#joaquin torres fanfiction

[lovelybucky1]

If you’re still taking requests would you be interested in writing smth along the lines of reader telling sam & joaquin she’s never had an orgasm from anyone but herself and they help her out..?

these two together drive me crazy // takes place in the go greek! universe // go greek! masterlist // 18+ minors dni

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” Sam asks incredulously.

“I’m telling the truth!” you defend.

“Not even by yourself?” Joaquin chimes in.

“Nope.”

“But you’ve had sex before, right?” Sam seems personally offended by this.

“Yes, I’ve had sex and yes, I masturbate. I just have a hard time getting there.”

Sam and Joaquin share a look. You’re sitting next to Sam on the couch, your feet propped up on his thigh, while Joaquin sits in the arm chair to the left of the couch. There’s a movie on the TV that none of you really care to watch, but the sex scene sparked some lively conversation.

“So all the times you’ve had sex and didn’t cum, the guy was just cool with that?” Sam asks.

“Well…” They both raise their eyebrows in anticipation. “They didn’t exactly know I didn’t.”

“You faked it?” Joaquin asks, taking his turn to be offended.

“It’s easier to fake it than having to explain why I didn’t. And some guys’ egos are way too fragile and I didn’t want to have to deal with that.”

“That’s so not fair,” Joaquin says, shaking his head.

“Y’know,” Sam starts, grabbing both yours ans Joaquin’s attention. “I have a pretty good reputation with the ladies.”

“Sam-”

“I’m just saying! I could help you out. We can try different things and figure out what works. And if nothing works, my ego won’t be hurt. No faking needed.”

Rolling your eyes, you pick your foot up and push against his sholder. “You’re hilarious.”

“I’m serious!” he says, grabbing ahold of your ankle so you can’t kick him again.

“I could help you instead,” Joaquin adds.

“You too?” you groan, looking between both of them.

Joaquin stands up from the chair and kneels down next to you. “We’re both down to help you. If you don’t want that, tell us to fuck off and we will.”

“But we can give you what you need,” Sam says.

They’re not teasing anymore. Their expressions have turned serious, like this is a genuine offer. You look between them both, and after a moment, you hesitantly nod.

“Okay.”

“Okay…?”

“Okay, I’ll let you guys help me out.”

Somehow you’re lucky enough for this to happen while you three are the only ones home. You end up with your back against Sam’s solid chest, his hands holding your legs open while Joaquin lays between them.

They had coaxed you out of your panties with gentle touches and sweet words before Joaquin kissed his way up your thighs.

Sam’s mouth is next to your ear, mumbling words that make your toes curl. He’s making you tell him everything you’re feeling, what you like and what you don’t. You get they’re trying to help you, but you’re not used to talking about things like this.

Joaquin curls two fingers inside you to rub against that spot inside you that drives you crazy. His tongue swirls around your clit, causing you to squim in Sam’s hold.

“How do you need it? Harder, softer, faster, slower? Gotta talk to us, sweetheart,” Sam says.

“Harder, please, harder,” you gasp.

Joaquin obliges and sucks your clit firmly. It borders on too much, too overstimulating, but the consistent plusing of his fingers forces you closer to the edge that has eluded you for so long.

“I think- I think I’m gonna-”

Instead of changing things up or trying to make your orgasm come quicker, Joaquin maintains what he’s doing. Same pace, same pressure. The only thing that changes is where he’s looking. His eyes were closed but as soon as you announced that you’re close, they shot open to look up at you.

“Don’t hold back, baby. Let yourself go, cum for us,” Sam mumbles, voice low and breath warm.

All of your muscles tighten, starting from your toes and spasming through your abdomen. Your thighs attempt to clench around Joaquin’s head, but Sam’s hands keep them spread wide.

You want to moan, try to, but the sound gets caught in your throat as pleasure washes over you. Joaquin doesn’t let up and continues, despite the ache that must be burning in his jaw. He lets you ride that high until you physically can’t.

“Joaquin, Joaquin, please, I can’t take it,” you gasp.

Mercifully, he pulls away. He leans up on an elbow and wipes his mouth with the back of his other hand casually like he wasn’t just face down between your legs.

“How was that?” he asks, a stupid, boyish grin on his face.

You close your eyes and lay limp against Sam’s chest. He wraps his arms around you and holds you tightly, the squeeze feeling like a weighted blanket.

“I think that answers that,” Sam chuckles. “You did so good, sweetheart.”

You hum in acknowledgment of his praise. You’ll deal with the aftermath of this little arrangement later. Right now, all you want to do is bask in the glow of your orgasm and the attention of Sam and Joaquin.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. V

summary: you finally stay and joaquin shows you just how dedicated he is to holding you.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, fluff, angst, anxiety

wc: 2,864

an: this is a juicy one yall, and it’s been a long time coming. still some hesitancy on reader’s part but she’s ready to try! hope yall enjoy <3

vuelve a mí masterlist

Joaquin holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little. Not trapping, not keeping you—just holding, like his body knows yours needs it. His fingers will leave faint bruises with the strength he holds you with and in this moment that’s exactly what both of you want. Tangible, visible ways to tie yourselves together. You don’t realize how tightly you’re clinging to him until your fingers start to ache, but even then, you don’t let go. Neither does he.

“Te amo. No voy a soltarte,” he whispers again, as if you didn’t hear him the first time. As if saying it once wasn’t enough.

Your fingers flex against his shirt, fisting the fabric like you might be whisked away if you don’t hold on. Maybe you would. Anxiety still lingers, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. You want this more than you’ve wanted anything, but can you handle it?

Your breaths mingle in the quiet space between you, and the heat of his body is the only warmth you want to know tonight. He kisses you slowly, reverently, like he’s rediscovering every inch of you with his lips, his hands, the soft rasp of his voice when he murmurs your name. Every touch, every shift of his body against yours, feels like a promise—not one spoken aloud, but written into the way he moves with you, how he listens without words, how he never takes more than you give.

At some point, he guides you both to the couch. He sits allowing you to choose if you’ll sit beside him or straddle his lap. He’s giving you choice every step of the way, giving you space to breathe. You’ve had years of space and right now you don’t need it—you need him. Here and now, you need to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, the steady cadence of his heartbeat under your palm.

You reach out for him, and his hands find your waist again, guiding you down to straddle his thighs comfortably. Like you belong here.

When you bend to meet your mouth with his again, he cups your cheek to keep you at bay, though his hand trembles. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Joaquin. Please,” You breathe desperately.

He lets out a relieved sigh, like the sound of you being so sure about him has fixed everything.

Joaquin presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, sucking gently when he makes it to your pulse point. He can feel the way your heart beats erratically beneath his lips, feel the way your body rubs against his then tenses with pleasure.

You crane your neck to give him the space to take whatever he wants. Your hands have snaked their way up his body, finding purchase on his shoulders so that you can grind yourself against him.

“Querida,” He groans against your skin before sinking his teeth into you.

“Don’t stop. It’s perfect, don’t stop,” You encourage breathlessly.

Joaquin can’t decide what he wants more; to see you taking what you want from him, finding pleasure from him and his body for the first time in years, or to keep tasting your skin. He chooses the former, but only briefly, laying back against the couch so that he can watch your hips. “Fuck, look at you. Rubbing yourself off on me, are you sure it's enough? ¿Quieres que te ayude, amor?”

“Yes, help me,” You agree, letting your hands run down his chest slowly.

He leans forward once more, worshiping your skin with his mouth as his hands find their place at your hips. He helps you work yourself over his clothed hard-on, the strength of his hands making the pleasure burn spark warmer in your lower belly. His mouth makes its way to the collar of your shirt and he leans back just enough to make you meet his gaze. His eyes are melty, full of wonder and adoration– your eyes feel like a mirror. He feels seen and held and accepted for the first time in so long that he forgets his question.

Through breathy gasps, you ask, “Qué es, Quino?”

You see the way Joaquin’s gaze refocuses, bringing him back to the moment and out of the floaty ether he’d been in. His mouth pulls up in the corner, as his fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, “Let me take this off?”

You nod, breathless as you lift your arms, and he peels it from you, tossing it aside without a thought. His gaze rakes over you like he wants to commit every inch of you to memory like he’s afraid you’ll crumble before his very eyes.

His hands are reverent as they explore you, warm palms sliding over bare skin, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. His thumbs ghost over the peaks of your breasts before he replaces them with his mouth, his tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.

“Joaquin,” you gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he soothes. He guides you off his lap and lays you across the couch, kissing down your stomach, his fingers hooking into your shorts. He pulls them down slowly, pressing kisses to every inch of new skin as he bears it. “This okay?”

“More than okay.”

He makes you fall apart on his fingers first, pressing inside, curling just right, his other hand steady on your hip as he whispers praises against your skin. Your hips kant up into his mouth, helping him run his tongue over your clit with the perfect amount of pressure. You grow less shy as he hits the right spots, your moans growing louder. He smiles into your pussy, looking up at you through hooded eyes. “Asi, mi amor? You like that?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whimper, trembling as you grind down against his work and soon you're falling off the edge for the first time. He groans as loudly as you do when you clench around his fingers both of you feeling wrecked and desperate.

Slowly, he kisses his way up your naked body, causing you to shiver now and then when his lips brush a place you’re ticklish. When he makes it to your mouth he kisses you deep before asking, “More? Do you want to keep going?”

“Please.”

When he finally lifts you, his hands gripping your thighs as he stands, his lips find yours again. His kiss is all-consuming, and you can taste the want in it, the way he needs you just as much as you need him.

He carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing, laying you down with a care that makes something in your chest squeeze tight. He begins to rid himself of his clothing in a flurry, nearly ripping off his shirt. You know that he’s nervous, or perhaps just eager by the way his fingers fumble with the belt on his jeans. There’s something so familiar about this song and dance though it's nearly a decade in the past. You watch him carefully, wanting to never forget, wanting your memory of him to be so strong that even if you were taken away again, he could still feel your love for him.

His body is warm and solid above you once he’s naked, his broad frame caging you in, and there’s nowhere else for you to go. Nowhere you’d rather be.

Joaquin takes his time burying his cock inside you, tracing every curve, relearning every sound you make as he presses into you, slow and deep, filling you completely. The stretch, the way he groans into your mouth when he finally seats himself inside you, has you gasping his name. You’ve never felt so grounded, so yourself in your life. Right here with him feels like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be— letting him love you and loving him in return.

“Quino,” You sigh, letting your head fall back against the pillows while your arms and legs circle him, bringing him close. “Siempre he sido tuya.”

“Yo sé, mi amor.” His voice is thick, and rough with emotion. “I always knew. Always knew we’d get back here.”

His breath shudders against your lips. He leans on one arm so that he won’t crush you, his other hand finding your cheek, thumb sweeping over your cheekbone with aching tenderness.

He moves then, slow and deep, dragging pleasure from you with every roll of his hips, every brush of his mouth against yours. The pace is unhurried, deliberate—he’s savoring you, pouring all of himself into this, into you.

Your fingers trace his spine, nails pressing into his shoulders when he shifts, hitting the perfect spot that has you gasping for his name. He groans in response, murmuring sweet, filthy things against your lips, telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are, how much he’s missed you.

The pleasure builds like a slow-burning fire, stoked by his touch, by his whispered te quiero, by the way, he holds you like you’re precious. When you finally unravel beneath him, his name is the only thing on your lips, and yours is the only thing on his as he follows, burying himself deep with a shuddering moan.

“I love you too,” You finally murmur into the skin of his shoulder as he comes down from his high.

Before you can get in your head, and start questioning or doubting, he pulls you close, dropping a kiss on your forehead.

“You don’t have to think about anything right now,” He says, voice content and thick with drowsiness. “Just rest.”

And you do.

—

Morning comes too quickly, anxiety and doubt swimming in your blood.

The warmth of Joaquin is still wrapped around you when the weight in your chest returns, heavier than ever. Your breath stumbles, your mind catching up to the reality of what last night meant…and what it could mean for the future.

You sit up too fast, the sheets tangling around your legs, panic threading through your limbs because everything was easier yesterday in the dark of the night. Now you must choose if you’re ready to stand in the light with him.

