kapchagi

[kapchagi]

Help my Son " Ezzdeen "

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I want you to know that my ezzdeen is "ADHD" and very picky in his food, and now he is suffering from huge weight loss, because the crazy expensive prices for the food ,so that we can't afford to buy what he accepts, without you ezz will not regain his health.

We needs your support more than ever, the daily costs of living, the expensive treatments, I hope that through your support I can reach safety with my family.

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[kapchagi]

Hello Rally my love <3 I'm here humbling asking for you to give us, make us relish and drench on the word of our lord and savior Nathan Bateman this easter. *cough* Priest roleplay *cough* God complex *cough*

Summary: Nathan Bateman is a horny priest and you’re a lost soul.

(18+, TW: religion, inaccurate depictions of Catholicism, abuse of authority, verbal dom Nathan, jerking off)

-----

You haven’t been to church since you were a child.

Faith, hope, and love are parts of your life.

It’s always been obvious to you though, that there is no God. At least, not in the way He was shown to you when your mom had made you go to mass.

You’d left it behind, and had been glad to do so.

But…

The church in your neighborhood is beautiful. It’s always quiet and peaceful. There’s a garden behind the building that’s walled off. It’s an oasis. You like to go there to read or draw.

That’s where you meet him.

He wears a long, black robe. The white clerical collar at his throat tells you he’s one of them. You’ve never seen a priest who looks like this, though.

His head is closely shaved, in stark contrast to his full, dark beard, shot through with silvery gray. His gold-rimmed glasses do nothing to hide his long lashes and intelligent gaze.

His thick fingers hold a Bible close to his chest as he comes out a side door at the back of the church. He does a lap around the stone path around the garden, eventually stopping near you. He raises an eyebrow.

“Father,” you say warily.

“Nathan,” he corrects you. “Father Bateman if you have to use my title, but don’t. I don’t like the formality.”

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t make any friendly gestures at all. He stares at you from under his hooded lids and you fight the urge to squirm. Your shorts and tattoos aren’t exactly appropriate.

“You’ve been sitting in the garden at least once a week. You don’t bless yourself when you come in through the doors. You don’t come to mass.” He pushes his glasses up, the corners of his lips raising a bare fraction. Not quite a grin, but not as scary as he’d looked when he first approached you.

“Are you asking me to leave?” You don’t want to. As conflicted as you feel about church, this place has been a sanctuary for you.

“No, I’m not asking you to leave,” he says, faintly irritated. “I’m asking what you’re doing here.”

“You mean, did I feel like God was calling me or something?” You almost roll your eyes.

He frowns. “No, forget about God for a minute. In this entire city, where you live and work and have friends, you choose to sit here alone. Why is that? And don’t say to draw. You haven’t done a fucking thing in 30 minutes.”

You blink at his language. At his entire demeanor.

You haven’t felt inspired to create anything in weeks. The loss of it feels enormous, but you can’t shake it. Every time you pick up your pencil, it’s like there’s nothing to be discovered.

“What troubles you, my child?” Nathan asks. There’s nothing Fatherly about his tone, the way his voice winds its way around you, filling your ears.

He drops his Bible on the bench next to you and holds out his hand. You take it and he helps you up. He tucks your arm through his as you walk.

“Seriously though, what’s going on?” he asks, less serious, but somehow even more intrusive.

You shrug, not really wanting to talk to this hot priest. He can’t be looking at you with any kind of attraction, right? There’s no way those deep, brown eyes are teasing you. But they look like they are. And his hand is still over yours, warmly caressing it.

“I feel kind of lost lately,” you say self-consciously.

He makes a little hmm sound, encouraging you. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”

“You do?” you ask doubtfully.

“How do you think I ended up here?” He gestures down his robe before his hand settles back on top of yours. “I had a crisis of conscience. Between you and me, I didn’t join the priesthood just to be a man of God. I joined it because I needed to leave all the bullshit behind. Do something simpler. Try to help people. I’m not great at it, but there aren’t a lot of people coming to church these days. So, it’s a pretty low-stakes game. You know, you remind me of this garden.”

You turn the corner and walk back toward the church, looking at the beds of pretty flowers and the beautiful stand of trees in the center. The church casts a shadow over the flower beds, but the plants don’t seem to mind. They wave happily in the cool breeze.

You're not sure why he thinks you're anything like the peaceful garden.

“The first thing I did when I got here was to have the garden planted,” he says. “The plants aren't native, technically, but I know what I want. I made sure they thrived. I don’t believe in failure.”

Nathan pauses outside of a heavy, wooden door at the corner of the church.

It’s ajar just enough you can see inside. Probably his office. It’s sparse. The walls are dark gray and you see a desk with a huge computer. It looks expensive and out of place.

His hand brushes down your back, settling almost to the top of your ass. He gives you a light push and you walk inside.

It’s not just his office. It’s his bedroom too.

You hadn’t seen it because of the door, but there’s a big, soft bed on the other side and a window that overlooks the garden. It feels too intimate. You turn to leave, but Nathan’s already closing the door. It shuts with a heavy click.

You put your hands in your pockets, Nathan already walking toward you, giving you no choice but to stand against the bed.

A tiny smirk plays across his lips. He stands too close to you, his hands rising to hold your waist. His fingers massage your skin.

You should push him away.

You should say no.

There are a lot of reasons why you don’t.

Maybe it’s that you were always told to trust a man in the collar, to look up to them. Maybe it’s his natural authority, the feeling he gives off that you shouldn’t disappoint him.

Why, why, don’t you resist when he kisses you, his tongue pushing into your mouth, filling and exploring, one of his hands holding your face, keeping you still for him. His other hand grabs yours and pulls it to his already hard, huge length. You feel the heat of him through his robe.

“Jerk me off,” Nathan says against your mouth.

Your hand curls around him, moving up and down as a moan rumbles in his chest. His tongue retreats and you breathe heavily.

He lifts his robe and your hand finds him again, his naked cock practically pulsing in your hand. He groans.

“That’s so fucking good,” he says, kissing you again.

His beard is scraping your face, making it sensitive and raw. Your hand is wet, his precum leaking down his shaft.

“Get your your knees,” Nathan says, out of breath himself, his hands pushing your shirt off as you kneel for him.

You keep jerking him off, leaning your open mouth forward, but Nathan grabs your hair and holds you off of him.

“No, you don’t get to do that yet. Not until you’ve earned it,” he grins.

Your hand works him faster. Nathan holds your face close to the end of his cock, so when he comes, it shoots out onto your face. Ropes of cum hit you, running down your skin, warm and sticky. You feel it drip down your chin and onto your chest as you look up at him.

The look he gives you is condescending, but not cold. Like he thinks you’re interesting. Like you’re the empty garden outside he’d made into something beautiful.

He brushes your hand aside and lets his robe drop back into place. You start to rise, but he puts a hand on your shoulder to keep you down.

You feel a pit in your stomach. Now that it’s over, guilt rises up your throat, clawing its way through your body. The worst part is, you already know you’ll come back. Nathan knows it too.

“Worship can mean many things,” he says cryptically. He thick fingers trace your face, down the trails of fluid on your neck. He swirls his pointer finger on your chest, near your heart. His finger leaves a sticky, cool spot when he stops touching you. “This would be a nice place for another tattoo. A cross, I think.”

The thought of it seems absurd to you. “For God?”

“No, for me,” he smiles. He catches his bottom lip in his teeth, surveying you before backing up a few steps, his hands clasped in front of him.

You pick up your shirt and put it back on, using the hem to wipe your face as best as you can. You get back on your feet. He makes no move to help you.

“Ite, missa est,” Nathan says with quiet authority, dismissing you in Latin. Something you vaguely remembering hearing at the end of mass sometimes.

He’s already turned away, sitting at his computer desk.

Feeling uncertain, more lost than when you’d shown up here this morning, you walk back out into the shaded garden. You go back to the bench, packing up your things. Nathan’s Bible is still there. You leave it.

As you put your phone back in your bag, the notification chimes.

It’s a text from Nathan. You’re not lost, you just didn’t have me to guide you. You don’t have to come to mass, but I’m free at 9pm on Sunday. Bring your sketches, think about the cross.

On the way home, inspiration finds you again. Sketches of Nathan, the profile of his handsome face. Sketches of the cross, like he said. Some simple, some intricate. Some even have his initials.

You haven’t gone to church for God, not in years. Maybe you can find purpose in something else, though. Nathan could help you find your way out of whatever has ahold of you, dragging you down. It’s not salvation. It’s probably just a different kind of hell.

But hey, at least it’s something new. Something exciting.

Nathan isn’t God, but he’s right, worship is different for everyone. Maybe, you’ve found a way that works for you.

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[kapchagi]

heyyyyyyy.... jake making you squirt............<3 *dies*

You have killed me, thank you.

Early

Jake Lockley x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Warnings: Pet names, p in v sex, reader thinking they need to pee for a sec, cream pie, squirting, Jake talking about him and Steven sharing their dirty thoughts, kissing, overuse of italics, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 781

Jake kisses you messily. His chest pressed up against your back, your head turned to the side so your lips could meet. 

He’d accidentally woken you up with his mouth on your neck and erection against your ass, and now his cock was buried inside while his fingers played with your clit. 

His thrusts shallowly, slow and lazy, but you can feel the strain of his muscles, how hard he is holding himself back. 

He licks into your mouth, hot and messy. Half words and sweet praises escaping his lips. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his hand grabbing hold of your waist for a second as he rolls his hips, before he goes back to stroking your bundle of nerves. 

His fingers are slippery from your wetness, his forefinger rubbing against you, while he slides his others further down every so often to feel how stretched wide you are, how his length slides in and out. 

Heat twists and throbs in your stomach, the sound of his slow thrusts echoing around the room as your slick coats his cock.

“Jake…” You mutter, pressing back a little firmer against his precise rocks. You’re wide awake now, even though it’s only just starting to grow light. 

“Hmm?” He groans, low and in his chest. The sound rumbling along your skin. “What is it, amor?” His voice rises at the end as the head of his cock rubs wonderfully inside and he wriggles closer. Lightly, he pushes his right leg between yours and bends it, forcing your own legs to move apart. 

You shiver, letting out a broken whine. 

“Fuck, is that nice?” He coos, biting his bottom lip before he kisses the shell of your ear. “Love it when you make that sound, love it.”

You nod rapidly. 

He nips at your pulse point, his fingers pressing a fraction harder as they drag across your clit. 

“I want to fuck you on Steven’s desk.” He breathes hard. His voice is strained, but there’s a little giddy edge to it you’ve come to recognise. The one that means he’s so horny he’s about to run his mouth without any real thought. 

“You’d let me fuck you on his desk, wouldn’t you?” He swallows, his breath is warm against your neck. “I’d spread out his books all over it, open them and then sit you right in the middle of all of them while I make you come.” He groans, his eyes rolling back a little. You don’t get a chance to answer him before he continues. “Then I’d take a photo of you all fucked out and send it to him… We talk about it sometimes.” He moans, his thrusts increase slightly, his hips smacking against your backside as his cock keeps rubbing wonderfully along your walls.

“You…” You bite down a moan, your head spinning, “You talk about it?” 

You can feel him nodding rapidly, “Then he’d fuck you in my car, in the backseat, get it all messy, you and the upholstery.” He groans. “As revenge.” 

Normally, part of you wants to point out that it’s not really revenge if both of them had agreed to it beforehand, but the logical part of your brain is too busy reveling in the feeling of him between your legs to form a coherent thought. 

“Does… does he take a picture as well?” You manage. 

“Fuck yes,” Jake mouths at your neck, dragging his teeth over your skin. “And we just keep sending photos to each other and then fucking you and making you come and-”

You don’t quite hear what he says after that. Pleasure tightens in your belly and pulses. But it’s deeper this time, makes you squirm hard and almost pull away. 

“Sorry,” you try to move away, but your body won’t stop trying to chase your orgasm. “I think I gotta pee.” 

“Oh fuck,” Jake’s moan overshadows your words. His eyes are glazed. “You don’t, it’s okay,” he kicks off the blankets and leans up a fraction, watching where his fingers stroke you. “It’s okay.” 

“Jake-”

“Trust me, let go.” He swallows thickly, as he focuses on continuously rubbing the tip of his cock against the same spot. 

And it all breaks at once. 

You come with a cry. Pleasure washing over you and bubbling up from the inside. Your thighs shake, your body straining under the weight of it, and it’s suddenly like a dam has broken. 

Jake groans headily as he sees you squirt and soak the sheets, some of it hits his fingers, and he shudders, swearing under his breath and panting out your name. 

He thrusts twice before he spasms and shakes, spilling himself inside you in a rush. 

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[kapchagi]

One bed + "Let me warm you up" + Santi

SCREAMING!

Personal Heater

Santiago Pope Garcia x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Summary: It's absolutely fucking freezing, luckily Santi is here to warm you up.

A/N: Sorry this took so long!

Warnings: Swearing, kissing, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, Santi kind of having a bit of an exhibition kink, overuse of italics, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 2740

You’re sure Frankie is up to something by putting you and Santi in the same room. Certain of it. But even he couldn’t be blamed for the absolutely abysmal weather. 

“It’s fucking freezing.” You grumble, failing to suppress a shiver as you enter the bedroom. Your day clothes are in your arms, bundled up into a ball you can quickly shove into your suitcase. Part of you thinks you should have just lugged your bag into the bathroom to change. 

You’re dressed in a long sleeved pyjama top, and have tucked your jogging bottoms into your socks to try to stave off the cool air. 

“Come here, I’ll warm you up.” Santi’s already in the bed, the covers bundled around himself protectively. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and you’re almost tempted to throw the clothes you were wearing at his head. But he would probably like that. 

You settle for a cheery, “Fuck off.” as you put your clothes away. 

