#(Still crying though! But it's in a good way ^^)

[crybabycabin]

phantom limb | s.r.

**read touch and go here** ✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)

✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader

✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content

✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)

✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)

series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2

The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

check out the series masterlist♡

[maikorian]

GLASSES     -      CLARK KENT

summary: you've always wondered why clark never took off his glasses, it's hard to wonder when he's knuckle deep in you.

warning: SMUT! MDNI! 18+ dirty talk, praise kink? fingering, oral (female receiving)

authors note: clearing out my wip :P

word count: 1.3k

You've been dating Clark Kent for the past few months now and it's been great.

Unlike your exes, he's kind, caring, and patient. He always takes care of you in the most subtlest way.  It's endearing and you love him for it. Even in bed he treats you like a god. Worshipping every part of your body and leaving kisses along it like you're a sacred piece of art. And yet there's one question that always seems to linger in the back of your mind.

Why doesn't he take off his glasses?

From the moment you met him till now, you've never seen him take off his glasses. The only times he does he ends up turning his back to you while he cleans them quickly and quietly. Half of the time you don't even notice him taking them off. He's not that blind, right? His glasses don't even look like they have any power behind them so he must be able to see without them.

You've tried to see what he looks like without them. Though it's hard when he's so inhumanely fast. It's like he has super instincts. You tried to do it one random night when the two of you were sleeping in bed together. His face is tucked in the corner of your neck, the plastic frame of his glasses smashed into your skin. Before you could even move your hand, he's already catching you at lighting speed.

You don't attempt to do it again after that. You felt a little guilty when you saw that pouty look on his face. So you dropped the topic. He'll show you when he's ready. Though it probably won't make a difference. He'll still be pretty with or without glasses. Especially when he's down on his knees for you like this.

“F-Fuck! Clark!” You cried out, back arching against the mattress he has you spread out on. Your fingers tangle itself in his messy black hair, tugging harshly on the strands without a care in the world. It's hard to focus when his tongue is forcing out orgasm after orgasm from your poor body. Who would've thought that the goofy, awkward reporter Clark Kent turned out to be the biggest munch you've ever seen.

His fingers are knuckle deep in your cunt while his tongue works on you. The squelching wet sound is downright filthy as it echoes in the bedroom. “Mmh, atta girl. Jus’ like that baby.” Clark mumbled, drunk off the taste of your slick on his tongue. He's eating you out like it's the last meal he'll ever get. “God- such a messy lil’ thing aren't ya?” Clark lowly chuckles. The sound of his deep voice sends another wave of heat down to your core.

Clark doesn't care that you're holding onto his hair so tight that it might come out. In a twisted kind of sense, he sorta likes it. It's a clear sign that he's making you feel good and that's all that matters to him right now. He drinks up every drop of sweetness you have to offer and keeps coming back for seconds. “Oh fucking hell Clark–” You breathed out. Your hair clinging to your sweat slicked skin.

Your body moves on its own, hips shifting away from him. Your eyes can barely focus on the way his hands are pulling you closer to him. Holding you tight so you couldn't run away. “nuh uh, m'not done with you yet baby. still need to make you come one more time before you can take me.” you let out a small whine in protest but Clark pays little attention to it.

“Clark– I- I can't.” You whimpered, your fingers tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. “Yeah you can baby. you always do.” Clark murmurs as he presses kisses on your lower abdomen. “You always do…” Clark whispers before he dives right back in, earning another cry of pleasure from your lips. Every harsh suck of his lips had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

His glasses are getting fogged up in the heat of the moment. Clark knew he should've taken them off by now. It's hard to resist the urge with such a beautiful sight laid out right in front of him. You're right there in his bed, wearing one of his old shirts that are too big for you, crying out his name while he eats you out. Its an absolute wet dream for Clark but he can barely see it through his stupid glasses–

You don't notice it but Clark literally flings his glasses off. They land in some random corner of the room. His focus turns back on your soaked cunt, licking up every bit of it eagerly. You're too lost in the haze to notice it. Your legs are wrapped tightly around Clark's thighs and he feels like he's in heaven. His thick fingers curl perfectly to hit your g-spot. Its that spongy spot that leaves you breathless and limp.

“N-Nh! Clark- ngh- honey please!” You squealed as he continues to nudge at that spot. Your hips are trying to buck away from him but Clarks strength over powers yours with ease. His hand placed firmly on your stomach as he pressed down. “That's it, baby. I know you're so close for me. c'mon, all you have to do is let go.” He whispers. You weren't sure if he was talking to you or your cunt. Maybe both but you listen anyway. A sharp cry of his name leaves your lips as your high hits you like a truck.

The neighbors must hate you by now, you don't have the energy to care. Not when you have Clark ‘pussy eating god’ Kent with you.

Clark moans at your name as your tight walls clench around his fingers. You're basically sucking him in. You're shamelessly gushing around him and Clark wouldn't have it any other way. It only leaves him more excited. He can't wait to make you do it again while he's fucking you with his thick cock. “Mmh, that felt so nice for you huh baby? You still with me?” Clark lovingly asks, as if he didn't just blow your mind with his mouth and fingers.

Clark shifts his body so your legs are loosely wrapped around his waist as he towers over you. He lazily pulls off his shirt, leaving him completely bare in front of you. You give him a weak nod, your arm draped over your face as you try to calm yourself back down from your high. “Uh huh…” You weakly whimpered.

Clark lightly slaps your thigh. “No no, say it properly for me baby.”

“nhh…”

“Properly. Say it for me right or else we stop right now.”

That instantly gains your attention as you pout at him. You move your hands from your face and look directly into his eyes. “Yeah, I'm okay.” You mumbled. The smile on Clark's face widens. “Think you can take me now?” Clark sweetly asks, acting as if he wasn't about to split you apart with his cock. Your gaze flickers between his cock and his face. God, do you want him so bad.

“Yes, please.” A soft chuckle falls from Clark's lips. He navigates your legs to rest on his broad shoulders. Ankles loosely hanging over his back. Pillows tucked under your back to support you. “Lay back for me baby. Gotta go real slow for you.” Clark grunted, getting ready to fill you up good. That is until that post release clarity hits you harder than you expected.

He's not wearing his glasses.

No glasses.

“Holy fuck.”

Clark doesn't pick up the shocked expression on your face. He simply flashes that dopey golden retriever smile on his face. “Yeah, baby?” Clark grins, his hands holding your thighs firmly. Things start to click in your head the longer you look at him. Your hands cupping his cheeks so you could process the mental gymnastics your brain is doing. 

“Superman?”

“Oh hell.”

taglist: @karolamurdock@mollymal@yesshewrites1

[lay-z]

John Price, who fucks nasty when he's vexed.

cw: 18+ | male!Reader; smut; fraternisation; cussing; dirty talk; spit

"Respectfully, sir—" you grit out through clenched teeth while your superior keeps your head tilted back with a strong gloved fist curled into your hair, "go fuck yourself."

Then his teeth sink into your throat and your Adam's apple bobs before you groan loudly, eyes rolling back while his beard scratches against sweaty skin.

He sucks and your cock twitches traitorously against his thigh currently shoved between your own.

"Haven't showered in days," you remind him, a feeble attempt to make him reconsider this, but it only seems to spur him own as he grunts against your throat before peppering open-mouthed kisses up your neck.

"Ya think I give a fuck, Sergeant?"

The Captain really doesn't, and it shows in the way he undresses you both with swift and skillful hand movements. Layers of gear are shed and drop to the dusty floor of the bedroom with dull thuds before he pushes you onto the creaky single bed with force that borders on desperation.

And the moment your resolve cracks, you're on him with equal vigor.

It's aggressive and fast. There's some grappling, a fight for dominance, even though you can already tell how this will end tonight—with you on your back and John's cock balls deep in your guts. Those thoughts make your own prick weep with precum in your undies before they're discarded.

You end up face down, ass up, face smushed against a yellowed pillow while your nostrils flare with ragged breaths, "Christ, Cap'n," you snarl, spine arching while his thick fingers squeeze the back of your neck, keeping you pinned, "fuckin' eager tonight, are we?"