Joaquin stirs immediately. His arm, once draped over your waist, lifts just enough to give you space, but not enough to let you go completely. He never wants to let you go, not ever again, but he doesn’t want to smother you. “What’s wrong? Dime,” His voice is thick with sleep, but there’s nothing sluggish about his concern.

You shake your head, pressing your palms to your face. You don’t know if it’s the panic but they feel cool in contrast to your cheeks. “I—I don’t know. Joaquin…”

He doesn’t push, doesn’t move a single muscle, or try to interject. He just watches you, waiting and reading you in that way only he can. Then, after a pause, he slowly reaches for your hand as if you’re some skittish animal he might scare away. He doesn’t pull—just rests his palm against yours, an anchor if you want it.

“We don’t have to figure it all out today,” He suggests, running his thumb over your skin. “Podemos ir despacio y empezar de nuevo, como tú quieras.”

Your breath stutters. “Y sí no puedo?”

His expression softens, his fingers curling lightly around yours. “Then we figure it out together.”

You shake your head, struggling to put the mess of emotions into words. Everything inside you feels like it’s swirling like a twister. “Joaquin, I don’t even know if I can trust myself to do this. To want this,” Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, and you hate how exposed you are to him— how shameful it all feels— after holding your reasoning so close to your chest. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

His hand tightens, not in insistence but in reassurance. “And I don’t want to push you, or scare you,” he says quietly. “I never have.”

You close your eyes. “I know,” You say brokenly. “I know.”

Joaquin is quiet but you know that he’s thinking, searching for the right words. Somehow, he always finds them. “Let’s not rush this, querida. Let’s just—be whatever you need us to be.”

Your throat tightens, but when you finally open your eyes, he’s still looking at you like he always has—like you’re something worth waiting for.

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” He continues to reassure you, voice low and sure. “You don’t have to stay today if it’s too much. But, if you do, we’ll take the day as it comes. Dime si está bien, quiero saber.”

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been gripping his hand until your fingers start to ache. You exhale shakily, your grip loosening just enough to tangle your fingers with his instead.

Joaquin squeezes your hand, “Whatever you need, baby.”

You swallow hard. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll stay.”

His smile widens, relief softening the tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, doesn’t press or push, he just nods like he knew all along that this was where you’d land. Like he knows you better than yourself— you’re starting to realize that.

He grins at you mischievously, bringing your hand up to his mouth to place a kiss on your skin. “Go on a first date with me, querida.

You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift. “A first date?”

“Mhmm.” He leans back slightly against the pillows, stretching his arms over his head before he pats his chest. “We could redo our first one—same place, same drinks. See if we still like each other.”

“Of course we still like each other,” You murmur defensively.

He guides you down to lay on his chest at your tone. “Ok, love each other.”

The thought makes something in you go tight—not in a bad way, just in a way that reminds you that you aren’t the same people who went on that date all those years ago. You gaze up at him, wondering if he truly believes you don't love him, especially after last night.

“It’s never been that I don’t love you, Quino. I do. I meant it all, what I said last night when we—“ You trail off.

Joaquin tries to fight off his smile and fails. “When we what, amor?”

You shake your head, pushing at his chest. “Stop it, we have to focus. A first date…it has to be new,” you say softly. “A fresh start.”

He catches your hand and brings it up to cup his cheek. “All right. Something new.”

You exhale, some of the tension in your chest easing. “Yeah.”

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. “So, what do you have in mind?”

You blink at him. “You’re asking me?”

His lips twitch. “You were the one who insisted on something fresh. I’m just following your lead, baby.”

You purse your lips, considering. “What if we keep it lowkey? Something simple.”

Joaquin hums, thoughtful. “A walk, maybe? Somewhere quiet. No pressure, just time together.”

It doesn’t sound bad. You let the idea settle for a moment before shrugging as you nuzzle against him once more. “That could work.”

He watches you carefully, he can tell that you aren’t sold. “Or we could do something fun. Something that isn’t like a ‘date’ date. None of the flowers and candles, no pressure. Just us.”

You frown, suspicious. “Like what?”

“Mini golf obviously,” He supplies, wagging his eyebrows at you.

You snort, leaning back to get a good look at him. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He shifts to sit up, running a hand through his hair. “Think about it. It’s low stakes, you can trash talk me, and if you get mad enough at losing, you can shove me into the water hazard.”

A reluctant smile tugs at your lips. “Bold of you to assume I’d lose.”

He raises a brow. “There’s my girl.”

You shake your head, sighing. “I don’t know…”

He leans in slightly, voice warm. “All right, what about a record store? Somewhere cozy. We grab coffee, wander the aisles, and pick something out for each other to listen to. You still have your player right?”

That suggestion makes you pause. It feels… safer. Familiar, but not tied to the past. It feels like you and Joaquin can open a new door.

“Yeah, I do. That sounds really nice,” You admit shyly.

Joaquin nods, pleased. “See? I have good ideas.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He chuckles, then softens. “I believe you by the way.”

“Believe me?”

“Everything you said last night. That you love me. Te creo.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He squeezes your hand once before letting go as if to remind you that you’re not alone in this.

With Joaquin by your side, with some of that pressure lifted off your shoulders to be all you thought he wanted you to be, you feel light enough to move forward.

must be 18+/have age displayed to be on the nsfw joaquin 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

> pt. vi

[sunsburns]

i think ur oral fixation surprises both you and joaquin when you take his dog tags into ur mouth and suck on them. they're just dangling in your face how could you ever resist

oh my god?? my jaw is on the floor. this is insane. i love it. (18+)

it wasn’t like you could stop yourself.

you were already a little out of it—joaquín had been treating you too good all night. from dinner, where he played footsie with you under the table until your heel slid just a little too high, leaving him red-faced, to the way he kissed you against the door before you could even get your keys out. and now, after everything, after he’s had you gasping and writhing beneath him, you’re both wrecked and breathless, tangled together in the sheets, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips roll against yours.

it’s a sweet pace, a little sloppy, his rhythm faltering as his body trembles. he’s close. you can tell by the way his huffs turn into short, needy whines.

joaquín loves missionary, loves looking at you, touching you. but right now, his eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed tight as his fingers tangle in your hair, cupping your jaw like he can’t bear to let go.

every thrust rocks you against the mattress, the old frame creaking beneath you both. the headboard knocks against the wall in time with your moans, the wet, desperate sounds between you filling the room. and over it all, there’s the soft, steady clinking of his dog tags.

your gaze drops from his face to the chain hanging around his neck. the tags sway with every movement, catching the faint light from the window, gleaming silver against the tan of his chest. it’s distracting, the way they dangle just above your lips, taunting you. you don’t think—just act—lifting your head as he drives particularly deep, parting your lips so the tags graze your skin, clinking against your teeth before you take them fully into your mouth.

it takes joaquín exactly two seconds to notice.

the slight tug at his neck drags him forward, and his eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused at first until he sees—

oh.

a shudder wrecks through him, his hips stuttering to a halt as a deep, broken groan spills past his lips. he stares down at you, panting, his dog tags resting on your tongue, your lips wrapped around the cool metal. you stare back, never breaking eye contact as you flatten your tongue against them, tracing over the engraved letters of his name and military rank. captain torres.

the taste is sharp, bitter and metallic, and you moan around it, letting the sound vibrate against the chain. his hand tightens in your hair, fingers flexing.

"qué… qué haces?" joaquín rasps, voice wrecked, thick with something he doesn’t fully understand yet. his brows knit together, but the heat in his gaze betrays him.

you hum around the tags, sucking lightly before letting them drag against your lips as you pull back just enough to murmur, "couldn’t help it. they were just… there."

joaquín lets out a choked noise, somewhere between a curse and a groan, his grip on you tightening. he presses his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

"dios mío…"

his breath is hot against your skin, his chest heaving, but you don’t let up. you close your lips around the tags again, sucking, a little filthier this time, pulling him down with you. his chain tugs against the back of his neck, making him swallow hard. his hips jerk forward on instinct, and you sigh through your nose at the way his cock fills you again, deeper than before.

joaquín doesn’t even try to hold back his groan this time. his fingers tighten around your hand beside your head, gripping like it’s the only thing grounding him. then your nails scrape against his scalp, urging him on.

that does it.

he snaps his hips forward, rutting into you with a newfound urgency, his rhythm completely wrecked. the bed creaks louder, his moans slip freer, and you’re right there with him.

he’s never going to be able to wear these without thinking about this moment again.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Never mind I had one more in the tank.

‘Who’s you’re favourite person?’ Sam asked once.

‘Joaquin.’ You replied without hesitation.

Sam’s brow quirks upwards as a amused smile crept on his face, the same face that you and Joaquin had teased him constantly that made him look as though he knew something about you both, he didn’t understand the joke but that only made it funnier for you and Joaquin. ‘Why?’ He said.

You shrugged. ‘Why not. He’s my favourite person because when I’m with him I can be myself, I can be a little silly and not feel bad about it. I can be stupid and instead of laughing at me, Joaquin is laughing with me.’ You smiled to yourself when you remembered how you tripped over thin air, only for Joaquin to catch you as he tells you to be careful, only for him to trip over his own feet seconds later which lead to the pair of you laughing at the irony of the moment; To you that was the beauty of Joaquin Torres.

‘Joaquin is someone who I can go to in conference, knowing he’ll always have my back, offer wise sage like advice even when it’s like three in the morning and we’re both half out of our minds. As long as I know k have Joaquin in my corner, then I can take on anything and everything for he’s my friend, my other half, my person whom I can’t live without as I don’t want to ever think of having to live without him anymore.’ You continued as you remembered how often you spent in his room more then your own at this point, always feeling that warmth within your chest whenever you saw him after mission and how happy you were to see him come back from his without so much as some minor bruises and cuts.

You remembered how often you’d find yourself tucked protectively within his embrace after movie nights and how you’d give just about anything just to stay like this within his arms forever, protected and protecting him when you found his head on your chest on the rare occasion where he needed your comfort, never once withholding it from him as he was more then deserving of anything and everything. You couldn’t help but swoon when you remembered the nights where you both would go to the roof of the compound to watch the stars, only to find yourself looking at them as they visited within his eyes, the man was beautiful and he knew it and you weren’t one to let him forgot it either.

‘He’s my favourite person because he’s authentically himself, never giving up his true self just to fit in with the rest and I admire him for doing so. He’s my person because without him I’ve got nothing, he’s my person because he makes life brighter and more worthwhile and worth running the risk for and I can’t thank him enough for being my person.’ You finished telling Sam, who had been looking over your shoulder the entire time, which made you furrow your brows as you looked to see what had caught his attention, only to see that Joaquin was stood in the doorway behind you with his arms crossed over his chest; smiling.

‘He’s asked you the same thing huh?’ He says with a playful air to his voice, but his eyes held a sense of sincerity as he pushed himself away to move to your side, leaving your feeling a rush of warmth wash over you from the close proximity when he moves his head so it was near your ear. ‘But I’m glad to hear that I’m your favourite person, the feelings more than reciprocated my love.’ He whispered before pressing a kiss to your forehead tenderly, making you lean into his touch and smiling stupidly, but that was the effect he had over you without having to try though that’s what you loved most about him.

[petertingle-yipyip]

MISS POSSESSIVE - JOAQUIN TORRES

Pairing: Joaquin x Reader // Word Count: 2,061

Summary: So what if you were a little possessive? No one got hurt. (fun fact: the biting story is a true story)

Your relationship with Joaquin was no secret.

You two didn’t necessarily shove it down everyone’s throats, but you didn’t hide anything either. You arrived at most trainings together, sat next to and against each other, went to lunch together, left together. The only time you were really apart was when he went on a mission with Sam and you went with your recon team.

You noticed the new set of eyes in the training center one day. You were doing your planned solidcore routine while Joaquin did weights on the other side of the center.

You saw her when you took a break between exercises. You sat flat on the machine’s pad and breathed deeply, glancing around the relatively empty center. You and Joaquin were there, as part of your usual schedule, along with Nat and Yelena sparring in the far corner. Kate was doing some yoga routine with the blonde that was actively staring at Joaquin, who was oblivious as he began a set of lat pulldowns.

You stared at your boyfriend for a moment as well. Admittedly, the blonde had a fair excuse to stare, and she was new. Or you hadn’t met her at least. Maybe she didn’t know.