“I’m serious,” He grins, “nice and warm in here.” 

“That’s because you’re hogging all the blankets,” you tut, but there’s no heat in it. You climb on the bed and yank the duvet away from him. 

“Nooo, you’re letting all the warm air out.” He's a little tipsy, you know that. He’d had two too many glasses of that fancy Japanese whiskey Will had brought, not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed and a little less guarded than he would usually be. 

He grabs your arm lightning fast and somehow flips you perfectly into the bed and on your side. Before you can even get a word out he’s pulling the covers back over you both and snuggling up to you, his chest pressing against your back. How is this idiot so warm when he’s only wearing boxers?

You stiffen, you really should protest or at least tell him to not wrap his arm so securely around your waist. But, fuck, if he isn’t warm. Like a little personal heater blasting the icy air away. And despite the uncertainty ringing in your head, you relax into his embrace. It was just to help with the temperature. That was all. 

Somehow he inches closer, breathing hot onto the back of your neck. “Hmm, you smell nice.” He mutters, as if that was a completely normal thing to say to a friend who you were sharing a bed with. 

“I’m not going to sleep with you Santi.” 

“But that’s what beds are for?” You can hear the cheeky smile in his voice.

“You know what I mean.” 

“No?” He’s enjoying this far, far too much.

“I’m not going to fuck you. There, happy?” 

“No and why?”

You shift a little, turning so you can look at him over your shoulder. “What?” 

“No, I’m not happy,” he grins, “and why won’t you fuck me?” 

He speaks too quickly for you to get a word in edgeways. 

“Tired? I’ll fuck you if you want, you don’t need to lift a finger.” 

“Santi,” You really do try to put a firm, commanding tone in your voice, but it doesn’t come out very convincing at all. 

“We fucked on Monday, you liked that.” 

“Santi-”

“And three times on Sunday, so-”

“Santi.”

He tries to bite back his smile, pressing closer to you. “I like it when you get all authoritative.” 

You give him a look and he lightly bites at your shoulder. Your relationship with Santi was… god you didn’t want to say complicated. Unconventional. Friends with benefits was too casual, but you weren’t dating. And you haven’t told anyone, even though he was regularly blowing your back out several times a week.

“I know you want to… if you really don’t, tell me now, but I think there’s something else going on here.” He stares at you with those stupidly large eyes, the ones you’re sure he reserves for mental manipulation of the highest order. 

You want to say something back, something smart to put him in his place. But you can’t think of a god damned thing. So you stare at him, with a slowly weakening frown while his own small smile spreads. 

“I think,” he shuffles a little higher, so he can press his lips to the shell of your ear and grind the semi hard outline of his cock against the swell of your ass. “That if I,” he thumbs at your waistband, snapping it softly before he slowly slips his fingers underneath, “just touch here,” he glides down brushing against your clit and the edge of your folds, “fuck.” He swallows, his hips bucking instinctively. “God, you’re so wet. Did you make yourself come in the bathroom?” 

Heat floods your veins and he groans, his eyes rolling back at the thought. 

“That desperate not to be seduced by me?” He teases, lightly biting your ear and sinking his fingers in deeper. 

You gasp, arching towards his touch and the thick stretch of his fingers. He kisses your neck greedily as he gives you what you want, moving so that he can slip further inside and stoke while his thumb rubs rhythmically against your clit. 

You squirm under his touch, trying to hold back your moans. Santi hooks his free hand under your pyjamas and pulls them down to your thighs.

“Tell me why? Hmm?” He purrs, his voice heavy. “Why-”

“I don’t want the others to hear us.” You whisper, insecurity twisting in your chest even as pleasure grows in your stomach. 

“Oh, baby,” he purrs, kissing along your jaw to your lips and licking into your mouth when you moan. “I didn’t take you as shy?”

He presses firmly on your walls, a spot he has memorised, and your eyes roll back. “Santi,” you swallow, trying to keep your voice down. 

“You are a bit of a screamer with me though,” he teases, his voice controlled despite the rapid, desperate beat of his heart. He easily manoeuvres you onto your back. “I don’t want to give the other guys a complex,” he increases his speed a fraction, biting his lip at the sound of your slick and placing the palm of his free hand over your mouth. 

He leans closer. “Don’t want to make them ashamed that they can’t make someone come as hard as I can.” 

You moan desperately against his hand, your eyes closed tight. You miss his love sick expression as he watches you, how his mouth parts as you tense. 

“God baby, please.” He harshly whispers, groaning as you grind down on his fingers. “Let me see you come.” 

You’re more than thankful for the hand against your lips as your pleasure crests and drags you down into bliss. Your thighs shake, back arching as your orgasm is dragged from you and then snaps like elastic. 

You breathe hard, spaced out and a little dazed until you feel Santi completely yanking off your pyjama bottoms and burying his face between your legs. He moans headily, loudly, too high off your pleasure to stop himself as he sinks his tongue inside and drinks down your release. 

His hands squeeze your thighs, encouraging you to practically suffocate him as he licks and swirls. You bite your lip and grab hold of the back of his head as you buck into the heat of his mouth. 

He ruts against the mattress, trying to relieve the smallest fraction of the painful ache between his legs.

“Santi,” you manage not to scream. “Please,” you gasp, pleasure burning along your veins, your previous orgasm hardly dying down before it was ignited again.

In desperation, you hastily grab a pillow and shove it over your face. Your lungs fill with the scent of fresh linen, your fingers digging into the material as your back arches. 

He laps at your folds greedily, the sound echoing around the room in time with the squeak of the bed springs. Gently, he presses two fingers inside, stroking again at the same spot that had made you fall apart only moments ago. 

This time his touch is lighter, slow and steady as he rubs, a sharp juxtaposition to the quick and firm movements of his eager tongue. 

You gasp, the air catching in your lungs and Santi groans. The syrupy sound of his enjoyment is what throws you over the edge. You come hard, your muscles shaking as you spasm and scream into the pillow. Your vision whites out as pleasure explodes along your nerves, robbing you of thought and strength for gloriously long seconds. 

He works you through it, slowing his movements as you relax.

Languidly, he sits up and pulls the pillow off your face. He’s grinning, far, far too pleased with himself. 

You pretend to smack him in the side with the pillow, stopping before you make contact, and he flinches, giggling. 

The bottom half of his face is wet, your cum shining against his stubble. He lays down next to you on his side, his head propped up on his elbow. 

His left hand traces patterns along your stomach. “Love how quick you can come after you already have.” For a moment you think about teasing him a little, but instead, you give his hand a little squeeze. “Only ever done that with you.” 

“Fuck,” He buries his face into the pillow under your head, groaning as his cock throbs, “don’t give me a bigger ego here.” 

You snort, and it quickly turns into a giggle as he presses light, tickly kisses along your neck. He grins, moving closer as you try to squirm away. “Thought you liked my kisses?” 

You shift, biting back your laughter, and your hip brushes against his aching erection.

Santi moans low in his chest, his throat bobbing. 

“Shh,” You giggle again, playfully clapping your hand over his mouth, “I’m gonna have to be the one to keep you quiet.” 

You mean it as a tease, nothing more. But he shivers, his eyebrows pinching together as he presses his face into your palm and whines. 

Heat stirs in your stomach. You bite your lip. “Maybe you’d like that?” You whisper, your voice barely audible. “Maybe you want to just…”

His eyes are hazy when he opens them, dark and pleading. He nods softly, keeping his mouth firmly against your hand. As he swallows, his throat bobs, his fingers tightening on your hip. 

“Lay down.” You say softly and he moves without hesitation, the words barely out of your mouth before he’s flat on his back against the mattress. 

He tucks his hands under the pillow, hooking his fingers around the edge of the headboard. You don’t give him a chance to give you a nervous look, to get all in his head about asking for something he wants. 

You pull his boxers down to his knees and Santi raises his hips, wriggling a little to help you slide them off. His cock bounces free, hard and leaking as it snaps back against his stomach, looking practically painful with how aroused he is. 

You place one hand back onto his mouth while you kneed his balls with the other. His reaction is instantaneous, his back arches as his moan vibrates against your palm, his eyes screwed up tight. 

You bite back a smile as you run your fingers up higher, languidly tracing the underside of his length as he twitches under you. 

Santi’s fingers tighten around the bottom of the headboard, his knuckles paling as he bucks up into your hand. 

He moves his face to the side slightly, just enough so that he can speak clearly, “Please can you, can you sit on me and come again?” 

You go to pull your hand away from his mouth completely, but he shakes his head and presses his lips back to your palm before looking up at you with sweet eyes. Okay, he still wanted that. 

You give him a soft look and kiss the tip of his nose, making the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles before you sit on his lap and line yourself up with him. He’s warm under your hand, hard and thick, and when he starts to sink inside he lets out a long, deep groan. 

For a moment, you’re almost sure he’s taking the piss, purposefully being as loud as possible. But his eyes have rolled back, his body tense and shaking. And you are very sure none of this is for show. 

He stretches you wide as you ease down, your body singing as he slips deeper and deeper. You drop your hips a little faster, revelling in the whine and moan Santi rewards you with. When he’s finally completely sheathed you lean forward, turning his chin ever so slightly to the side so that you can whisper in his ear. 

“Fuck Santi,” you put on a bit of a voice, just to rile him up. 

He moans again and you giggle. 

“You like this don’t you?” You mutter as you start to slowly roll your hips against him. “Got a bit of a thing for being heard?” 

He shakes his head, but you can see the glean in his eyes. He most definitely did. 

“Want everyone to know you’re getting your brains fucked out?” 

He groans loudly, his muscles flexing as he fights the urge to thrust up rabidly. Instead, he rocks slowly with you, more than happy to let you control the pace. 

Pleasure flows and pulses along your skin, twisting a turning as you move your hips. It starts to set deeper, pulling at your bones and demanding you to give in and fully chase the sensation. You lean up slightly, taking your palm off his mouth so that you can prop yourself up with both hands on either side of his head. 

“Oh fuck, baby, please,” he groans, panting. There’s no fucking way that the room next door can’t hear him. “Fuck, yes.” 

He spreads his legs, making you dip forward and practically growling as he thrusts up into your tight, wet heat. 

“Santi,” you hiss, gasping for air as he robs you of it. Spiking the pleasure in your blood to dizzying levels. 

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes,” he swallows, pulling one hand away from the headboard so that he can press against the small of your back, pushing your clit against his pubic bone so that he can buck and roll and hit just right every single time. 

You gasp and he groans, whining as you pant and share oxygen. He leans up so he can kiss you roughly, all tongue and teeth and moans. His fingers tighten over your skin, his breathing hitching. 

The bed springs creak, the headboard smacking against the wall with every bounce. And still Santi manages to be louder than all of them. 

The head of his cock brushes deliciously deep across your walls and you tense, your pace faltering as pleasure presses along your nerves, so close that you’re ready to burst. 

“Fuck,” he bites his lip, pulling back a fraction so that he can stare up at you, and angles his hips to hit there again. 

Your thighs shake, the pleasure so close and intense you forget how to breathe. 

“Fuck, god, yes,” he hits there again and again and again, his lips parted and desperate. “God, keep squeezing me like that!” He gasps, convulsing as you bury your face into his neck and bite down to stifle your moans. 

Your orgasm hits you in a rush, liquifying your brain as your body moves instinctively, pulling every single drop of pleasure it can.

Santi follows you seconds later, swearing and cursing and muttering praises as you milk his cock for all he’s worth. It’s like he can’t stop coming, can’t come down from the high as he spills himself inside you and floats on ecstasy. 

He holds you close as you both recover, stroking your back soothingly. 

“I think I lost brain cells.” He mutters.

You giggle, “What?” 

“I genuinely think you fucked some of my brain out.” He repeats and you laugh harder. 

There’s a pause before he speaks again. “You feeling warmer now?” 

You tut and lift yourself up a little so you can give him a gentle, playful shove. He catches your wrist before you can and lightly bites the side of your hand. 

“Oi,” You snort, “I’ll have to gag you.” 

He groans and gives you a dark look, his softening cock twitching inside you. “Next time.” 

Thank you for reading! Taglist 1:

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[kapchagi]

Hii! Idk if requests are open and it's okay if there not 🥰

but when I read this: "Also, Ari strikes me as a man who would enjoy road head or pull over to go down on you if he's horny or bored or just because. I don't have a reason for that, but it's true. The end."

It's making me feel like we need a full smutty fic of them going on vacation somewhere snowing and this happens because he's bored + horny 👀✋🏼

*ngl, I like the gif. idgaf. Warnings for smut (oral, m & f receiving), obviously. Based on this Who Would. WC 1280

You both absolutely suck at planning trips or time to yourselves--other than spending the night in after work--so, of course, you two over extend before your first legitimate weekend getaway.

Nobody packed!

It took until the wee hours to gather the things you'd need and prepare the home to be left unattended. There was no time for fooling around.

Ari passed out on the couch because clothes were all over the bed for you to visualize 'outfits,' and so he may not strictly be sleepy, just tired and antsy. His free foot won't stop bouncing on the cushioned floor mat.

He isn't subtle in his thoughts.

"How big of a bed did we get?" "Do you think the walls are thick or...?" "How busy is it this time of year? Could we have the hot tub to ourselves?" "Exactly how many layers will you need outside? Is that a lengthy process to take off?"

The traffic thins as you leave the city, but then an accident brings everyone to a dead stop. Even the sky is blocked by the towering trucks on all sides which...can't possibly be why Ari is so irate.

"Come on," he gripes, smacking the butt of his hand on the steering wheel. "Let's just get there."

You have to laugh at such a tiny tantrum from a very big man. It'll be at least an hour and a half (at speed).

"I swear, honey, I thought we'd be..." he mumbles something, scraping through his beard before holding your hand "...by now."

