you smiled when I smacked your ass.”

He dropped you onto the bed with a gentle thud, your back hitting the mattress and bouncing slightly. Before you could sit up, he crawled over you, glasses still somehow on, those eyes burning into yours like you were the only thing he wanted to see in the world.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-growl as he kissed a slow path down your neck, “lemme return the favor.”

Joel undressed you in a blur of rough hands and reverent kisses—fingers tugging at fabric, mouth tracing the skin he exposed, piece by piece. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t waste time either, like he couldn’t stand the thought of you being covered for a second longer than necessary.

By the time you were bare beneath him, chest rising and falling with anticipation, his touch softened—thumb and forefinger teasing your nipples with slow, deliberate rolls that had you gasping beneath him.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes drinking you like something sacred. Then he dipped lower, kissing a slow, open-mouthed path down your stomach, dragging his stubble just enough to make you squirm.

You braced for it—for him to settle between your thighs, but instead, Joel pulled back.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat as he stripped out of his jacket and shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the sweat-slick heat of him. Then, with surprising ease, he lay flat on his back and shifted you with him, guiding your thighs to straddle his chest, then higher, until you were hovering above his face.

“Joel,” you said, half-breathless. “What are you—? I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

He smirked, brow arched, the picture of smug, ruined perfection beneath you.

“I am, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly promise. His hands gripped your hips, firm and possessive, and dragged you up a little higher until your knees were planted on either side of his head, your pussy just inches above his mouth. “You like riding so much…” His gaze flicked up, hot and hungry. “So ride my face.”

Your breath caught—stolen clean out of your chest.

You let out a quiet, stunned laugh, but it faltered when you met his eyes. He wasn’t joking. There was no teasing in his expression now—just heat, need, and the kind of patience that made your stomach flip.

“Joel,” you breathed, your voice trembling, your fingers curling into his hair for balance.

You’d done this before, but never like this. Never with him lay out like a man ready to worship. His hands coaxing you down, his mouth open, waiting, like he was the lucky one.

And fuck… maybe he was.

In this moment, as his grip tightened and he pulled you gently down to his lips, you felt like you were the one about to be worshipped.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he said, voice low and reverent as his breath ghosted over your skin. “Don’t be shy now. Let me taste you.”

You leaned down slightly, breath hitching as you reached for the bridge of his glasses, fingertips brushing the metal.

Joel gently batted your hand away, his voice low and commanding, but soft around the edges.

“Nah,” he murmured, eyes locking with yours beneath the lenses. “I wanna see you. Wanna see how pretty you look when you come.”

The words landed like a punch to your gut—hot and heavy, straight between your thighs. Your body tensed in response, breath stalling in your chest. The idea of him watching—really watching—every twitch, every gasp, every moment of you falling apart on top of him?

It short-circuited your brain.

You barely had time to respond—no witty retort, no teasing comeback—before Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your skin in that possessive way he always touched you when his restraint started to slip.

And then he pulled you down onto his mouth.

You gasped loudly, the sound ripping from your throat as your hips met his face. His tongue was already there, already moving, hot and slow and devastating between your folds.

Your hands flew forward, scrambling until you found the headboard. Gripping it like a lifeline, your thighs trembled on either side of his head.

“Joel—” you choked out, but it was barely a sound.

He groaned into you in response, the vibration making your spine arch. His hands slid from your hips to your ass, holding you in place, guiding your movement—urging you to grind against his mouth.

He wanted you to ride. Wanted to feel it. Wanted to watch every second through those damn glasses like it was his favorite view in the world.

You looked down and nearly fell apart again.

Joel’s eyes were open, locked on yours—dark and intent, his lashes damp with sweat, the lower half of his face already glistening. He looked wrecked and entirely in control all at once.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, rolling your hips without meaning to, chasing the pressure, the friction of his tongue dragging through your slick.

He groaned again, his grip flexing, his mouth working you with purpose now—slow circles, firm flicks, sucking gently on your clit before diving back in with messy, open-mouthed hunger.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Joel didn’t stop or even blink as he kept watching you. 

“Joel… oh, fuck, right there—” you moaned, voice cracking as your fingers dug harder into the headboard, knuckles white with the effort to stay grounded.

He didn’t let up.

Joel’s mouth moved with deliberate, devastating precision—his tongue lapping over your clit in slow, firm strokes, just the way he knew would push you over the edge. Every flick, every pull of his lips sent shocks through you, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his face.

He was relentless. His hands gripping your ass, holding you down against his mouth as if he knew you were close, as if he could feel it in the way your body started to twitch, to quake. His stubble scraped deliciously along your inner thighs, raw and unfiltered, the kind of burn you’d crave after it was over.

You were sweating, skin flushed and damp, the air thick and heavy around you. Every nerve felt on fire. Your back arching, hips rocking helplessly against him, chasing every bit of friction his mouth offered.

Your head tipped forward, forehead pressing against the cool wood of the headboard as the tension inside you twisted tighter and tighter, impossible to contain.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, your voice barely recognizable—hoarse, wrecked. “Joel, please—right there, don’t stop—”

He groaned beneath you, the sound sending another ripple of heat through your core. One of his hands slid between your legs, two fingers slipping inside you with ease—thick, perfect, curling just right as his mouth stayed locked on your clit.

The sensation shattered you.

Your entire body seized, hips jerking forward as the orgasm slammed into you. A cry tore from your throat, as wave after wave rolled through you, pleasure sparking like electricity from your core to your fingertips.

Joel didn’t stop.

He kept working you through it, drawing out every last twitch, every helpless moan, until your legs went weak and your grip on the headboard loosened.

When you finally opened your eyes, panting and dazed, Joel was still beneath you—his lips wet, beard damp, and those goddamn glasses still on as he looked up at you like you were his favorite sin.

“Pretty when you beg,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

You took a shaky breath, your body still trembling with the echoes of release as Joel guided you down onto the bed. His movements were deliberate. He hovered for a second, eyes scanning your face, like he needed to make sure you were still there, still okay.

You were. You just felt like you’d melted into the mattress.

His hands smoothed over your hips, then your thighs, grounding you with his touch. You could feel how gentle and attuned he was to every little shiver running through you. Like he didn’t just want to hold you—he wanted to protect whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you in that moment.

“So goddamn pretty,” Joel murmured, voice hoarse and low as he leaned down to kiss you.

The kiss was soft. Slow. Not hungry or rushed, just full of heat left behind. You could taste yourself on his lips, the faintest salt-sweet tang, and instead of embarrassment, it only made your stomach flip again.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling into the damp hair at his nape, stroking gently. His weight was warm above you, comforting, and you let yourself sink into the feeling of him, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

When he pulled back, you caught sight of his glasses—still clinging to his face, slightly fogged from the heat radiating between your bodies.

You blinked, then let out a soft laugh.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered, reaching up to nudge them crooked on his nose. “I think I bent your glasses.”

Joel gave you that slow, lazy smirk, eyes still dark with the afterglow.

“Worth it,” he murmured.

He peeled them off with one hand and set them aside on the nightstand, not bothering to look at the damage. Then he rolled onto his side, tugging you until your head rested against his chest, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your back.

You could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Solid. Familiar.

He kissed the top of your head, his scruff scratching lightly against your scalp.

“Y’alright?” he murmured into your hair, voice softened now, more Joel than ever.

You nodded, pressing your nose to his skin and breathing him in.

“Better than alright,” you whispered.

He hummed low in his throat, content and quiet, fingertips tracing lazy circles along your spine like he never wanted to let you go.

[retrosabers]

your honor…i am in love with him

Vanilla Tobacco

summary: would you ever be enough for joaquin?

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MATURE/MINORS DNI, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f!receiving), internal angst, yearning, insecure!reader, fluff, love confessions

wc: 3,115

an: this fic idea came to me while i was listening to vanilla tobacco by eloise 🫶🏾

danny ramirez characters masterlist

You and Joaquin spend more time together than you expected to, but that feeling creeps in when the first streams of light peak through his curtains.

That feeling is exactly what you’d been worried about when you and Joaquin first started.

Since the beginning, you felt like Joaquin was out of your league. Not because you weren’t in one of your own— you had plenty to offer—but because you’re just a civilian. It feels silly when you really think about it, but you don’t have any special abilities, no training, and you certainly aren’t a mechanical or quantum genius.

You’re just a person. A normal person with not much but yourself to give. And while it was a lot to give, would it be enough for someone like Joaquin? You weren't sure.

It’s what you’re thinking about when he stirs beside you. You quickly close your eyes, trying to settle back into the mattress but Joaquin can feel the tension in your muscles as he stretches against you.

Lips brush the spot beneath your ear and his voice thick with sleep but smooth, “Buenas días, cariño.”

“Buenas días,” You murmur softly, sinking back against him when his arms circle you.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Hmm?”

“You were awake, probably laying there worrying about everything under the sun. So what was it today?”

He’s observant. Too observant in this case.

“Nothing important.”

He taps your hip, prompting you to roll over to face him. “It’s important if you’re worrying about it. C’mon, querida, lay it on me.”

“It’s just…gallery stuff,” You say hesitantly. “There’s an artist I’m hoping to hear back from.”