You pushed a headphone aside, ready to snap at her, when Kate smacked her friend’s arm. You could barely hear her say to pay attention and that he was taken. Kate met your eyes a moment later and she offered you a thumbs up with a nod, a not-so-subtle confirmation that she had your back.

You smiled at her as you chuckled. Replacing your headphones, you went back to suffering through solidcore.

Later that week, in a more packed training center, Joaquin’s newest fan was watching him again. You two were jogging the track and conversating, and he decided to show off and jog backwards. You caught the woman over his shoulder and you fixed a glare in her direction. Her eyes met yours and she changed from basically undressing Joaquin in her head to daring you to stop her.

“Hello?” He waved a hand in front of your face and your attention slid back to him. “What was that?” He was smirking slightly.

“Nothing.” You shrugged. “You’re gonna fall.”

“I’m not gonna fall.”

“You’re gonna fall.”

“I’m not gon-“ He began before nearly tripping over his own feet.

His arms flailed slightly and you caught him, which caused you to stumble with him. You couldn’t help the laugh as he righted and you two resumed your easy pace.

“Don’t tell Sam.” He said quickly.

“I already saw!” Sam called from the other side of the track.

Joaquin groaned in embarrassment and you nudged him slightly with your elbow. He frowned dramatically at you and you giggled before jerking your chin, daring him to keep up as you increased your stride.

By the end of that week, his watcher had built up some courage.

You were at the cubbies near the door, rifling through your bag for your sparring gloves. Joaquin was leaning against the wall near the cubbies, casually mentioning how he had his already and you were putting your session behind. You mocked him quietly as you dumped the contents of your bag on the floor.

“You set me up.” You blamed him.

“Me?” He laughed. “I’d never do such a thing.”

“Yes you would, because you know I can kick your ass.”

He sighed dramatically and knelt beside you to help you look. You filtered through your scattered items while he checked the zippered pockets. He was the one to find them, which only added on to his guilt in your mind, and you shoved everything back away.

He offered you his hand to get up and you made a show of your reluctance as you took it. He laughed, pulled you to his chest, and kept you close with an arm over your shoulders.

She wasn’t there when you two began your session. You would’ve felt those baby blue eyes following. By the time you were taking a break, she was there, lingering at the edge of the sparring area. She pretended to be focused on her own workout  when Joaquin glanced in her direction but she didn’t hide her blatant stare when you looked at her.

You didn’t give a warning before storming over. You knelt to be at her level and she propped herself up on her elbows. She opened her mouth but you cut her off.

“Funny how you think I don’t notice the way you undress him with your eyes almost everyday.” You said flatly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She rolled her eyes.

“Look at the floor. Or the ceiling. Or anyone else in this place. Just keep your eyes off him.” You forced a smile that was anything but friendly. “Got it?”

“I’m so scared.” She said sarcastically, craning her neck to see around you.

“Listen. I can only be nice about this for so long. Some fights you’re not gonna win. And him?” You nodded towards him once. “No way.”

“May the best woman win then.” She shrugged and returned to her sit ups.

You kicked her braced feet away before heading back to Joaquin, earning a muttered “bitch” as you left. His brows furrowed but you waved him off. With a new anger in your veins, you knew you’d hit someone you shouldn’t soon, which made the next portion of your sparring more intense than necessary.

You were both covered in sweat by the time you were done. You had also both removed your shirts by then. Your muscles were burning with the effort and you assumed Joaquin’s were too, but by the way he was talking your ear off you wouldn’t have guessed.

“You’re pretty chatty.” You teased with a grin.

“You wouldn’t let me get a word in over there!” He sounded offended as he threw a hand towards the sparring area. “Anytime I tried to talk, you pounced.”

“I pounced?” You laughed. “What am I, a cat?”

“A feral one.” He muttered and you smacked his arm before you both laughed. “Definitely feral.”

“If I was feral, I’d bite.”

“You do!”

“I do not!”

“Didn’t you bite a kid in second grade?”

You whirled to face him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You know good and well that I had a good reason!” You defended.

His hands went up in surrender but the grin was still plastered on his face.

“I felt threatened.”

“And biting was the only answer?” He tried and failed to keep his laughter contained.

“Yes! I was playing my own game, he tried to make me the prisoner in his war game with some other kid. You don’t put your arm-“

“Around someone’s neck and not expect to get bit.” He finished and you glared lightly at him. “At least you didn’t get suspended.”

“I cried in the principal’s office because I was scared of getting in trouble.” You deadpanned. “I don’t think I ever apologized to the kid, though.”

“And you still went on that field trip.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “I’m so disappointed in you, Y/N/N.”

“Oh no, whatever will I do now?” You dramatically put your hands to your heart.

“Just don’t bite me.” He shrugged, which earned another smack to his arm.

“I left my water. Grab my bag?” You began backing away towards the sparring corner.

“Yeah.” He nodded and went towards your cubby.

As you were grabbing your bottle, Kate and Yelena were stepping into the square. Kate waved enthusiastically at you and Yelena held a fist towards you. You bumped your own against hers and smiled towards Kate.

“How’s it going?” You asked. “Feeling stronger?”

“Today’s the day.” Kate nodded firmly.

“Ha!” Yelena responded loudly and you turned. “You think you’ll beat me?”

“Okay, you say that like it’s a joke.” Kate frowned.

“Was it not?” Yelena laughed. “C’mon, Kate Bishop.”

“Why do you still do that? Stop saying my name like that!” Kate urgently whispered.

“I don’t know, Lena. She might.” You added. You gave Kate a once over glance and then nodded slightly. “Yeah, I think she actually has biceps now.”

“See?” Kate threw an arm towards you. “Wait a second.” She furrowed her brows.

“Staying to find out?” Yelena asked, bouncing side to side on the balls of her feet.

“No, Joaquin and I are gonna try to catch a movie.” You nodded towards where you left your boyfriend. “Just came back for my water.”

“Oh!” Kate announced. “That reminds me…”

“You’re stalling.” Yelena complained.

“It’s important!” Kate insisted then turned to you again. “Sorry about before. I tried to tell her.”

“The new girl?”

She nodded, almost looking embarrassed, but you shrugged.

“I told her today in the nicest way I could to back off.” You waved a dismissive hand.

“What if she didn’t get the memo?” Yelena asked, focusing on something over your shoulder.

“Oh shit…” Kate looked at the same thing behind you.

“What are you two-“ You mumbled and turned to see for yourself. “Oh.”

You crossed your arms and watched for a moment. Joaquin was sitting on the floor with the new girl kneeling beside him. They were involved in some sort of conversation and you were just glad he had put his shirt back on. She exaggerated a laugh and he was confused for a second. Apparently, what he said hadn’t been that funny.

“I think you should start planning your friend’s funeral, Kate Bishop.” Yelena said flatly as the blonde reached out and put her hand on Joaquin’s forearm.

“No, it’s…” You began.

You knew Joaquin. You knew his mannerisms and body language better than anyone. He didn’t care to be talking to this girl, not in the way she was trying to talk to him. He had his phone in one hand and judging by the way he kept looking down at it, he would’ve rather been scrolling than talking to her.

“You’re better than me.” Kate offered. “Two warnings and she still acts like that? Friend or not, I’d slap the hell outta her.” She laughed slightly.

Her other hand landed on his forearm and her other moved to his upper arm. Your brows rose and as if that expression sent a signal, Joaquin looked over towards you with wide eyes.

“Pray for her.” Kate said simply as you took long strides to get back to Joaquin.

He stood as you got closer and she bounced up beside him. She stepped closer, one of her hands on his shoulder and the other reached for his hand.

“Ready to go?” You made a point of only speaking to and looking at Joaquin.

“Yeah.” He sighed in relief and shifted to get away from her touch. “We leave now, we’ll have enough time to shower first.”

“Did you get the tickets already?”

“I thought you were going to stick around and spot me.” The blonde pouted.

“I’ve got ‘em.” Joaquin answered. “And your bag, m’lady.” He bowed slightly as he offered you your bag.

You laughed slightly and slung the strap over your shoulder.

“But Joaquin!” She cried, grabbing his hand with both of hers. He immediately pulled away and she pursed her bottom lip in another pout.

“He already said he’s busy.” You snapped. “Go see if Kate or Yel have time to babysit.”

“I didn’t realize you were his mommy.” She said sarcastically.

You turned to face her fully but Joaquin pulled on your bag to force you back a step. He tapped his knuckles against your thigh and you shifted your weight closer to him.

“Seriously.” You threatened. “Get your hands off my man.”

“Scared?”

“I’m gonna kill her.” You ground your teeth and looked to Joaquin.

Quickly, he put his arm around your shoulders and guided you out the doors. She called after him but you lifted your hand to give her the middle finger. After a string of curses were directed at you, Joaquin closed his hand over yours with a laugh.

“Told you.” Joaquin said proudly as he opened the passenger door for you.

“Told me what?” You raised a brow.

“Feral.” He grinned.

You opened your mouth to argue then closed it. Maybe he was right, at least where he was concerned.

Feral. Possessive. Protective. Same thing, right?

[inej-ruination-ghafa]

NEXT OF KIN - J.T

Warnings: hospitals, near death experience

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x fem!Wilson!reader

Summary: the one where Joaquin nearly dies and you finally have to tell your father

Wordcount: 3.3k

Footsteps echoed through the building, the methodical clicking of heels ricocheting off of the walls. Everyone watched as you ran through the doors, yanking them open and scanning the sign on the wall.

Before the staff behind the desk could stop you, you were storming into the room and that’s where you stood for a moment, eyes glued on the window.

A doctor followed you in, holding his paper to his chest as he looked at you. He just watched for a moment as you reached a hand up to the glass, unable to take your eyes off of the scene.

“Excuse me,” he cared his throat and you turned your head to look at him. There were tears brimming in your eyes and you hoped he wouldn’t notice, “You can’t be in here without authorisation,”

when you said your name, the doctors eyes went wide. Your last name held a lot of power in places nowadays. Wilson. Your father had been apprehensive about you keeping the last name since his rise to fame, not wanting his daughter to get in trouble. Yet, here you were, with the same determined look on your face, willing to get in trouble if you have to

“I, um, I’m Joaquin’s next of kin, you called me,”

the doctor seemed to have gotten over his shock because he nodded his head intently, almost like he remembered calling you, “His fiancée, is it?”

“Girlfriend,”

“Miss Wilson, the injuries are extensive,” the doctor said as he walked over, looking at the scene in front of him.

You looked over again, staring at the surgery. He was under the knife and you just watched as they chopped into him, over and over again. They were keeping him alive, a ventilator on, blood bags ready in the corner.

Your heart was racing as you wondered if this was it. This could be the last time you saw him alive, covered in tarps and surrounded by doctors with bloody scalpels. He looked so fragile.

“I can see,” the words were hoarse coming from your throat.

You had cried most of the way over here. You had been in the middle of a work meeting when your phone had rung and you ignored it for a few moments before remembering that you had said goodbye to your boyfriend and father a few days prior.

joaquin had come to say his goodbye to you before he left, the two of you parting with a kiss before he drove off to work that day. He knew he wasn’t going to be back any time soon. And now here he was, lying on an operating table.

Your heart felt like it was splintering every moment that he stayed on that table. Tears pooled in your eyes as you looked at him in that condition; he seemed so fragile.

“He has been in rough condition but should be out of surgery within the hour, they’re just fixing him up. He broke a few ribs, has a few first and second degree burns, a broken arm,” there was a weight in your chest as you listened to the doctor explain it all, “His heart did stop but there should be no long lasting issues,”

Your eyes went wide and you turned to the doctor, a sharp pain in your chest, “He died?”

“Miss Wilson,” he tried to reason with you.

Your head was spinning and it was like you were drowning in all of your thoughts. You had nearly lost the love of your life, the one person who had ever cared for you so much. He had nearly died and you couldnt do anything about it.

“He died?” You repeated, breath heavy.

“Medically speaking,”

You choked back a sob, hand coming to cover your mouth as the tears spilled over your cheeks. He had died. He had died. That was all that you kept repeating to yourself.