"What was that?" Though you know where this is going, it's worth it to make Ari say it. "What were we supposed to be doing?"

You rub your thumb along his knuckles pointedly.

"Well," he starts, voice low and rich, "I would definitely be buried inside you the very second we were behind closed doors, that's for sure." He adjusts himself in the seat, pawing at his jeans where they grow uncomfortably snug. "If you could only fit in my lap..."

He trails off again, sighing at the mere idea.

click THUD.

You drop his hand to open and shut your side of the cab, a wicked smile curling on your lips.

"One mississippi."

He doesn't take your meaning right away.

"These qualify as 'closed doors' and we are behind them," you simmer. "I can think of at least one way to be buried inside me right here if you're...interested."

Ari freely stares at you and rakes his eyes up and down your body, squinting like the specifics of the offer elude him, but he is all over it anyway.

"Fuck, yes," he growls. "Please." His head swivels around to check all the mirrors before quickly unzipping his pants and pulling his semi-hard cock out.

You tap the gearshift to remind him of his lead foot. Ari gets twitchy when this horny, and there was that one incident.

He throws that sucker into park so fast the metal and plastic actually whine.

Tucking your legs under you, you shimmy to a good angle before replacing his hand with yours, leaning towards his lips only to drop when he moves in, licking the length of him several times, lubing him up to take in your mouth.

Ari's head drops, satisfied though you've barely begun. He's wound tight from all the rushed preparations and can't help but melt into your ministrations. He tugs at his jeans to give you more and more access. The man does appreciate thorough attention.

If there's one thing you can count on, it's that he'll be putty in your hands the sloppier you are, so slowly building up that slick saliva until it drips beneath your fingers at his base blows his mind, every time, without fail.

"Holy shit," he moans, letting one hand rest on the back of your head and the other spread out over your clothed ass. Oh so gently, both knead without pattern or control while his eyes stay slits to watch the road.

They don't really see the road, and he glances down to ration his fill of the naughty scene.

Ari, again, is not subtle in his thoughts.

"You're so hot. Gorgeous. So fucking sexy--right there--uhhnn yeah, sounds like you're enjoying this as much as I am. You wet?" He shoves his hand into your pants to check. "Oh fuck, you are. Careful. You keep doing that--" he doesn't need a lot of fanfare, just focus on the cockhead and coax him with steady strokes "--and I'm gonna blow, sweetheart."

His voice grows hoarse in all his panting.

"Holy shit, are you--so, so close--you swallowing? You're perfect. You're so fucking hot."

Ari's careful not to grip at your head when he comes, leaky and thick, with a roar of relief, but that doesn't stop his finger inside you from plunging deeper and holding you there.

You know exactly the combination to this lock; he knows the combination to your body as well.

He teases you while he comes down, too, absently spreading your arousal back and forth from your clit to your crack. Then Ari chuckles, giddy, a bit light headed, letting his thighs stop their shaking before releasing you.

"Okay...so...are we there yet?"

Only one of the surrounding trucks has begun to roll forward a few car lengths.

Ari hurries to right his jeans and shift into drive, turn signal ticking as soon as possible.

Though it takes a slow and sexually excruciating mile to find a turn off for a 'scenic outlook,' he keeps you on the edge with dirty promises. The parking lot--if one can call a single row of spots barely separated from the highway by a grassy strip a 'lot'--is empty because it's chilly with dense fog, and Ari backs into the very farthest place, ordering you to climb into the truck bed.

It's polite with an edge of desperation, but the phrase "your juicy ass" is used.

Heedless of the cold, he rips his jacket off toned, flexed arms, laying it down for you so that you're not naked against freezing metal. You'd be self-conscious if the entire area weren't obscured by weather and the general incline of the hilly road.

Ari's words have devolved into a series of grunts, groans and moans as he manhandles you into a good position. The way he wraps his arms around your spread legs keeps away almost all of the chill, thankfully, but the fervor with which he dives into your heat is really where the warmth comes from. His tongue and breath are pleasant before escalating to pleasurable. HIs beard roughs up your tender skin in all the right places before the sting is eased by his plush lips.

In no uncertain terms, he absolutely sucks the life out of you, kneading your leg slung over his shoulder and curling his touch into the right spot when you finally chase climax and hump his face. Ari loves Needy-you, Controlling-you, Happy-you, and there's no better way for him to see it than down the length of your body, staring with bright, sparkling, hungry eyes.

He keeps you warm beneath him until you're fit to move, helping to yank your pants back up inch by inch.

Jumping out to offer you a hand down, Ari gets the giggles again, pressing a kiss to your smiling lips. He lingers long enough that you have to slap at his chest.

"We'll never get there if you don't stop," you laugh.

"New rule," he huffs, shrugging his coat back on and running his fingers through his tangled hair, "no roadtrips anywhere over an hour away."

[Main Masterlist; Ari Levinson Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[kapchagi]

Dangerous Notes – Part 3

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 3

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agreeing to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club The Armoury. Thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger now that the club’s owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making you a permanent fixture on his stage—and in his life. Chapter Summary: After speaking with Kara, it’s off to rehearsal and Bucky calls in someone to do a little digging.

Word Count:  2.7K

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI,Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually)  Chapter Warnings:  None…

A/N: Ok, moving forward this fic will be updated on Wed or Thurs.

The next morning arrived with the soft glow of sunlight streaming through your window, casting long shadows across the floor. You stirred slowly, your body feeling heavier than usual as the realization hit you—it was late morning, far later than you ever allowed yourself to sleep in. Normally, you would have been up hours ago, already halfway through your steady Saturday routine of coffee and errands. Last night, though, had been anything but routine. At the time you would typically be winding down, curled up with a book or preparing for bed, you’d been stepping onto The Armory’s stage. The echoes of applause, the sharp gaze of Bucky Barnes fixed on you, and the surrealness of it all came rushing back at once, making your heart flutter with an exhilarating mix of pride and disbelief. The smile that spread across your face was so wide, it made your cheeks ache.

“Holy shit, girl,” you muttered to yourself, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. “You really did it.” A giggle escaped you, light and unrestrained, a sound you couldn’t remember making in years. It felt unfamiliar yet wonderful, as though some long-lost piece of you had resurfaced overnight. Bringing your hands to your face, you pressed your palms against your warm cheeks, trying to convince yourself it hadn’t all been a dream.

With a newfound energy buzzing through you, you threw off the covers and padded across the apartment, nearly skipping to the kitchen. Your stomach’s insistent growl brought you fully back into the present, demanding attention. Tea and toast, you decided—quick, simple, and comforting. The kettle hissed softly as it began to boil, the toaster clicked to life, and you found yourself humming absentmindedly while you waited.

As the tea steeped, you changed out of your pajamas, opting for a comfortable outfit. Returning to the kitchen, you settled at the small table with your plate of toast, a steaming mug of tea, and your ever-present notebook and pen. The moment you sat down, your brain surged into overdrive, flooded with ideas and inspiration. You started jotting down notes for the rehearsal later, tiny tweaks to melodies and lyrics phrasing you wanted to test with the band. It hit you again—you had a rehearsal today. A real, honest-to-goodness rehearsal with professional musicians. The thought made your feet tap an excited rhythm against the floor beneath your chair. When was the last time you had felt this alive, this connected to something you loved? You couldn’t remember, but the feeling was so welcome, you didn’t want it to end.

The sharp buzz of your phone interrupted your reverie. Glancing at the screen, you weren’t surprised to see Kara’s name flashing. Guilt prickled at you as you picked up; you had meant to call her last night but hadn’t managed to—everything had been so overwhelming that you’d crashed almost the moment you walked through the door.

“Kara, I’m so sorry I didn’t call last night,” you said, your words tumbling out. “I was just so exhausted—I barely made it to bed.”

Kara’s voice, raspy with congestion, greeted you warmly. “..figured as much,” she said, a faint laugh escaping before she coughed. “Big night, huh? I didn’t expect you to be awake yet, honestly.”

“It was a lot,” you admitted, glancing down at the notes you’d been writing. “The crowd was great, but, Kara, you didn’t tell me how… intense it would be.”

“It’s The Ah-rmory,” she said, trying to clear her through as she talk “Of course, it’s intense."  You felt a little silly for saying it now, Kara was right, what had you been expecting? "-But you handled it, right?”

“I think so,” you replied, hesitating. “But your boss—Bucky Barnes—he…” You trailed off, unsure how to describe the feeling of being scrutinized by those piercing blue eyes.

“Yeah, he’s… a lot,” Kara said, sounding suddenly sheepish. “But he keeps the place running like clockwork. You don't get any trouble there really. Just don’t take it personally. He’s always like that with new people.”

You frowned, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you said you’d cleared everything with him?”

“Well,” Kara started, her voice faltering slightly, “I sorta did. I cleared it with Pietro. I don’t really like talking to… well, bothering the big boss.”

“Kara!” you said, half-exasperated, half-laughing. “You made it sound like everything was squared away!”

“It is! Pietro knew you were coming, and he’s runs the band! I mean it's not like I could-" Kara started coughing like she was dying. Your own chest crunching up in sympathetic pain. "-Trust me, you’re fine,” she insisted, though the faint hesitance in her voice made you wonder. “Bucky’s just cautious. He’ll warm up once he sees how great you are. Just… stay professional, and it’ll be fine.”

You sighed but didn’t push further. Kara already sounded miserable, and you didn’t want to add to her stress. Plus keeping her on the phone was only making her voice worse.  “All right. Just get some rest, okay? I’ll check in on you later.”

“Thanks,” she said softly, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. “And seriously, don’t worry. You’ve got this. It's not like he's going think your anyone important.”

As you ended the call, her cryptic reassurances lingered in your mind. Even as you prepared for the day ahead, excitement mingled with apprehension, twisting into a knot in your stomach. The events of last night had opened a door you weren’t sure you were ready to walk through, but you knew there was no turning back now.

###### Time seemed to fly, or maybe it was just because you’d slept in. By the time you had even thought about putting on a load of laundry, it was nearly time to leave for the rehearsal at three.

Remembering the doorman’s sharp reminder about staff protocols, you approached The Armory’s side entrance. The alley was dimly lit, lined with discarded crates and the faint scent of stale smoke. You paused when a flicker of movement caught your eye.

Pietro Maximoff stood nearby, leaning casually against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His silver hair caught the weak light filtering through the alley, and he raised an eyebrow when he spotted you. A grin spread across his face, wide and teasing.

“Well, look who didn’t get scared off!” he exclaimed, flicking ash from his cigarette before taking another drag. He pushed off the wall and crossed the alley to greet you. “I wasn't sure if we should be expecting you, no one would blame you if you'd gone fleeing off into the night.”

You chuckled nervously, shifting the garment bag on your arm. “Not yet. Though I won’t lie, it was tempting.”

Pietro laughed, the sound warm and easy, as he motioned for you to head inside. “Don’t worry, it gets easier. The first night’s always the hardest, but you crushed it. The band was talking about you most of last night." 

“Really?” you asked, surprised. “That’s… nice to hear.”

“Nice?” Pietro smirked, holding the door open for you to enter. “Try rare. These boys don't tend to like the stand ins too much..They'll be glad to know the Big Boss didn't scare you away." 

The mention of Bucky sent a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, about that… Is he always so gggrrr?” You made a gesture with your hands like you were chocking something as you walked through the backstage part of the club. Pietro raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening. “He’s the boss. 'grr' comes with the territory, Songbird. But if he wasn’t impressed, trust me, you’d know. The fact that you’re still here means you’re doing something right.” Pietro flicked his cigarette butt into a nearby ashtray and motioned for you to follow him deeper in. 

The club looked entirely different in the afternoon hours. The usual dim, moody lighting was replaced by the stark brightness of overhead house lights, illuminating every corner of the room. Without the sultry shadows, the cracks in the old wood floors and the slight wear on the velvet seats stood out more clearly. Bar staff moved about, cleaning and setting tables with military precision. The faint smell of disinfectant mingled with the usual aroma of aged whiskey and faint cigar smoke, giving the space a strangely subdued energy.

Pietro stepped around you to head towards the rest of the band, warming up, the sound of brass and guitar stums blending in a low, casual hum. "Boys, This is our new temporary Songbird, while our Kara is out sick." Pietro grinned as he began introducing you to the musicians. you just gave a small wave to the collective.

“Marcus and Rick on brass,” he said, nodding toward two both one tipped his hat to you. “Lewis and Ted—guitarist and bass,” he added, gesturing to two men sharing a quiet joke by the amplifiers. “And Leo on drums.” A wiry man with a quick smile gave you a friendly wave from behind his kit.

You smiled and nodded along, recognizing their names from Kara’s stories. It was strange putting faces to names, but it also felt grounding—like stepping into a world you’d only glimpsed through someone else’s lens.

Just as you were getting your bearings, Yelena strode in from the side, balancing a tray laden with drinks and a small spread of food. “All right, boys, fuel up,” she said, her Russian accent sharp but playful. She set the tray down on a side table and glanced at you, a teasing smile curling her lips. “And don’t worry, Songbird, I’ve got a a lemon tea with just a hit of whiskey ready for you again. It seemed to help last time.” Yelena smiled knowingly while putting the tray down on the small table nearby. 

“Maybe later.” You laughed nervously, waving her off. 

Yelena smirked, giving you a wink before turning back to the musicians. “Don’t break her, boys. We need her voice in one piece.”

The band chuckled, the atmosphere lightening as they began to settle in, tuning instruments and trading easy banter. Pietro caught your attention and motioned for you to join him near the piano. “Come on, Songbird. Let’s get you warmed up before the boys start going full throttle,” he said, patting the bench invitingly.