It isn’t a complete lie, there is an artist you would die to have in the gallery you help manage. But it’s the weekend, you know you’ll hear back eventually. With Joaquin, you don’t have the courage to ask the right questions.

“I’m sure you’ll hear back from them soon. They’d be lucky to be working under you. I mean look at that,” he points to a piece you painted that’s now hanging on his wall.

You hadn’t planned to give it to him though your relationship with him had inspired it. He’d come over one day and begged you to give it to him, not knowing he’d been the inspiration.

Your cheeks warm at his praise, at the meaning of the piece, unbeknownst to him. Shaking your head you insist, “That’s nothing.”

“It’s from your hands,” He counters, eyes warm.

His faith in you and your artistry make your heart race a little, that feeling returning. You try to swallow it down, distracting yourself by running a hand through his soft hair. “If you wanted in my nonexistent pants, you could just kiss me.”

His eyes go from warm to scorching, and he pinches your thigh playfully. “Maybe I wanted to compliment you first. I get to do that, you know.”

You’ve got him right where you want him, and you know that with his touch, with his kiss that all those worrying thoughts will fade to the background.

“Compliment received. Now what?”

The depth of Joaquin’s hunger bleeds through when he leans in to kiss you. His mouth is insistent, entitled as he kisses you deeply. He pushes you back against the sheets, both his arms coming up to pin your wrists down on either side of your head.

“Vamos a alistarte para mí, ¿hmm?” He asks, his lips brushing yours with every word.

“Mhmm, yeah,” you breathe, kissing more firmly at his mouth.

He returns your kiss for a few seconds before he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently. He starts a trail of these bites downward, your neck, your breasts, tummy and eventually thighs as he spreads your legs wide.

His mouth stays that way even as he eats you out; eager and demanding. He knows exactly what to do to get you to shiver and whine, his tongue alternating between sucking at your clit and dipping inside you to taste more of your slick. This combination takes you high quickly and once you’re relaxed for him, he slides his cock inside of you in one thrust as he kisses you gently.

With each roll of his hips, the tip of his cock feels like it’s kissing your womb, like he’s trying to dig himself further inside you.

“Joaquin, fuck,” You whine, one of your hands gripping his hair roughly.

He groans as pleasurable pain bursts against his scalp; he welcomes the way you sometimes pull his hair or bite the muscle of his arms. He bends to kiss the tip of your nose, shushing you. “Shhh, yo sé. Just take it for me, hmm, amorcito?”

You let out a gasping breath, nodding softly. It feels like he’s in your guts, in your throat but taking him is what you want. What you both want. “Okay,” You breathe, trembling beneath him as the band inside you winds tighter.

“Hold me close, querida,” He coos, finding more stable purchase on his knees so that his thrusts can come quicker and harder.

It’s a familiar dance that your bodies fall into, hips kissing in a rhythm that bring you both closer to the prescipe of your highs. Joaquin’s mouth is always busy, either praising you with how well you take him or leaving bites along your neck and shoulder.

You fall apart around him, biting your lip to hold in the wanton groan.

Joaquin bends to take control of your lips, shaking his head as he does. “Quiero oírte,” He mumbles against your lips.

It’s impossible then for you to resist; how could you deny him what he wanted if it was in your power?

Your body shakes beneath his, squeezing his cock tight as you whimper and moan beneath him. While you’ve always felt self conscious about how loud you can get, Joaquin has reassured you that he loves it. You should believe him with how quickly he unravels as your moans spill into the air.

He kisses you deeply, licking into your mouth trying to swallow your sweet sounds as he fills you with his cum.

You’re exactly where you want to be— surrounded. By the scent of sex and Joaquin, by his warmth and his praise. By his desire.

—

The next time that feeling shows its face is just a couple weeks later. You woke up with a start, your brain playing games with your heart even as you slept. The sight of Joaquin soundly asleep in your bed should’ve helped but it sent you further into a panic.

You love him, that much is sure. But could you ever tell him? Would you be enough?

Slowly, you reach over to grab your phone off the nightstand before slinking out of bed and into the kitchen. You call one of your closest friends, Eden; they’ve been privy to the entire journey Joaquin. They know how much you care for him.

As usual you skip the pleasantries, too far in your frenzy. “I have to end things with him.”

Eden has been quite patient with you despite your flip flopping nature. Even now. “Why’s that?” They ask, like the two of you haven’t had this conversation multiple times now.

“You know why.”

“I know why you think, but like I’ve said before I don’t think that’s true.”

“He’s a superhero.”

“And you’re somebody’s too. Managing a gallery at your age isn’t something that just happens, usually you’re just assisting.”

“Yeah, but I’m not saving anyone’s life.”

“No one’s expecting that from you. Least of all Joaquin,” They reason easily.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him. Maybe I haven’t yet, but I probably will and I think that would hurt more than me just ending things while we’re ahead.”

“Are you really ahead if you’re in love with him?”

“He doesn’t know that I’m in love with him. That would scare him off too I bet.”

“Did you call me so I could confirm your delusions or challenge you?”

Your voice grows softer as your words grow more vulnerable, “I don’t know, I just— I woke up in a panic and when I looked at him I had to face everything that I might lose. Waking up next to him means more than I ever thought it would.”

Eden’s tone is much more tender when they speak again, “Honey—“

“Querida? You in here?” Joaquin calls, his voice sounding much closer than you would like.

If you could hear him so easily, could he hear you?

“I have to go, he’s up. I’ll call you later,” You hang up just as Joaquin appears in the hallway, giving him your best reassuring smile. “Mornin’.”

He tilts his head, hair fluffy and mused. He studies you for a moment. “Que pasó?”

“Nada. Fue Eden.”

“They okay?” He asks, slowly closing the space between the two of you.

“Yeah they’re totally fine.”

His gaze lingers a beat longer than usual and for a moment you think he’s going to say something that confirms he overheard. Instead, his hands cup your cheeks, and he examines you further, his eyes so soft and warm. “You okay?”

You shut your eyes, leaning into his hands with a soft hum.

“Eyes open,” he challenges.

Silently sighing, you open your eyes, finding his gaze toxicating and grounding all at once. “I’m okay. Dame un beso,” you whisper.

Joaquin is still at first, and you can feel the way his eyes dig into you, searching for whatever you’re trying to hide from him. Whatever he sees, if anything at all, he must not be ready to talk about. Or maybe, he’s respecting your autonomy.

The way his hands cradle your face changes into something nurturing and delicate. “Besos a la orden—pero solo porque me lo pediste bonito,” he teases.

His kiss is much like it always is, unyielding and hypnotic. He has you pinned against the counter with nowhere to go. If your hands are any indicator where they’re clutching at his shirt, there’s nowhere you want to go anyway.

As always, you and Joaquin work together seamlessly, your hands moving up to thread through his hair as his move down to grip your hips and hoist you on the counter.

“What do you want, hmm? Who?” he asks, breathless from thrusting himself into the cradles of your thighs.

“You,” you mumble clumsily into his mouth, too occupied with tasting his tongue.

“Soloamente yo?” he grits out, nipping at your lip.

There’s a new and charged intensity in the way his mouth is against yours, the way his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips.

There is no hesitation in your answer. “Yes.”

“Porque?”

“Hmm?” you hum in confusion, breath catching in your throat as his fingers slide into your panties to find your clit.

Why do you want him? What kind of question is that— why wouldn’t you want him? The true question is why does he want you? But you aren’t allowed to slip into that thought pattern, his voice bringing you back to the present.

“Porque?” he asks again but he doesn’t let you respond. He keeps talking, his voice and fingers relentless. “Porque tu eres mía. Entiendes?”

“Si, soy tuya,” you whine as two of his thick fingers slip inside you.

—

It’s been a few weeks now since that day. You’re still thinking about how intense Joaquin was that morning, wondering what had gotten him so riled up. He had spread you across your kitchen counters and kept you pinned there with his fingers and mouth for minutes on end, eventually dragging you down to the floor to lose himself inside you. Whatever that was felt like a new piece of him you had unlocked, carnal and passionate. The thought sends a shiver down your spine— it feels like you can still taste him and feel his touch.

There’s a knock on your door and Joaquin starts to tease you right off the bat, “You always daydreaming on the clock like this, querida?”

You jump, grateful that you had decided to take your work back to your office instead of working in the lobby with how distracted you seem to be.

Scrambling, you reach for some papers in an attempt to look like you’re working. “Oh fuck, Joaquin. Hi. Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were out of town.”

“We finished up early.” He leans on your desk, bending to place a kiss on your forehead. “I’m here because I want you to get dinner with me. You down?”

“Definitely, but I’m not off for another hour.”

“An hour, huh?” He looks at his watch, squinting. “I could make something shake in that hour. I’ll pick you up then.”

“O-okay,” you confirm before glancing over to your computer screen.

He clears his throat, and you meet his gaze again. Teasingly, he says, “Dame un beso, princesa.”

His words bring heat to your face but you can’t help but smile whenever Joaquin teases you; it’s so him. You stand from your desk, palms pressed into stacks of paper and sticky notes so you can press your lips to his. His hands find your waist and he nearly drags you over the desk, just succeeding in curbing his eagerness to be with you. It makes your head swim and for a moment you forget you’re at work.