John spreads your cheeks and spits, chest heaving and pupils dilating like a rising full moon as his saliva runs down your ass crack, pooling on your puckered hole while you groan into the pillow.

"Fuck," he grunts, cock throbbing with the need to be buried inside you, "you love to run yer mouth as bad as MacTavish." A sharp smack to your left cheek makes you laugh, though it's muffled when he pins you harder, like a puppy being reprimanded.

"Fuckin' slag," another smack, "my pretty slag."

A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and your hips squirm in anticipation before another sharp smack leaves your skin stinging and your cock drooling onto the mattress.

Your jaw ticks as you bite into the pillow to muffle your moans, eyes squeezing shut, yet you can't stop being a smartass: "Don't get sappy on me now, si—hah!"

Your words dissolve into a filthy groan when he pushes two calloused fingers past your rim, spitting onto your hole once more for good measure as he fucks the foamy spittle into you, working you open for himself.

"Aye, tha's what I thought, Sarge," he murmurs, retrieving his hand from your neck to focus on loosening you up. He keeps fucking and curling his fingers into your hole while his other hand gropes your cheeks, caressing your lower back now and again.

"Gotta prep ya right before fuckin' ya rough," he muses, adding a third finger and twisting his wrist until you cry out, "and ya better stay quiet before the rest of 'em hears us—"

You press your face harder into the pillow, muscles flexing and twitching with restraint as your knees part wider for John. Easier access.

"Atta boy," he coos with a hint of amusement at your compliance while his own cock bobs and rubs against the back of your thighs. "Now stay still."

A whine is thorn from your throat when he pulls his fingers out at once, leaving you terribly empty, followed by the rustling of sheets and the creak of the mattress as he fetches the lube from his tac vest.

[danitcx]

Angry Clark Kent Exists in the Shadows — Headcanons

Clark Kent doesn’t get angry easily, but if he does, it’s because something truly hurt him. He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t hit anything… he just stays quiet. He looks at you from the other corner of the room, arms crossed, as if he’s trying to hold himself back. He can spend minutes like that, in silence. If you take a step toward him and hug him, he gives in immediately, murmuring, “I didn’t want this to end like this… I’m sorry.”

Clark Kent will not raise his voice, no matter how upset he is. Instead, he will speak softly and slowly, as if afraid that any wrong word might hurt you. “I don’t like arguing with you… I don’t want to hurt you,” he would say, looking away even though his hands tremble from wanting to hold you.

Clark Kent rarely interrupts, but if you keep cutting him off in the middle of an argument, he will simply go silent and let you finish. Then, in a very soft voice, he’ll say, “Are you done? Because I want to listen to you, really… but I also want you to listen to me.”

Clark Kent, if he gets angry because you put yourself in danger, won’t hide it. His tone remains calm, but his words carry an intense weight of concern: “Do you know what would have happened if I had arrived a second later?” Then his frown softens and he adds, “I couldn’t live if something happened to you.”

Clark Kent doesn’t use silence as punishment, but as a pause to calm down. He might go to the kitchen, prepare two cups of tea, and set one in front of you without saying a word. It’s his way of saying “I want to fix this” without breaking the moment of calm.

Clark Kent always pays attention to your tone of voice. If during an argument he notices that it breaks, his anger disappears completely. “I’m sorry… I didn’t want to make you cry. No matter what happened, we’ll fix it together,” he’ll say, holding you tightly.

Clark Kent never leaves home if he’s angry with you. He might go out to the terrace to look at the city or to the countryside to take a quick walk with Krypto, but he always comes back before it gets dark. “I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t know we were okay,” is what he tells you when he returns.

Clark Kent hates for the last word of a day together to be an argument. Even if you still don’t fully agree, he’ll make sure you go to bed feeling loved. “Good night, love… we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? I don’t want you to dream about something bad,” he’ll say before kissing your forehead.

Clark Kent, if he thinks he hurt you by getting angry, will make it up to you in small but meaningful ways: making you breakfast, leaving you a note with a clumsy drawing of him and you, or stopping by your work just to see you smile. “I know I can’t erase what happened… but I can remind you that I love you,” he’ll tell you with that look that melts away any trace of anger.

[mothofmyth]

I'm imagining university lecturer Merlin. He's not too far along in the aging cycle - he tends to live a life from around 20 or 25 to around 80 or 90 or so, depending on how much he wants to do or how attached he is to wherever he's staying, then moves away and returns to the beginning again.

He's in his 50s now, maybe early 60s. His hair is salt and pepper and he's got lines on his face, but his mobility is still pretty good. He's a doctor of history right now - he thought it might be fun to reminisce in his old age for a while, and it's always a good time to mess with historians when you're an immortal.

His students and colleagues know he's a little bit... off. He's eccentric. It's fun to eavesdrop on their strange and wonderful theories about why he is the way he is, why he has such strong opinions on the most obscure historical areas. Why he never dates and hasn't married, what the ancient-looking medallion he wears could mean.

He gives them new crumbs from time to time. It's not as though it matters if someone comes to the correct conclusions, nobody would believe it. The crumbs aren't always intentional, either. Sometimes he drinks too much, runs his fingers over body-warm metal and remembers the hills and valleys that used to adorn the sigil before his touch erased them over centuries of gentle, pining caresses.

Merlin has told many people that his heart belongs to a man who went where he can't follow. They know he's waiting for his soul to return. They just don't know how long he's been alone.

He's heard people say his husband is fighting a war somewhere far away. His colleagues have argued, thinking they're out of earshot, about whether the man is dead or imprisoned somewhere or if he left him by choice.

Some pity him, others try to convince him to move on. He won't. He can't. He waits.

It's been so long now, he can hardly remember the face, the voice he longs for. He can't recall the exact shade of his hair when the sun hit him just right beneath a canopy of trees. The sound of his laugh echoes and warps until he can't be sure of the tone or timbre anymore.

He goes on. He lives. His students sometimes, albeit jokingly, suggest supernatural theories. That the man he loves is a mythological being, untouchable. Some of them joke that he's in love with King Arthur himself, with the way he talks about the mythos in lectures.

They laugh.

Merlin laughs with them.

He feels empty.

He's teaching a seminar, like any other day. His crows feet crinkle as he pokes fun at disproven theories. His hair, more silver than black, falls in his face and he pushes it back.

Something inside him burns.

His class are distracted, they start pointing out the window, several of them moving to look at a man in costume crossing the campus.

Merlin feels a pull, like a tether attached to his soul, a leash guiding him back towards...

He must make some sort of noise, as some of his students turn to look at him, concern crossing their faces as he stumbles out of the room. He mumbles some sort of empty platitude as he half-trips half-runs out of the building.

His students still watch from the window, he's sure of it, as he allows himself to be drawn towards the man outside.

The man is standing motionless in the middle of the grass. Merlin is helpless against his pull.

His movements slow, he staggers to the figure. Rusted armour gleams in the sunlight, clouds seeming to part only to bathe the man in a golden glow.

Merlin falls to his knees. He doesn't notice his hair darkening, his skin becoming tight and youthful.

The man cradles his jaw and draws him up from the ground on shaking legs.

"Merlin." The man beams, adoringly.

"Arthur." Merlin rasps in disbelief. He falls, then, entrusting his entire self into Arthur's arms. He's shaking. He feels faint. He's crying.

Some of his colleagues and students have gathered behind him, standing at the entrance of the history building and watching the scene unfold.

He can't process this. Everything goes dark.

Arthur is concerned for a moment, then he laughs, murmuring how after all this time Merlin is still such a girl's petticoat.

He sweeps him into his arms and asks if there are chambers where Merlin can rest.

He's very confused when nobody understands him, and he doesn't understand them.

He needs to send someone to fetch the others, his knights and friends are waiting at the campus gate, protecting excalibur as they couldn't bring their weaponry onto the premises without cause.

Someone gestures to him, beckoning him to follow and he does. He's unarmed, but Merlin trusted these people. He trusts Merlin.

He's taken to a room with strange metal contraptions atop wooden surfaces. There are cushioned benches, wide enough for three or more men. He sets Merlin down on one, resting the man's head on his own thigh.

He idly pets through Merlin's hair - soft and clean, moreso than he remembers it being back in Camelot. He thinks he likes it.