You turned and looked back at Joaquin. You remembered meeting him for the first time at an awards ceremony two years ago. He was standing alongside your father and he had caught your eye in moments. He had come up to you, nervous, hands shaking, yet he kept that suave smile on his face as he introduced himself.

Now, as you stared at the man on the operating table, you realised just how much he meant to you. You would not be the same person if you had not met him that day.

You were so consumed with your thoughts as you stared at the operating table hat you didnt hear the footsteps approaching.

In the glass, you caught your fathers reflection and realised that he was going to see you standing there, crying your eyes out over nearly losing your boyfriend. A boyfriend he didnt know you had.

You and Joaquin had been together for around 18 months now and had decided to hide the relationship from your father because it was easier not to get him involved. He was so overly protective over you and you knew he would be mad if he saw that you were falling in love with someone with such a dangerous occupation.

as discreetly as you could, you wiped the tears from your cheeks with the sleeve of your cardigan, checking yourself in the reflection to make sure you didn’t look too bad before you turned and saw him.

”Kiddo, what are you doing here?” He furrowed his brows at you, giving you that familiar judgemental look, like he was concerned with your wellbeing but was disappointed that you were there, “I dont want you getting caught up in this,”

You shrugged, not sure what to say, “I got a call,”

“As Torres’ next of kin, it is procedure, sir,” the doctor stated, thinking that he was solving the issue.

Silence fell over the room and you locked eyes with your father. He had that look on your face that you hadn’t seen since you were 17 and sneaking Billy Newsome out of your second story window. He was so angry at you that you could feel it in the air.

The doctors eyes went wide as he realised what he had done, exposing something that he had wrongfully assumed was common knowledge.

He took a deep breath, tilting his head as he looked at you, eyes narrowed, ”Excuse me,”

The lack of words made it even worse. Those two very simple words sent a chill down your spine and even if you were 23 years old, you could still feel the panic in your chest, like you were a little girl about to be reprimanded again.

“Dad,” there were no words that you could think of that would fix this.

If your heart wasnt already pounding in your chest from how nervous you were about Joaquin, it was definitely racing now as you realised you had been caught in a lie.

“I am sorry, I, uh, Mr Captain America, I will be back in half an hour when the surgery is complete,” he explained before rushing away.

Neither of them moved as the doctor fled the room, horrified at what he had just caused. You couldnt care less, all you could care about was that Joaquin was going to be okay.

You looked at your father, the man who had raised you, your hero. Now he was giving you that disapproving stare and you were uncomfortable standing in the tension.

“Spit it out dad,”

He folded his arms across his chest, “What do you want me to say?”

“Hey, how are you doing?” You mimicked his voice.

There was that tension again, even if you tried to make a joke. In any other circumstance, he would have laughed but he just narrowed his eyes at you.

“No. Who called you?” He quizzed.

You rolled your eyes as you realised that he was really angry, “The hospital,”

“why?” Sam knew the answer. It was obvious at this point what was going on and he kicked himself for not having noticed it sooner.

He should have noticed how whenever Joaquin would come round for dinner, he would always sit beside you. Or the way that he would watch you at the galas that you would attend, his eyes always following you around the room and tracing your curves.

“I am his next of kin,” you said.

For a moment you weren’t sure what would be the right thing to do, whether you should try to explain it or just rip the band aid off. At the time, the latter made more sense but now as you stood there, looking at the shock on his face, you wondered if it was right.

After the two of you had been together for six months, you had both put each other as emergency contacts. He lived such a dangerous life and you would never forgive yourself if you werent there for him when he needed you.

”I heard that the first time,” your father said angrily, almost as if hearing you say it made it real.

“Then why did you ask again?” You scoffed, furrowing your brow. You’re sure that if anyone had seen the two of you, you’d be mirrors of each others annoyed expressions.

“I thought I was hearing things,”

He folded his arms across his chest and then looked to his right and stared at the operating theatre. They were starting to pack things away and you were glad that he was going to be out of surgery.

You followed his eyeline and the two of you were both silent for a moment as you looked at the scene. Joaquin meant a lot to the two of you so to lose him would have broken you.

You sighed, shaking your head as you remembered the situation you had gotten yourself into. Your father turned to you, giving you that look again, “What is wrong with you?”

that was the final straw. You were sleep deprived from the flight over to the Indian Ocean to see your boyfriend and you were scared out of your mind and you were angry at your dad and all of it just bubbled up at that moment and you exploded.

“Wrong with me! My boyfriend just fell out of the sky. He was hit by a missile and nearly died in the Indian Ocean and you’re asking what is wrong with me!” You yelled it out, hands waving around as you tried to convey just how awful this all was.

Although Sam was still angry at you for not telling him your biggest secret, he could see how much you loved Joaquin just from how mad you got. He had seen you stand up for yourself all the time but never like this.

“Calm down kid, I’m your dad, I am allowed to be mad that you didn’t tell me you were dating my protégée,” he said, shaking his head.

“For this reason,” you brushed your hand over your face, trying to calm yourself down.

“What?”

You scoffed, not understanding who he couldn't see what was wrong, “You are overreacting. You don't approve,”

“Its dangerous to be in love with a superhero,” he stated.

Sam would know. There was a reason why him and your mother didn’t work out, and that’s because of his time in the army. He couldn’t imagine trying to make that relationship work as a superhero.

He could see Pepper sobbing over Tony’s body, or Steve having to leave Peggy. All of those things were because of their superhero powers. He would never wish that fate on you.

“I love him dad,” it was all you could say, all you could think of to try and convince him that this was worth it.

“I can see that, it doesn't mean I approve,” he explained.

“That's why I didn't tell you. Joaquin, he wanted to, he hated having to lie to you,” you reasoned with him.

You thought back to a few weeks ago as you lay in Joaquin’s arms, before everything had gone to shit. He had asked you whether you wanted to tell your father now about the two of you. Maybe you should have done it then.

“He still did it,” Sam shook his head. He saw Joaquin as the son he never had, and he thought that maybe he was the only one worthy for his daughter. Yet he still lied to him for 18 months.

“Dad. He loves me and I love him. I will spend the rest of my life loving that man and the second i found out he had been hurt, I rushed over. I cannot lose him daddy,” your voice broke at the end.

There was silence. You never called him that, not since you were a little kid. He could see the fear, watched as the tears pooled in your waterline, threatening to spill over.

Although he wished his little girl would never grow up, that you would stay that innocent child forever, he knew that you and Joaquin were in love, just from the fear in your eyes.

“Come here kid,” he held his arms out.

It was like all of your lies didn’t matter and he just embraced you, holding you close as you sobbed into his shoulder.

For the first time since you heard the news, you gave yourself a moment to cry, hands clenched onto his jacket as you cried. You had nearly lost Joaquin, your dad could have died as well. Sometimes it was too much.

There was no conversation as you composed yourself, pulling back, wiping the tears from your cheeks. He placed a hand on your cheek, smiling at the woman you had become.

“You are going to live a very long life and so will he, you will get to do that together. I wish you would have told me,” he said.

Although you hated to admit defeat, you knew he was right, “You would have been more worried about him,”

“I am worried about him,” he said, eyes flickering back over to where he was being wheeled away into another room, ready to be transported back to the states, “He’s gonna be okay kiddo,”

“Thanks dad,” you smiled, knowing this was all going to work out.

Joaquin was transported back to the states within a few days, still fast asleep. You had barely left his side, the news constantly on by his bedside so you could see what your father was up to. You were sat by Joaqquin’s bedside as you watched Sam fight the Red Hulk.

“What ya watching?” A voice asked and you whipped your head to the side to see him opening his eyes, looking at you.

A sob racked through your chest and your hand flew to your mouth. You were happier than you had ever been before as you looked at him. He had been awake sometimes with the doctors but you hadn’t spoken to him yet.

“Dad on the news, hes sorted everything out,” you explained, knowing he wouldn’t want to be too sappy.

he hummed in response, closing his eyes for a moment. You watched him, that peaceful look on his face and you thanked whatever God was out there for saving the man you loved.

“You nearly died baby,” you whispered, almost like saying it out loud made it real.

He opened his eyes and looked at you, really looked at you. There were bags under your eyes from his lack of sleep and your eyes were red like you had been crying for days.

Almost like he hadn’t been in a near death experience, he lifted his hand up and brushed a hand over your cheek, almost like he was making sure that you were real and not some kind of dream.

“I’m sorry,”

you shook your head because there was nothing to be sorry for. “You’re here now,” you smiled at him, a tear rolling down your cheek that he quickly wiped away with the pad of his thumb.

“I should have been more careful,” he said like it would have changed it, someone would always get hurt in these situations.

“You wouldn’t be the man I love if you didn’t work so hard, didn’t go out there no care for everyone else,” you said.

that was one of the reasons you fell in love with him, his devotion to his job and his dedication for what is right in the world.

“I should be more careful,” he repeated, “I couldn’t stand not coming home to you,”

You took his hand in yours and placed it in your lap, brushing your fingers over his knuckles absentmindedly. There was something so domestic about the moment, in the way that he looked at you with pure adoration.

“I always knew you would come home,”

He nodded, tears burning behind his eyes but he didn’t want you to see him like that right now, especially when he is already so weak, one hand strapped up in a sling, burns healing over his neck.

“Dad knows,” you broke the silence.

You watched as the fear fell over his face, eyes widening. This was what he had feared for so long, of not being good enough for your father, his mentor, his idol.

“And?” He waited for your response, eyes still wide.

You smiled at his reaction, “He was angry, but he knows how much we love each other,”

Joaquin let out a sigh of relief, “I’m glad, so hes not angry?”

“Just a little bit,” another voice said and you turned to look over your shoulder to see Sam standing at the door, looking at the two of you.

You couldnt tell for a moment if it was a look of shock but then you saw the smile on his face, the way that he looked at the obvious love between you and Joaquin and you knew he approved.

“Sir, I am so sorry-” he started to defend himself but Sam held his hand up, shutting the boy up.

“As long as you look after my daughter then I will not be angry,” he chuckled to himself, “But if you ever lay a hand on her, I will kill you,”

“Yes sir, I would never,” he looked at you, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth, “I love her,”

Sam smiled, “I can see, son,”

Joaquin’s face lit up like he had always wanted that approval from him. You leaned down and pressed a kiss against his temple, avoiding the cut on his forehead that was still fresh.

“Can you give me and Joaquin a minute to talk, we have to discuss his new roles,” Sam said and your boyfriends eyes widened. He wasn’t sure what this meant but it could be about your relationship, or his role as the new Falcon.

“Sure dad,” you leaned down and pressed a kiss against Joaquin’s lips, a chaste kiss that promised that you would be back. When you pulled back and saw your dad’s disgusted face, you laughed, “Go easy on him,”

as you walked out of the room, you looked back at the two most important men in your life and wondered why it took you so long to reveal the relationship.

[lives-in-midgard]

Finally Home

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x reader

Summary: Joaquin comes back home after a mission and notice that you are wearing his sweater.

A/N: Hey! This is my first Joaquin Torres story, I hope you like it. If you would like to read my Joaquin Torres headcanon you can find it here.

Masterlist

It has been two weeks since Joaquin went on a mission with Sam. You weren't sure when Joaquin would come back but he told you that he would let you know when he is on his way home. He was only away for three days when you already started to miss him. Throughout the days Joaquin called or texted you whenever he had time. You missed each other a lot so it always helps to hear each other's voice.

Today Joaquin finally send you a message that they are on their way home and that he can't wait to see you. You got so happy when you saw his text that you began to smile.

To pass the time until he is back, you decided to cook is favourite meal. After that you sat down on your couch and watched TV.

After a while there was a knock on your apartment door. You immediately began to smile because this had to be Joaquin. You walked to the door and opened it. Joaquin smiled at you and pulled you into a tight hug. Finally holding each other close again felt like home.

"I've missed you so much mi amor." He whispered.

"I missed you too." You said.

After a few minutes you ended the hug and Joaquin immediately reached for your hand and intertwined it with yours. He looked at you with a smile and so much love.

"Wait, isn't that my sweater?" He suddenly asked.

"You forgot it here before you went on the mission and I missed you... but I can change if you want."

"No, no you don't have to do that angel. Actually, I think that you look really cute in it." Joaquin said with a smile.