The shrill of your phone cuts through the sensual haze and he pecks you on the lips on last time. “I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

You’re able to let yourself slip into a groove when there’s another knock at your door.

You don’t even look up, continuing to type the email you’re writing. “Joaquin, it definitely hasn’t been an hour.”

“So it was him!” your coworker, Daniella squeals. “When he asked for you at the reception desk I thought it was him. Jeff said it wasn’t.”

Jeff makes his way into your office with Daniella on his heels. “I thought he’d be the type to keep romance in the inner circle. Date another avenger or something. How’d you bag the Falcon?”

“We’re just getting to know each other,” you suggest.

“That’s not what he said at the desk,” Jeff retorts.

“Yeah, he said he was your boyfriend,” Daniella sings.

“Well he wasn’t gonna say he’s my booty call. Can you guys let me work, he’s gonna be back to pick me up.”

“Oooo, he’s taking you for a ride on those wings?”

“Dani—“

“Maybe an autograph?” Jeff cuts in.

“Out. Both of you.”

They know you only use that tone when you’re dealing serious and scurry out of your office. You get a decent amount of work done and when an hour has passed you pack up and make your way into the lobby. Joaquin is studying a set of quilts hanging from the ceiling, his back to you. You quickly make your way past the reception desk, ignoring the kissy sounds that Daniella and Jeff make as you walk by.

“Prompt as ever, Torres.”

He glances over his shoulder at you with a grin. “Always. C’mere. Para ti,” He hands you a bouquet of wildflowers before grasping your free hand to pull you close. “This is one of your artists, yeah?”

His question derails you from questioning him on the flowers. “Yeah, the one I was worried about.”

“Told you you’d get it done. Listas?”

“Listo.”

Joaquín takes you to a place you’ve both been a few times, a dining hall comprised of food trucks by the water. There’s collections of picnic tables to sit out, a dessert corner, and even a dance floor.

After making a game plan to get one thing from each truck, you both take your respective routes and agree to meet at a table near the dance floor.

It’s a struggle not let your mind wander as the two of you catch up, telling the other how the last week has gone while munching on your buffet. Jeff’s words had amplified you worries about not being enough for Joaquin.

As always, Joaquin notices but this time instead of confronting you, he wants to give you reassurance. He had heard your conversation with Eden all those weeks ago and in turn could identify when you were getting in your head about your dynamic with him. After some thinking, he realized he was ready to put those questions to rest for the both of you.

He finishes his bite, wiping his fingers before he rests a hand on top of yours. “Dance with me.”

“Joaquin…”

His mouth sets into a pout, eyes going wide. “Please, querida?”

You let out a resign sigh and start to stand, “Fine.”

There’s a slow song playing once he guides you to the dance floor, and he pulls you close, tucking you against his chest.

His mouth brushes your temple when he finally speaks “You’re distracted.”

“I’m not.”

“You barely touched those curly fries, and we got them because you begged.”

You shrug, looking up at him with a frown. “So maybe I’m a little distracted. Work has been a little nuts.”

“It’s not about, oh you know, your conversation with Eden?”

It feels like someone’s poured cold water down the back of your shirt. You stand straight up, creating a small gap between you despite being linked by your hands. “What conversation with Eden?”

“The one where you worried about being enough for me— which you are,” he murmurs.

“No it’s not about that,” you lie.

“Then it’s about the loving me part?”

The nonchalant manner in which he brings it up has discomfort festering in your chest. Did he think it was funny? That your love for him was so inconsequential that he could talk about it like it’s the weather?

“Joaquin I don’t want—“ you start defensively, but he cuts you off.

“Te quiero también. I do. I wish you would’ve told me sooner. Or maybe I should’ve been the brave one, no sé.” He stops, raising a hand to your cheek so that you have to meet his gaze. “But it’s true, I love you too.”

“You do?” You ask skeptically.

“I do.”

“So what does this mean? That you really are my boyfriend?”

He laughs, holding you a little closer as he starts to to sway again. “Your coworkers are chatty.”

“They were bursting at the seams. Jeff wants an autograph.”

“Only if he’s not a pain in your ass.”

“He’ll be one if I don’t get it for him.”

“Then sure, mi amor, I can oblige,” he agrees, kissing your mouth, your temple, your forehead.

You rest your head more firmly on his chest, feeling much less restless. He loves you too. You’re enough for him. He needs you too.

“Thank you, Joaquin.”

“Always.” He assures you. After several moments of reverent silence he speaks again. “Y’know you haven’t said it back, so I’m just wondering if—“

“Yes, Joaquin, I still love you.”

“Just checking,” He murmurs cheekily.

must be 18+/have age in bio to be on the nsfw joaquin torres taglist!

nsfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69 , @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @peacefangirl, @soularsss, @everydaydreamer, @violetpassionfruit

[retrosabers]

15 MINUTES - JOAQUIN TORRES

Pairing: Joaquin x Reader // Word Count: 2,033

Summary: Your usual training with Isaiah is interrupted by Sam’s new protege. As it turns out, Joaquin also knows how to utilize fifteen minutes.

You were sitting on the floor of Isaiah’s gym, using your phone’s camera as a mirror while you were trying to braid your hair back. You had two small rubberbands between your teeth to tie off the small braids before you’d put it into one ponytail that you would also braid.

“What are you doing down there?” Isaiah asked, wearing the same grey sweatsuit you almost always saw him in.

“Do you have several of those or do you just wash the same one everyday?” You looked over with a deadpan expression that almost instantly broke when you saw him scowl at you. “I’m braiding my hair.”

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom.”

“I’m already almost done.” You tied off one small braid before moving to the other side of your head.

“If you don’t get off that floor...” He muttered.

“I need five minutes.” You argued.

“You’re a pain in my ass, kid. You know that?”

“I could say the same about you.” You made a face to yourself.

He muttered more complaints to himself before he walked away. You glanced over to make sure he was gone before you quickly mocked him. By the time your five minutes was up, you finished the second braid and had it all in a ponytail. You were braiding the entirety as you met up with Isaiah again.

“Told you.” You grinned triumphantly, tying off the final rubberband. You turned your head side to side so your fresh braid swung behind you. “All neat and out of the way.”

Isaiah sighed and gestured for you to start with the punching bag.

Your blood was pumping, breaths coming in heavily, and your muscles loose by the time anyone else arrived. You ran the back of your hand across your forehead to collect the sweat before it could get into your eyes while Isaiah went around to greet his guests. You watched the cranky instructor go and saw Sam coming your way with a shadow of his own.

“Good to see you putting in work, Y/N.” Sam smiled as you approached them all.

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged with a grin of your own. “Gotta stay sharp, right? Never know when you’ll need me.”

“Okay.” Sam laughed and crossed his arms. “You think you’re ready?”

“I trained for fights my whole life.” You met his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “The Chaste trained me basically since I could walk… I may not be a super soldier-” You pointed to Isaiah. “-but I can hold my own, Captain.”

“Alright, alright.” Sam nodded, a sly smile on his face still. It was the look of someone that knew something you didn’t and it made you raise a brow. “You know this guy?” Sam gestured to his friend.

You looked over and hesitated. Dark curls neatly styled out of his face, broad shoulders with solid arms. Your eyes trailed down his figure shamelessly and you watched him shift slightly under your scrutiny. When you finally met his eyes again, he grinned and you cracked half a smile yourself.

“Joaquin Torres.” He extended a hand towards you.

“Y/N.” You shook his hand.

“No last name?”

“Not that you need to know.”

“Damn.” He nodded once as you released his hand.

You turned back to Sam and couldn’t keep the smirk off your face. He tilted his head in amusement almost instantly.

Isaiah tossed a pair of padded gloves and headgear at you.

“Is he breakable?” You asked, lifting your brows with a small smile.

“Excuse me?” Joaquin chimed in as Sam laughed and passed his friend a set of the same gear. The new guy’s tone made it sound like no one had ever made such a suggestion and it made you chuckle to yourself.

“You just might be the one to find out.” Sam joked and turned to his friend, who now had a nervous smile on his face. “What do you say?”

“Wha- You want me to fight her?” Joaquin asked.

“Sparring, technically.” You shook the headgear with your gloved hands before shoving it on your head. “Fancy gear means no one gets hurt.”

“You’ll snap that boy like a twig.” Isaiah commented and you grinned. 

“Come on!” Joaquin complained and then looked to Sam for help.

“My understanding is that she’s on par with Natasha Romanoff in hand to hand.” Sam shrugged, gently pushing his friend forward. “Give it your best shot.”

You took a few steps backwards and gestured to the open space.

“Unless you don’t think you can handle it…” Sam taunted.

Joaquin looked offended and you stifled a laugh.

“I can handle it.” He reasoned

“I’d love to see you try, pretty boy.” You shot him a wink.

“How long you think it’ll take?” Sam looked over your shoulder to Isaiah.

“Fifteen minutes.” Isaiah answered nonchalantly. The man always seemed tired of you and your antics, yet he oddly encouraged them. You didn’t have to see him to imagine how he was standing. Arms crossed, small shrug when he answered, furrowed brows with his permanent scowl.