He gestures for a quill and parchment to be fetched, and after some confusion one of the young people brings a stack of thin, white sheets bound together with some sort of glue, and a strange rod. He looks at them in confusion and the boy who brought it huffs and presses the rod to the topmost sheet, scribbling with it for a moment before turning the sheet-stack to face Arthur. Somehow the rod creates marks with no ink. Perhaps it is magic, perhaps there is some hidden trick. It bears resemblance to a reed pen, and Arthur knows he can make do.

The scribbles mean very little to Arthur. It looks almost like English, like something a peasant might write. The handwriting is terrible and the spelling leaves something to be desired, but it's almost familiar. He can make out the letters, but he's uncertain what the boy is trying to convey.

He takes the sheet-stack and magic reed pen, and writes a missive to the friends waiting off-campus.

When he is done he wonders how he might convey to these strange foreigners(? are they foreign? has English changed so much since he last walked the Earth that it is hardly recognisable to him?) what is to be done with it.

An older woman stares at the page, her eyes widening. She says something to the boy with the sheet-stack, and the room goes quiet.

Some of those present start bickering, Arthur isn't sure what about. He has no idea what a 'prank' is but they seem to be saying that word a lot.

The older woman tears his missive from the stack and pulls out a small metal bar from her breeches. After prodding at the bar several times she smiles brightly, a little disbelieving.

She takes the magic reed pen and sheet-stack and writes for a while. She is slow and methodical, seemingly very careful with her handwriting. She hands the sheet-stack back to Arthur, who raises his brows when he sees she has written in plain English. Strange that she cannot speak in such a plain and clear manner, but he's known those who could not or would not speak in the past.

"Do you understand this?" She had written. "Is this a jest? Who do you write for?"

Her spelling isn't entirely perfect, her handwriting is sloppy and her grammar is stilted, but it makes sense.

"My friends are at the gates. Please take them my letter and allow them safe passage. They mean no harm, but we do not wish to disarm ourselves and risk later difficulties recovering our arms. A secure armoury would be welcomed if we must give up our swords within your lands."

The woman reads his reply, occasionally tapping on the metal bar. She hands his earlier missive to a girl standing by the door and sends her away.

Merlin stirs in his lap and none of the others in the room matter anymore.

[Thinking about a full story where Merlin lives for centuries, age cycling and moving frequently to hide his immortality.

He does a lot of different jobs to keep things interesting, but he never dates. Never falls in love.

He wears Ygrain's sigil, wears it down to a smooth disk with a thousand loving touches.

He becomes a university scholar a few times, but this time he's chosen history (because it's hilarious to tell people they're wrong sometimes and hear the outlandish theories, plus half the department have a historical figure or two they talk about as if they know them personally, so it's not as if he stands out).

Arthur shows up to campus one day, the rest of the round table and Morgana and everyone is waiting at the gates because they don't speak modern English, they speak Old English, so they can't explain why they can't let Excalibur out of their sight into unknown hands. So the security guards think they're playing silly buggars and make them wait.

Arthur goes in alone and Merlin becomes 30 years younger before the eyes of his students and colleagues... and promptly passes tf out because suddenly Arthur's here after like 1000 years of bupkis and how tf is he supposed to process that on 3 hours sleep and 5 cups of coffee?

And Arthur trying to communicate with these modern people but he doesn't really speak the language. But they're!!! Historians!!!! So at least one of the professors is semi-fluent in old English, at least reading and maybe writing it if not speaking it.

I'm imagining most of the resurrected were in or around Camelot (where they died/were buried) and had to make their way to the lake on pure instinct (ft shenanigans of interacting with the general populace and witnessing Modern ThingsTM), and they congregated there with Arthur, and they all went off together on a quest to find Merlin in this strange world.

And now Merlin has to handle this somehow. All his friends and enemies and loves and regrets. Showed up. And they are NOT hip with the times. And he just magically transformed in front of a fuckton of people who he cannot explain this to. And now they think it's an elaborate prank but also it can't be a prank because how would you even orchestrate something like this? And yeah shenanigans.]

Thank you to this post for convincing me to post this from my drafts!

[scarsw1fe]

Shopping spree

Billie Eilish x reader

Summary: Billie takes her girl on a surprise LEGO shopping spree, letting Y/N geek out over her dream set while spoiling her with snacks, matching builds, and a secret custom gift.

Word count: 2.5k

✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮

The living room was quiet except for the video playing on Y/N’s phone. She was curled into Billie’s side on the couch, one leg draped over hers, blanket tucked around them both. Billie’s arm rested loosely around her shoulders, fingers drawing lazy circles against the fabric of her hoodie, eyes half-lidded.

It was one of those days Billie rarely got. There were no interviews or meetings or shoots. Just the two of them.

Y/N’s voice broke the quiet. “Okay, look—look at this part.” She said, tilting the screen toward Billie. “See how it opens up on the side like that? There’s a mini elevator in the tower, and the Quinjet actually docks up top. And it comes with thirty-one minifigs. Thirty-one!”

Billie didn’t even have to look at the screen. She’d seen the set more times than she could count. It had been Y/N’s latest obsession—weeks of talking about the Avengers Tower Lego set like it was a life goal. Billie had heard all about the working features, the floor layouts, the little Hulk smashing through the wall.

Still, she smiled. She always smiled when Y/N got like this.

“Mhm.” She hummed, turning her head to rest her chin lightly on top of Y/N’s “That’s the one with the teeny tiny Ant Man?”

Y/N let out a laugh, eyes still on the build video. “Yes! And there’s a micro version of the arc reactor lab, and look at—oh my god—look at the printing on the Loki figure, it’s so good. Like, so sick. I swear, they keep getting better.”

Billie didn’t interrupt. She listened. She’d heard it all before, sure—but Y/N’s voice had this glow when she talked about something she loved. It was impossible not to get caught up in it.

For a moment, Billie just stared at her. Soft lighting dancing over Y/N’s features, the way her lips moved around her words, eyes bright and excited even though she wasn’t really expecting anyone to care this much. But Billie did. She always did.

Then, casually, like she was offering to grab snacks or something equally mundane, Billie murmured, “Let’s go to the Lego store.”

Y/N blinked. Her head snapped toward Billie like she’d misheard.

“Wait. What?” She said, sitting up slightly. “Actually?”

Billie looked back to her, calm as ever, lips curling into a half-smile that always made Y/N melt.

“Yeah, baby. Let’s go take you on a Lego shopping spree.”

There was a full second of silence before Y/N launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around Billie’s neck in a tight hug that knocked Billie backward into the couch cushions.

“Oh my god—oh my god—I love you. I love you, I love you, thank you.” Y/N babbled against her skin, pressing kisses all over Billie’s face. “Are you serious? Billie. You’re being serious?”

Billie laughed, arms looping securely around her waist, holding her close even as she was being smothered with kisses. “Dead serious. I mean, I don’t know what half that stuff means, but I know you want it. So we’re getting it.”

Y/N looked like she might combust.

She scrambled off the couch, throwing the blanket aside like it was an obstacle in her path. “Okay—okay, I need pants. And a real shirt. Where’s my—wait, should I bring my list? Should I check the online stock first?”

From the couch, Billie was still laughing, completely content watching her girl spin into a whirlwind.

“I’ll grab my keys.” Billie said, stretching as she stood. She tucked her phone into her pocket and reached for her wallet on the counter—her back card already sliding into place. “And maybe a bottle of water. My bank account’s about to cry.”

Y/N was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about checking the gift-with-purchase threshold.

Billie just shook her head, smiling to herself, eyes fond as ever.

God, she was so whipped.

✮ ✮

The doors to the Lego store slid open with a soft whoosh, and Y/N stepped inside like she was crossing the gates to Disney World.

Her eyes widened instantly, lighting up as color and brick-lined walls stretched out before her. It smelled faintly like plastic and dreams. Kids were darting around in every direction, hands full of minifigures, and the giant displays overhead were bright and spinning. Somewhere, a rotating Lego dragon breathed out fog.

Billie stepped in behind her, hands in her pocket, watching with a quiet amusement as Y/N took it all in.

Y/N didn’t say a word—she just bolted.