You slid into the seat next to him, letting the smooth wood of the bench ground you as Pietro began to play a few simple chords. He encouraged you to hum along, gently matching your pitch to his notes.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his playful grin never faltering. His easy confidence kept you from feeling self-conscious, and soon you were running through scales and vocal exercises. With each repetition, your voice grew steadier, your confidence following suit. You found yourself sinking into the warm familiarity of the routine, the tension in your shoulders slowly dissolving.

“Any others you like to do?” Pietro asked, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys. “Kara had a whole routine she went through. It’s a little dramatic, but I like dramatic.” He shot you a wink, his grin widening as he caught the way your cheeks flushed pink.

“Maybe,” you replied, laughing softly. Pietro was a flirt, but it was disarming in the best way—his charm putting you more at ease than you expected.

“All right, let’s push it a bit,” he said, shifting into a more complex melody. You followed his lead, your voice slipping into the notes as the music filled the space around you. It wasn’t long before you forgot about the others in the room, the piano and Pietro’s easy energy anchoring you in the moment. 

######

Upstairs in his office, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the faint strains of rehearsal drifting through the floor. His fingers tapped a slow, almost irritated rhythm on the desk, the sound a quiet counterpoint to the melody seeping through the cracks. His sharp blue gaze rested on the map still splayed across the desk, though he wasn’t really seeing it. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled up in a problem he couldn’t quite grasp. The voice—your voice—echoed in his head, a persistent sound he couldn’t seem to shake. No matter how much he tried to focus on the tasks demanding his attention, the melody of it returned, weaving through his mind with an unsettling persistence.

He let out a low, frustrated sigh, his jaw tightening as he pushed back in his chair. The upcoming expansion, the rival families encroaching on territory, the carefully laid plans that needed his undivided attention—these were the things that should have occupied his thoughts. Yet, every time he tried to center himself, your voice pulled him back. It wasn’t just that it was beautiful, though it undeniably was. It was the way it carried a depth he couldn’t ignore, like there was something underneath it calling to him, demanding his attention even when he didn’t want to give it.

For Bucky, that lack of control—over his focus, his thoughts—was intolerable. The realization only made his frustration flare hotter, a tension settling into his shoulders that refused to ease.

A knock at the door interrupted his spiral. Natasha Romanoff stepped inside, her sharp green eyes scanning the room before settling on him. She moved with her usual practiced precision, her every step calculated, and though Bucky’s tension didn’t ease entirely, her presence added a sense of grounding he appreciated.

“You called?” she asked, her tone cool and professional, though a flicker of curiosity danced in her gaze.

Bucky nodded, gesturing for her to sit. “I need you to look into someone,” he said, his voice low but firm, the edges of his words sharper than usual.

“The new singer?” Natasha arched an eyebrow, her expression flickering between amusement and intrigue. When Bucky didn’t respond immediately, her lips curled into a knowing smirk. “She already got under your skin?”

Bucky’s glare was sharp, though Natasha only shrugged it off. “Yelena might have mentioned earlier that you’d probably be calling,” she added lightly, crossing one leg over the other as she settled into the chair opposite him.

“Your sister needs to mind her damn business,” Bucky growled, his voice low and tinged with annoyance. 

Natasha’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Not likely. So, what is it about the new girl that has you so... preoccupied?”

“She’s too-” Bucky started to talk but couldn't quiet make up his mind what about you exactly bothered him, if it was just timing and his own paranoid or what his instinct for sniffing out threats before they arouse telling him something was wrong. “-Kara vouched for her, but I want to know more. What kind of teacher agrees to work in a place like this? It doesn’t add up.”

Natasha leaned back, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You think she’s a plant?”

“I don’t think anything yet,” Bucky said, his tone edged with caution. “But I’m not taking chances. Not with everything happening right now.”

Natasha nodded slowly, already pulling out her phone and tapping at the screen. “I’ll dig. Shouldn’t take long,” she said, her tone measured.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Natasha’s gaze lingered on him, studying his expression with the practiced skill of someone who had spent years reading people.

“It’s not like you to let a stranger get to you,” she remarked lightly, though there was no judgment in her voice. “This one must really be something.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t respond, his eyes shifting back to the map on his desk. “Just let me know what you find,” he said finally, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand.

As Natasha stood and left the room, Bucky’s attention shifted back to the faint melody drifting through the floorboards. It gnawed at him, an unrelenting presence that refused to fade. It wasn’t just the technical skill—though that was undeniable—but the way it seemed to carry an unspoken story, a vulnerability wrapped in strength. It left him restless, frustrated, and increasingly determined. Whatever it was about you, he needed to figure it out. And soon. But for right now he couldn't stay in his own damn building if your voice was going to make it too hard to think. Hitting a button on the phone on his desk Bucky rubbed his forehead.  "Someone bring the car around. I need to go for a drive." 

[kapchagi]

Dangerous Notes – Part 2

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 2

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agrees to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club The Armoury. Thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger now that the club’s owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making you a permanent fixture on his stage—and in his life. Chapter Summary: You takes the stage and come to face to face with the owner of the Armoury.

Word Count:  3.9k

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI,Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually) NO BETA (please forgive any mistakes)  Chapter Warnings:   None.. We’re fine.. Bucky just being..Bucky you know.. all starey and stuff...

A/N: I have been obsessed with this cover, and while it’s more rock-ish then how it’s portrayed later on.. you all get the idea.. You step onto the stage, the lights dimmed to an almost comforting low, and you’re grateful for the momentary anonymity it offers. The smattering of polite claps helps as you take your place out front, your hands gripping the microphone stand tightly to steady their slight trembling. The spotlight is still low, casting a faint glow that feels more like a protective shield than an intrusion. Kara had always been the showman, all about the drama of an entrance, and you silently thanked her for that detail tonight.

The murmurs of the crowd seemed deafening, the sound swelling and blending with your own racing pulse. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, drowning out everything but the steady mantra in your mind. You can do this. You’ve sung countless times before. You made this cover. But something about the energy of the room tonight feels different. The weight of the audience's anticipation presses down on you, making you feel exposed, as though every vulnerability is laid bare under the low light.

Maybe it’s the dress. Yelena had said it was perfect, and she’d been so sure that her confidence in your appearance had felt contagious at the time. But now, standing here, it feels more like a costume, a borrowed identity meant to bridge the gap between who you are and the performer you once were. You adjust your grip on the mic stand, your fingers brushing the cool metal as you silently remind yourself to breathe. Yelena had been right about one thing, though-that whiskey had helped. The slight warmth it left in your chest was the only thing keeping your nerves from spiralling completely out of control.

The band begins to play, their soft, steady notes filling the air like a gentle tide washing over you. The piano and bass weave together seamlessly, creating a melody that feels familiar and grounding. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the music guide you, drawing you into its rhythm. And then, as you take a deep breath, you begin to sing.

"Day to night to morning, keep with me in the moment… I'd let you had I known it, why don't you say so?"

Your voice starts softly, trembling with the nerves you haven’t quite shaken, but as the melody swells, so does your confidence. The lyrics spill out of you, carried by a voice that feels smoother and steadier with each passing note. You’d never been so thankful for Kara’s carefully chosen setlist. The opening of this song hangs in the air like smoke, subtle and intoxicating, giving you room to find your footing.  "It's been a long time since you fell in love..... You ain't coming out your shell, you really ain't been yourself.." The crowd begins to shift. The low murmur of conversation fades, and the room grows still. All eyes are fixed on you now, their attention undeniable and electric. "Didn't even notice, no punches left to roll with. You got to keep me focused, you want it, say so.."  Even the clinking of glasses seems to pause, the usual sounds of the club giving way to the notes and words weaving their way through the air. Your voice fills the room, commanding it without effort, and for the first time tonight, you begin to feel like you belong here. It’s not just a performance; it’s a reclamation of something you thought you’d left behind. "He ain't never seen it in a dress like this. He ain't never even been impressed like this."

#*#*#*#* Upstairs, Bucky Barnes sits at a polished mahogany table surrounded by his trusted lieutenants, Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers. The atmosphere is heavy with tension, the weight of his growing empire pressing down on every word spoken. A sprawling map of the city dominates the table, its surface marked with pins and annotations representing months of careful strategy. The Queens boundary is a glaring weak spot, several areas circled in red-wounds on the map where rival encroachments are testing his limits. Bucky’s sharp blue eyes remain fixed on the map, his jaw tightening as he processes the careful measures required to protect his territory and maintain his fragile dominance.

“This section here,” Sam says, his finger tapping against the map. “It’s going to be a problem if we don’t reinforce it soon. If anyone decides to push, we’ll be spread too thin to respond.”

Steve nods, leaning in with his usual focus, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. “We need to shore up these weak spots now before they become an invitation. Queens is already watching, waiting for an opening. We can’t let them get a foothold.”

Bucky’s fingers tap a steady rhythm against the edge of the table, the sound faint but insistent, betraying the restless energy simmering beneath his composed exterior. Every decision he makes feels like moving a pawn in an unforgiving chess game, where one wrong move could cascade into disaster. Heavy is the crown, and tonight the map before him feels more like a battlefield than a plan for stability. His empire stretches across the boroughs, a web of alliances and delicate balances, and the mounting pressure of defending it weighs on him.

Sam leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he shoots a pointed look at Bucky. “We can’t keep sitting on this, Buck. If we wait too long, someone’s going to make a move-”

“I know,” Bucky interrupts, his voice low and sharp, carrying an edge of irritation. His eyes stay fixed on the map, but something shifts in his focus. His ear tilts slightly toward the door, his sharp features softening for just a moment, as though catching something the others haven’t.

Steve notices the flicker of distraction and frowns. “Everything alright?” he asked.

Bucky didn't answer immediately, his head tilting further as he listened. Then, he raises a hand, signaling for silence. A faint sound drifted into the room, cutting through the tension-a voice. Soft at first, but as it grows stronger, it carried a rawness and vulnerability that makes the world around him blur and fade. It’s like nothing he’s heard before, a haunting thread of melody that feels both foreign and familiar. For a moment, he’s entirely still, captivated by the unexpected intrusion.

Sam exchanged a curious glance with Steve. “You hear that?” he asks, but Bucky was already rising from his seat, his movements deliberate and smooth.

“Who’s on stage tonight?” Bucky asks, his tone calm but commanding, the curiosity in his voice unmistakable. He knows how his regular performers sound, and this is different-stunningly, strikingly different.

Sam looks up, a little surprised that Yelena hadn’t filled their boss in on the change. “Kara’s out sick. She sent a replacement. Someone she vouched for.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens, suspicion flickering alongside intrigue. “Stay here,” he orders, his tone clipped, leaving no room for argument. The timing of a 'new girl' felt almost too convenient, unsettling him in ways he can’t fully articulate. Why now, when their borders are being tested and every small disruption feels like it could signal a larger threat? His empire is stretched thin, weak spots glaring at him from the map. And yet, that voice-it tugs at him, like some damn siren song that refuses to let him focus. The meeting can wait, but this development can’t. Whoever this "new girl" is, she’s not only managed to grab his attention but also raise a question he couldn't afford to ignore.

Bucky strode toward the door, his sharp blue eyes glint with something rare-a flicker of curiosity and intrigue that even Sam and Steve can’t help but notice. “This should be interesting,” Sam mutters, leaning back in his chair as the door closes behind Bucky, leaving them both to wonder what-or who-has drawn his focus so completely.

#*#*#*#* It took more songs than you would have liked before you felt the tension in your shoulders finally begin to ease. The crowd had been surprisingly responsive, their murmurs softening and their attention sharpening with every note. The band, professionals to their core, seemed to pick up on your subtle cues, seamlessly following your lead as you added your own accents and flairs to the songs. Each successful phrase, each perfectly held note, sent a small swell of endorphins rushing through your system, filling you with a sense of control and exhilaration you hadn’t felt in years.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to relax just a little, your grip on the microphone loosening as the music carried you. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Just one week of this-one week of rediscovering what it meant to perform, to share a piece of yourself with an audience that was actually listening. The warmth in your chest wasn’t just from the whiskey anymore; it was the realization that you might actually enjoy this, that stepping back into the spotlight didn’t feel as foreign or impossible as you’d feared.

Your eyes scanned the room briefly as you prepared to transition into the next song, and that’s when you noticed him. Standing near the back wall, not far from the bar, his broad shoulders framed against the dimly lit backdrop, was a man who could only be described as commanding. His dark hair and piercing blue eyes seemed to cut through the haze of the room, his gaze fixed solely on you. He wasn’t clapping like the others; instead, he was standing perfectly still, his arms crossed, his head tilted slightly as if assessing you.

Next to him, Yelena, leaned in to speak to him in hushed tones, her expression composed but her gestures subtle, though you could make out that small knowing smile she seemed to never quiet loose. As she handed him a drink, he took it without breaking his focus, his piercing blue eyes locked solely on you. The intensity of his stare was palpable, making the room feel smaller, as though the spotlight wasn’t the only thing illuminating you.

The weight of his attention sent a shiver down your spine, making you feel exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the stage lights. Your heart skipped a beat, your grip on the microphone tightening briefly before you forced yourself to relax. You kept singing, letting the rhythm of the song steady you like an anchor, even as his presence settled over you like a heavy, invisible weight, impossible to ignore. 

#*#*#*#* Bucky stood near the wall, his arms crossed and posture casual, though his piercing blue eyes betrayed the weight of his thoughts as they tracked your every move.

Yelena’s voice cut through his concentration as she approached, handing him a glass of whiskey. "She’s pretty good, da?" she asked, her tone carrying a note of amusement as she leaned closer, her usual knowing smirk in place.

Bucky didn’t immediately respond, his eyes still locked on you. "We sure she’s someone Kara really knows?" he asked, suspicion edging his voice.