“I can do a lot with fifteen minutes.” You chimed in. You looked Joaquin up and down once more. “It should only take two for you to finish.”

Joaquin’s eyes went wide and you grinned, a calm shrug as you began to pace around him.

“You talk like that with everyone?” He asked, turning with you.

“Does it bother you?” You flexed your fingers, noting how the padding felt against your knuckles. At least with your fingers exposed, you could still grab him if you needed.

Over his shoulder, you saw Sam move to stand with Isaiah. They whispered amongst themselves then shook hands, seemingly pleased with the arrangement. You squinted in suspicion and when Sam caught you, he pointed to something. Before you could figure out what, Joaquin tackled you to the ground.

You landed with a small ‘oof’ and his bodyweight was keeping you pinned. Your eyes flared wide for a moment but the stupid smirk he wore turned your surprise into annoyance.

“What happened to two minutes?” He taunted.

“I’ve still got time.” You answered.

You locked your knees on either side of his hips and you saw an expression of surprise cross his features. You laughed slightly and jerked your hips to the side to throw him off. You two rolled until you landed on top. Before you could get a solid position, his hands found your waist and pushed you off so he could scramble to his feet. You pushed up to your elbows and laughed again.

“Tick tock, Y/N!” Sam called out and you fipped him off.

“I’m being gentle.” You joked as you got to your own feet.

“That’s why I put you in gear.”

Joaquin turned to say something but you acted quickly. You threw a kick at his head but he lifted both forearms up to block it. Your move, however, was a bluff. You planted your foot against his forearms and jumped over your extended leg to land a kick with your other foot. You both landed on the floor and you pushed yourself forward, reaching to trap him in an arm bar.

Once your hand was on his wrist, his other hand grabbed your upper arm and swung you over him. You let out a small yelp but quickly tucked your knees. When Joaquin tried to pin you, you extended your legs and flipped him over your head.

From the ground, Sam tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist and your groaned slightly.

You craned your neck and found where Joaquin landed. You reached up and caught his wrist, using it pull yourself closer to him. You stood quickly, dragging him to sit up, and twisted his arm outward.

You lifted your other fist and feigned a punch to his temple. Instead of making contact, you tapped his cheek and let him go.

“Wasn’t two minutes.” Isaiah complained.

You shrugged a shoulder and offered Joaquin a hand. “I told you I didn’t wanna break him.”

“You took it easy on me?” Joaquin accepted your help to get to his feet, his expression betraying shock the entire time.

You grinned widely. “I trained my entire life to fight Japanese assassins that had lived several lifetimes, Joaquin. Fighting you was definitely not the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Damn.” He nodded slightly. “Sounds like you’ve got some stories.”

“And the scars to match.”

“Like that one?” The back of his fingers tapped the half exposed scar down your side. Your cropped compression shirt only hid the top portion of it but when his skin touched yours, you flinched.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ He quickly began.

“No, it’s alright.” You answered and put your hand on his arm. “Your hand was just cold.” You laughed.

Shamelessly, he looked you up and down as you were talking. When his eyes met yours again, you raised your brows with a small, knowing smile.

“Just returning the favor.” He said innocently.

“You’re fun.” You grinned. “Let’s go again.”

Joaquin opened his mouth, thought better of his response, then laughed it off.

“Go on.” You laughed as you took up your fighting stance again. “I dare you.”

“I was just gonna say…” He explained. “I guess that means I’m doing something right.”

You shook your head with a smile. His hands raised for his fighting stance and you moved quickly. You threw haphazard punches, not putting any of your weight behind them. You threw one punch far too wide and he caught your wrist, spinning you quickly until your back was against his chest.

You let out a breathy laugh as he held your one arm out of the way and the other pinned to your side.

“Hey! Quit with the funny business!” Isaiah scolded and you laughed again, letting your head fall back against Joaquin’s shoulder.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” He asked, amusement in his words.

“Aren’t you?” You replied.

You dropped your knee and attempted to kick his feet from under him. He avoided your leg sweep and the distance he gained allowed you to get back to your feet. You threw a lazy roundhouse kick that he blocked with his forearms. He pushed your leg away but couldn’t duck the jab.

Thanks to the gloves, the impact hardly fazed him.

You reached for his shoulders, intending to send your knee into his stomach, but he ducked out of your hold and pushed you away.

As you stumbled past him, the man had the audacity to smack your ass.

Your jaw dropped for a moment once you regained your footing and you could hear Joaquin laughing.

You turned to him and he was still grinning. You couldn’t help but laugh slightly.

“What are you doing after this?” He asked.

“When time’s up?” You stalled, walking in a slow, wide circle around him. “Leak some pictures, maybe. Or just do something batshit crazy.”

“Hey, I got money on this, Joaquin. Come on now!” Sam heckled.

“Don’t make me do it!” You called over your shoulder.

“Show him what you got, Y/N!” Isaiah answered.

You faked a sigh and focused on Joaquin again. He looked at you confused but when he opened his mouth to speak, you moved in. You hurried close, putting both hands at the back of his neck. You jumped and tucked both knees, dropping to the floor. Once you hit, your hands closed around the fabric of his muscle tee as you kicked your legs to flip him over. You threw your own body with him and landed on top.

“Pay up, son!” Isaiah celebrated as an alarm sounded.

“They actually set a timer.” Joaquin groaned.

You glanced over at them, caught a fake dirty look from Sam that you shrugged off, then looked back to Joaquin.

“Y/L/N.” You said, patting his chest before standing.

“Huh?” He made no effort to stand.

“My last name.”

“Oh, cool.” He smiled. “So… What would you say if I asked you to dinner?”

“Depends.” You leaned over him. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

“Would you say yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then yes, I am asking.”

[retrosabers]

[retrosabers]

April 2nd, 1975

50 gifs for 50 years ♥ | template

[retrosabers]

Joe and Snoopy pt. 2

[retrosabers]

thanks for including my fic! 💓💘💕

james ‘logan’ howlett

masterlist • xmen • 04/01/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs three

one I two

𑣲 future boyfriend I @wlwloverwrites

Logan, a man supposedly from the future, claims he is your boyfriend, so you ask him to prove it.

𑣲 just one kiss I @retrosabers

marie is determined to get logan to kiss you under the mistletoe

𑣲 for always and ever is always for you I @flowersforbucky

logan is getting sicker by the day, and charles' seizures are occurring more and more frequently. logan didn't think he'd ever see you again - but desperate times call for desperate measures.

𑣲 by the end of the night I @/flowersforbucky

reader is a mutant with emotional regulation and healing powers, who frequently helps logan through nightmares - without him even knowing. what happens one night when he wakes to find you in his room?

𑣲 where the lines overlap I @/flowersforbucky

no one gets under your skin quite as much as logan howlett - and he knows it, too.

𑣲 either way, i’m going your way I @/flowersforbucky

logan doesn't remember the last time he celebrated valentine's day, and he doesn't have any reason to believe that this year will be any different. then he runs into you, wade's neighbor, who happens to love the holiday despite not having anyone to celebrate it with.

𑣲 my beatin’ heart belongs to you I @logaenhowlett

Logan believed he was sentenced to a life of solitude until he found you - an unexpected dawn promising the sunrise of a love he always deemed impossible. But then again, destiny never was merciful to fools like him.

𑣲 come back baby please I @/logaenhowlett

When it comes to you, Logan would do anything - even break his own heart.

𑣲 birds of a feather I @rosenclaws

Logan loves you even if he can't say it but he knows that given his old age he's been lacking in the intimacy area. When a strange portal opens up and another Logan tumbles out of it, things get a little messy. (Or Worst Logan cucks Old Man Logan)

𑣲 you’re the one that i want I @eupheme

𑣲 crossfire I @yxtkiwiyxt

You, a member of Team X, find yourself growing disillusioned with the team's ruthless methods and long for a life of peace and simplicity. You’ve fallen for Logan but fear asking him to leave with you, believing he would choose to stay with his brother.

𑣲 hands I @lostinlovingrevery

Talking to Logan is different for you

[retrosabers]

girls will say “this healed me” and it’s just pedro pascal’s massive biceps on jimmy kimmel

[retrosabers]

When it hits 9 pm and I pull out this combo:

Ps: I have severe writers block. Help

[retrosabers]

Fault Lines Ch. 4

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff if you squint!!!

wc: 1,463

an: this one definitely broke my heart a little but it’s all for the greater good i promise <33

fault lines masterlist

It had taken a couple weeks and sifting through some painful memories, but with Joaquin and Sam’s help you narrowed down the most likely place that your target was laying low. It was another facility, this time in the desert.

Where you preferred the heat over the freezing cold, you could tell that they were struggling by their water intakes and sweat soaked shirts. You decide not to say anything— heat makes people grumpy, and between you and Sam there’s enough grump. That and you have something much more important to focus on as you approach the building.

Joaquin shifts his weight, scanning the compound through his scope from their vantage point on the ridge. Beside him, you’re unnervingly still, eyes locked on the entrance like you can will your target into existence.

“We go in quiet,” Sam says over comms. “No unnecessary casualties. We take them alive if possible.”

You don’t respond. Joaquin does. “Copy.”