Straight past the keychains and minifigs. Right past the Star Wars wall. All the way to the back corner where the towering, glorious box of the Avengers Tower sat proudly on the top shelf, spotlights like a sacred relic.

She reached up, grabbing the massive box—it was easily half her size—and turned around with breathless excitement.

“Look, baby!” She said, holding it up like a trophy. “They have it!”

Her eyes sparkled like she was holding treasure, staring down at the box like it was made of gold. She traced her finger over the art on the front, pointing out little details already—“There’s Black Widow! And look, the Quinjet does dock up on top!”

Billie just smiled, leaning casually on a nearby shelf of architecture sets.

“Get it, baby.”

Y/N blinked, her arms still wrapped around the box. “I mean—it’s a lot, Billie…”

Billie raised her brows.

“Get it.” She repeated with a little smirk curling the corner of her lips. “No arguing.”

Y/N stared at her for a second, then slowly smiled—then beamed—as she clutched the box tighter to her chest.

Once that was secured, she began weaving through the store again, Billie trailing behind her with an easy stride, watching her girlfriend buzz around like an excited bee.

But Y/N kept hesitating. She’d walk up to a set—then pause. Walk away. Look back.

“I don’t wanna go crazy.” She muttered under her breath, catching a shelf of Harry Potter builds.

Billie laughed lightly, adjusting the Avengers Tower box in her arms. “I think it’s a little too late for that.” She said. “Get whatever you’d like, princess.”

Y/N looked over her shoulder, flushed but clearly thrilled.

Meanwhile, Billie wandered off to a corner of the store she hadn’t planned to explore—some of the Technic and Speed Champions collections—and stopped in front of a sleek display. The Nissan Skyline GT-R glimmered under the lights, and just beside it, a bright pink Suki’s Honda S2000 from Fast & Furious sat with its over-the-top decals and spoiler.

Billie tilted her head, lips tugging into a grin.

A minute later, she caught up to Y/N, still gently turning boxes over in her hands.

“Hey, baby.” She said, the small boxes placed on top of the larger one. “What if we got these too? We could build them together.”

Y/N looked up, confused. “Wait… you want a Lego set?”

Billie shrugged, totally unbothered. “I wanna build something with you. And these look sick.”

Y/N melted on the spot. “Ugh, you’re so cute.”

Billie handed her the Suki box and kept the Skyline for herself.

After watching Y/N light up, Billie glanced toward the front of the store. The tower box in her arms was heavy and kind of awkward to carry around while also wrangling whatever else Y/N might fall in love with next.

So while Y/N was already drifting toward another display, Billie headed toward one of the store employees near checkout.

“Hey, quick question.” She said, nodding toward the growing stack in her arms. “Mind if I make a little pile somewhere while we keep shopping?”

The employee smiled. “Of course! Right over here’s perfect—we’ll keep it behind the counter.”

“Thanks.” Billie said, setting the Avengers Tower and Skyline carefully aside. “More’s probably coming.”

She said it casually, but the workers eyebrows raised just slightly at the hint of what was still to come.

With her arms finally free again, Billie turned back toward the store—hands in her pockets—and that’s when the “Build Your Own Minifigure” station caught her eye.

There were bins of tiny torsos, heads, headpieces, and accessories spread out like a mini Lego salon.

Billie glanced back to make sure Y/N wasn’t watching, then walked over, and knelt down.

She spent more time than she’d ever admit digging through the parts. For her Y/N figure, she picked out a little red sweater piece, dark pants, and the closest hair she could find—messy and sweet, kind of how Y/N looked when she was focused mid-build. She even found a tiny mug accessory and whispered to herself, She always has a mug of tea when she builds. Cute.

For herself, she picked a black hoodie torso, dark blue pants, and a shaggy black hairstyle. She found a mini mic and almost laughed—too on the nose—but kept it.

She snapped them together carefully, then tucked them both into a small clear box.

She quietly walked it over to the checkout and nestled it between the other boxes in the pile, making sure Y/N didn’t see.

She didn’t need to know yet. She’d find them later. Billie knew exactly where she’d place them—maybe on the shelf next to the Avengers Tower, once it was all built.

They circled the store a few more times. Y/N ended up grabbing two smaller sets—something cozy and botanical that made her heart flutter—and then Billie was at the register, all four bags’ worth of Lego stacked high on the counter.

Y/N stood beside her, half-giddy, half-guilty. But Billie slipped her card across the counter like she was paying for food, not a mini fortune in plastic bricks.

The cashier blinked at the total. Billie didn’t even flinch.

“Want a gift receipt?” They asked hesitantly.

Billie shook her head. “She’s keeping everything.”

Y/N blushed and leaned into Billie’s arm, smile soft, and Billie pressed a kiss to the top of her head like it was the easiest decision she’d ever made.

✮ ✮

The door had barely clicked shut before Y/N dropped the bags onto the living room rug, already tugging the Avengers Tower set free like it was a lifeline.

“I’ve been waiting to build this for months.” She whispered, more to herself than to Billie, already starting to peel back the tape.

Billie smirked and tugged off her hoodie, tossing it over the couch. “I can tell. You’ve been home for three seconds.”

Y/N ignored her entirely, focused like a laser as she started pulling out the instructions and sorting bags into piles. Billie just watched her for a second, fondness softening her features.

She walked over to the TV and clicked through the menu until the first Avengers movie started to play, the familiar opening credits filling the space with nostalgic music. Then she ducked into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, she returned with a bowl of popcorn, a mug of tea, and Y/N’s favorite candy—M&M’s—setting everything down within easy reach.

Y/N glanced up and smiled as she carefully opened bag one. “Thank you, Billie baby.”

Billie leaned down and kissed the top of her head, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Of course, sweet girl.”

She didn’t build yet—just sat nearby, back against the couch, watching as Y/N sorted pieces, brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’re so serious when you build.” Billie said after a while, a soft, amused lilt to her voice.

“I’m focused.” Y/N mumbled, not even looking up, her tongue slightly sticking out as she searched for the right piece. She places another minifig on the floor. “This floor had the Hall of Armor, B. Look. It’s tiny, but it’s there!”

Billie melted. Absolutely melted.

An hour or two passed before she shifted to lean her chin on Y/N’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take a break from that and build the car with me, angel?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, baby.” Billie stood and walked over to the other bags. She pulled out both the Skyline and Suki’s S2000, holding the pink car box toward her girlfriend. “Here—this one’s yours.”

Y/N lit up, scrambling over to take it from her. “We’re doing both at the same time?”

“We’re racing.” Billie smirked, already unboxing hers.

Soon they were sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, each with their own instruction manual and pile of car-colored bricks. The tower-in-progress sat proudly between them.

Billie squinted at her manual and immediately tried to attach the wrong piece to the base of the car.

“No, baby.” Y/N said gently, turning a chunk of the car over in Billie’s hands. “It goes like this.”

Billie pouted. “You’re gonna have to walk me through it like I’ve never seen Legos in my life.”

Y/N giggled and kissed her cheek. “That’s because you build like you’ve never seen Legos in your life.”

They laughed together, heads bumping occasionally as they leaned close, whispering soft jokes and giving sweet little kisses between each few steps.

✮ ✮

Hours had passed in a haze of clicking bricks and quiet laughter. The Skyline and S2000 now sat side by side on the coffee table. The Avengers Tower was about halfway done, the top floors still waiting to be built, but their hands were tired and their backs ached from sitting on the floor for so long.

Billie stretched and stood, walking off toward the bags. Y/N watched her lazily, chin resting on her hand, until Billie came padding back with something tucked carefully in her palms.

She sat down beside Y/N again, lips curving with a secret, and said softly, “I have one more thing for you.”

Y/N blinked at her, already warm from the day and Billie’s constant sweetness. “There’s more?”

Billie grinned, then brought her hands out from behind her back and opened them.

Two minifigures.

Y/N’s breath caught as she gently took them, eyes scanning the tiny details—Billie had picked parts that looked just like them.

Y/N stared at them for a moment in awe, then slowly looked up at Billie with the softest expression she’d worn all day.

“It’s us.” She whispered.

“It is, angel.” Billie said, her voice hushed and warm.