"Apparently, they’ve been friends for a while," Yelena replied, straightening as she studied his expression. "Kara vouched for her. Said she’s just another singer, music teacher too if I remember what Kara said over the phone, you couldn't get cleaner." Yelena joked fiddling with the cuff of her shirt. 

He let out a low hum, his jaw tightening. "And why didn’t Kara let us pick her replacement? Seems risky to bring in someone new when..." He didn’t finish the thought, though it lingered in his mind. Kara was just 'club staff' why would she even know about the details of the 'other side' of operations? Yelena shrugged, unbothered. "You worry too much Boss. Look at the crowd. Everyone happy." She gestured subtly toward the captivated room. "Doesn’t seem like Kara was wrong."

Bucky nodded absently as Yelena moved away, leaving him alone to observe. He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle in his chest, and finally allowed himself to relax just slightly. Maybe the singer wasn’t a threat after all. Maybe Kara’s choice wasn’t as reckless as it seemed. As his sharp eyes followed the subtle way you leaned into the microphone. The way your fingers ran down the stand like you were caressing a lover. How lost in the music you seemed when you shut eyes, a thought crept into his mind-if you weren’t a danger to him, then maybe having you here was exactly what he wanted.

His focus on your sharpened, he didn’t like the tug of war going on in his head, it was his nature to be suspicious, but he still couldn't stop the tickle of admiration. The way you sang was unlike anything he’d seen in his club before-raw, yet profoundly captivating. It stirred something unfamiliar in him, something that wasn’t just curiosity but also a deep pull he couldn’t ignore. No matter what Yelena said, timing of your presence gnawed at him. You were here for a week-maybe longer, depending on Kara’s recovery. That lingering question-who you really were- the thought refused to fade entirely, keeping his guard up even as something within him softened.

Watching you stand on stage in the dimly lit club, your voice rich and soulful, carrying a vulnerability that felt almost too real. It wasn’t just a performance; it felt like an unguarded moment, as though you were sharing something deeply personal with every note. His suspicion wavered, though it didn’t disappear entirely. If you were truly harmless, then why did he feel so compelled to keep watching, to analyse every detail?

He caught himself taking all of you even the slight sway of your hips as you moved along to the melody held such effortless allure. Everything about you seemed both seductive and unguarded, a contradiction that unsettled him in a way he couldn’t entirely articulate. You were nothing like the polished performers he was used to, and he liked perfect, but your imperfections made you feel more real, you seemed to have dangerous in their ability to draw him in. He felt like he could stand here and listen to you for hours.

Part of him clung to his doubts, wary of the risks of letting his guard down when his empire teetered on the brink of conflict. But the other part-the quieter, persistent part-began to wonder if having you here might not be a threat at all but something else entirely. Something he didn’t yet have the words for, but that he couldn’t deny.

When the song ended, the room erupted in applause, a sound so sudden and overwhelming it momentarily startled you. Bucky watched your retreat with a mix of emotions tugging at him. His jaw tightened, suspicion still threading through his thoughts. Who exactly were you? Yet, despite his wariness, something about you stirred a pull he couldn’t ignore. You didn’t belong here, not in this world of shadows and unspoken rules, and yet, watching you, he couldn’t shake the thought that maybe you did. Maybe you belonged more than you even realized.

He made a silent decision: until he worked out the truth, you weren’t going anywhere.

#*#*#*#*

You opened your eyes, blinking against the lights, and offered a shy smile as you quickly retreated backstage. Your cheeks were flushed, your chest rising and falling as the adrenaline of the performance buzzed through your veins. Each step away from the stage felt conflicted-an escape from the vulnerability of being in the spotlight, but also a parting from the exhilarating rush it had given you.

The small dressing room welcomed you with its quiet intimacy, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the stage. You braced your hands against the edges of the vanity, catching your breath as you stared at your reflection in the softly lit mirror. Your face was still glowing, your eyes bright with an energy that hadn’t faded yet. You felt alive, buzzing with an endorphin-fueled thrill that made your hands tremble slightly.

For a moment, you reached for your phone, your first instinct to call Kara. She would want to know how it went, how the audience had responded. But as your thumb hovered over her contact, the late hour gave you pause. With a sigh, you placed the phone back on the vanity. Tomorrow. You’d talk to her tomorrow.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned as it opened to reveal the bandleader. He stepped in with an easy confidence, his bleached hair slightly dishevelled and a mischievous grin already playing on his lips.

"Hey there," he greeted, his voice warm. "Pietro, Maximoff. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Things got a little hectic before the set."

You returned his smile, though a touch of nervousness lingered did everyone here have an accent but her? "Oh, it’s okay. I… I hope I didn’t throw things off."

Pietro waved off your concern with a laugh. "If it wasn’t you, my sister would’ve had to fill in, and trust me, she’d still be reminding me about it ten years from now." His light-hearted tone eased some of the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding.

"Still, I…" you hesitated, glancing at the vanity before looking back at him. "I didn’t mean, Kara called and-"

He shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. "Trouble? Are you kidding? You killed it out there. The crowd loved you, and the band…" he gave an exaggerated shrug, "...we like having someone who knows how to make a set shine."

His genuine enthusiasm brought a small smile to your lips, and you felt yourself relax slightly. "Thanks," you murmured. "That means a lot." It was rather humbling in the best way to hear someone speak highly of the arrangements you'd made with Kara. 

"Don’t sweat it," Pietro said, straightening up. "You’re here for the week, right? If tonight’s anything to go by, it’s gonna be a good one." With a friendly wink, he stepped back into the hallway still holding the door. "If you wanted to add anything new to the set, really make it your own. Let me know ok? We're all normally practicing in here during the afternoons. You should come by, meet everyone-it’s more relaxed during the day."

His head turned slightly, and the easy grin faltered for just a moment as the sound of approaching footsteps filled the hallway. "Boss," he greeted, stepping aside and holding the door as Bucky entered the room. "Didn’t think you slummed it with the entertainment."

The darkhaired man gave Pietro a sharp look, his expression unreadable as he stepped fully into the small dressing room. Whatever exchanged between the two men was silent and unspoken, though the slight tension in Pietro’s posture didn’t go unnoticed. "She did good," Pietro said finally, his tone carrying a hint of defensiveness. "The band’s thrilled to have someone who knows what they’re doing for a change."

His gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to Pietro. "We’ll see," he replied, his voice even, but the weight behind it made the air feel heavier. Pietro hesitated for a moment, then gestured toward the burnet male, a small, slightly sheepish grin. "By the way, meet Bucky Barnes. The boss."

Your stomach dropped as you looked between the two men. Pietro gave you a reassuring nod before stepping toward the door. "Don’t worry," he added with a wink, "Don't look so scared, he’s not as scary as he looks... Most of the time. Try not to scare the little songbird away Sir." 

With that, he gave you a small wave and slipped out, leaving you alone with the man whose piercing gaze had been fixed on you for most of your set.

The door clicked shut, and the room felt immediately smaller, the air thick with the weight of his presence. You could feel the tension rise as Bucky stood there, silent for a moment, his sharp blue eyes trailing over you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. You couldn’t help but straighten under his scrutiny, the memory of Kara’s worried voice echoing in your mind. It wasn’t just your chance to perform-it was Kara’s job, too, and you felt the unspoken stakes like a heavy weight pressing down on your shoulders. Every breath, every movement, felt like it was being judged.

There was something about him-something in the way he stood, perfectly composed but radiating power-that made the rumors click into place. You understood now why Kara had been so worried, why her voice had carried that edge of panic when she called you. This man wasn’t just in charge; he commanded the room without saying a word, and every inch of him seemed to demand respect-or fear. The pressure was suffocating, and yet there was an undeniable pull, something magnetic in the way he filled the space.

"You’re not new to this. Performing," he said, his voice low and steady, breaking the silence and making you jump slightly.

You swallowed, your throat dry as you turned to face him fully. "Oh, um… No, I used to sing at weddings," you replied, your tone wavering. You weren’t sure if it was meant as a compliment or a veiled critique, and his unreadable expression offered no clues.

His head tilted slightly, his gaze sharpening as he considered you. "That wasn’t a compliment," he added, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "More of an observation." His eyes flicked to the garment bag hanging near the door before settling back on you. "So, you’re going to be with us for the week? Until Kara’s better?"

The question hit like a challenge, and your stomach twisted. "I… I’m here for the week," you began carefully, trying to keep your voice steady. "I know you probably wanted someone you knew for this, but Kara-"

"Pietro said his sister-" you added quickly, hoping to deflect. The weight of his stare didn’t ease, and you felt the words tumbling out faster. "I'm just helping out a friend. That’s all."

Bucky nodded slowly, but his intense gaze didn’t waver, his hands shifted in his pockets. "Kara’s a good girl," he said finally, stepping closer, each movement deliberate and controlled. His presence filled the room entirely now, and it was impossible to focus on anything but him. "Let’s hope you’re the same. I don’t like strangers in my space. We keep things very in-house here."

Each word hung heavy in the air, the subtext clear: you were being tested. Every movement, every word, felt scrutinized under his piercing gaze. Kara’s vouching had gotten you through the door, but it was obvious that whether you stayed-or whether Kara’s job remained safe-was up to him. His words weren’t just a warning; they were a promise.

Your chest tightened, and you had to consciously remind yourself to breathe. Beneath the tension, however, there was something else-a magnetic pull that unsettled you. His presence was overwhelming, commanding, and yet you couldn’t quite look away. The rumors didn’t seem so outlandish anymore; they felt like the truth wrapped in whispers, amplified by the undeniable power he exuded.

"Don't be late tomorrow," he said finally, his voice cutting through your thoughts.

Just as suddenly as he’d entered, Bucky turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. You exhaled shakily, realizing you’d been holding your breath. Staring at the closed door, you felt his presence linger, like a shadow that refused to leave.

"No." You turned to look at the mirror as you felt your hands shake. "I won’t." 

[kapchagi]

Dangerous Notes – Part 1

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 1

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agrees to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club The Armoury. Thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger now that the club’s owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making you a permanent fixture on his stage—and in his life. Chapter Summary: After a long day of teaching, you reluctantly agree to fill in for your sick friend The Armory, a prestigious jazz club steeped in glamour and whispered intrigue. The weight of your decision—and the allure of this mysterious world—begin to sink in.

Word Count:  2.7k

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI, Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually)  Chapter Warnings:  Mention of Parental death (brief) A/N: Ok! This is part one of what I’m hoping to make into a proper multi part series, with hopefully a regular updating schedule.

You toss your bag onto the couch and sink into the cushions, kicking off your shoes after a long day of teaching. The faint ache in your feet reminds you of the endless hours spent standing in front of a classroom, guiding your students through scales and arpeggios, correcting technique, and cheering on their small victories. Your voice feels a little hoarse from a day of projecting over a chatty group of teenagers, and the thought of a quiet evening feels like a gift you’ve earned, a rare reward after a week of juggling lesson plans and extracurricular rehearsals.

You glance around your apartment, the quiet stillness wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The clutter on the coffee table—half-graded assignments and an empty water bottle—is a reminder of the work that still needs doing, but for now, you let yourself sink deeper into the cushions, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. You close your eyes for a moment, imagining the peace of an uninterrupted evening, maybe even a chance to indulge in an old favourite record you haven’t touched in years.

Just as you’re about to lean fully into the moment, your phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting you out of your reprieve. The screen lights up with Kara’s name, her call interrupting the quiet you’d just started to savour. Groaning softly, you reach for the phone, bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to ask.

“Kara, what now?” you say, half-joking but already bracing yourself.

“Don’t be mad,” Kara’s hoarse voice croaks through the line. “I need a favour. A huge favour.”

You sit up straighter, sensing the desperation in her tone. “Kara, I just got home. What kind of favour?”

“I need you to cover for me at The Armory,” she blurts out, before you heard her blowing her nose, while you wince at the sound. “Just for a week. Please, you’re the only one I trust.”

You blink, her words taking a moment to register. “Cover for you? At The Armory? Kara, I haven’t been on stage in years and I’m teac-" Kara cut you off   "You know the setlist already." This was true, you'd helped her put it together. You even arranged the covers of modern tracks. "Please.” Kara coughed more “I can’t risk losing this gig to one of those vultures.”

“Kara, I’m not a performer anymore. I haven’t been on stage in years!” you said, pacing your small living room while holding the phone against your ear.

Now it was Kara turn to groaned, her voice rasping before she cleared her throat. “Come on, you're sound is classic, you have the vintage sound the boss of this place adores. Who else am I going to trust with this?”

“Kara.. I can't." You plead "Can't the band play on it's own..” you suggested, already regretting the thought of stepping onto a stage again. 

She let out a humourless laugh. “Do you think the boss is going to just 'let that happen'? Pleeeease, I can't afford to lose this gig to someone else. If I call in a replacement they pick, I might as well hand over my job. This isn’t just any club—it’s The Armory. They don’t do second chances.”

Your protest caught in your throat. You knew she wasn’t exaggerating. Still, the idea of stepping back into that spotlight sent your heart racing with anxiety.

“Kara, I don’t know if I can do this. It’s not my life anymore.” You'd given that part of yourself up. 

“Please,” she said softly, her tone shifting to one of genuine desperation. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. Just one week. That’s all I need.”

The weight of her plea hung heavy in the air. You sighed, feeling the fraying edges of your resolve start to give.  “Kara,” you said after a long pause. “If I bomb—”

“You won’t bomb,” she interrupted, a hint of relief threading through her voice. She could hear you giving in. “You’re amazing, and you’ll knock them dead. I promise.”

"Can I think about it?"  You needed time, feeling your insides churn up like a stormy sea, or maybe you'd just forgotten what stage nerves felt like? Back before all those years of hospital visits, sleepless nights, and sacrifices you made for your mom had felt both necessary and soul-crushing. You’d spent every ounce of your energy ensuring she had the care she needed, and when she passed, it felt as though the last bit of your own light had been extinguished.