"You think I'm cute?"

"You're more than cute." He said and pulled you into a soft kiss.

[halliejaade]

please please 🙏🏻 can we get a jealous joaquin torres fic

One jealous Joaquín coming right up! This is gonna take place in the Edelweiss universe because I'm already in love with the dynamic there lol. Hope that's okay!! This takes place right before you leave for college (:

"Are you sure this color looks okay on me?"

Your mother laughs softly, and smooths your hair down. "Yes, honey. Logan will love it. Won't he, Joaquín?"

His silence frightens you.

You turn to him expectantly, only to find a sour look on his face.

Well, that was different.

"If Joaquín doesn't like it, Logan won't either," You say exasperatedly. "I'm gonna have to change. Again!"

Maria groans from the corner of your room, "Please, for the love of God, don't do that."

"He's going to think I look frumpy or something!"

"No he won't, Y/n, you look great."

"No, I-"

Joaquín stands a loud sigh escaping his lips as he scrubs his hands up and down his face. "I like your outfit, alright? Don't change again."

His tone catches you off guard. He has never so much as raised his voice at you in the years that you've been friends, so this knocks you off kilter, to say the least. "What's with the attitude?"

He plays with a loose thread at the bottom of his T-shirt, and shakes his head. "I'm totally fine, I dunno what you're talking about."

You squint at him.

He scrunches his nose back at you.

"Whatever, grumpy," You sigh. "Logan's going to be here any minute. Are you sure my outfit looks alright?"

Maria jokingly knocks her head against the wall a couple of times. "If you say that one more time, I'm going to scream. You look great, hot even. He's gonna be blown away."

Joaquín huffs, crossing his arms.

Before you can get a chance to say something, Maria turns, "And you! Quit being an ass."

"I'm not being an ass, I'm just worried he's not going to be gentlemanly-"

Honking comes from outside. You half-yelp, half-screech, as you look outside and find that Logan's car is sitting in front of your house. "He's here!"

Joaquín rolls his eyes, another huff leaving his lips. "He can't even come to the front door to get you? He just comes here and honks at you? Where did you find this guy?"

You glare at your best friend, before grabbing your bag and shoes. "Relax, Joaquín."

You check your hair and makeup once more before leaving, a rush of adrenaline racing through you as you approach Logan's car. The last date you'd been on was back in high school, and that hadn't been much of a date. It was ice cream, and you had both been too shy to say much to one another. A friend you had through dance knew Logan, and had set the two of you up.

You always held onto the hope that Joaquín might like you, but you couldn't just sit around and wait until you were old and frail and hadn't had any fun. So you told her to give him your number, and he has asked after a week of talking if you wanted to go on a date.

Logan is sweet. He's thoughtful, and kind, and he pays for your dinner. He pulls your chair out, and holds the door open for you as you leave the restaurant.

One date turns into two, then three, then four, and somewhere, along the way, you become official with Logan. You're unsure of if you're in love with him, but you can say pretty certainly that you care pretty deeply for him. He's the type of guy that is easy to get along with, easy to picture marrying and creating a life with.

After six months of dating, you become quite comfortable with the idea of a long term relationship with him.

On a Friday night in late December, you find yourself squeezed on the couch between Joaquín and Maria. It's a big couch, but somehow the three of you have managed to sardine yourselves into the corner, with Joaquín's shoulder pressed against yours. You were hoping to see Logan on your winter break from school, but lately he has been elusive.

"This movie is so cheesy," Joaquín snickers, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"It's sweet," You retort. "They're in love and won't admit it. When they finally do it's going to be so cute."

He side eyes you, and sends you a playful smirk. "You're such a romantic."

You laugh softly, "Yeah, yeah. Sue me for loving love."

Your phone chimes loudly then, indicating a phone call. "Hand me my phone, please?" You say to Maria, who grabs your phone from the coffee table.

It's Logan.

You don't bother to move from the couch, thinking that whatever he's calling you for won't last long and that it'll be just a quick goodnight call.

"Hey!" You chirp.

Joaquín shifts beside you, fiddling with his fingers.

"Hi, baby," Logan says. "I had a bad day, mind if I tell you a little about it?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm just watching a movie right now."

Logan launches into a story about how he got into trouble at his internship for taking too long of lunch breaks. "It was kind of embarrassing, you know? We kind of got yelled at in front of the whole office."

You shake your head, although he can't see you. "I'm sorry."

There's a beat of silence, "Yeah, I got into quite a bit of trouble."

You take a deep breath, and maybe you're overanalyzing things but...

"You said 'we'."

"Huh?"

"Oh, I don't know. You said 'we got in trouble', but then you backpedaled and said that only you did?"

You're not sure why, but dread crawls through the hollow parts of your bones.

Logan laughs, "Oh..yeah. Angie's been going to lunch with me."

You swallow, and flick a piece of popcorn from your lap. "Oh."

"Don't make this into a thing. She's just a friend."

You don't like how defensive he's being. "I didn't even say anything."

Maria shifts, and mouths, 'Everything okay?'

You wave her off.

"Babe."

"Yeah?"

There's a long pause that makes your stomach queasy.

Logan sighs, and the sound makes tears jump to your eyes. You don't know why you're reacting like this. "I...it's been difficult with you in New York."

"It's been difficult for me, too."

"No, you don't understand. Men have needs, honey, and Angie-"

You cut him off, your heart pumping wildly in your chest. "You slept with her?!"

There's another pause that tells you everything you need to know.

You shudder, trying to remain calm as a tear streaks down your cheek. Joaquín places a hand on your shoulder, turning you to him.

"Give me your phone," He commands quietly. Your chin wobbles as you breathe deeply. "I just want to have a word with him. Please."

You hand Joaquín your phone, feeling the weight of the phone call as you pass it to him. He smiles reassuringly at you, before dipping down and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Be right back."

Joaquín steps outside, and although you can't exactly hear what he's saying, you can hear the volume in which he's saying it, and he sounds angry.

Maria does her best to calm you down as everything settles in, as you finally realize that, yes, this is real life, and your world has just been flipped upside down. When Joaquín finally slips back inside, your head is resting against Maria's shoulder, sobs wracking through your chest.

"Hey," Joaquín says softly, he sits down beside you, and takes you from Maria. He gathers you into his arms, cradling you against his chest. "I don't think he's gonna bother you anymore."

You sniffle into his green shirt, "What did you say?"

Joaquín's chin presses against the top of your head, "It wasn't polite, and I am in the company of ladies so I can't repeat it."

"Thank you," You breathe. He squeezes you tighter against him, and leans back against the couch.

"Go get her a glass of water, Maria," He says, shooing her into the kitchen. He gently traces a finger up and down your spine, his breathing lulling you back into a sense of calm.

"I'd do anything for you, boots."

You shift, curling up against him. "You're my bestest friend. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Another kiss is pressed to your head. "You're never going to have to find out. I promise."

[tea-writes19]

cuddle bug | j.t.

pairing: joaquin torres x reader

summary: joaquin comes home after a long mission...cuddles ensue

w/c: 375

warnings: established relationship, fluff, pet names (baby, love), more fluff

a/n: based on this request!! my first solo joaquin fic and i hope y'all enjoy it :)

Joaquin slid the key into the lock and turned it. A soft click sounding as he opened the door to your shared apartment.

He had just gotten back from a month long mission in the mountains of Bulgaria. He and Sam had tracked a group of flag-smasher sympathisers to a hideout there and managed to stop them before they could find a way to recreate the supersoldier serum.

The fight that ensued had been ugly and Joaquin had more than one bruised rib to show for it. After a long flight home and an even longer debrief all he wanted was to come home and fall into your arms.

Stepping inside the entryway he placed his duffle on the floor and started on untying his boots.

“Baby? i’m home,” he called out, waiting for an answer.

The apartment was eerily quiet and he almost thought you had gone out somewhere until he heard a soft rustle coming from the couch.

He smiled as he walked towards the living room and found your prone form swallowed up by your weighted blanket, your timmy turtle jellycat hugged close to your chest. The grumpy face on the stuffie at odds with your serene one.

Joaquin reached a hand down and gently shook your arm. “Love, time to wake up.”

You groaned and slowly opened your eyes. Your annoyance at being awoken replaced with joy as you found your boyfriend kneeling before you.

“Baby!”

You flung your arms around him. Timmy the turtle falling to the floor as you replaced him with a better cuddle partner.

“I missed you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I missed you too, love,” Joaquin shifted so he could lay down on the couch with you, arms coming to wrap around your torso. “Wish I never have to leave you alone that long again.”

You hum contently as you snuggle up to his warmth. “You’re here now though.”

He smiled softly at you as you got comfortable, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.

“Yeah, i’m here now my cuddle bug.”

And there you two stayed for the rest of the day. Wrapped in each other’s arms, content to lay around and soak in the afternoon sun streaming through the window.

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

[woniwontons]

ZEPHYR | joaquin torres x reader | PART ONE

warnings: mostly angst, gun shot wound, revenge, hearing dark/obsessive voices, this part is mostly to set up the story & most of the juicy bits will be in part two

summary: joaquin never wanted you to get hurt. after failing to protect you from a terrorist targeting him & sam, his behavior grows desperately possessive and controlling to prevent it from ever happening again. but as your relationship suffers and his nightmares increase, he starts to risk losing you instead.

part one approx 1.1K words

PART ONE | PART TWO (coming soon)

⋆⭒˚.⋆

You were never supposed to get hurt.

That was the one condition he set for himself that had been non-negotiable. He could handle the risks, the danger, and the missions that came with being apart of Captain America’s team, but you? You were never supposed to be involved, it was all to stay far away from his life with you.

And yet, he failed.

The memory claws within the caverns his mind, seeing that photo of you in your favorite coffee shop. Taken from afar moments before two bullet ripped through the muscles of your arm. Moments before his heart had nearly stopped, his phone screen displaying your image with a discrete message from that unknown number.

unknown: perhaps we’ll call it even.

He must have watched the CCTV footage over a thousand times. Calculating the trajectory of the bullet, the seconds between the message and the gunshot. The spilled coffee soaking your hair in a dark mixture of espresso and blood. A security camera outside spotting the glare of a sniper rifle in the distance.

By the time he got to you, the ambulance was already mid-route to the hospital. Without updates from your doctors for hours as they worked on your injury.

All he could see was the image burned into his mind of you: being rushed out of the ambulance bay, pale and incapacitated.

Covered in blood.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Two days later, in the bright light of your hospital room, he sat with his hands clasped between his knees. You were asleep in your bed, your arm freshly bandaged, your breathing steady. He should be next to you, holding your hand and reassuring himself that everything would be okay.

But guilt racked him deeply.

That photo could’ve been the last image of you alive that he had ever seen. They had known where you were. They had been watching him, and he led them directly home to you. And he hadn’t been able to stop them.

His fists clenched. His body shook with uncontrollable rage and disappointment with himself.

Sam had attempted to talk him down earlier. Had told him to let the military handle it, that they’d find out which one of their enemies was behind the hit. But Joaquin wasn’t interested in waiting or following the proper channels to bring justice to whoever did this to you.

They wouldn’t do what needs to be done.

He stands abruptly, barely aware of his own movements, his pulse hammering in his skull. His suit is still in the car. His comms are still on the counter. He could be out that door in minutes, tracking them down, making sure no one ever lays a hand on you again—

“Joaquin?”

Fuck.

Your voice is soft, cracked with exhaustion, but it stops him in his tracks.

He turns quickly, his breath skipping full inhalations as he takes your eyes in. You’re leaning against your upright pillow, one arm clutches the bars of the hospital bed while the other lays motionless in stiffly wrapped gauze. There’s concern in your eyes for him.

Something was wrong, you could feel it.

“Where were you going?”

His jaw locks. “I need to go start fixing this —.”

“No.”

It’s quiet, and weak. But it’s not a plea or a request. A command.

Your gaze doesn’t waver as you move the blanket off your body, exposing your hospital gown underneath as you start to move closer to the edge of your bed. “You aren’t going to fix this by hunting them down for revenge.”

“They nearly killed you, cariño.” His voice is hoarse, shaking with the weight of everything he hasn’t told you yet. His hands tried lightly guiding you back to laying down.