Y/N held them against her chest for a second before leaning in and brushing her nose against Billie’s cheek. “You’re amazing.” She murmured.

Billie chuckled softly, wrapping her arms around her. “Only for you.”

Y/N melted into her chest, laying back with a little sigh, fingers still holding the minifigures gently between them. Billie kissed her temple.

“Happy, baby?”

Y/N closed her eyes, content. “I am.” She turned her head a little to nuzzle into Billie’s neck. “Thank you for everything today, my love. I’m so grateful for you.”

Billie smiled, voice playful and full of affection. “Anything for my favorite builder.”

Y/N groaned and giggled all at once, swatting her lightly before snuggling closer.

The room was dim now, the TV playing Avengers: Age of Ultron quietly in the background. Billie pulled a blanket off the couch and draped it over them, wrapping her arms tighter around Y/N’s waist.

After a moment, she whispered against her ear, “You’re so cute when you nerd out.”

Y/N laughed against her chest and tilted her head up to kiss Billie softly, with a softness that said I love you more clearly than words ever could.

[wendichester]

⋆˙⟡ sunrise surprise,

summary. it's your birthday and dean makes the day extra especial.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 606 genre. fluffy fluff

warnings. dean being stupidly thoughtful in a quiet way, hand-on-thigh sweetness, a thoughtful birthday gift, established relationship, mild language, heart-melting moments

notes. happy birthday to me bitches 😈🤭

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, spilling soft gold through the windshield of the Impala. The hunt’s behind you, your motel room’s been cleared out, and the road stretches ahead in that endless way it does after a job well done.

Classic rock hums low through the speakers, something warm and familiar. Dean’s got one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over your thigh—his thumb tracing slow, absent circles through the denim like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Except you know he is. Dean Winchester’s never unaware.

You watch the passing scenery, the pale morning light, his profile in the driver’s seat—strong jaw, that stubborn crease between his brows, the way his lips twitch when a lyric he likes comes on. You’ve been thinking about how today’s just… today. No big deal. Another year older, but nothing special. You’re not sure Dean even knows.

Then, without looking away from the road, he says casually, “Do me a favor, sweetheart—open the glovebox.”

You glance at him, confused. “What for?”

“Just humor me.” He’s fighting a smile now—you can hear it in his voice.

With a shrug, you lean forward and pop the latch. The door drops open, and inside—right on top of a stack of maps and stray cassette tapes—is a small box, neatly wrapped in plain brown paper with a bit of twine tied around it.

Your heart stutters. “What is this?”

Dean finally looks over at you, just for a second, green eyes glinting in the early light. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

You blink, caught between shock and a warmth rising in your chest. “You… you knew?”

“Of course I knew,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You think I don’t pay attention?”

You’re too stunned to answer, so you just pull the box out, fingers brushing over the rough paper.

“Go on,” he urges, thumb still making those soft circles on your leg.

You undo the twine, tear the paper away, and open the box. Nestled inside, on a bed of tissue, is a delicate silver bracelet—a simple chain with a tiny charm shaped like a star.

Your breath catches. You saw it in a store window earlier this week, when you and Dean had stopped in town for coffee before the hunt. You’d paused, just for a second, admiring it before moving on. You didn’t think he’d even noticed.

“You…” Your voice cracks. “You remembered?”

Dean’s watching you now, eyes soft in a way that makes your chest ache. “Saw you looking at it. Figured… you should have it. Something to remind you that there’s more to life than salt and silver bullets.”

It’s so not the kind of thing Dean Winchester usually does. And yet, it’s so him. Quiet, unshowy, but devastatingly thoughtful.

You slip it on, the metal cool against your skin. “Dean, it’s—” You cut yourself off before you start crying in his car. “I love it.”

His smile is small but real, the kind that lights up his whole face if you’re looking close enough. “Good. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

You lean over the bench seat, cupping his cheek with your free hand, and kiss him—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that says everything you can’t fit into words.

When you pull back, his thumb brushes over your leg again, this time deliberately. “Don’t think this gets you out of cake later, though,” he says, eyes back on the road but mouth twitching with amusement.

You laugh, the bracelet glinting in the sunlight, your heart so full it almost hurts.

Dean Winchester will never fail to disappoint.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[cod-dump]

Would you still love the call of duty characters if they were bald?

Soap.

Gaz.

Price..

Nikolai could’ve been bald.

Or are you hair-cist? (Kidding.)

This feels like a joke Ghost would make. I'm gonna answer sincerely (he's also spared from this because, c'mon, we all know if he was bald or not we wouldn't care)

___

Soap: He's already half-way there. He would be a sexy bald Scottish man. Genuinely could pull off being bald well.

Gaz: He's an attractive man and I don't think the lack of hair would take away from that. Pretty boy face is lethal.

Price: Listen, his charm and appeal DEPENDS ON THE BODY HAIR. Head and all, I'm sorry-- (he's still attractive clean shaven okay)

Nik: Again, the appeal is the HAIR. Though he'd probably have a different kind of appeal without hair so--

Laswell: I am scared, I can't imagine a bald Laswell. Who is this? WHERE IS MOTHER??

Farah: HOT. She would be hotter buzzed, lethal. She looks good with long hair BUT IMAGINE!! It would be the cherry on top to her whole rebel leader.

Alex: Bald head? Could bear it. No 'stache? I'm crying, this is a stranger. Where is my Alex? WHO ARE YOU!??

Alejandro: Listen, it's probably a good look. He would be an attractive bald man. But I love the hair and curls (Alain has curls so ALEJANDRO HAS CURLS--)

Rudy: Whole different vibe without hair. A whole ass different man. Still cute and still loved.

Graves: he's bald as a punishment for his crimes against humanity, I'm laughing at his suffering because his hair is absolutely a part of his personality.

[revelboo]

NITRO ZEUS!!! Oi Oi Oi!!!! My hubby! Please I need saving from this cliff you have left me on! 🏔️

🔞 gore mention, nothing too explicit

Possessive Pt 7

Nitro Zeus x Reader

• Heart racing, you stare at the corridor gaping open, aware that there’s nowhere to hide as Nitro keeps demanding you come to him. Skin prickling all over at a scream that cuts off far too sharply, you remember getting dragged by the pusher across the kill line. That he’s already had the chance to hurt you if wanted to and he hadn’t. But you have no idea why. Hearing heavy peds in the hallway outside his cell, you back up. Can’t breathe as dozens of tendrils snake into the space and you just keep retreating. Across the kill line to him making your decision. Choosing the devil you know.

• Growling as his servos close around you, he straightens slowly as Soundwave pushes into his cell, tendrils coiling and writhing as the mech’s head turns to stare at him and you squirming in his hand. “How’s it hanging?” He asks the other Decepticon and Soundwave just rumbles as he cuts him loose from his chains, releasing that inhibitor harness and Nitro’s plating flares and settles as he rolls his shoulders. “Damn that feels fucking good.”

• Hanging from his servos as Nitro stretches lazily, you cringe when the other Decepticon rumbles, a clawed servo reaching for you. ‘Query,’ the Decepticon growls and Nitro pulls you closer, servos of his other hand adjusting the collar of your shirt. “Meet my wife,” Nitro says, mandibles flexing and the newcomer stares at him, then you and makes a growling noise that still manages to sound over his bullshit as the mech turns and leads the way out and you hang onto Nitro’s big servos. Heart trying to beat its way free of your chest, you struggle not to throw up. If he’s still amusing himself with the wife bit, maybe that means you’re safe. Doubt it, but you need to believe it or start crying.

• Amused with Soundwave’s dismissal of him, he follows the other mech. And groans seeing Beserker noisily eating a human, bones cracking as the unhinged Decepticon drools and hisses. And he’s pretty sure that’s the little man who was always following you around and he’d wanted to squish that one. Though that looks like a lot more painful a way to go. “That’s some fucked up shit right there. You know what that’s going to do to your tank?” He asks and you make little retching noises, pressing your face against his hand when you notice. “You’re nasty, man.”