Performing wasn't your life now. Kara knew that.  You’d thrown yourself into teaching, pouring your love for music into your students, finding solace in watching them thrive. It was enough, or so you’d told yourself.  You'd had plenty of talks about the topic over the years.. How deep down, you’d always felt the ache of what you left behind—the thrill of performing, the way the stage could transform you, even for a fleeting moment. When everything fell away. 

“Just say yes” she had begged over the phone, her tone breaking. “One week. Just one week. That’s all I need. I'm emailing you the set list now. It has to be you."

The weight of her plea had tugged at you, fraying the edges of your resolve until you’d finally relented. It wasn’t just about her flu-stricken voice or her job being on the line; it was about loyalty and trust. She needed you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. You knew how valuable long term placements were like this for any singer.  Closing your eyes you ran a hand over your face.  "....Alright.." 

*#*#*#*#*

Garment bag dappled over your arm you got out of the cab and stepped onto o the Brooklyn street and took a deep breath, your heart was already beating fast and you weren't even inside yet. The Armory—a name that carried its own weight of reputation and myth in the city. The building stood like a fortress, its polished black doors tall and unyielding, framed by golden accents that glinted faintly in the dim streetlights. Above, the red neon sign glowed steadily, its bold letters casting a warm yet foreboding light across the pavement. It was a stark contrast to the bustling streets behind you, as though you’d stepped into a different realm entirely.

Stories surrounded this place, just like they surrounded its enigmatic owner, Bucky Barnes. Everyone seemed to have their version of the truth: the whispers about The Armory being more than a 40's style jazz club, tales of shadowy dealings and high-stakes meetings, of power moves made over glasses of aged whiskey. But weren’t those just rumours? Every club had its legends, and every owner had a reputation these days—You were sure the stories exaggerated to keep people talking, to keep them intrigued enough to walk through those imposing doors.  

Still, there was something about this place that made your stomach twist, a subtle undercurrent of tension that you couldn’t entirely dismiss. Kara wouldn’t send you somewhere dangerous. That thought anchored you as you stared at the entrance. She wasn’t reckless, and she wouldn’t work for someone truly dangerous. You told yourself this over and over, as if repeating it enough would make it true. Kara had worked here for a while now, she wouldn't of stayed if it was what everyone thought? Right? 

Your heart pounded just standing on the street opposite, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. Stepping into this world, even temporarily, felt surreal and overwhelming. Kara’s voice echoed in your mind: ‘Just one week. That’s all I need.’ Her words had been spoken with desperation, but the look in her eyes had carried something heavier—trust. She believed in you, even if you weren’t sure you believed in yourself.

But this was no ordinary stage, and you weren’t sure if you could live up to its demands. But you also couldn’t ignore the other reasons that had pulled you here: the paycheck. One week of performing at The Armory would pay more than a month of teaching, and that kind of money could make a real difference in your life. You could finally throw a significant chunk of it at the mountain of medical debt you’d been burdened with after your mother’s passing. It had been over a year, and yet the hospital bills still loomed, a constant reminder of everything you’d sacrificed and the weight of responsibility you couldn’t seem to shake.

The thought of finally lightening that load was enough to steady your resolve, even as your nerves twisted in your stomach. Beyond the financial relief, though, there was still that quiet, nagging curiosity about what it would feel like to stand on a stage like this again. Could the music still transform you the way it once had? Could it still make the world disappear for a while, allowing you to lose yourself in the notes and noise as you left your burdens behind, if only temporarily? You’re not ready for this. You haven’t sung in years, not in front of a crowd. You’d promised Kara, and backing out now isn’t an option. Just one week. You can do this.

You approach the imposing black doors of The Armory, shifting your garment bag draped to your other arm, it starting to feel heavier with every step. Your heart pounds in your chest, the weight of Kara’s trust and your own nerves pressing down on you.  The Armory's doorman was an imposing figure. Tall, broad-shouldered man stands stationed outside, his presence alone enough to give you pause. His buzz-cut hair, neatly trimmed beard, and piercing gaze make him look like he belongs more in a military barracks than as a bouncer at a jazz club.

He crosses his arms over his chest as you approach, his expression unreadable but intimidating. “You lost?” he asks, his voice low and gruff.

You shake your head quickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “No, I’m… I’m here to cover for Kara. She’s out sick this week.”

His eyes narrow slightly, scrutinizing you as though weighing your words. The moment stretches uncomfortably, and you fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. Finally, he nods toward the door. “Oh yeah. They said someone would be coming."

You swallow hard, your voice a little shaky. “Well, here I am..” you don't sound as confident as you should of with that. 

The doorman let out a low grunt, his stance still firm and imposing. “Head in, you'll want to find Yelena inside, she'll take ya through to the back." You found yourself just nodding along with him "But next time," You pause mid step when he didn't move out of your way "-staff uses the door down the side.” "Cool, side entrance next time." You nod, relief washes over you as he steps aside, but his eyes remain on you slide between him and the heavy door. Heading inside.  The interior of the club feels like stepping into another era. Velvet drapes hang from the walls, cascading down in rich, luxurious folds, their deep burgundy color amplified by the warm, intimate lighting. Brass fixtures gleam faintly, and the intricate patterns on the dark wood floors seem to whisper of decades past. The patrons are dressed to match the ambiance, their suits sharp, their dresses elegant, their laughter soft and restrained, perfectly fitting the atmosphere of a place styled to evoke the golden age of jazz. It feels out of time, a deliberate nod to an era that thrives here, preserved as if untouched by the modern world.

You clutch your garment bag tightly, suddenly aware of how out of place you look in your jeans and jumper. As your eyes scan the room, taking in the polished mahogany bar and the vintage microphone perched on the stage, your heart beats faster. The smell of aged whiskey mingles with faint cigar smoke, the air thick with sophistication and something more elusive—a sense of power and secrets.

As you move tentatively toward the bar, your path was intercepted by a striking blonde woman. Her tailored outfit immediately catches your attention: high-waisted Catherine Hepburn-style trousers paired with a crisp white shirt, her sleeves rolled just enough to hint at both elegance and control. Her hair is swept into an old-Hollywood wave, and she exudes an effortless confidence that only makes you feel more underdressed.

“You must be Kara’s fill-in,” she says, her sharp green eyes appraising you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. Her tone is polite but firm, and her accent took you a second to place, Russian? You nod quickly, feeling your cheeks flush. “Yeah, that’s me. Just for the week.”

Her gaze flicks to the garment bag you’re clutching like a lifeline, and a small, knowing smile curves her lips. “Relax,” she says, gesturing toward the bar. “You’re not on stage yet. I’m Yelena, bar manager. Let’s get you situated. You look like you could use a drink too." 

“Thanks,” you manage to say, your voice a little shaky as you follow her. You feel like a nervous mouse, clutching your garment bag to your chest while Yelena strides confidently ahead. Her effortless grace and the way she moves through the room, completely unbothered by the watchful eyes of the patrons, make you feel even more self-conscious. She belongs here in a way you can’t imagine for yourself.

Instead of stopping at the bar, Yelena leads you toward a ‘Staff Only’ door tucked to the side. She pushes it open with ease, holding it just long enough for you to slip inside before it swings shut behind you. The space beyond the door is quieter, the hum of the club muffled as the hallway stretches out in front of you. It’s lined with warm wood panelling and faintly lit, the ambiance continuing the old-world charm but with a more practical edge.

Yelena glances at your garment bag and raises an eyebrow. "You brought options, I hope? The boss is picky, likes a certain look."

You nod quickly, feeling your cheeks flush. “I brought two, tried to keep it on 'theme' since Kara said it was like that here..” you stammer.

Yelena smirks, clearly pleased. “Clearly Kara gave you more of a heads up then I assumed she would..” She walks briskly, her heels clicking softly against the floor, and you have to quicken your pace to keep up. “Kara vouched for you.” she says as you round a corner. Her tone is neutral, but her sharp green eyes glance back at you, measuring. “You know the setlist?”

“I helped her put it together,” you reply, standing a little straighter. “I’m familiar with all of it.” 

Yelena nods once, clearly approving. “Good, good. The boss likes things perfect. Best keep that in mind, he’s a bit of a grump like that.” Her words are calm, but the weight of them is impossible to miss. It’s less a suggestion and more a warning.

She stops in front of a door and pushes it open, revealing a small but charming dressing room. A vintage vanity with a round mirror and warm, golden lights dominates one wall, while a small rack for clothing and a plush chair sit against another. It’s cozy, almost inviting, though the nerves twisting in your stomach make it hard to appreciate.

“You can get ready here,” Yelena says, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What would you like to drink?”

You blink at her, surprised by the question. “Oh, I don’t usually drink before performing,” you admit, though the idea of something to steady your nerves suddenly seems appealing.

Yelena smirks, as though she was expecting that answer, looking you up and down for a moment. “Whiskey, then. You can thank me later.” Before you can protest, she’s already turning to leave. “I’ll have it sent in. Take your time, you've got about half an hour before we need you.” she calls over her shoulder, the door clicking shut behind her and leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You glance around the room, setting your garment bag on the rack and running your fingers over the vintage vanity. The soft glow of the lights reflects your anxious expression in the mirror, and you take a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. Whiskey might not be such a bad idea after all. “It’s just one week..” You told yourself out loud, and yet, one week was starting to feel like forever. END

[kapchagi]

Fic title: Behind the Mask

Oh yeah!!!! This reeks of Ransom Drysdale. Just screams it (to me, at least, lol).

From this ask game. Gif by @loregifs. Warning for unbelievable softness. Wow.

There's definitely a world where Ran's everyday, bitchy attitude is too exhausting for him to maintain, and he comes home to you a different man. He stands in the foyer, slowly shrugs off his coat and scarf, toes off those fancy shoes, and takes several huge breaths. Ran shuts his eyes and flushes away the world outside his front door.

He smells dinner, and his shoulders drop three whole inches. The corners of his lips aren't pointing down anymore.

"Hey, I'm home," he calls out, relishing the clatter of whatever utensil you were holding and the resounding squeal that travels down the hall like a bellweather for your thumping footsteps.

Ransom is not submissive and he's not--strictly speaking--nice, but his home, your home, is a special bubble where he relax, he can enjoy peace, and he can be a better man than he actually is.

So he scoops you up into a hug when you jump into his arms, he says he missed you, and he asks about your day before mentioning anything about himself. He listens, attention wrapped around you, answering "yes, ma'am" when you check he brought what he promised from the grocery and that he'll go wash up.

He makes it to the kitchen and wonders what else you need with a two glasses of wine in hand.

Of course, Ransom asks that because you say the same thing 90% of the time:

"Just you."

The corners of his lips raise.

This home is the only place he can retell stories about his family and laugh about them. Somehow there's a separation. It's special. You've made it special, and Ran craves that.

He sets the table, brushes you off to let him serve your food, clears all the dishes--though he enjoys still chatting while rinsing them,--and makes you both tea (or dessert).

He prefers sharing desserts from one container, bowl or sleeve. He's actually chatty because he likes chatting with you.

See, when he met you, you wore the same mask: very sarcastic, very bitter, and a hearty dash of bullshit. He spent an hour trying to one-up you with the shittiest-true-story. Ran has no clue who won, and he never cared. He got the impression you--like him--could act mean and indifferent but didn't want to.

Neither of you wanted to be pushed to those extremes all day everyday.

You started by telling Ransom he was allowed to be quiet with you; he didn't need to entertain you in any way. Very quickly he started to drop the pretense. He hung his mask up on the wall next to yours.

Two masks on these four walls that are safe and happy inside.

A/N: whoops, got a little rambly, but I like it 💜 I guess I needed it??? Probably. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[Main Masterlist; Fic Title Only Asks; Ko-Fi]

[kapchagi]

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

[kapchagi]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. IV

summary: your goal today is simple; unpack two boxes and sort their contents into a keep or throw-away pile. but simplicity is deceptive, nearly impossible when memories are involved.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: 18+/MINORS DNI, angst, depictions of anxiety & depression, pining, longing, KISSING

wc: 1,854

an: back with part 4 and now the reconciliation beginssssss <3

vuelve a mí masterlist

Running into Joaquin at the coffee shop felt like a wake up call and an evacuation siren rolled into one. You weren’t going to let your avoidant instincts win though— you would fight for him. Fight for yourself, the version of you that was full of life and passion before it had all been snatched away from you with a simple snap. 

It still felt like too much to be letting other people in, showing them how much you were struggling though you imagine they know with how withdrawn you’ve been. It takes a ridiculous amount of courage to even ask your parents if you can come to their place to go through some of your things. The irony isn’t lost on you; you’re their child. One of the most precious things they’d ever gotten and since you’d been back you held them at arm's length. They’re excited to hear from you (as they always are) and you hear the surprise in their rushed agreement to have you over. It's your childhood home, of course, you’re welcome.

When you arrive, your parents are much more reserved than you expected them to be. They must not want to scare you off. They give you tight hugs with hushed declarations of love. Your mother makes chamomile tea– no doubt to calm your fraying nerves– while your father makes you a sandwich. And then they leave you be, allowing you to venture down into the basement at your own pace. 

It feels suffocating to be home, but you’re grateful for their kindness and gentleness. You’ll force yourself to get used to it again, reminding yourself that they haven’t changed. You have. So just change again. Change again, be okay, and return to yourself. You wish it was that easy, that your will to return to make it so. 

Your goal today is simple: unpack two boxes and sort their contents into a keep or throw-away pile. But simplicity is deceptive, nearly impossible when memories are involved. There’s so much history crammed into the flimsy corners of these boxes, and you take a shaky breath before opening the first one.