He glances at you, but your expression doesn’t change. The mission has been communicated and is clear, but he can feel the storm rolling inside you. This isn’t just another takedown to you. It’s an ending. The culmination of everything you’ve fought for, suffered for, lost.

It scares him because he knows you would give anything for it. Maybe even your life.

__

Once inside, the air is sterile and stale, filled with the ghosts of past violence never fully faded. The three of you move like shadows, clearing room after room. Hydra’s presence here is weak—their numbers already thinned from previous operations.

Despite the ease, you don’t relax. Not yet.

Joaquin watches the way your grip tightens around your weapon as each room is cleared. The way your breath grows more even and steady as you step over an unconscious body, moving toward the command center. This is what you were made for. The thought unsettles him.

When you finally find him, your target is alone in the dimly lit room, scrambling for a weapon he’ll never reach. You’re moving towards him with swiftness before Sam can give the order, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the console causing his nose to bleed. The sight, the coppery smell makes something inside you burn with satisfaction.

The man is just as you remember him. He doesn’t have a name, not a proper one but you and other soldiers called him The Mire. A twisted scar on his face and shocking blonde hair that you’ve seen in your nightmares.

He laughs through the pain, the haunting sound growing louder when you press the barrel of your gun to his forehead. “You think this ends with me?”

Joaquin steps forward. “You can make this easy, or—”

The man barely spares him a glance. His focus is on you, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Go on, then. You’ve come this far.” His lips curl into something taunting. “I wonder—when you close your eyes at night, do you see their faces?”

Your grip tightens. Joaquin sees it instantly—the slight shift in your stance, the barely-there hitch in your breath. You’re…hesitating?

The man must see it too, because his demented grin widens. “Of course you do.” His voice lowers, smooth, insidious. “It’s the price we pay, isn’t it? Those of us who were made for something greater.”

Joaquin moves closer. “Cállate.”

The man ignores him. His eyes stay on you. “The experiments. The conditioning. It never really leaves, does it? You can pretend all you want, but deep down, you know what you are.” His head tilts. “A weapon. A perfect little instrument of death.”

Joaquin sees the moment the words hit their mark. You don’t flinch, but something in your expression hardens. His words conjure memories that make you want to be at the end of your gun.

The man exhales through his nose, like he’s at peace with whatever happens next. “They made you to destroy, and look at you. Right on script.”

Joaquin steps closer. His voice is quiet, but firm. “Hey.”

You don’t look at him. The barrel of your gun presses more firmly against his forehead. Better him than you, right?

“No eres tú,” Joaquin urges.

Your finger hovers over the trigger. This will fix everything. It’ll save you from your torment and allow you to move forward, right?

The man smirks, eyes flicking between you and Joaquin. “Oh, I see now,” he breathes out a laugh. “You’ve got your own little soldier whispering sweet nothings to you. That’s cute. You’ve thought about it right? What his neck feels like under your hands?”

Joaquin’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Walk away,” he murmurs.

The man keeps going, his grin widening. “It must kill you, doesn’t it? Knowing what you are. Knowing that no matter what, he’ll always be the one looking at you like you’re something more.” His eyes glint with something cruel. “But tell me, what happens when he finally sees you for what you really are?”.

Joaquin shakes his head, stepping even closer, voice just for you now. “You don’t belong to anyone but yourself.”

For the first time, your focus wavers, your gaze meeting his. Despite the daunting situation, Joaquin’s eyes are the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen. That warmth is at the core of who he is, spreading through every cell in his body and radiating off of him. You feel it’s contrast on the rough, cold edges of your makeup.

Joaquin doesn’t look away. “No eres un arma. Nunca lo fuiste. But you pull that trigger, and they win. They still own you.”

Your jaw clenches. Slowly, painfully—you lower the gun.

Your target’s laugh is cut short by Sam knocking him out cold. Joaquin watches you, but your face is unreadable.

It’s over. Hydra’s last head severed.

You thought that knowing he was done would drain the dread from your body, but you don’t feel any relief. There’s nothing but darkness and confusion, hopelessness finding its play in your belly.

—

The ride back to the local safehouse is quiet. Joaquin sits across from you in the Quinjet, waiting.

But you don’t say a word— you have a map out in front of you, developing your next steps. You aren’t sure where to go or what to do but you know you can’t stay with them.

Sam’s the first to speak. “You did good.”

His praise is meant to make you feel good about making the “right” decision but they just make you feel sick.

Softly, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, you say, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Joaquin leans forward, beating down the urge to reach out and grab your hand. “Then maybe that’s the point. You get to figure it out. And we could— I could—“

You hold his gaze, something soft he can’t name in your eyes. But then, just like that, it’s gone. “I’m not staying.”

Sam doesn’t argue. Neither does Joaquin as much as he wants to. You having choices is important him after the life you’ve been forced to live.

They watch you stand and grab what little gear you have before heading for the ramp. The Quinjet hasn’t even landed yet, but you’re already moving forward.

Joaquin stands, stepping closer to you. “No tienes que hacer esto solo.”

You smile— really smile— but even then it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I always have, baby bird. No te preocupes por mí.”

The ramp lowers and the night’s air rushes inside, cold without the beating sun.

You don’t say anything else and before he can try to find something to fill the silence, you surprise him. You step forward—just close enough for your fingers to graze his as you pass. A fleeting touch, barely there, but Joaquin feels it like a brand. Like an electric shock.

His breath catches and then he’s watching you fade into the sand, and soon into the mountains, something heavy settling in his chest.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “You know, for someone who talks a lot, you were pretty damn quiet back there.”

Joaquin sighs, running a hand down his face. “Not the time, man.”

Sam snorts. “Oh, I’m sorry. You want me to pretend I haven’t noticed the whole thing you’ve got going on?”

Joaquin turns to glare at him. Sam grins.

“I mean, come on,” Sam continues. “She gives you one look, and you go all soft. And don’t think I missed the way she touched your hand before leaving.” He raises a brow. “You gonna tell me that meant nothing?”

Joaquin exhales, shaking his head. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

Sam hums, unconvinced. “Well, I’ll say this—you better hope she comes back. I don’t think you’d take it well if she didn’t.”

Joaquin doesn’t know what he could say to make Sam back off but deep down, he knows the man is right.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

[retrosabers]

Fault Lines Ch. 2

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex-super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst

wc: 1,383

an: this series is based off of this request here! this is definitely a slow burn/fluff if you squint type beat so just bear with me <3

fault lines masterlist

The safe house is quiet, save for the low hum of the overhead light and the occasional rustle of movement from Joaquin as he leans against the wall opposite of you. He knows better than to box you in—that’d only make you more restless than you already are.

Post-meal and shower, you sit on his cot, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere past him like you’re already planning your exit. The space smells of antiseptic and metal despite the warm paint and comforting art. Someone had tried to make this as home-y as they could and failed.  

He doesn’t doubt that you are.  And you are. You’re on edge, always hypervigilant for the worst. That the two men in front of you that promise to stand on decency and honor are liars just like everyone else you’ve ever encountered. 

There’s only one door and a few windows, but you had immediately noticed the door under the rug in the bathroom. Its doable.

Sam’s outside, making calls, searching for loopholes to clean up the mess you’ve already made. That leaves Joaquin with what he does best—talking. But tonight, that skill is failing him.

Something about you is making the words sticky in his throat, unable to flow as usual. He doesn’t know what to say to you to make you understand, to make you change. Though he’s not really sure that’s his goal given what you’ve suffered.

“You look like you wanna be anywhere but here,” he observes, arms mirroring yours.

“What a shocking observation, baby bird,” you mutter, voice steeped in sarcasm.

Joaquin exhales through his nose, tilting his head. “Ok, ouch. But let’s be real—you could’ve run already. Hell, you could’ve fought harder. So why are you still here?”

Your fingers curl in your lap, like the truth will slink into your hands if you don’t force it out; it isn’t something you're ready to touch. You flex them once before stilling. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I trust you,” you say eventually, voice quieter, more measured.

“Fair.” Joaquin watches you, gaze steady. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you unless he has too– he chalks it up to your dangerous capabilities and nothing more. “No one’s asking you to, querida. But you want something. You can tell me what that is, I won’t use it against you.”

Something stirs at his pet name, something you thought was dead and rotted. Its easy to shove it back down in the wake of what you see is a lie. He would use it against you, that’s what everyone does. If he didn’t then Sam would. You know the game. 

You let out a breath, eyes meeting his. “You’re after Hydra and so am I. But I don’t trust that you’ll actually do what needs to be done. In fact, I know you won’t.”

Joaquin frowns. He knows what you mean but asks anyway, “And what’s that?”

“You tell me,” you challenge. “You really think you’re gonna dismantle them by playing by the rules? By arresting a few low-level pricks and calling it a day? Hydra isn’t just an organization—it’s a disease. One that’s smart enough to outmaneuver every cure. You cut off a limb, and another grows back.” Your voice lowers, darkens. “I go for the heart.”