• That one’s eating someone. Can hear the wet crunching as you make yourself breathe through your mouth and try not hurl on Nitro, because he’s surrounded by other Decepticons and you’re screwed if he decides to drop you. And he might if you get sick on him. No matter how funny he thinks the wife joke is, these guys hate humans. There’s no way you’re walking away alive, you realize. Hanging onto his servos as he follows the others up the hallway, you hear another dull thump and realize something’s going on above ground, too. That there’s more of them up there fighting. And you’re living on borrowed time.

Previous

[therese-lokidottir]

Like, Loki is treated very badly by the narrative, but that comes with retconning his character. It ignores all the factors lead Loki to do the bad things and instead treats it like Loki is bad, but with Bucky the narrative fully acknowledges he was brainwashed and tortured, yet every time it still portrayed like Bucky is bad somehow.

From CAWS the story has crafted to show that Bucky has no will in the matter, but also frequently the creators always say in some way; Bucky needs to take responsibility. Even though every time they make abundantly clear Bucky was forced into these, had no choice and took no joy in these thing. Every time it's, his fault, he's not good enough, he need to make up for his mistakes, and it's just gross and bizarre.

With Loki they act like he wasn't influenced because the writer either didn't care or know that was factor, but Bucky they go out of their way to show he was and that it was painful. Why in the world would someone take the time to have a scene that Bucky is crying in joy he is no longer affect by trigger phrases and then go on to say Bucky is the one at fault? The only thing I can derive from this narratively is that Bucky is bad for being brainwashed.

THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER 1.04 • The Whole World Is Watching

[suiyuzu]

How Yandere!Caleb would restrain/punish you

TWs: branding, use of drugs, general restraining

Hypothetically, if there was a scale to show the severity of the ways the yandere Li’s would utilise to keep you restrained, Caleb would be closer to the top. Now, he already has trapped you in an attic before purposely to restrain you. A yandere Caleb would do exactly the same, trying to lock you up in a fixed place where he only has access to. Except the problem is, during his longer missions, if you’re smart enough to pick a few locks and figure out a few codes, you do have the chance to escape. He’s one of the easier yandere Li’s to run from. So as a result for him to prevent that from happening, Caleb would be one to come up with some harsh restraints.

If you’ve been good and have not attempted any escapes, the most he’d put onto you is a tracker, maybe, or lock you inside the whole house so you’d have some roaming freedom (front door is locked shut and don’t even try leaving through the windows because you’re above the clouds). Maybe after a year or two when you’ve really proven to have no such thoughts of leaving, he’d let you roam freely outside. Despite this, if you’ve attempted to escape once or twice, Caleb would still try to be reasonable. The worst he’d do is dope you up on sleeping pills so you’d sleep through your ‘bad’ days (if you’ve decided to attempt a first or second escape that day) or put you to sleep after arguing with you. After all, you are his meimei and he is the responsible, caring and considerate older gege. In his heart, he’s still holding out for the day that you’d finally listen and realize that your place really is by his side.

But if you’re continuously rebellious and aggressive and rude and you just wont listen to him even when he tells you it’s all for the best, Caleb would turn to some…harsher restraints. Punishments to make you learn, even.

You’ve tried to run away. Again. You actually managed to get quite far this time, almost having left Skyhaven until Caleb caught up with you, like always. You never learn, do you? He asks as you’ve been tied up so tightly you could barely move and placed onto the kitchen floor. You can’t really see what he’s doing with his backed turned to you and facing the stove, but you’re sure that he’s not heating up the stove to cook food. A metal stick of sorts is in his hands, and you can tell he’s agitated. Angry. Upset. Tired.

Aren’t you sorry for what you did?

You look away. Are you sorry for what you’ve done? No. But when you look at his tired face, the eye bags under his eyes from a sleepless, worried night trying to find you and the betrayal in his voice… you have to admit, you do feel a little bad for him. Just a little. But not enough to apologise.

Are you going to give me the silent treatment now?

Caleb turns to you. His voice is oddly grim and cold. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look furious anymore. His eyes are still manic though, his brow furrowed and his jaw pulled tight. He’s holding something behind his back. That scares you more than what his expression. You know he won’t hit you at least— definitely not kill you— but when he bends down, eyes fixed on your face and one hand behind his back, the other gripping your shoulder so tightly that you could feel something roll and click…you almost cry out, but he shuts you up. He’s busy choosing a spot for it to go on, and you talking would only distract him. It has to be somewhere prominent enough for everyone to see, but also somewhere you can see or at least catch glimpses of. And it has to be sensual. Maybe right above your chest or your collarbone or your arm or would you like it on your hip?

Well? Are you going to apologise now? He asks. But you’re still not talking. Really, he doesn’t like the look you give him. He’d rather you put up a fight. He’d rather you feel enough emotion to yell at him because at least you’d be communicating rather than sit there and silently sulk to yourself, effectively ignoring him.

Don’t you have anything to say?

He sighs when you don’t reply. He presses you down completely onto the cold tile floor, shoving up your shirt, and you’re panicking and trashing about so he pins down your knees as well. When you see him take the red-hot brand from his back, the silver tip burning red and yellow in some parts, you start whimpering and crying and sniffling about how you promise you wont run away again, you’re sorry, begging him to do anything else, but he just mutters that you’re way to late for that now.

I’ll show you silence.

You scream as the red hot iron touches your skin. But hey, at least he’s holding your hands and tells you to squeeze it when it hurts.

—

tags: @pinksaiyans @yandere-stories @bruhfan-3

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere behaviors, mentions of torture. Yan! Joker x Reader x Yan! Harley

Now, ending up in the hands of Joker and Harley? That’s not just a bad ending, it's the ending. And really, the only reason it ever happened was because one of them caught wind that the Bat had someone he cared about.

You.

Joker did it first to piss him off. Scooped you right out of the Batmobile like you were some shiny little toy. Right when the Bat was trying to whisk you away himself. Oh sugar, it really was a bad night for you, wasn’t it? Didn’t even get to pick your captor. Now you're stuck in a cage with two wild animals.

Joker doesn’t love you. No, that man doesn’t know how. But he adores what you represent. He likes to dress you up in little Batsy-themed outfits, makes you perform his twisted scenes, sometimes pretending to rescue you, sometimes pretending you’re Robin, all while you’re trembling in the corner with that pretty red tape still pressed over your mouth. It’s a show. You’re a prop in his favorite play. When you cry? He laughs. When you scream? He records it. He says your sobs hit just the right frequency to ruin Bruce’s day.

But Harley...oh, Harley’s a different breed. She thinks you’re her little treasure. Her sweet thing. Her snuggly-wuggly cuddlebug. She loves how you cling to her after Joker’s finished playing. Loves the way you hide your face in her shoulder, even though her hands are just as bloody. You’re so good when you’re scared, just the way she likes you.

But sugar… act up? Try to leave? Oh, Harley pouts so big, all wobbly-lipped and wide-eyed, and whispers, “Don’t make me tell Mister J, baby… you know how creative he gets when he's upset.”

And you do know. You remember the cage. The knives that weren’t meant to kill. The mirrors. The laughing gas. The strings tied too tight around your wrists as he danced you around like a broken puppet. You remember what it’s like to be turned into a punchline.

So you stay in Harley’s arms, they are still safer than the sharp glint in his eye.

She’ll coo at you, suck on your bruises like they’re candy, lick the tears right off your cheeks and giggle when you flinch. She calls you her baby. Her birdy. Or whatever cringe petname for the day. And you know better now than to try to run.

Because baby :) you can’t leave. That’s just silly, honey. Where would you even go? The Bat’s not coming for you. He didn’t even come for the boy.

[lastarabesque]

Surprise

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol (SCoups) x F!Reader Genre: Bestfriends to Lovers, Fluff/Angst Warnings: Verbal Conflict, Emotional Hurt, Mentions of Crying Length: 6.1K

Tangled emotions and unspoken truths complicate your friendship with Seungcheol, your closest companion who’s more than just a friend to you. Even while in a relationship with a different man, your feelings for him run deep, and when everything finally comes to light, you both must decide if you’re willing to risk it all for something more.

Morning. Excruciating morning. The kind of morning you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.

Nothing compares to the pain pounding through you right now. It's like a relentless fist squeezing every muscle in your womanhood, pulsing with cruel rhythm. Your lower back, hips, thighs—all aching like they're being wrung out.