They could have taken you from me. It would have been my fault, my mistake, my failure to protect you…

You reach over with your good arm, resisting the light force, and curling your fingers around his palm. “I know.” A shaky breath. “But I need you here, baby. Not a solider, not the vengeance. Just you.”

He exhales sharply, and for a moment he can’t move. The voices in his head battling between his guilt, sadness, and anger. His fingers tighten around yours, his breathing ragged, but his mind is already somewhere else — chasing demons.

You feel it before you see it. The way his body tenses beneath your touch. The way his jaw clenches, muscles flexing like he’s trying to restrain himself from crashing.

My sweet girl, my light, my life, my weakness.

He isn’t calming down. He’s caving in.

“Joaquin,” you whisper, pleading now. “Please stay here with me, you don’t have to do this.”

You look for anything, a crack in his expression. Something that says he’ll listen to you, that he’ll stay instead of seeking out revenge and destroying his own morals.

My responsibility.

But it isn’t there. And his fingers slip from yours, the warmth draining from your hands.

“I can’t sit here.” He shakes his head, looking away as though he might break if he looks into your eyes for too long. “I need to be out there making sure this never happens again.”

You can hear it bleeding into his voice now, the desperation. Guilt. Self-destruction. He isn’t thinking straight.

You try again. “They want you to do this. They want you reckless and vulnerable.”

They wanted you dead.

“I don’t care.”

The sharpness of his tone makes you flinch, and for the first time, Joaquin notices. His expression shifts, something shattered flashing in his eyes, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

He exhales, steps back.

“I’ll be back when this is over,” he says, and it sounds like he isn’t sure of the statement himself.

And then the soldier is gone.

LINK TO PART TWO (coming soon)

comment to be tagged for part two <3

[redwingstan]

the angel that fell from the sky [joaquin torres x fem!reader insert]

author's note; if you haven't seen cap 4, please go see it. also slight spoilers below!

warnings; none; just fluff. please enjoy!

"'The Angel that fell from the sky.'" "The 'Angel'?"

"That's what they're calling you."

You heard the squeaking of wheels from Joaquin's chair as he pushed himself towards you. He peered over your shoulder, bracing one arm on the desk to get a closer look at your monitor. His breath fanned your cheek as he mumbled aloud the headline of the article you had been reading.

"Sounds a bit dramatic, don't you think?" he asked before pulling away and plopping back into his chair. You looked over your shoulder to catch him wincing as he nursed his broken arm that was still in a sling. "But if it gets me closer to meeting Ant Man, I'll take it."

You stifle a soft laugh before clicking from the article and typing away on the screen you were working on before. "Glad to see the fame hasn't gone to your head."

"If months of physical therapy and being told over and over by you and Sam to 'take it easy' is the price of fame...I don't know know if it's all worth it," he joked with a laugh that made you roll your eyes.

You continued to type away. "Well, sorry that we're worried about you," you said, feeling your cheeks grow warm as you the felt the atmosphere shift a bit. "But to be fair, you did almost die."

"Huh."

Your typing ceased and you looked over your shoulder to find him grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." He was leaning back in his chair, studying with an amused grin. You rolled your eyes again and decided to take him for his word. You faced your monitor and went back to typing.

"It's just that..." You groaned and ceased typing once more, though you didn't dare look over your shoulder as he continued. "I could've sworn you just said you were worried about me." He used his feet to make his chair roll towards you.

Biting the bullet, you looked over shoulder and met him with a harsh stare, though it was accompanied by a subtle smile you couldn't seem to hide this time around. "I said Sam and I."

"Which," he continued on as if presenting his final argument to a grand jury, "implies that you do, in fact, care about me too." He leaned his good elbow on his knee and propped his chin in the center of his palm as he gazed at you, tickled pink by this revelation. "I'm starting to wonder who's head over heels now?"

You laugh a bit, already in the process of turning back to your computer. "So am I."

You had long ago sworn off telling Joaquin your real feelings despite knowing his feelings towards you were mutual. But every time you or Joaquin mustered up the courage to share your true feelings, things went wrong.

The first time it had been a simple miscalculation resulting in minor scrapes and bruises that landed him in the infirmary. This time it was the ICU. You balled up your fists in your lap as you recalled the long wait in the waiting room, the sight of him strung up to wires that monitored his fragile heartbeat; and the black and blue bruises that littered his skin.

You didn't even want to dwell on the possibilities on how much worse things could get. Which is why it was much easier to bottle up your feelings and hope that they would wear off eventually. After all, in your mind at least, it would save you both the emotional damage of losing one another.

Your heart suddenly skipped a couple more beats as Joaquin reached out to stop your chair from turning away from him. You let your feet go slack against the hardwood floor as he used one arm, with little to no effort, to gently tug your rolling chair towards him so you were facing him again. You came to a slow stop as your knees briefly touched. It was during this moment that you felt your brain turn to mush.

"It's me."

You blinked. "What?"

He reached out to touch one of your fists resting on your thigh. Slowly your fingers began to uncurl from your palm.

"I'm...head over heels...for you," he said with nervous laughter.

You laughed too, unsure of what to say. "Did Sam tell you say that?"

He chuckled, his cheeks turning a shade of red you've never seen before. He gave your loose fist a soft squeeze. Eventually, his infectious grin turned into a subtle, nervous smile.

"I want to give us a chance—"

"Joaquin—"

He threaded his fingers in the spaces between yours. You were too distracted by the bundle of nerves in your chest to feel them.

"Y/N, I've kissed death one too many times not to at least let you know how I feel...not that you don't already know." The corners of his lips turned upwards just as yours did.

He was right. It wasn't like you didn't know how he felt about you. Ever since he came wandering into your uncle's gym, he didn't once shy away from letting you know how he felt. Be it a lingering gaze; his signature grin of approval when you successfully hit the punching bag right; or the occasional conglomerate of words that fell out of his mouth that sometimes didn't make much sense—though you always understood what he was trying to say. His feelings for you had always been right there within your reach.

As if reminding you of this, Joaquin squeezed your hand, eyes yearning for a response.

"You know Sam will tease you endlessly when he hears about us," You said, apprehensive of the consequences to come.

Joaquin inched forward, the wheels of his chair scraping the floor. "I think I can handle it. He already does that to me now, I'm used to it."

"Good point," you said with a shrug, your body naturally inclining forward. "But, you'll only hear me complaining twice as much for you to take it easy."

He let go of one of your hands, his bruised fingers reaching forward to stroke your warm cheek. "Child's play, mi amor. I could never get tired of you nagging me."

The beating of your heart grew louder than your thoughts.

"Then there's Captain America..."

"Yeah, yeah. You mentioned Sam, already," he said, his thumb stroking your skin as he leaned forward, your foreheads brushing against each other. He glanced at your lips.

"No, I mean...the other Captain America."

Joaquin paused. "Your uncle?"

You nodded. "You know he still never got over you calling him 'gramps' when you first met."

His shoulders slumped a bit, slight disappointment lacing his features. "But I thought he liked me?"

"I like you." The words fell out of your mouth before you could stop them. His grin returned at this. You squeezed his hand, the one that was still holding your cheek. "But he won't go any easier on you if it's me you're after."

"So I'm up against two Captain Americas?" He whispered, eyes growing wide at this sudden revelation. You laughed and shook your head in amusement.

Before you could respond, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. Just as he pulled away, he managed to murmur, "Game on," before pressing his lips to yours.

[lovelybucky1]

Go Greek! Go ΣΑΕ!

Looking to get involved this semester? Sigma Alpha Epsilon (ΣΑΕ) is looking for a sweetheart to organize events, run our social media, and help with philanthropy. You must be a student of Stark University and in good academic standing. If you're interested in this position, contact us through our Instagram.

this is a new au i’m trying out and i think it’ll be a lot of fun! feel free to send asks/requests about any of the brothers and this will act as the masterlist for fics/drabbles about each character, as well as each chapter of the series

all posts can be found under #go greek

all asks about the au can be found under #go greek asks

send an ask to be added to the taglist!

Meet the E-Board:

Steve Rogers- President, Senior, Art History major, Co-Captain of the Men's Lacrosse team, member of the Young Democrats Club, member of the Weightlifting Club

Sam Wilson- Vice-President, Junior, Non-Profit Management major, member of the Men's Track and Field team, member of the A Capella Club, member of the EMS Squad

James Barnes- Treasurer, Senior, Biomedical Engineering major, Co-Captain of the Men's Lacrosse team, member of Tau Beta Pi honors society

Matthew Murdock- Secretary, Junior, Pre-Law, Vice-President of the Student Government, member of the Model UN Club, member of the MMA Club

Joaquin Torres- Recruitment, Sophomore, Exercise Science major, member of the Men's Tennis Team, member of the Improv Comedy Club

Frank Castle- Philanthropy, Senior, Business major, Captain of the Football team, member of the Beta Gamma Sigma honors society, Captain of the EMS Squad

Logan Howlett- Brotherhood, Junior, Civil Engineering Major, member of the Football team, member of the Weightlifting Club

Wade Wilson- New Member Education, Junior, Film Major, President of the Stand-Up Comedy Club, member of the Badminton Club, member of the MMA Club, member of the Film Club

Sweetheart!Reader- Sophomore, English Major, Co-editor of the newspaper, Secretary of the Environmental Action Club, English Honors Society, Treasurer of the Feminism Collective, member of the Film Club

Side Characters p1

Side Characters p2

Storyline:

The Interview

Chapter Meeting

The Party

The Hangover

The Plan

Non-Canon drabbles/headcanons:

Getting back with your ex (Steve, Bucky, Joaquin)

Supply Closet (Logan)

First Orgasm (Joaquin and Sam)

Getting hit on (Steve, Bucky, Frank)

Bisexual Awakening (Wade)

Wrestling (Matt)

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Beyond Misconceptions

summary: joaquin is usually the poster child for positivity, but sometimes the doubt creeps in.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: angst, jealous/insecure!joaquin, arguing, depictions of anxiety

wc: 1,675

an: based on this requested concept! it went a bit different than expected but i hope yall still enjoy <3 (and also hope it will hold yall over until vuelve pt. v is done!!!)

danny ramirez characters masterlist

Most of the time, Joaquin loves his job. He loves the brother he’s found in Sam, the tangible way he sees himself helping people day in and day out. The feeling of soaring through the sky, the invincibility that he seems to find in the wind.

But, what Joaquin doesn’t love about the job is the rift that it can sometimes create between you. One could say he’s being dramatic by using the word rift— you have never once complained, never made him feel guilty for the unpredictability of his schedule.

You always tell him that you know what you signed up for when you fell in love with him. And you do.

Joaquin is certainly grateful for your love and understanding, but it’s days like today that make him want to find some 9-5 to nurse.

When he steps into the party you two were meant to attend together an hour and a half late, he’s eager to see you. That eagerness twists into something ugly when he sees you. You, standing in a group, but primarily talking to some guy he doesn’t recognize.

You look…happy. Happy to be talking with a guy who showed up on time. With a guy who doesn’t put his life on the line, and your relationship on hold at the drop of a hat.

He can’t decide what he wants to do more— leave and let you be happy or put himself between you and this mystery guy.

As if you can feel him, you glance over in his direction, lighting up at the sight of him. That restless mix of jealousy and guilt fades a little with you so excited to see him.

“Quino,” You call to him, waving him over. When he makes it to you, you reach for his hand immediately, drawing him so that you can place a kiss on his cheek. “Made in one piece, I see, cariño.”

“Siempre lo hago,” he murmurs, snaking an arm around your waist. “So who’s this?”

You introduce Joaquin to the guy easily, slipping him into the conversation without missing a beat. Paul. Joaquin nods along, lets you pull him closer, listens as you chat, and laughs like nothing is wrong. Like he wasn’t late. Like you weren’t having a perfectly good time without him.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust you. He does. It’s just that tonight feels like a reminder of everything he isn’t—someone who shows up on time, someone whose job doesn’t put you second. And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it doesn’t matter, but it still twists something sharp in his chest.

His grip tightens just slightly on your waist. You glance up at him, brows furrowing in quiet question, but he just shakes his head, forcing a small smile. You don’t push, but something in your gaze lingers. You know him too well. You always do.