Joaquin studies you. The shadowy certainty in your tone. The way your hands have curled into fists, nails pinching into your skin before you even realize it. He should be alarmed, maybe even afraid of you and what you can do with those hands. But mostly? He just feels tired for you and all the baggage you have to carry. He wishes there were more he could do more for you, but he knows the oath he’s taken. His values, his morals—they won’t be compromised.

“I get it,” he says, voice softer now. “You think we’re a waste of time. That we’re too soft.”

“You are,” you say, like it’s obvious and with no remorse. “Your Captain? He’s trying to lead a world that doesn’t even know what to do with itself. One that hardly wants him. He’s gotta play politics. Me? I don’t have to play anything. I owe nothing to no one but myself.”

Joaquin shakes his head. “That’s not a life. That’s a war you never get to leave. That darkness won’t let you go.”

Your jaw tightens, and you look away. You don’t deny it.

For the first time since bringing you in, Joaquin feels like he has something solid to work with. You know that your past is controlling you but you won’t let it go. With their help, you could finally be free. He lets you sit with his words, grabbing a water from the mini-fridge before settling across from you on Sam’s bunk.

Silently, he offers it. Begrudgingly, you take it, careful not to touch him.

“Look, I know what it’s like to be made into something you didn’t ask for,” he says. “To be trained to survive, not to live. And I know that once you start thinking like that, it’s almost impossible to stop.”

Your fingers tighten around the bottle, the plastic nearly giving out under the pressure. The sound brings you back to the present and you loosen your grip letting the bottle fall to the ground. Joaquin says nothing, letting you be.  When your eyes meet again, he can see that you recognize that. That you believe him when he says that he understands. You let it fade away as quickly as it appeared.

Joaquin presses forward anyway. “You don’t trust us? Fine. But what if we can help? What if we can end this without you burning yourself out trying to do it alone?”

You shake your head. “God, baby bird, you don’t fucking get it.”

“Then make me fucking get it,” Joaquin challenges, matching your energy. He hopes that in doing so you'll level with him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The space between you is heavy with something unspoken, pressing down on your chest. Your breath is too sharp, and his is too shallow, like being stuck in each other's gaze has sucked all the air out of the room before either of you could even think. You exhale sharply, pulling back, re-centering yourself just as another presence fills the doorway.

"There's a name," you mutter, almost reluctant. "One of the last remaining heads of Hydra. He’s been running a black ops division off-grid. And if you think what was done to your precious boy was bad, what they’re doing is worse."

Joaquin barely has time to process before your gaze flicks past him, landing on Sam, now standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

The two men exchange a look. “How do we know you’re not leading us into a trap?” Sam asks.

You scoff. “I’m not like them and you thinking I would walk you into a trap is like them. If you don’t believe me, I can happily do this on my own. And I wouldn’t have either of you slowing me down.”

Sam meets Joaquin’s gaze again; its pleading, laced with the idea of giving you a chance. A long beat of silent communication passes between them.

Sam rolls his eyes, exhaling reluctantly. He knows what its like to be an advocate, the one who’s seeing more than others. He’ll let Joaquin take his chance on you. “You’re lucky he likes you,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward Joaquin before turning back toward the door. “We’re wheels up in an hour. Try not to make me regret this.”

Joaquin looks back at you, and you could swear that you see some warmth in his cheeks. “That makes two of us.” He barely catches it—the slight quirk at the corner of your mouth. It’s smug, not quite a smirk, but it’s something. An attempt at humor. He softens again, seeing the effects of what Hydra put you through.

What had they done to you where you can’t even smile? Laugh? See yourself as more than just their pawn? The thought makes him sad, yes, but it also makes him angry. You deserve better than that.

“Three of us.” You shake your head, pushing to your feet. You’re tired of being cooped up. “Guess we’ll see.”

let me know if you'd like to be on the sfw joaquin torres taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967

> ch. 3

[retrosabers]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader (18+) summary it wasn’t uncommon for you to seek each other’s presence after the sun was tucked away—for company, for comfort. but there’s something more consuming about tonight [post-outbreak, fluff, soft smut, 3.3k] a/n they're in love.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

There always had been something about the night. Something singular about its ability to take the most tightly wound days and coax them undone. Like the silken ribbon of a worn bow that had grown weary of holding its shape.

For quite some time now, your nights have belonged to each other. After years of going to bed alone, even Joel realized how good it felt to end the day next to someone who reminded him just how sweet life could be. 

Everyone's deserving of good company—you’d spoken those words to him in the face of his independence. Thankfully, with time, they’d worked their way into his spirit. Like vines, like air itself. He no longer feels wrong for craving care as tender as yours, even though his hands have made ghosts out of many men. 

Earlier tonight, it was you who came to him. 

Three muffled knocks had roused him from the beginning of a light sleep. Given he didn’t have to entertain Ellie tonight, he figured he’d turn in a little earlier than usual. He’d answered the door with fluffy hair and squinted eyes. There was an undeniable softness about his rumpled pajamas and the sight of his bare feet against the hardwood. Few words were needed between you as he helped you out of your coat and led you upstairs to his bedroom. 

It’s quiet where you lay now, tucked beneath sheets that smell faintly of earthen pine. You’ve draped one arm over Joel’s waist while your nose remains tucked between his shoulder blades like it belongs there. 

During the day, while out in the commune, you remained cordial and unassuming around each other. You weren’t exactly hiding from the attention of others but were protecting the bond forming between you. 

In due time, you’d allow the familiarity and intimacy of the night to bleed over into the day, but for now, this nighttime ritual is sacred in its newness. It had been a couple of months since your patrol partner didn’t show, and Joel stepped up to take his place. 

As it turns out, spending six hours with the right person in the cold can change your life. 

Joel holds his breath on an inhale when he feels your fingers begin to toy with the hem of his shirt. They slip beneath it a moment later, almost shy as they trail along his waistline and brush through the thin hair beneath his navel. Joel’s hips tilt just so. 

He swallows around a low sound as your hand ventures up his chest with featherlight curiosity. Exploring, cataloging. Past his ribs and to his chest to graze the pads of your fingers over his nipples, making something stir low in his gut. 

Your hand then drifts back down to splay over the small pudge of his stomach as if to center him again. 

“You’re so warm,” you murmur. 

If he were braver, he’d say it was by virtue of your touch alone. Your hands had wandered over each other's bodies, but never quite like this. This time, your touch doesn’t seek to soothe or ground but to evoke. 

Joel rests his hand over yours with a hum. It covers yours whole. 

“Your hands are so big.” Your voice dips into a purr. “And strong. Capable.”

Joel chuckles a low, flustered sound. He’s not sure what to do with these compliments or if that’s what they’re meant to be. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you then say. “Fix my mailbox.”

Of everything you could’ve mentioned, he wasn’t expecting that. It was an easy task he’d knocked out earlier this afternoon. It took him no more than fifteen minutes. 

“Nothing to it,” he assures in a low drawl. 

Except, there was something to it. The fix meant Joel had been listening when you mentioned it broke. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something for you without asking for permission. Joel Miller is a man of action. If he sees a problem or a need, he doesn't hesitate. That strong sense of initiative had yet to steer him wrong. 

It’s lovely to be seen and heard by someone like him, especially in a commune where it wasn’t hard to slip through the cracks at times.  

A half-restrained shiver rolls down Joel’s spine when you press a kiss to the nape of his neck. The hair curled there tickles the tip of your nose. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Welcome—” His voice catches when you pepper more kisses to his nape. His hand stills yours when he feels your attempt to trail your touch downward from his stomach. 

“Sweetheart,” Joel breathes, a little wary. 

“Yes?” you lilt. 

The sheets rustle as Joel turns over to face you. He can only make out a few of your features in the glow of the moonlight slipping into the room. The rest, his mind fills in. You cup his stubbled cheek with a gentle hand. 

“Makin’ me hot.” His voice is soft and honest, a little frayed around the edges. A pleasant buzz has settled beneath his skin. 

Maybe you wanted him to burn. 

You scoot that much closer to press your lips to his. When the initial surprise dissipates, they move, slow and easy, against your own. Almost tired if you didn’t know any better. But even in the shroud of the night, he’s wide awake. For this. For you. 

A low sound rises in his throat when you take his lower lip between your teeth and gently tug until you’ve fully pulled away. 

Joel hadn’t realized his hand had drifted to settle on your waist, but suddenly, it’s not enough. He needs to feel you entirely. A need rooted so deep he aches with it. There’s no more denying the swell in his pants, where the brunt of his desire has made itself known. 

Restraint looks good on Joel, but there always has been an air of allure around the notion of him surrendering. Of what it looked like for him to partake and be partaken of. It’d been some years since he’d allowed himself to open up in this way, and anyone he shared himself with in the past was long gone. You wanted to demystify it all and come to know that side of him for yourself. 

This time, when your hand begins to drift lower, he doesn’t stop you. Not when your fingers slip beneath both his waistbands. Or as you wrap them around the base of his warm, rigid length. A pleasured shudder courses through him as you pull upwards in a reverent tug. At the top, your thumb encircles the velveteen head to spread the small, wet bead of eagerness.  

Joel starts to move upright but trembles back into place when your loose grasp descends, mapping back down each snaking vein before gently massaging the rounded fullness that hangs beneath. 