You're dressed for school, uniform crisp and ready, but you're still tangled in your sheets, rolling and gripping the mattress, wishing for the pain to vanish. In desperation, you grab your phone and dial the one number you know will answer—because you don't want to fight this alone.

The call connects, and immediately, his voice protests. You almost get the cold shoulder—until you unleash a booming demand for attention that wakes him up. You can almost hear him rolling his eyes, but deep down, he's already bracing himself.

"Hello, Cheol?"

"Why? I'm still eating. Call me later." He's about to hang up when your voice blasts in his ear, sharp and loud.

"You could at least listen to me!" He pulls the phone away, surprised.

"What's with the attitude?" He knows your signs, either you're stewing over a fight with your boyfriend, or... the other usual suspect. "I know, code red, huh?"

"You know me too well. That's why I love you." Your sudden sweetness makes him smirk—he knows you're up to something.

"Try saying that with some sincerity," he challenges, voice low.

"If you saw me right now, you'd know I'm dead sincere, Seungcheol." You sound flat, emotionless.

"Alright, I know what you need. And no, I'm not saying no." Pads. Of course pads. You always forget them when the time comes. Whoever said "make hay while the sun shines" clearly didn't mean for you to understand it that way. "But maybe ask your lovely boyfriend to get those? It's embarrassing."

"If you're embarrassed, imagine how he'd feel. And I'm not asking for pads. Just pain relievers. So pick one up on your way."

"Whatever. I'm hanging up—I'm still eating."

"Eat faster! I don't wanna be late agai—"

Click.

You glare at your phone. "Choi Seungcheol!"

He finishes his meal quickly, grumbling, but moves fast anyway. He won't say it, but he cares—like an older brother more than just a best friend. You're grateful; it's a comfort having him around, even when he's grumpy.

"Good morning," the pharmacist greets as he steps inside. He scratches his head, struggling.

"Do you have something for, uh... stomachache? Well, not really stomachache—more like... lady stuff pain, monthly thing... um."

She laughs softly, understanding immediately. "Dysmenorrhea? Yeah, we have that."

It's only the start of the day, and he's already spent his allowance on you. He doesn't mind though. "For your mom? Sister?"

"Neither."

"Ah, girlfriend? That's sweet." She carefully hands him the small bag.

"Yeah, thanks." Sure. For a girl friend.

"Also, you should grab this." She points at a chocolate bar by the counter.

"Chocolate helps release happy hormones. We get real grumpy during these times."

"Great idea. Make it two—I'll need one too." He already knows it's going to be a long, stressful day.

Seungcheol strode towards your house—just a few blocks from the pharmacy and a quick walk from his own place. The sun was barely up, but already a heavy knot twisted in his chest. Seeing your boyfriend waiting by the gate didn't exactly ease that pressure. Seungcheol didn't like the guy, not one bit. Still, he put on his best "I'm fine" face—because you deserved that much. His fingers tore into the chocolate bar, the sweet and creamy comfort to a small rebellion against the tightening stress. For now, biting into that chocolate was the only relief he could steal before stepping inside and dealing with whatever mess was waiting.

"Seungcheol," Your boyfriend stood casually by the gate, giving him a nod that was as cool as the morning breeze but held a quiet watchfulness.

"Hanbin," Seungcheol answered, a bit stiff. There was always this invisible tension between them—like two strangers forced to share the same room, careful not to overstep. They weren't close, not really. And Seungcheol always felt a weird discomfort around him, a silent rivalry that didn't even need words. But for you? He tolerated it, even pushed through it.

Hanbin, meanwhile, trusted Seungcheol in a way that surprised him. He understood how much you'd longed for a sibling, and while he wasn't family, he was the closest thing you had to one. He wasn't jealous. Not at all. He knew your relationship with Seungcheol was solidly platonic—so much so that they could probably share a room and he wouldn't bat an eye.

"So, why are you waiting out here? You could've come in," Seungcheol asked, a curious tilt in his voice.

Hanbin hesitated, trying to keep his cool. "Ah... well, actually, I didn't tell her I was coming to pick her up today. Thought I'd surprise her." He gave a proud smile, clearly pleased with the little plan. Hanbin didn't usually come to pick you up from home—he trusted Seungcheol to handle that part. And honestly, you liked it better that way. Having Seungcheol around made things easier, less awkward.

Seungcheol blinked, sensing immediately that this was walking on thin ice. "Surprise? That sounds... amazing right now." His voice oozed sarcasm—a warning you wouldn't catch because you were busy suffering upstairs. Too bad your boyfriend missed the sarcasm too.

Surprise was the last thing you wanted. It meant losing control, being shoved out of your carefully carved-out comfort zone. Your introverted, slightly angsty self hated everything unplanned. Not cute, not sweet, just a one-way ticket to disaster.

Seungcheol stepped up to your ridiculously complicated gate and opened it like it was second nature—proof of how many times he'd been to your house, and how much of your life he'd quietly guarded from the sidelines. No knocking needed.

As he crossed the threshold, your mom's warm voice drifted from the kitchen, cutting through the morning quiet. "Seungcheol, dear, have you eaten breakfast yet?"

He jogged towards her, resting his elbows on the counter where she was preparing food.

"Mom, that's not important right now!" His voice dropped to a near-whisper, conspiratorial. "Hanbin's outside. Planning to surprise her."

Your mom, whom Seungcheol called simply "Mom" like she was his own, paused. Her calm gaze sharpened, a flicker of worry flashing behind her eyes. "What on earth is he thinking? It's too early to get killed."

Seungcheol let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. I'm pretty sure I have to warn her. Don't want things to blow up in everyone's faces."

"That's probably wise," she said with a small smile. "Go on then, I'll pack some lunch for you, too."

"You don't have to, but thanks, Mom." Seungcheol gave her a quick, grateful hug from behind before darting upstairs to find you.

Sometimes, when he clings to your mom like that, you swear she likes him more than her own daughter. And honestly? That's fine. Because Seungcheol isn't just your best friend—he's the brother you never had.

You barely had time to sit down before Seungcheol was telling you the news, and your reaction was pure panic. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

He just shrugged, chomping on a chocolate bar like it was the only weapon against your disaster. "Why would I even dare?" He tore open another bar and shoved it at you. "Here, eat this. The pharmacist said it helps. You know, for the stress."

He shoved a piece into your mouth before you could protest, and you nearly choked—but honestly, your brain was too busy spinning with thoughts of the surprise to care.

What was he thinking? It wasn't a huge deal, but the very idea of being caught off guard made your chest tighten. You hated having to react on the spot. It crushed you to lose control. You were working on it—really, you were—but today? Today was not the day. Especially because your body was already betraying you.

Seungcheol eyed you with a smirk. "You know I'm not supposed to tell you, right? So you have to act surprised."

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "I really hate this."

"You're impossible." He clicked his tongue. "Your boyfriend's trying to surprise you and he actually gets it. This is why you shouldn't date guys who don't know you well."

"You're the only guy who knows me too damn well, Choi Seungcheol. What are you even suggesting?" You rolled your eyes, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you strode past him.

Your mom's voice floated from the kitchen as you stormed down. "Calm down, honey."

"I'm trying, Mom." You kissed her cheek on your way out. Seungcheol hugged her again, exchanging a silent thumbs-up before trailing behind you.

As soon as you went out, Hanbin was waiting with that stupidly proud grin plastered on his face. You did your best to look surprised—because not doing so would have felt cruel. Especially seeing how genuinely excited he was. Seungcheol, meanwhile, was biting back laughter at your awkward act. Your boyfriend bought it hook, line, and sinker.

Seungcheol shook his head and hid his face. As you two walked off, a sudden realization hit him—you were two steps ahead of him, and he was already the third wheel.

He told himself it wasn't so bad. Less noise from you meant some peace. This was pretty normal by now. But no matter how much he accepted it, the pang of being left out gnawed at him. Listening to your sweet whispers and giggles wasn't what he'd imagined when he thought about you.

He sighed again—the sound heavy and tired. He had stories bursting to spill, tales from his weekend in his hometown, breathtaking views, unforgettable food, warm people. Moments he wanted to share with you but couldn't. How could he interrupt your world now? He wasn't that kind of guy.