You’re driving the two of you home, music spilling softly out of the speaker when you decide to break the tension that’s been building.

“So what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You were being…possessive?” The word comes out of your mouth like a question because you’re not entirely sure. Nothing like this has ever happened with Joaquin— it’s unfamiliar territory.

“Claro que no,” he insists.

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. “Yeah, because that wasn’t defensive at all.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your eyes flicker over at him momentarily, and you soften at his visible tension. You’re gentler when you speak again, “Soy yo, Quino. We don’t lie to each other, we don’t do this… jealous thing that you did tonight. I don’t know that guy, I probably won’t ever see him again and I’m fine with that.”

“It wasn’t about that.”

“Oh, but it was about something? What could I have possibly done when I hadn’t seen you in days?”

“Querida— you didn’t do anything— it’s not… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You purse your lips, feeling a little frustrated. “I want you to tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. And if you can’t now, then think about it and we’ll talk about it before bed. Deal?”

The silence stretches between you, the music sounding much louder in the wake of your breaths.

Eventually, Joaquin says begrudgingly, “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“What do you want?”

“You,” He says softly, and nothing more.

—

Once you and Joaquin get home, you don’t push. You refuse to when he’s being so elusive, so guarded in a way he’s never been. You aren’t really sure what to do with it and it makes your stomach churn. You make your way straight to the shower without so much of a glance in his direction.

Joaquin wants to call after you, but can’t find his voice. Not a surprise when he feels his mind is completely scrambled.

All of this has tilted you off your axis. You make sure the water is scalding hot, hoping that the steam will steep out your thoughts of insecurity and unease. By the time you make it out, it just feels like they’ve grown louder, rooting deeper into your brain stem.

You make your way into the kitchen, walking past Joaquin where he’s sat on the couch. He watches you quietly as you make tea, unsure if you still want to talk or if he’s created the catalyst for his worst fear; losing you.

“So are we gonna talk about it or are you gonna keep staring at me?”

“Mi amor—“

You huff as you sit the chair across from him, “No, don’t mi amor me when you won’t even tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s not that I won’t, it’s that—“

“If you say you can’t, Joaquin, te juro por Dios.”

“I was gonna say that I’m struggling to figure out how. There’s too much up here, you know that. Usually, it’s just cheery.”

“I’m not asking you to be cheery, I’m asking you to be honest.”

Joaquin sighs, leaning forward to place his face in his hands. “When I saw you with him, I just— it made me wonder if you deserve better than me.”

Your brow furrows. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re in a relationship with a man you’re going to outlive. I’m never home, I’m always late as hell. Every day I force you to wait— for me or for a call that’ll break your heart. Don’t you think you deserve somebody that can be there for you? Someone, you aren’t afraid of losing every damn day?”

“I knew what I was getting into when I chose to start this with you. I know that you want to be around and be more consistent, but Quino, you’re out there saving the world. I can’t ask you to put down your dreams because you missed the first hour of a party.”

“I‘ve missed more than just an hour of a party. What happens when it’s our wedding? Or if you get sick? What if you need me and I miss something big? That guy, he could give you that.”

You lean forward, reaching across the coffee table to place your hand over his. “Then we’ll reschedule. Or my parents will take care of me. Or I’ll need you and I’ll be really sad that you’re not there but eventually, you will be. I don’t give a fuck about that guy. I don’t even remember his name. What I do remember, is how much I love you and how long it took me to have the courage to tell you that.”

Joaquin looks down at your hands before interlacing your fingers together. Your words soothe him even as he wrestles with the fact that he wants to give you more. He’ll try to give you more— you deserve it and so does the health of your relationship.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you?” you challenge, wanting him to truly think about it.

There are things about your relationship with Joaquin that are less than ideal and certainly compromise but that’s part of love. Compromising and making things work with the people that you love. Joaquin is loyal, loving, and tender; he always makes you laugh and takes your feelings seriously. He just happens to be a superhero, one you have to share with the world.

How selfish would it be to take him away from people that need him?

He squeezes your hand reassuringly, “I’m sure. ¿Me dirás si algo cambia?”

“Lo prometo.”

Joaquin leans back into the couch, patting his lap, “Ven.”

You quickly make your way to sit in his lap, wrapping both your arms around his neck as you let your legs dangle across the couch.

“Te amo, princesa.”

“I know, I love you too,” you murmur, running a hand affectionately through his hair.

Joaquin’s eyes fall to your lips, and when he finally leans in, his mouth brushes yours softly, a quiet promise that everything will be okay. His thumb traces your cheek, and it feels like all the unsaid words are finally spoken in the wax and wane of this gentle kiss. You close your eyes, grounding yourself in the feeling of him, of home. As he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath shaky, and you both linger there, knowing that in this moment, everything is enough.

After several moments of silence, Joaquin’s lips find your ear, “Paul.”

You lean away from where you’d gotten comfortable on his chest to look at him quizzically. “What?”

“The guy’s name— fucking Paul.”

You laugh, shaking the both of you. “I’ve already forgotten again. I’m more focused on this marriage you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m thinking under the cherry blossoms.”

“You should think about the blow your bank account is gonna take getting me a ring.”

Joaquin raises a brow at you, “Who says I don’t already have it, hermosa?”

You squint at him— usually, you’re pretty good at telling if he’s bluffing but his features are smoothed into the perfect poker face. “You lying?”

“Guess you’ll just have to find out, baby.”

lmk if you'd like to be on the sfw (or nsfw for 18+) joaquin 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, @moonymeloncholymoney

[sunsburns]

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Joaquin Torres is def the kind of bf to poke and pout at you if he’s not getting any attention. Golden retriever if you will. Like reader would be on her phone or something and then he just slowly moves his head in the way and starts whining lol

If you could write a little blurb about this w girlfriend!reader or partner!reader that would be nice thank youuuu!

Joaquin would also be the type who’d get offend when you wipe off his kisses, dodge his hugs, stop using the cute but cringy nicknames you made up for him.

You were just trying to watch a video that your friend had sent you, which would’ve been a simple task that’s easily done without issue, however you had an issue of your own in the form of your sweet and affectionate Joaquin.

The man currently has his head rested against your shoulder, his legs were tangled with yours as he poked and prodded at your arms and back of your hands that held your phone, as though it was the only form of entertainment he could come up with in his moment of boredom. And while some part of you wanted to be annoyed at the constant feeling of his finger poking you somewhere, you also couldn’t help but smile when you heard him huff and puff when your eyes didn’t once move away from the phone screen.

‘Can I help you mr Torres?’ You asked, amused.

‘Yeah, can you help me figure out why my perfect partner is ignoring me for their phone?’ Joaquin began, playing along. ‘Ive been calling for their attention for the past five minutes but I’ve been neglected for something apparently far more important.’ He then weakly pokes your thigh as a pout came across his lips at the idea of being ignored by you, especially when it’s was on his rare days where he got to actually be with you, and for your phone no less.

You smiled but your eyes still had yet to move away from the phone screen, where the video had finally came to a close, but you weren’t going to let him know that just yet as seeing him this desperate to get your attention. If anything this only made you want to drag this out a little while longer just to see what he would do just to have your eyes on him and only him, and your mind could only compare Joaquin’s need for your attention, need for your affection to that of a puppy dog; needy and wanting.

‘Have you told your partner about how you feel about this?’ You asked, biting back a laugh when you felt Joaquin lean even more against you, latching himself onto your arm as his thumb caressed the pulse point of your wrist, tracing words of love into your skin that only made your heart melt for him.

‘I’ve tried-‘ he starts.

‘With words mr Torres,’ you were quick to cut him off as you pretended to text your friend, all the while biting back a smile. ‘Not prodding them and nudging your head into their neck and whining like an adorable little puppy, use your words.’ You felt the pout upon his lips come back once more against the area where your neck and shoulder met, feeling his nose the skin there as well as his hair tickling you lightly that has you stifling back a laugh, however you failed and something close to a snort left you in that moment.

You knew Joaquin heard it and soon enough his body pulled away from left your side, making you mourn for his warmth to come back, only for his hand to come into view and push your hands holding your phone down to your lap. His beautiful brown eyes quickly filled your vision as they sparkled and glimmered as he looked at you pleadingly, knowing you could never say no whenever he looked at you as though your answer would make or break his heart.

‘You finally going to stop paying that phone so much attention and look at me now?’ He asks. ‘It’s been half a day that you’ve been on that thing and do you know how that makes me feel?’ He adds on.

‘How does it make you feel my heart.’ You replied, looking at Joaquin with a tender smile as your hand grasped his, intertwining your fingers.

‘Like you don’t love me anymore, it’s rare that I get days like these and you go on your phone? Over kissing me? I can’t help but feel betrayed.’ Joaquin says as he leaned his forehead against yours so that you couldn’t look anywhere but him, not that you would ever think about looking elsewhere other than the gorgeous man in front of you ever. You could admire him forever if you wanted to, but again it’s not something you’d ever admit to him as he’d only tease you by doing exactly this, pressing his forehead to yours so that you can only see him no matter where your eyes would look.

You let out a little chuckle as the giddy feelings that Joaquin easily made you feel began to spread throughout your body, making your every caress of his hand feel as though you were more alive then you’ve ever felt, making you feel as though you were on cloud nine and you never wanted to come back down if it meant never getting to feel like this again. ‘What can I do to make up for my dastardly betrayal of my beloved Joaquin?’

The man made a face of thought, making a show of looking anywhere and everywhere but you, before his eyes looked back at you warmly. ‘Just pay attention to me. Cuddle me, kiss me, keep holding my hand like you are right now.’ Joaquin admits as he pulled back just enough to kiss your forehead before resting it back there again. ‘Just don’t let this day go to waste by looking at anywhere where I’m not when I’m here, right here in front of you.’ He adds.

‘Consider it done then pretty boy, my pretty boy.’ You kiss his nose before pecking him on the lip, smiling against him when you feel him sigh and smile against your lips, happy to finally get what he had been wanted the entire day.

‘Your pretty boy i am.’ Joaquin hummed as he pulls back, still smiling as he moved so with the blink of an eye you were cradled within his arms as he laid with his back against the sofa, his hands splayed across your back as they rubbed up and down soothingly. ‘Now I believe a much needed cuddling session is in order. So I hope you’re ready to not move for a couple of hours because we’ve not going anywhere my heart.’

You didn’t even bother to fight your predicament, if anything you made yourself comfortable against his chest, nuzzling his collar bone and giving it a quick kiss before resting your head over his heart as it beats within your ear. ‘Why would I complain when I’m where I always need to be, with you.’ You murmured softly to Joaquin as you both then soon drifted into a comfortable sleep.

[petertingle-yipyip]

SENSES - JOAQUIN TORRES

(will probably change the gif when i can find a better one of him in that suit. also, testing the waters with a new character bc @fallingfavourites basically dared me to. what do we think?)

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Reader // Word Count: 2,840

Summary: What was supposed to be a simple in and out ends up with a lot of blood and admissions.

“The gala’s an easy in.” You reasoned.

“It’s a stupid way in.” Sam shook his head.

“It’s not stupid!”

“We can admit it’s a risk, right?” Bucky tried.

You blew out a sigh and leaned further back in your chair. Sam sat in the chair closest, leaning elbows on the table in thought. Bucky was sitting on the edge of the table across from you with the permanent frown he seemed to point in your direction.

“We need the ledger.” You calmly stated. “I have an invitation to their building. They’ve been inviting my family to their events for years trying to win back my mom’s money. I have the best chance at getting in and out.”

“If we go along with this, you’re not going alone.” Sam continued.

“Course not. I’d never go to an event like that without a date.”

“This is serious, Y/N.” Bucky scolded.

“Well aware, thank you.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m not going with either of you. My mom would never let me.”

“Your mom’s not here.”

“But these people know my mother. We went to a couple

of these before she got tired of the ass kissing. I had a date each time with a specific image.”

“What kind of image?” Sam asked though Bucky simply groaned in annoyance.

“Pretty boy.” You shrugged.

“Oh.” Sam scoffed. “I’m not pretty enough for you mom?”

“No.” You laughed. ���Neither of you are, but…”

“Don’t say it.” Bucky pointed firmly at you. “He’s not going.”

