Chapter Text
The neon rain battered Brock Rumlow’s apartment window, casting jagged streaks of blue and pink across the dim room. The air was thick with the hum of Neo-New York’s underbelly—hovercars droning, synthwave pulsing faintly from the streets below.
Inside, the space was a cluttered mix of Hydra tech and scavenged junk: a cracked holo-screen flickering in the corner, a workbench littered with tools, and a single glowing orchid on the counter, its petals pulsing softly—a gift from Joaquín Torres. Joaquín sat on the edge of Brock’s cot, his cybernetic arms glinting under the low light, their organic-tech blend seamless but scarred from close calls. His human eye, warm and dark, flickered with nervous energy, while his glowing optic scanned the room, landing on Brock, who leaned against the wall, his trench coat discarded, revealing a tight black shirt.
They’d been hiding here for weeks, Joaquín tucked away from Hydra’s hunters, and in that time, their guarded exchanges had softened into something deeper. Trust, maybe even love, though neither had said the word. Brock’s voice was rough, laced with the edge he couldn’t shake.
"You’re still a glitch, Torres,” he said, but the usual venom was gone, replaced by a heat that made Joaquín’s breath catch. “Sitting there, looking like you belong in my mess. You're lucky your dad is funding me."
Joaquín’s lips curved, a shy smile breaking through. “Maybe I do.” He stood, closing the distance, his cybernetic hand brushing Brock’s arm, the touch warm despite the tech. “You’re not as scary as you think, you know.” Brock snorted, but his eyes softened, Joaquin's implants humming faintly as he stepped closer, their bodies inches apart. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll regret it, cyborg.”
His hand found Joaquín’s jaw, thumb tracing the line of his human cheek, the contact sending a shiver through them both. Joaquín leaned into the touch, his optic dimming slightly, his human eye locked on Brock’s. “I don’t regret you,” he murmured, voice low, raw with the weight of their shared nights: Brock’s insults fading, Joaquín’s kindness chipping away at his walls.
He tilted his head, lips brushing Brock’s in a tentative kiss, soft but electric, like a circuit sparking to life. Brock’s restraint snapped. He deepened the kiss, hungry and desperate, his hands sliding to Joaquín’s hips, pulling him flush against him.
Joaquín gasped into his mouth, his cybernetic fingers curling into Brock’s shirt, the fabric straining as he tugged it up and off, revealing the scars and implants crisscrossing Brock’s chest. Brock’s hands roamed, one finding the seam where Joaquín’s organic back met tech, the other slipping under his tank top, tracing the warm skin beneath.
"You’re too damn soft,” Brock muttered against Joaquín’s lips, but his touch was careful, reverent, as he peeled the tank top away, exposing the blend of flesh and circuits that made Joaquín. The cyborg’s chest rose and fell, his human skin flushed, his optic glowing faintly as he watched Brock with unguarded trust.
“Maybe you like soft,” Joaquín teased, his voice breathy as he pushed Brock toward the cot, their legs tangling. He straddled Brock’s hips, his cybernetic hands bracing against Brock’s chest, fingers tracing the subdermal armor with a gentleness that made Brock’s breath hitch. "You’re not pushing me away.”
Brock’s hands gripped Joaquín’s thighs, his thumbs brushing the sensitive line where organic met tech. “Shut up, Torres,” he growled, but there was no heat in it, only need. He pulled Joaquín down, kissing him hard, tongues sliding together, the taste of rain and metal mingling.
Joaquín’s hands roamed, one human, one cybernetic, exploring Brock’s scars, his implants, the heat of his skin, each touch a quiet claim. Clothes hit the floor in a hurried pile, Joaquín’s pants, Brock’s tactical gear, discarded in the neon glow. Joaquín’s body was a marvel, organic curves blending with sleek tech, scars telling stories of his creation.
Brock’s hands mapped every inch, lingering on the warm skin of Joaquín’s stomach, the cool metal of his lower back. Joaquín’s breath hitched as Brock’s lips trailed down his neck, teeth grazing the pulse point where flesh met circuits, drawing a soft moan. “Brock,” Joaquín whispered, his voice trembling with want, his optic flickering as his systems overloaded with sensation. He rocked against Brock, their hips grinding, the friction sending sparks through them both. Brock’s hands slid lower, guiding Joaquín, his own arousal evident in the tight press of his body.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” Brock muttered, his voice rough, raw with something deeper than lust. He flipped them, pinning Joaquín to the cot, careful not to crush him, his lips finding Joaquín’s again as he moved against him, deliberate and slow. Joaquín arched, his cybernetic hand gripping Brock’s shoulder, the other tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. Their rhythm built, urgent but tender, each movement a confession they couldn’t voice. Joaquín’s gasps filled the room, sharp and needy, his human eye half-lidded, his optic glowing brighter with every touch. Brock’s hands were everywhere, worshipping the blend of flesh and tech, his own breath ragged as he whispered Joaquín’s name like a prayer.
The world outside: the rain, Hydra, Neo-New York, it faded, leaving only the heat of their bodies, the pulse of their connection. When they came undone, it was together, Joaquín’s cry muffled against Brock’s shoulder, Brock’s groan low and guttural. They collapsed, tangled and sweaty, the cot creaking under their weight.
Joaquín’s optic dimmed, his human eye soft as he pressed his forehead to Brock’s, their breaths mingling in the afterglow. “You’re still a glitch,” Brock murmured, but his arm wrapped around Joaquín, pulling him close, his lips brushing his temple. Joaquín laughed, soft and warm, his cybernetic hand resting over Brock’s heart. “Yeah, but I’m your glitch.”
In the neon rain, with Hydra’s shadow looming, they held each other, a cyborg and a rogue, bound by something neither could name but both would fight for.