“Love the feel of you already,” you murmur. Joel’s face warms as his arousal kicks up under your ministrations. 

In an unexpected display of agility, he repositions to hover above you, pushes down his pants and boxers, and braces himself as he kicks them away. His movements are so seamless that your touch isn’t disrupted for long. 

You spit into your hand as best you can and reach out for him in the dark, knowing exactly where to find him as he bobs towards his stomach. 

Joel’s more interested in gripping your pants, and you place your feet flat on the mattress to lift your hips for him to shuck them off. The cool air of the room registers against the slickness between your legs as you clench. Joel lowers a finger to trace along your entrance, spreading the moisture upwards as he circles your budded nerves. 

He continues paying careful attention to the spot, even as your hand distractedly falls from him to curl into the sheets. Your exhale is shaky when he stops. 

“Just a second,” Joel rasps. 

He braces himself further up your body, one large palm splayed near your head. As the mattress shifts, you realize he’s reaching toward the nightstand. You move your hand to play between your legs to ease the throbbing ache lazily. 

A faint click sounds, and a flame sparks to life, balanced on the crooked wick of a candle. The light casts a dim, golden radius in the room. 

“Can’t miss this,” he explains as he returns to his original position. 

“Need to see you.” In a testament to his words, his arousal kicks up on its own accord yet again. 

You selfishly take him in. His intense gaze. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The straining, desirous region of him that your hands had come to know before your eyes ever did. A thatch of unruly dark curls rests at the base of him. 

Joel pulls his shirt over his head to reveal his last covered portion. His arms are toned and firm. A thin dusting of hair spans over his impressive chest. New and old scars pepper the expanse of his torso. The faint indents of a v-line remain even with the pudge of his stomach from age and finally eating good meals again. 

Now it’s your turn. Joel helps you out of your shirt and tosses it aside with renewed urgency. As you finally lay bare, his dark eyes admire your chest as if this first chance is the last chance he’ll get. He extends a careful hand to cup one of your breasts, gaze flicking to your face to watch the way your brows furrow in approval. 

“Christ,” he grouses in an air of disbelief. 

You suck in a quick breath when he leans down to kiss along the side of your neck. Goosebumps arise in the wake of his lips as he continues downward like it’s a path he’s traveled before. Over your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, straying to gently peck a pebbled nipple before returning to the centerline of your torso. 

In the process, he shifts himself further down the mattress, your legs propped like two mountains along either side of him. 

His kisses turn into toothless nips when he reaches the lower portion of your stomach. That sensation, paired with the scratch of his beard, makes your abdomen twitch and flex. It isn’t until he makes it beneath your belly button and strays toward your hip bones that your chest finally shakes with a laugh as you squirm. 

Joel stills you with a steady hand and peeks up at you with a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. He’s cataloging every shift and sweet sound. 

As his shoulders force your thighs to splay a little wider, you bite your lip both out of anticipation and to keep your lingering smile at bay. In seconds, he’s made a live wire out of you. 

Every other breath you take catches. You find yourself swallowing more than you had all night. But suddenly, there’s no urgency about him at all. You’ve slipped into an unspoken purgatory where your release looms on hold. 

He’s drawing things out, taking his time, ignoring the throb of his own need as he tries to pick you apart. 

Joel bypasses where you’re spread open and pulsing and delivers a kiss to the inside of your thigh, mere inches from where you crave him. You shift, hoping he’ll reroute, but he pretends not to notice. 

You try again, attempting to twist and present your core as an alternative to the fluff of your thighs. 

An exasperated huff escapes you. “Just…”

You let your sentence trail off as you attempt to give him your best pleading look. It almost works. They’re the eyes he’d steal the moon for, but he wants to relish this moment a little longer. Wants to hold out on you while you’re both safe to be these needy versions of yourselves. 

“Just what, sweetheart?” he coaxes. 

Your mouth opens a couple of times. “Do something. Touch me,” you murmur, cheeks warm. 

“I am touchin’ you.” He smooths a calloused palm along your leg to prove it. 

“Like you were before,” you specify, voice smaller now. 

Your stomach flips when he starts to move back towards your hips, and flustered, premature giggles bubble up your throat because he’s got you so on edge, and you just know he’s about to do those maddening little kisses again. 

“Not that,” you whine. “C’mon Joel, I need you.” The earnestness of those words sends a jolt toward the apex of his thighs. 

You’ve got him now, so you press further. “Please? Wanna feel you.” You make your voice softer. “Been wanting to feel you all night.”

Joel caves and runs a heavy finger through your folds, then gently spreads you open to press a kiss to that small, swollen part of you. His lips are so delicate you’d think he was kissing a rose bud. A helpless mewl escapes as he replaces his lips with the firm press of his middle finger and begins drawing tight circles. 

The touch stirs faint, premature flutters that make you tilt your hips into his hand. “I gotcha,” he assures. 

He did have you, not just in this way, but in every sense of the word. He’d proven that from the day he met you, ready to be the supply to your demand when it came to all manners of your needs. Even the ones you didn’t realize you had. The thought alone makes pleasure knot in your stomach all the more. You clench around nothing but the idea of taking him alone. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

His eyes lift from your core to your gaze. Your eyes sparkle with candlelit desperation. Still taking his time, he runs his finger back down and just barely breaches your entrance with a curious probe. He’s wet with your slick and knows he’d slip right in. 

“Need you,” you murmur again. It’s different this time. 

Joel withdraws his touch and crawls back up your body, muscles shadowing as they shift. You open your legs wider so he can slot himself between you, bracing a forearm near your head. He’s close enough that your chests brush. That your breaths mingle.  

He takes himself in his hand and guides the tip to the warmth of your center. The gentle touch soon turns into a glide that bumps your clit with every upward pass. You place your hands on his shoulders because your fingers are shaking, and you don’t know what else to do. 

Like a locksmith with a key, he notches at your entrance with delicate intentionality. Both of you shudder, and he briefly touches his forehead to yours. The world stills as he slowly begins to push inside of you. You welcome each new inch with the same steady, heated snugness. Not once does your body flinch or hesitate. You welcome him in even through the dullest ache until he’s burrowed.   

Your joint groans just barely register on the outskirts of your consciousness as the blinding haze of pleasure becomes one with reality. 

Joel grants you a quiet moment of acclimation before he pulls out a little and eases himself back in. A hum vibrates through your chest. This time, he pulls back a little further, then finds his way back inside the encompassing warmth of you. 

“You’re the warm one,” he counters your earlier statement. “Taking me so well,” he praises. 

He withdraws a little more each time until his thrusts become fuller, and he finds an easy rhythm. You encourage his movements with the dig of your heels at the back of his thighs. 

He tucks his head down to place open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and graze down his back. 

“You feel so good,” you admit in a frantic sigh. “So so good.” 

Joel nearly comes from hearing that alone. 

There is no reprieve from the pleasure, no moment that allows you two to fully gather your bearings or muster up a semblance of composure. Every sound that slips past your lips is helpless, a little gone. They join the tiny squeaks of the mattress and the sticky, rhythmic contact of skin meeting dewy skin. 

“Faster,” you breathe. Joel listens in a heartbeat, continuing to meet that dense, tender place within you that has your toes curling. “Oh god—” you choke out, a mix between a moan and a whimper. 

Before you can find your breath again, Joel cups your breasts, switching from one to the other and running his thumb along your nipples. The sound that escapes you almost sounds pained, but your face scrunches in the prettiest, rawest way. Joel’s hips drive forward in an involuntary thrust of force.

One of his hands slips between your bodies to rub over that still-pulsing part of you. A dreamy sound falls past your lips as you writhe and arch. The tightness builds. The sea swells. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to keep it all at bay and prolong the moment. 

“Open your eyes, angel,” Joel encourages in a rasp. 

You don’t listen and silently pray that he gives up. 

“Lemme see those pretty eyes,” he tries again. 

You whimper as his finger rubs faster circles, his thrusts remaining intense. 

Joel’s voice takes on a waver, cracking around the edges with something fragile and desperate. “C’mon, baby, please?” 

You realize then that he needs it. 

When your eyes flutter open, a few rogue tears run down the apples of your cheeks towards your ears. Joel catches them. It’s too much. The newness of it all, the warm weight of his body moving above yours, making you his. There’s a glisten on his forehead, in the divot of his sternum. The way his muscles flex with his thrusts is living art. You’ve never met a more gorgeous man or had the pleasure of knowing and becoming one with someone who made you feel this whole.

“There she is,” Joel hums. 

In an instant, your body jolts against the mattress as you come undone beneath his frame. Your walls flutter around him in strong pulses of pleasure that radiate outward and leave you floating. If it were light instead, you’d be a shining star illuminating the room. 

Joel’s seen fewer sights that have struck him at his core. 

It takes every ounce of decency and strength within him to override the recklessness of pleasure, and pull out of you in a swift drag. Away from your swollen, pulsing warmth. Away from one of the few places he could confidently say he belonged in this fallen world.  

Through dazed eyes, you watch as Joel wraps a hand around himself and begins stroking. He’s slick with you, and the veins in his forearms pop. 

He spills onto your stomach in seconds with an earnest, shuddered groan. Each pulse of his release grows duller, resulting in shorter spurts until there’s nothing more than a pearly dribble running down the sides of him. 