It's easier, the first box. It’s filled with the remnants of a past that you feel removed from, distant enough to handle—old journals, forgotten trinkets, mismatched socks that should’ve been thrown out years ago. Some things actually make you smile, others make you roll your eyes at your corny sentimentality. You sift through it, the decisions coming easily. A small victory.

The second box is… different. You can tell the moment you peel back the flaps; the air grows thicker, heavier. This one is from the time you and Joaquín lived together. The moment you recognize it, you hesitate. The process slows because each object is a risk, a landmine of memory. A familiar coffee mug, its handle smooth from years of use. A worn-out hoodie that still feels like home when your fingers brush the fabric. Part of you feels like it still smells like Joaquin but maybe that was your mind playing tricks on you. A stack of old photos.

Tightness creeps into your chest, a lump forming in your throat. The tears sting at the edges of your vision, threatening to spill over. You blink them back, swallowing hard. The line between keep and throw away begins to blur; how do you decide what stays and what goes when it’s not just things, but pieces of a life that once meant everything to you?

There are so many pictures of you two, looking happy and in love. When you think about what the last two years have been like, you can hardly remember what it felt like to be in Joaquin’s arms. To feel the joy that’s palpable in the way you look at each other in these photos. There’s one where Joaquin can’t take his eyes off of you, completely bewitched by you while you’re talking to his abuela at a family gathering. 

You aren’t able to stop the memory, it breaches your safeguards, playing like film in your mind. This was one of the nights Joaquin recited his promises to you–that he would always support you making your own choices, love you deeply despite your flaws and his own, and give you whatever life you told him you wanted. 

You shake your head, hoping that the act will help the memory fracture and dissipate; it does.

Despite wanting to avoid the churning inside you from seeing all the memories you have together, you put the photos in the keep pile and keep moving. There are a few knick-knacks from your apartment with Joaquin, some books, and puzzles. You’re nearing the bottom of the second box when you see it. Dread settles into every cell in your body, your fingers shaking as you pick it up.

A small velvet box. 

“Mom!”

She rushes down the stairs to you, eyes wild until they scan over you and realize that you’re still here. “Honey, what is it? Are you okay?”

You hold the box out to her like it's some untouchable artifact, “I– is this what I think it is?”

“It is. Why don’t we sit and talk a little bit?” She guides you to the couch, taking the box from your trembling hands. 

“He wanted to marry me?” You whisper, your mouth feeling cottony. 

“Of course, he wanted to marry you, honey. Joaquin…he thinks that you’ve hung the moon. That you’re what makes the earth tilt on its axis, even now.”

“Not anymore, I don’t think.”

She gives you a gentle, knowing smile. “I would know sweet girl, he and I talk about every other week or so.”

“You do?”

“When you miss the same person for so long it brings you closer. He spent a lot of time here with me and your dad before you came back.”

“And after all I’ve put him through, especially in the last few months, he still wants to marry me? I know that he wants me back but…how could he trust me enough to do something like that? To give his whole life to me.”

“You’d be giving your life to him too.”

“Mom, what life do I have to give him?”

“One you finally let yourself live. Why don’t you let him be the judge of what he wants?”

“You think I should confront him?”

“I think you should talk to him. Really talk to him and figure this out whether you end up together or not. This limbo space that the two of you are in is doing nothing but harm, and you can’t heal or grow. Would you try for me?”

–

After that conversation with your mom, you stayed to eat dinner with your parents. For a change, everything didn’t feel so heavy. It felt easy to talk and eat and laugh with them. It felt bearable for them to see you in your brokenness. When dinner was finished you thanked them for the grace and did the hard thing; now you were standing at Joaquin’s door building up the courage to knock. 

You pace back and forth a few times, raising your fist to knock and changing your mind. You aren’t sure what you came here to say, you just came to try. To attempt to figure out if whatever was mixed up inside of you was what Joaquin actually wanted.

“Mi amor?”

You spin around, finding Joaquin standing in his doorway, face painted with concern. “Quino? How did you–”

“Your mom called, she was hoping that you’d stop by. I saw your car in the parking lot,” He says sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck.

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so close.”

“She’s your mom, hermosa. She means as much to me as you do. Do you want to…come inside?” He steps to the side, allowing you in if you want. 

“Sure.”

“I didn’t expect you to come, the last time we talked you said you’d just call.”

“Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and trying to figure stuff out. I went to my parents’ and went through some boxes. I found this,” You fish the box out of your bag, holding it out flat in your palm.

The warmth drains from his face, his eyes transfixed on the box. “Mierda…where– in one of the boxes?”

“One from when we lived together. I just– do you want it back?” You ask, not ready for what his answer could be. You don’t know if you want him to say yes or no, don’t know what you would say in either case.

Your question must flip a switch in him because his eyes raise to your face, his voice less unsure. “Not unless you’re gonna wear it, querida.”

“You still want that?”

“I do,” He closes the gap between you, and when you try to take a step back his hand circles yours, closing both your fingers around the box. “Qué quieres, mi amor?”

“I– I want you. I want to go back to who we were but I don’t know how to be who I was before. I don’t think I can be that person anymore,” You admit, your voice barely audible.

He caresses your face with genuine tenderness, encouraging you, “Then be who you are now. That’s who I want.”

A tremor runs through you, fear and longing tangled together, nearly impossible to separate. But the conversation with your mother replays through your mind. Let him choose. At this moment he’s choosing you. Instead of pulling away, this time, you step forward.

His breath hitches– your step forward may seem inconsequential but it's all he’s been waiting for for the last 7 years. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your face, waiting—always patiently waiting for you to come to him.

You close the distance first, a little clumsy as you crowd yourself against him. 

The kiss is hesitant at first, uncertain—like a question neither of you knows how to answer. But when Joaquin sighs happily against your lips, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him, something inside you snaps.

You plunge headfirst into him, into the warmth of his body and the quiet promise in the way his fingers press into your back. His lips are delicate but unyielding, enticing you deeper– you’re reminded of every moment that mirrors this one. Every kiss, every touch.

Joaquin has a distinct taste and an all-encompassing feeling beneath your fingertips as you clutch him closer by his hair. It is muscle memory, the way the two of you wax and wane together, nearly becoming one. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breathing jagged. “No more running, hermosa,” he whispers, his hands framing your face. “No voy a soltarte.”

You lean in, pressing another kiss to his lips– a way to say that you believe him, to seal his words like a promising rune. For the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that the two of you can figure this out.

> pt. v

must be 18+/have age displayed to be added to taglist!

joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @moonymeloncholymoney, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuff, @lisiliely, @spider-steve , @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9, @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150

[kapchagi]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. III

summary: you and joaquin run into each other...there's only some progress.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

wc: 1,379

contents: 18+/MINORS DNI, angst, pining, longing, a SMIDGE of hope

an: so this series is really taking on a life of its own and will be longer than anticipated bc the angst is just...not going away? i can't control them okay, they're doing whatever the want and i'm just writing it.

vuelve a mí masterrlist

There hasn’t been much contact between you and Joaquin since the night you kissed. He’d texted you that night to make sure you made it home safe and of course you replied.

Every other week or so he would try to check in with you, and sometimes you would answer— other times you would let the messages come, the number growing and growing as you continued to isolate, not just from him but from almost everyone in your life. 

You were going to call him. You were. You’re going to call him when you’re ready, if that time ever comes. You meant what you said, and lying to Joaquin…it’s never been an option. Not when he looks at you with those deeply honest brown eyes. 

You’ve started with less abrasive parts of your old life. 

After weeks of simply walking by it, you return to your favorite cafe. It’s a place you shared not only with Joaquin but also with your family and friends. There’s so much meaning to this simple place that’s a mix of browns and creams and greenery.

As you take the last few steps to the cafe, you send prayers up to the universe, begging that no one from your past will be there. The coast is clear once you make it inside– none of the baristas look familiar and the crowd has certainly changed.

You order what used to be your regular– a dirty chai– forcing yourself to stop changing things. That’s all you’ve done since being back– change and change. You cut your hair, you darkened your style and found a new job despite your company offering you your position back. You were convinced your taste buds had changed, avoiding all the things that were your favorite. The most obvious is that you’d broken up with Joaquin. 

But, as you take the first few sips of your drink, it tastes like it always has. Light, the perfect mix of sweet and spiced. For the first time in two years you feel…normal.

Sucking in a deep breath, you let yourself sink into the feeling of being yourself, the woman before you had crumbled. Your body feels recognizable and new all at the same time. It's good, sitting in this cafe, sipping chai with scone in tow.

It’s so, so good—until it isn’t. 

You would know his voice anywhere. That is something that never changed despite the blip. His voice, the way his hair falls, the shape of his shoulders, the sharpness of his jaw; all of these are things you could forget if you tried. And you had tried, tired of the pain of not being with him.

You go still at the sound of his voice, hoping that he won’t notice you. Daring a glance, you see him at the counter. He must have just finished training– the grey t-shirt he has on clings to his skin, darker in some places than others from sweat. 

You don’t mean to stare, but he’s Joaquin and he’s here. That frozen feeling from when the two of you reached for the same puzzle floods your body and you overwhelmingly feel unlike yourself again. You’re internally chanting at yourself to look away as you watch him pay because if Joaquin were to turn around right now, your eyes would meet. 

Look down. Look down and focus on your scone. 

But it's too late– what you feared would happen does and you’re face to face with Joaquin. There’s several strides and a cafe of people between you but it doesn’t feel that way, not with the intensity of his gaze. Not with the way he makes your heart flutter a million miles a minute. You’re finally able to look away a few moments after your eyes meet, your self preservation finally kicking in.

You start to move, slipping your scone back into its bag, throwing your bag over your shoulder so you can stand. As you do so, Joaquin is already making his way towards you, though his steps aren’t as confident or smooth as you expect them to be. 

“Hi,” He breathes cautiously, hands grasping at the baseball cap in his hands.

“Hi. I was just leaving, you should be here, not me.”

“Querida, that makes no sense. This is your favorite cafe. Plus–”

“I have errands to run anyway, it's not a big deal.”

“I’m not staying– I have to meet Sam for some recon.”

Your heart beat slows a bit where it had quickened. “Oh, um– well…you’ll be careful, right?”

“Always,” He promises sincerely. There’s an uncharacteristically awkward beat before he speaks again. “How have you been?”

“I’m okay. Working on it.”

“Yeah?” It's impossible not to hear the hopeful shift in his tone. 

“That's why I’m here. I wanted to see if…if I could be in places I used to be. Enjoy things that I used to.”

“And?”

“Well, it was going okay…” You say delicately, trailing off. You don’t want to blame him– you truly believe that none of this was his fault but you wouldn’t be nearing an out of body panic attack if he hadn’t showed up.

He tilts his head in confusion, you can practically hear his brain churning to understand and you pray that it doesn’t. Much to your dismay, clarity materializes in those beautifully warm brown eyes. “Then I showed up.”

Your stomach feels heavy. When will you be able to outrun this guilt? Every time you get a head start, every time you believe that it's finally left you alone it rears its ugly head and takes grip of your heart. 

“No, Joaquin, that’s not fair to you.”

“But it's true, isn’t it? You didn’t deny it,” For the first time, there’s some bitterness in his voice, some anger. As you look in his eyes, you see the sadness that’s been rooted there since you returned.

You can’t blame him. You deserve it.

“Yes,” You admit softly, regretting allowing yourself to say it when you hear him sharply inhale. 

“Y’know, querida, maybe you were right. Maybe we just aren’t the people we used to be.” 

You frown at his words, trying to explain it the best you can. “Quino, it's not like I want this. I’m going to call when I’m ready, I meant what I said.”

“You know what Abuela says; you shouldn’t promise things you don’t believe are possible,” He murmurs matter of factly. 

“I… I’m trying. You don’t– have to be so unkind,” You grit out, trying your best to contain the tears that have pooled in your eyes. 

Joaquin realizes that he let his frustration override his patience and love for you once he sees the shine of tears in your eyes. But, just as it was the moment he turned around to face you, it's too late. His words—no matter how much or little truth they hold—feel etched into your brain.

They’re added to the pile that confirms your worst fears. 

You’ll never be the same. You’ll never figure out what’s wrong with you. Never be able to safely love and be loved by Joaquin again.

You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have thought that things could ever be the same or that some part of who you were had come back with you.

“Querida–” He begins.

“Goodbye, Joaquin,” You say stiffly, attempting to rush past him to make your exit.

His hand grasps yours– firm enough to stop you in your tracks, but gently enough that you can let go if you wish.

You aren’t sure what you want at this moment but you stop, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It's just…frustrating. Quiero que vuelvas,” He squeezes your hand, running a thumb over yours.

You squeeze his hand back, trying to soothe not only him but yourself. “I’m trying, Joaquin. I want me back too. Give me time to find her.” 

"Okay," He agrees, resigned.

“Be careful with Sam.”

“I will. And you too…cuídate.”

You give him a simple nod–not trusting your voice– before you walk towards the door and make your way. Joaquin stays cemented in place, eyes tracing every detail of you that he can just in case his biggest fears come true. But he’ll hold onto hope, he has to.

> pt. iv

must be 18+/have your age displayed to be added to the taglist!

joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @moonymeloncholymoney, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuff, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @giuliahowlett, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9, @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism

[kapchagi]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. II

summary: you and joaquin try to reconnect-- it doesn't exactly go as joaquin had hoped, but he hasn't given up just yet.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

wc: 1,727

gif credit: @gaybuckybarnesss

contents: 18+/minors dni, pining, longing, angst, dishonesty (from sma & it his heart is in the best place), KISSING

an: okay we're at it with a part two. i was on the phone with my sister while finishing this and she's convinced me to give yall at least FOUR parts so everyone say thank you j! pls don't ask to be on my taglist if you aren't 18+/have that in your bio <3

vuelve a mí masterlist

You should’ve known better truly. And even though you hadn’t, part of you thinks you should’ve said no. But, when Sam calls begging for your help, insisting that you’re the only person that can get Joaquin to take his meds, you want to help. 