“I don’t like this anymore than you, Barnes.” You snapped. “You really think I want to take him anywhere?”

“What ever happened between you two anyway?” Sam asked so you turned his way with a fierce glare. “Just asking.” His hands went up in surrender.

“He didn’t tell you?” You stared in suspicion.

“For once, the kid wouldn’t talk.” Bucky answered.

“He’s not a kid.”

“You both are.”

“Buck’s right.” Sam chimed in. “You two used to not be able to stop making eyes at each other then suddenly, you’re avoiding each other like the plague.”

“It doesn’t matter.” You pushed yourself to stand. “I’m bringing him, regardless of anyone’s feelings about it.”

“And if he says no?” Bucky asked.

You frowned at the valid question. If Joaquin said no, you didn’t have a backup plan ready. Instead of confessing that, you spun on your heel and headed to find your former flame.

It wasn’t hard. He was at his computers. You stood beside him and leaned against the edge of his desk. It took a minute for him to register that it was you beside him.

“Hey.” He said carefully. You watched his eyes scan your face quickly before he frowned. “Everything good?”

“You have a suit?” You asked.

“Like a… Like a suit suit?” His voice dropped to a hushed tone.

“No.” You rolled your eyes with a small smile. You quickly shook the expression. “Like a nice suit, for going out.”

“Oh… Yeah, I’ve got one somewhere. Why?”

“We’re going to a gala to take a ledger.” You shrugged.

“Why us?” His brows furrowed but you noticed there was no objection.

“My family has an invite and you clean up nice… You can say no.”

“No!” He said quickly and you raised a brow. “I mean… No, it’s not that I don’t want to. I just kinda figured you’d wanna take someone else.” He explained carefully.

“Unfortunately, no one else fits the bill.” You sighed. 

“You never know.” He shrugged slightly. “Might be fun… Kinda like old times, right?”

“We’ll see… Tomorrow night, be ready by five to head to New York.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned at you, the same damned grin that made your heart beat a little faster.

You had to force your features to remain neutral until you were sure he couldn’t see. You assumed he had seen the flush of your cheeks at the least and you cursed yourself for that.

You hated that you and him didn’t end on necessarily bad terms. You two just couldn’t make it work. Both of you were too focused on other things to truly be present

in your relationship so for all the “moon eyes” Sam swore he saw and the “lost puppy looks” Bucky teased you about, it just hadn’t gone the way you wanted.

But damn it all if you didn’t wish otherwise. Keeping

distance from him was what you thought was best so you both could move on. Your heart, however, didn’t seem to get the memo.

The night of the gala was relatively predictable. Joaquin dawned an all-black ensemble that had you in silent awe when you first saw him. You knew he could dress up when the occasion called for it, but something about the monochrome look hit you hard. You forced yourself

to focus.

Joaquin, however, didn’t hide the way he was blown away by your look. The perfectly tailored gown took his breath away. He couldn’t stop himself from trailing his eyes up and down your figure, tracing the lines of the bodice down to the shape of your hips to that teasingly

high slit in the skirt, which dangerously showed off your legs that looked even longer with the heels you wore.

He didn’t have words for the way the color suited your skin tone, the complimentary tones of your makeup, the delicate pinned style of your hair. He ran a hand over his mouth to hide the smile at the necklace around your throat, the one he had given you for your birthday when you were together.

Sam was waiting with Joaquin and the man let out a long whistle that snapped Joaquin out of his trance.

You laughed slightly before flipping your teammate off.

“Ha ha.” You said sarcastically. “I’ll have you know my mother designed this dress.”

“It’s nice.” Joaquin offered honestly. “You look…” He blew out a breath. “Wow.”

“Thanks.” You nodded slightly, fiddling with the fabric of the skirt. “You look good, too.” You confessed.

He smiled proudly and it was hard not to smile back.

“Alright, alright. Enough of that.” Sam laughed slightly. “Tonight you need to have each others backs, got it? None of this scorned lovers bullshit you pull around here.”

“No one is scorned.” You rolled your eyes. “We’re going to a gala, not infiltrating an enemy stronghold.”

“You kinda are.” Sam countered. “Be quick and be careful. Sooner you guys are back, sooner this is over.”

“Well aware, thank you.” You took hold of Joaquin’s arm and dragged him to the car.

The ride to the event was relatively quiet. The music from the stereo filled the gaps and you were thankful to be driving so you could focus on the road rather than the man in the car with you. Your fingers tapped to the music while Joaquin was playing on his phone.

The gala itself was the same as you remembered. Your arm laced through Joaquin’s, you two fell into an easy stride. You liked the confidence he showed, offering a welcome grin to the people who came to kiss up to you and engaging in conversations when prompted.

“I like this one.” One of the older female investors quietly told you with a sly smile while her husband chatted with Joaquin a few feet away about something you weren’t listening to. “He’s much better than the rest you’ve brought to these things.”

You smiled in agreement and looked over at your date. He waved slightly and you found yourself returning the gesture.

“He’s great.” You agreed, trying unsuccessfully to keep the sadness from your voice.

“Let me guess.” She put a hand over yours. “Mommy doesn’t approve?”

You forced a laugh as if you’d been caught. You hadn’t even considered what your mother would say about Joaquin. She’d probably love him, probably would’ve started dishing out down-payments for your wedding by now.

“My father hated my husband when I brought him home.” The woman laughed. “Destiny used to seem make-believe, but you’re destined for fall. You can’t choose who it is, and neither can your mother.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You nodded in thanks and made it back to Joaquin. You tucked yourself into his side and looked to the man he spoke with. “I hate to be rude, but I’d like to reclaim my date.”

“By all means.” The man gestured for you to go. “He’s a charming young man. Well done, Ms. Y/L/N.”

You nodded in thanks and pulled Joaquin away.

“You know, I think I’m getting the hang of this whole ‘rich people party’ thing.” Joaquin said proudly, tugging the front of his jacket slightly.

“Cool it, Casanova.” You laughed slightly. “We’re not here to network.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. So… Where do we go now?”

You two managed to sneak away relatively quickly. You searched various offices, going up and up in floors until you nearly gave up. It was practically the last office on the last floor when Joaquin found it wedged behind a bookcase.

“I could kiss you!” You said happily.

He flushed immediately, stammering for a real response, and you had to laugh. You hugged the book and went for the exit.

You had only a split second to regret that decision. Not enough time for you to recognize the threat, to register the flash of silver, to reach for your own blade in your corset.

A sharp pain ignited in a long line down your back. The burning sensation wrapped from your back, around your waist and stopped near your belly button. You looked down in shock and saw the split in your gown, the growing stain of blood.

You wobbled on your feet from the explosion of pain and felt a strong pair of arms catch you. A warm piece of fabric was draped over your shoulders and pulled close. The hand that wasn’t locked on the ledger was wrapped around your midsection, trying to keep the blood inside your body.

That sword almost cut you in half.

You didn’t even register he was talking to you until he shook your shoulders.

“Y/N, we need to move. Can you walk?” He asked firmly.

Any hint of the charming, flirty man you masqueraded with was gone. In his place was the battle trained soldier, looking out for his own. He was looking into your eyes, and your heart sank at the worry reflected.

It really was bad.

“You’re not dying here. Understand?” He insisted.

You managed a weak nod and followed him out. He managed to keep you two in the shadows for the most part, avoiding the brunt of the search for you. You had only encountered three men, thankful they didn’t have swords as well, and you used the ledger to knock one of them out while Joaquin managed against the other two.

When you came back to the gala, Joaquin did the talking. He said you two were heading out for a much funner night but you’d sing their praises to your mother. A few name drops and handshakes later, Joaquin was able to get you into the car and begin the drive back.

Maybe an hour into the drive, you began to slip in and out of consciousness.

He reached over and immediately took your hand in his. He gave it a squeeze and your eyes opened a little wider.

“Stay with me, Y/N… C’mon.” He begged.

“We need to… to stop somewhere.” You said between shallow breaths. The bleeding had slowed but you were left exhausted and cold, despite Joaquin’s jacket still over your shoulders, and you had kicked off your heels at some point. You had half a thought to ask if you had bled through it. “We can’t drive… all the… all the way back…  like this.”

“Where are we gonna stop?” His voice was near desperation and you couldn’t stop the pang of guilt.

“Anywhere.” You gritted your teeth as you shifted in the seat. You took as deep a breath as you could manage and rapidly spoke in one long exhale. “First hotel you see. I don’t care the price or the quality or the size. You find us a room and make sure I live through this night.”

He said nothing but squeezed your hand again.

You didn’t know how long it was until you were pulling into a run down roadside hotel. You rummaged through your purse for your credit card and shoved it at him. He promised he’d be quick before locking you in the car.

True to his word, he was at your door with a room key quickly. He practically carried you to the hotel room.

Once the door closed, you all but collapsed. He was quick to catch you, but he wasn’t able to avoid your injury. You cried out at the pain, gripping his shirt sleeve.

He helped you to the bathroom and you needed his help to get the dress off. You didn’t know if it was his hands shaking or your body. The dress fell with a thud, leaving you in short spandex and a bra. Joaquin ran the tap and used one of the towels to clear the blood away. The friction of the rough fabric against the tender skin had you gripping the sink and wincing sharply.

“Shit, Y/N.” He muttered. You glanced up to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“That bad?” You rasped. Your body weight was mostly supported by the countertop.

“Now would be a great time for some special healing ability.” He flicked his attention to you with a nervous smile. “Any chance?”

“No.” You offered the same smile. “My bag in the trunk… It has a kit if you…”

“Hey.” His hands found your hips and turned you around. “Stay with me.”

“Trying…”

“Try harder.”

You nodded quietly, placing a hand on his arm. He looked down at it, smiled to himself, then focused on the slash across your stomach.

“Keep talking.” Your voice was close to a whisper but somehow, Joaquin heard.

“I, uh…” He began nervously. “I used to think you’d come to your senses, but you never did. You left me alone with all these questions… I didn't have answers but I also couldn’t have given you more.”

He squeezed your hip slightly and you made a noise of acknowledgement.

“I guess I accepted that you wouldn’t be mine again but…”

“But?” You croaked.

“I’ll always be yours, Y/N.”

You chuckled slightly as Joaquin’s eyes met yours.

“Tell me that when I’m coherent.” You smiled slightly.

He laughed a bit and nodded. “Let’s dress these wounds and get you something to eat. The guys’ll be pissed if you don’t make it back.”

You hummed in agreement and leaned into him. He guided you to the bed and sat you on the edge before he scurried off. Within five minutes, he was back with your pack on his shoulders and an arm full of vending machine treats.

He shoved an orange juice bottle and packet of pretzels into your hands while he rummaged in your pack. You lifted your arms while he placed, wrapped, and taped the dressing into place. The pain had dulled since you first got the wound or maybe you were used to it. The dizziness was receding slowly thanks to the snack Joaquin brought, which were both empty by the time he finished.

“Thank you.” You dropped the trash to the end table.

“I’m always here for you, Y/N, whether you want it or not.” He put a hand to your cheek for a moment.

“Joaquin, I…” You began, then found yourself lost for words.

There were things you could apologize for. But should you apologize for breaking up with him? For avoiding him? For getting yourself nearly sliced in half?

“We can talk about it later.” He offered kindly. “You feel okay?”

“All things considered, yeah… I’ll make it.”

“Good.” The relief was palpable in his tone. “You should rest now.”

You nodded quietly and shifted back against the flat pillow. The blanket was thin and scratchy, but the exhaustion overruled the quality of the bedding. You were lucid enough, however, to notice Joaquin wasn’t lying down.

“Joaquin?”

“The couch pulls out.” He reasoned.

“You should have the bed.” You began to push yourself up but his hands were gently forcing you back down. “Let me-“

“You almost bled out tonight. I think you deserve the bed.”

You grabbed one of his hands. “We can share. We’ve done it before.”

“You sure?”

“Please?” You pulled your best pout and he broke almost immediately.

He discarded his dress shirt and slacks before climbing into the bed beside you. You rolled to your other side to face him.

“Maybe it’s the near death experience talking…” You said quietly, as if you two were sharing secrets. “But I think I’ve come to my senses.”

“Yeah?” He brushed some loose hairs off your forehead. “Tell me in the morning.”