You reach out with a weak hand to take over and coax him through the last few waves. Joel twitches in your grasp but lets you continue. Another shudder courses through him as he grows sensitive and begins to soften. 

“That’s all of me, baby,” he says, voice low and soft just for you.

You hum in a daze as you withdraw your touch. The last thing you remember is the kiss Joel presses to your forehead, the dip of the mattress as he gets out of bed, the gentleness of his hands, and the warm towel as he cleanses you.

There’s something special about the following morning. Something soft, aglow, and singular as pale sun rays slip into Joel’s room. They coat the cozy space like a seal. It’s as if the events of last night had carried over and been made manifest into something warm, and lovely, and beautiful. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[retrosabers]

Fault Lines Ch. 1

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex-super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, blood mention, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst

wc: 1,479

an: this series is based off of this request here! this series has truly poured out of me and is nearly done, and with all the other bits i've been writing, i'm probably just going to post it as quickly as i can as not to lose steam. i hope yall like it, i'm a little nervous as i've avoided writing this time of character before in fear i wouldn't do her justice. pls be kind!

fault lines masterlist

Someone has been ahead of Sam and Joaquin at every turn. Once might’ve been luck. Twice was suspicious. Three times? That meant someone else was hunting Hydra too—and winning.

And while Sam, Joaquin, and everybody at S.H.I.E.L.D wanted Hydra wiped out, they also wanted to know who was doing it and why.

They don’t know where this person is getting their intel. A mole, a hacked database, or maybe just a particularly desperate, sloppy faction of Hydra. Either way, it’s getting frustrating—because every time Sam and Joaquin show up, ready to extract information, all they find are bodies cooling in pools of blood.

Not today. Today’s a setup.

There’s snow on the ground, crunching beneath their boots as they grow closer to the rendezvous point. It’s still falling, freckling their dark clothing as they slip between the trees, far enough from each other to not garner attention but close enough in case things go awry. 

“Whoever this is, they’re dangerous,” Sam mutters, voice low in Joaquin’s earpiece. He scans the abandoned Hydra hideout from the cover of a half-collapsed outhouse, gunpowder and metal still thick in the air. “They’re calculated. They know what they’re doing.”

“So do we,” Joaquin counters, shifting his weight as he waits for the signal to continue moving through the treess.

“Yeah, but listen. As far as we know, it’s one person. And they’ve taken down whole squads of Hydra. No stray casualties. No blood spilled but the ones they were after. Who do you know that can do that?”

“If you let me upgrade the suit—”

“I’m serious, Joaquin,” Sam cuts in, sharp. No room for their usual back-and-forth. “Whoever this is doesn’t just have tech. They have something else. It’s inhuman.”

Joaquin swallows hard, the words settling in his chest like a weight. Sam’s instincts are good. If he thinks something’s off, it is.

The plan is simple: lay low, watch the meeting point where Hydra’s last known contacts are supposed to regroup, and wait for their mystery hunter to show up. If things go south, they intervene.

Joaquin already has a feeling this won’t be clean. Minutes pass. The winter wind howls through the wreckage, biting at their cheeks and rattling loose metal. 

It’s subtle. A shadow flickers at the edge of his vision.

Joaquin goes still with focus, eyes locking onto your figure as you slip through the ruins with silent precision. Even with the snow on the ground you don’t make a sound, its almost as if you’re floating. You move like a ghost—controlled, effortless. A hood hides your face, but everything else—your stance, the sharpness of your movements—radiates readiness. Like you’re expecting a fight.

He sees your shoulders rise and fall and then, you strike.

Hydra operatives barely have time to react before they’re taken down with brutal efficiency. A knife flashes once, twice—only when necessary. The rest fall under precise, bone-breaking force. No wasted movement. No hesitation. It’s methodical. Programmed into muscle memory long ago.

Joaquin feels his stomach turn, not even the cold air can keep his head clear. He’s seen this before. This kind of combat. The precision, the control. The lack of wasted effort.

“Sam,” he whispers, tension winding tight in his spine. “This isn’t just some ex-agent cleaning up loose ends.”

“I know,” Sam says grimly. “I’ve seen that kind of fighting before.”

The last Hydra operative collapses with a wet groan. Blood pools at your feet, staining the snow but it doesn’t phase you as you remove your knives from bodies and clean them on your sleeve. You pause, breath steady, then turn your head slightly, surveying the space around you. You can feel them watching. 

Sam doesn’t hesitate. He moves first because he knows the last thing they need is for you to find them first. That only ends in more blood. “We’re up.”

The second they step forward, you react like you were trained to. Like a cornered, wild animal. Your body pivots fast, hand already reaching for another knife—but Sam raises his hands in a rare show of non-hostility.

“Easy,” he says. “We’re not Hydra.”

“I know who you are,” you cut in. Your voice is even, but the weight behind it is enough to make Joaquin’s pulse jump. “And I don’t want to hear it.”

Because yeah, you know exactly who Sam Wilson is. You know his green little sidekick, too. And more than that, you know his boyfriend—how he went from committing some of the worst atrocities Hydra ever assigned to shaking hands with senators. How his sins were washed clean because he had the right people to vouch for him.

You don’t have people like that. You’re not Bucky Barnes. And you don’t think you want to be.

“You have to hear it,” Sam says, regret laced through his voice. “Or we’re gonna have to take you in.”

You scoff. “Try it.”

Joaquin takes a slow breath as Sam glances at him. A silent you’re up.

You’re quiet, weighing your options. And then, with an almost imperceptible shift, you move. Fast. One second, Joaquin is standing his ground and the next, he’s dodging a strike that would’ve knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Damn, alright, shit—” he manages, stumbling back, hands up. “Hold up. Hold up. We’re the good guys here.”

You don’t lower your stance, but you hesitate when he doesn’t try to fight back. It’s slight, but Joaquin sees it. Despite your speed, your breathing is even. Controlled. Regimented.

He exhales slowly, heart still hammering. “You haven’t killed a single innocent person. That tells me you’re not the monster they tried to make you.”

Your face shifts for a moment but whatever is there is too fast for Joaquin to name. His voice softens. “I’ve seen people who fight like you. You were trained to be something you didn’t ask to be. That’s not who you are, right?”

His words somehow sneak their way past the walls you've put up and strike you in your heart. Because he’s right, you didn’t ask for it and its not who you are. Its who you were made to be and you’re just finishing the job. He sees it in the way your shoulders shift, in the microexpression you aren’t able to hide this time.

After a long beat, you lift a hand and push your hood back— he can see you clearly anyway. “No, it’s not.”

Joaquin’s breath catches.

He wonders if this is what it felt like for Sam when he and Bucky finally were able to connect and see each other as human. He can feel the weight of all you’ve experienced and all you haven’t just in once glimpse. From it, Joaquin feels nothing but sadness for you, imagining all you endured in your captivity. 

“Come with us.”

Sam steps forward. “Whoa, Joaquin–” 

You give them both a bitter smile, cutting Sam off, “Don’t worry, captain, I‘d rather die of frostbite out here anyway.”

“You're not helping.” Joaquin scolds you, looking between the two of you before pulling Sam to the side, his expression confused. “Sam, c’mon. What would Bucky do?”

“Don’t bring him into this, man.”

“I didn’t bring him into this, he is this.”

“He was,” Sam says firmly. 

“He was, and you helped him out.”

Sam sighs– Joaquin was right. It hadn’t started out that way, Sam had needed Bucky’s help. He doesn’t even remember when or how the lines began to blur; he just knew that when he was with Bucky things felt…right. They’d been lucky though, finding that in each other.

 “So what, you wanna try to save her?”

“Don’t you?”

You clear your throat behind them, and they both turn around to meet your gaze. “One; I can hear you. Two; I don’t need saving.”

“I bet you could use some back up though,” Sam insists, looking at you over Joaquin’s shoulder. “Whatcha think about that?”

He’s not wrong. You could benefit from a free ammo re-up. It’d be nice to sleep in a place where you know there are harmless, good guys. Where the walls don’t morph into haunting faces and close in on you. 

“I think there better be a hot shower and meal for me when we get there,” You start towards their tracks but when you don’t hear them moving you glance over your shoulder at them. “You princesses coming?”

“How’d you know which way?” Joaquin asks, brows knitting together.

“The tracks,” You answer easily, taking a couple more steps in that direction. You hear a soft purr. “And now the engine.”

Sam glares at Joaquin. “You left the car running?”

The two start their usual bicker and you lead the back, wondering what you’ve just gotten yourself into. Maybe something as good as what Bucky’s got— most likely none of that and more pain. That’s all you’ve ever known.

> ch. 2

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[retrosabers]

nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

[retrosabers]

i need to be put on a leash

[retrosabers]

summary: you and joaquin try to figure things out between you post-blip.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: 18+/MINORS DNI, angst/fluff/eventual smut, illusion to mental illness, canon typical violence, eventually happy ending

current wc: 5,962

last update: 3/8/2025

an: bc i have no chill of course my return to writing is a series for a completely new character. I wouldn’t have it any other way 🙂‍↕️

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5*

Part 6

Part 7