Or so you’d thought. 

When you make it to Joaquin’s place, it’s a little strange. The last time you’d been to his place was because it was your place. And it wasn’t as nice and polished— you didn’t have a doorman when you lived together. Nevertheless, you sign in and head up to his floor in the elevator.

You’ll get in and get out. Implore him to stop being a brat and take his meds and then get out. The entire drive had been nothing but you hyping yourself up. 

How were you supposed to look him in the eye after everything he’d said the last time you saw him? After you’d ignored his desperate pleas for you and answered none of his calls since.

It isn’t lost on you how unfair it is for you to show up now— especially for Sam. But you wanted Joaquin to get better…you needed him to. He had figured out a way to live life in a world without you in it, but you’re sure you couldn’t do the same. 

Sam swings the door open before you can knock, his expression a mix of exasperation and relief.

“Thank god you’re here, he’s being a little shit,” He grabs you by your shoulders, rubbing them affectionately. You’re about to tell him it’s no problem when he quickly switches your places, leaving you in Joaquin’s apartment and him in the hallway.

“I’ll be back!” He assures you before slamming the door in your face.

That’s when you realize—you’ve been set up. Joaquin is fine, probably training again. It’s been over a month since you last saw him in the hospital.

You’re afraid to turn around and see what’s waiting for you. Instead, stupidly you close your eyes, willing this to go away. You’re not ready to talk through this with him. You weren’t ready in the hospital and you aren’t ready now. When you’re lost to the deep spiral of your thoughts, you wonder if you’ll ever be ready. Somehow, either answer to that question makes your heart race. 

“Not excited to see me, I guess?” Joaquin asks wryly.

“You set me up.”

“How else was I gonna get you to talk to me? You won’t answer my calls, which is very rude if you didn’t know.”

Your belly fills with that dreadful guilt and you rest your head against the door, “Joaquin…”

“For once I don’t have any expectations, cross my heart and hope to die. I just wanted to see you. And some part of you…wanted to see me too,” He adds, his voice uncharacteristically shy.

“It’s never been about me wanting to see you. I always want to see you I just—

“Won’t?” He supplies.

“Can’t,” You correct. “I can't, it's too painful.”

“More painful than this? Because I think we both agree—this fucking sucks.”

You aren’t sure why, but what he says gets you to turn around. There before you on his coffee table is an unfinished puzzle— one you thought had been thrown away along with the rest of you. The gesture nearly winds you, tears pooling in your eyes.

“Quino, what kind of life could I possibly give you when I don’t know who I am anymore?”

“You say that like I don’t know you. But I do. I always have,” He simply gazes at you, studying you for a moment before his lips curve into a small smile. 

"You probably don't remember this, but there was this little boy at the park once— he must've been five, maybe six. We were reading on this bench, you were so comfortable with your head in my lap, feet propped up. But the boy, he was struggling to fly this ridiculous, tangled-up kite. His dad kept trying to help, but the poor kid was just about ready to give up. And then…you put your book down."

You tilt your head. "I don't remember that."

"I do. Because I remember you. I could never forget, even if I tried, baby. You walked over to that kid, knelt down next to him, and helped him untangle the strings. You showed him everything; how to hold it, when to run, how to wait for the wind. And when that kite finally lifted off the ground, I swear l've never seen a kid so happy. You just stood there, watching him, smiling like it was the easiest thing in the world to make a stranger's day better."

You exhale, shaking your head. "That doesn't even sound like me anymore."

“That's the thing, querida," he says softly, closing the gap between you so that he can grasp your hand. "It is you. No matter how much you feel like you've lost yourself, I promise you're still that person. The one who stops, who helps, who makes the world.”

You gaze down at your hands, sucked into the warmth of his skin against yours. Still you ask, “That was a long time ago. What if that’s not who I am anymore?”

“You didn’t have to show up to the hospital to make sure I was okay. Or come here to make sure I took my meds. Brillas como la luz, entiendes?”

“I…I don’t know, Quino. We can’t just go back to how things were, we’d be lying to ourselves. I mean, you’ve changed too.”

“People change. They still love each other— I still love you.”

Your eyes go wide at his candor. After all you’ve put him through, all the rejection, he was still brave enough to tell you he loved you. You swallow thickly, throat dry. You aren’t sure what to say, because if you open your mouth, the weight of it all—of him, of this—might crush you.

Joaquin takes in your overwhelmed expression and immediately pulls back, though he doesn’t deny his previous words. “Too fast? Yeah, too fast. Look just…help me do this puzzle? I’ve waited years to finish it with you. Please?”

That’s something you could say yes to, isn’t it?

“Sure, yeah. Let’s do it,” You agree, giving him a small smile.

The sight of your happiness makes his heart soar. 

Once the two of you are sat beside each other at the coffee table, Joaquin dives right in. You stay put, simply watching him and after a few minutes he notices your lack of participation.

Gently, he nudges a piece of the puzzle closer to you. “C’mon, you still got it,” He encourages.

It’s enough for you to try, really try and soon the two of you fall into a groove, in your respective corners of the puzzle but always looking out for one another. Always ready to aid if the other is stumped in finding the next piece or where one fits. After working diligently, your corners start to bleed into each other and your fingers brush as you reach for the same piece.

“Oh—sorry— um—“ You stutter softly, unable to move your hand. You feel made of cement and thought you’re frozen on the outside, your mind is moving a mile a minute. 

Move your hand. Move your hand first or break the silence or something. Do something—anything—other than sit here, drowning in the weight of his gaze.

Before you can do any of those things, Joaquin is leaning in, his mouth just barely ghosting yours. Familiarity takes over to your surprise, and you press forward, kissing him back. 

That confirmation, your unexpected desire for him makes his belly warm. He kisses you more firmly, raising a hand to cup your chin and hold you in place. His mouth is soft— so so painstakingly soft— and for several moments all you can do is give into him— succumbing to his skillful kiss that makes your brain feel melty.

His hand starts to move, thumb tracing the shape of your jaw before his gentle grip lowers to your neck. You shiver against him, moaning which grants him the access to taste you. It’s the sensual brush of his tongue against yours that brings you back to reality. 

You jerk back against the couch, eyes down as you wipe your mouth. “Quino,” You murmur breathlessly, unsure of what more to say. Your mouth feels like it’s on fire, the place where he touched you searing with heat. 

“I’m sorry, it just sort of— you looked at me like that. No pude evitarlo, preciosa. No con lo hermosa que eres,” He murmurs, hand reflexively raising to cup your cheek.

You flinch away, nervous about what will happen if he touches you like that again. “Joaquin this is all just…it’s too much. I need time to think, to clear my head. 

“It’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either,” You remind him gently.

“I know. But I’ll take it for now. Can I walk you out?” He asks hopefully, rising to his feet as you do.

“Just to the door…I need space, Quino.”

“Sure, hermosa. Whatever you say.”

Once you’re standing in the hallway, feeling a little more separated from him you turn around, meeting his intense gaze. “Thank you for tonight. You’re being so kind and patient with me, and I know it’s difficult but you’re doing it anyway.”

His eyes soften, gooey and warm as he looks at you. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I— I’ll call you, okay?”

“Alright,” He agrees.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, querida.”

Joaquin waits until the elevator doors close to shut his own door. He leans against the sturdy wood, a slow smile spreading across his face as he thinks about what just transpired. He got to spend time with you, to touch you and taste you for the first time in 7 years. This is the closest he’s ever been to getting you back and he’ll take it, even if it uses every drop of patience in his body. 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials Sam.

“Well?” Sam asks, skipping pleasantries.

The goofy grin on Joaquin’s face has his cheeks aching. “I think…I think it might’ve worked.”

Sam can hear the smile in his voice and wants every detail.  “I’m on my way.”

> pt. III

must be 18+ to be added to the joaquin taglist! <3

joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @moonymeloncholymoney, @glader13, @how2besalty

[kapchagi]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. I

summary: you and joaquin confront the cause of the end of your relationship.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

wc: 1,002

contents: 18+/minors dni, canon typical violence, angst, break up vibes, pining, longing, intense guilt, illusions to depression

AN: taking a stab at writing joaquin bc i've quickly grown enamored with him. i'm still learning his characterization and how i'd perceive him so be kind with this first try. this is just the first part & there will be another tying things up! i hope yall enjoy and i'm so excited to be back here writing again.

vuelve a mí masterlist

It’s hard to see him like this. Truthfully,  it’s hard to see him at all. Not because of anything he’s done, not even because of how he’s changed while you were gone, but from how you changed. 

It doesn’t make much sense; you had been turned to dust. Crumbled away into literal nothingness. And yet, when you returned everything felt different. Nothing, not your passions, your job, your family— Joaquin— felt like it was yours anymore. 

When you’d come back, you felt so disconnected from everything. You questioned who you were and what your purpose was, especially since so many people in your life had carried on. 

Joaquin included. 

He wasn’t Falcon when you left. He had never touched the suit. Sure he had wanted to, he had his aspirations but you had always imagined that you’d be right there to support him. 

But here you sat. Sam called you immediately, not knowing the hospital had too. You were still Joaquin’s emergency contact— after all these years he hadn’t changed it. 

So here you sit, a book in your hands as you patiently waiting for him to wake up. The doctors assured that he would wake up, he was in critical condition but young and healthy. ‘A fighter’ they’d said.

“You came.”

His voice startles you, and you flinch slightly, losing your place in the pages.

He grins apologetically, “Sorry, querida, didn’t mean to scare you.”

It takes effort to not get lost in his smile, especially after thinking that you might have lost him for good. 

You fortify yourself, crossing your arms against your chest, “More than you already have?”

“You’re one to talk, honey.”

You know exactly what he means. All the abandonment of relationships, taking risks to better understand yourself. He and others have made it clear that they’re worried about you, that you aren’t the same. Confirmation of what you’re most afraid of. 

“I don’t want to argue, not when you’re like this.”

He raises a brow at you playfully, “But some other time maybe? Over dinner?”

“Joaquin…”

You watch him physically deflate and it breaks your heart. He shakes his head, giving you a weak smile, “It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry. I, um, I shouldn’t have come.”

“I’d be offended if you hadn’t,” He murmurs lowly.

Something inside you flutters at the soft huskiness of his voice and you’re rendered speechless for a handful of moments. Forced to acknowledge just how much you’ve missed him. Finally, you’re able to say, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Quino.”

“I don’t know, maybe something that explains why we aren’t together anymore.”

“I’ve explained that.”

“And it still doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s not fair, you don’t understand. You weren’t gone. You got to live your life with no interruptions, with no hiccups. And I got— I got nothing. I was nothing.”

He sits up, flinching as he does. You try to calm things— you had really meant it when you said you didn’t want to fight. But when Joaquin is worked up, when he believes in something his passion can’t be quelled. Isn’t that what got him here in the first place? 

He barrels past your attempts to shush him, his gaze piercing into yours as he does. “You’re right, I don’t understand. But what you don’t understand is how heartbreaking it was having to go on without you. My life was interrupted, the love of my life was taken from me and more than ever I had to serve my country. The one person that has ever truly understood me was gone. That’s a fucking hiccup if I’ve ever seen one. So no, it's not the same. No, I don’t understand, but it wasn’t easy for me. It’s never been easy without you— not before and definitely not after.”

As you listen to Joaquin’s words, you must face not only what the two of you lost together, but what he lost on his own. His struggle, his pain, forces you to turn away from your own and see his in a new light. And for the first time since you opened your eyes after being blipped, you feel like you’ve made a huge mistake. You’ve done nothing but hurt yourself and the ones you love by being swallowed by how the unknown may have changed you. 

You gave up. On yourself, on your friends and family. On Joaquin.

Your chest goes tight and you freeze as your body is flooded with emotion. It took this— him injured and angry for you to come to your senses? 

What have you done? 

“Hey, vuelve a mí,” He murmurs so gently that the tears in your eyes start to fall. “Lo siento, querida, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

With sharp, quick movements you wipe away your tears and stand. “I shouldn’t have come,” You repeat, stepping closer to him, resting your hand over his gently. “I’m really glad you’re okay Joaquin but I— I have to go.”

“Wait, we can talk about this, figure it out like we did before? Don’t go,” He flips his hand over in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“I’m not ready. I’m sorry. For everything, I’m so sorry,” You whisper brokenly. He squeezes your hand, running his thumb over yours in an attempt to soothe you. It only makes the guilt inside you plant itself deeper.

You swallow, shaking your head. Your mind is made up.  “Me being here…it’s just going to fuck up everything further. I’m sorry.

“Baby, that’s not—“

“Be well, Quino. Please,” you implore, untangling your hands and darting for the door.

He calls after you. Calls and calls, exerting effort you know his healing body shouldn’t. And yet, you can hear him trying until the elevator doors close. Something inside you continues to feel him. As you walk to your car, as you eat dinner later that night, as you crawl into your bed made for two. That yearning, that ache…it doesn’t change your mind. 

> pt. II

let me know if you'd like to be on my joaquin taglist!

[kapchagi]

I'm not crazy right?

TFATWS 1x5

TFATWS 1x6

CABNW

Bucky seriously just wears Sam's clothes huh.

[kapchagi]

heard a gay man talk abt how he still calls his husband "buddy",,,,

james buchanan "bucky" barnes i know what you are

[kapchagi]

"You think you're informed just because you read a bunch of grainy PDFs?"

Yeah man. Reading scholarly works on a topic informs you on that topic. That's how this works.