It hadn't even been a month since you started dating Hanbin, but Seungcheol remembered the early days clearly. The flutter, the thrill—it was all new and shiny for you. And maybe, just maybe, that was what hurt the most.

Because it wasn't him.

He knew, deep down, that he could do better. He knew you better than anyone. Maybe he could give you everything you deserved—but that was a dangerous territory. He was like a brother to you, and neither of you wanted to ruin that. So he told himself soon you'd get over this guy. You'd break up, because that was the only logical hope. But watching you smile like that, fingers intertwined, he felt a sudden, sharp fear.

Seems like you were falling deeper for Hanbin.

He hated seeing someone else touch you like that. He hated feeling powerless. He knew he had no right. Still, the thought consumed him.

Then you glanced back, caught him staring, and playfully stuck your tongue out. He chuckled, letting some lightness in.

At least you were happy. Maybe that's what mattered.

"Cheol," you called, trying to sound casual but with a little edge. You nudged his chair with your foot, right across from yours. The teacher was not around, yet, so this was the perfect chance to catch him off guard and start a conversation. But he just sat there, that serious look fixed on his face, chin resting on his knuckles like he was solving the world's problems in that book. You wondered if he even wanted to talk.

"What??" His voice broke through the silence, low and a little heavy—like he was tired but didn't want to admit it.

You cleared your throat, words feeling awkward as they came out. "I think I forgot to thank you— for the meds and the chocolate. So... thanks."

You saw the faintest flicker of something—softness?—in his eyes, but then he looked away. Lately, you'd felt a growing distance between you and Seungcheol. You couldn't pinpoint who had caused it—or when it began—but it was there, solid and cold, like a wall neither of you knew how to break.

He muttered, voice barely above a whisper, "Next time, ask your lovely boyfriend to do that for you. He should make himself useful."

The words stung, but you caught a glimpse of tired humor in them. Just then, his seatmate stood up, giving you an opening. You slid your chair closer, hoping to bridge the gap—only to find his head lolling forward,  eyes sleepy. Seriously? You suppressed a smile. Even when he tried to be serious, he was still so damn human.

"Wow. I really thought you were reading that stupid book," you teased, gently nudging his head to rest on your shoulder. He didn't pull away—too out of it to notice. You felt a sudden rush of protectiveness, and maybe something more complicated. Watching him like this, so vulnerable, was rare. His messy hair brushed your cheek as you smiled quietly. You had to admit, he looked good like this—peaceful, unguarded.

"I'm a hundred percent sure you stayed up late playing computer games again," you said, half-laughing. "Look at you."

For a moment, you both sat there in silence, the quiet between you charged with something unsaid. Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke again, voice low and hesitant. "I think I'm having a girlfriend soon."

Your heart skipped. You weren't prepared for that—didn't know how to react. You stared at him, speechless. He spoke again, in case you didn't catch. "I said, I think I'm having a girlfriend soon."

"Yeah, I heard you." You gently pushed his head away from your shoulder so he was facing you, searching his eyes. "But did I hear that right?"

He nodded slowly, still half-asleep but serious now. "I've been talking to someone for weeks. And I think she likes me. So, it probably won't take long before she's my girlfriend."

Your mind scrambled. You wanted to be happy for him—really you did—but a sinking feeling gnawed at you. Why now? Why hadn't he told you sooner?

"Why are you telling me this now? Not sooner?"

He sighed, voice barely above a whisper. "I tried. But you had no time to listen. This is the earliest I could." His words cut deeper than you expected. Then, almost as if bracing himself, he added, "Look... after this, we might not see each other as much. That's why I want you to lean more on your boyfriend instead of me."

You blinked, feeling like the ground shifted beneath you. "Are you serious?" It hurt more than you wanted to admit. Seungcheol had always been your rock, your safe place. Hearing him say this... it felt like losing a part of yourself.

"He deserves to know more about you. More than I do. He's the boyfriend, remember? I'm just... the best friend." You tried to find words, but your throat tightened. The truth was clear—and it stung. "You know I can't do certain things for you once I have a girlfriend."

The thought of Seungcheol dating someone had never crossed your mind. Plenty of girls liked him, sure, but he'd never seemed interested in anyone. "This is weird, Seungcheol," you said softly, sarcasm barely masking the hurt. "Was this how you felt when I told you I was having a boyfriend?"

He shrugged, eyes closed. "Dunno. But mine was—"

"The teacher's coming." His seatmate's voice cut through the moment. You gave him one last look before sliding back into your seat.

Seungcheol stood and headed to the restroom to freshen up after that unexpected nap. You stayed frozen in your seat, dumbstruck, speechless, and annoyed at yourself for feeling this tangled mess inside.

Days bled into more days since that conversation with Seungcheol, and slowly, he drifted further out of your sight—and your life. It wasn't subtle. Somehow, it felt like he was deliberately pulling away, like he was training you to stand on your own without him. Maybe he thought that was what you needed.

Now it was lunch again. And he was nowhere to be found.

You'd grown used to sharing meals with him; it had been that way from day one. He never promised to eat with you every day, but you, the hopelessly loyal friend, stuck to the routine like clockwork, waiting for him to show up. Your eyes scanned every corner of the bustling cafeteria—no sign of him. Still, you waited.

"Hey, babe."

A pair of firm hands slid around you from behind. You almost jumped, but then you recognized the familiar warmth. You turned, eyes wide.

"Choi Seung—"

But it was not him. It was Hanbin, grinning.

"Oh, babe..." You laughed softly, the tension momentarily breaking. Sometimes Seungcheol teased you by calling you silly pet names, and for a split second, you wished you'd heard that again.

"Let's eat?" He draped an arm over your shoulder, guiding you towards the cafeteria.

You forced a smile but looked away, eyes catching something out of the corner of your vision—the empty room by the side entrance of the hallway. There he was. Seungcheol.

But he wasn't alone.

A small girl stood next to him, almost shrinking in comparison. Her gaze was fixed shyly on the floor, toes pointed inward as they talked quietly. You squinted, trying to make out her face, struggling to commit her features to memory.

Then—like lightning—she reached up, balancing on her toes, placed her hands on his shoulders, and pressed a tiny kiss to his lips.

Your whole body froze. You stopped walking, hands trembling, breath caught in your throat.

"That's impossible," you whispered, barely audible.

"Hey, are you okay?" Your boyfriend's voice cut through your daze. He lowered his gaze to meet your wide, unsettled eyes. "Babe?" His concern pulled you back.

You blinked tears back, blinking like you could will the vision away.

Seungcheol emerged from the room. The girl bolted in the opposite direction without a glance back. His eyes locked on you briefly, and you caught the faintest flicker of guilt—or maybe confusion—before he looked away.

"What happened here?" His voice, laced with worry, was the last sound you wanted to hear.

You didn't answer. Instead, you turned to your boyfriend, avoiding Seungcheol's presence entirely. "You should eat first," you said, your voice shaky but firm. "I forgot... there's something I need to do."

You slipped out of his grip, heart pounding.

"You're not eating?" Seungcheol asked, stepping closer.

You glanced at him, blinking rapidly, refusing to meet his eyes. Whether he noticed the wet sheen that betrayed your hurt didn't matter—you didn't want to face him. You just turned and walked away, letting lunch be the last thing on your mind.

Your feet carried you aimlessly, nowhere and everywhere all at once. The sky dimmed towards dusk; you forgot about the afternoon classes you were supposed to attend. You paced back and forth across the school grounds, numb but restless. The sting of Seungcheol's actions—real or imagined—cut deeper than any physical exhaustion ever could.

Fuck. It hurt.

This wasn't how it was supposed to feel. You should be happy for him. You should celebrate. You wanted to, you really did. But the sight of him with that girl twisted something inside you that you didn't want to admit existed.

You hated the way you felt—betrayed, confused, tangled.

Your steps finally halted on the soccer field. You sank to the ground, face buried in your knees, tears spilling freely.

"Fuck these feelings," you muttered bitterly.

You had Hanbin. You liked him. You were sure of that. Seungcheol was your best friend, nothing more. So why did seeing him kiss someone else feel like a punch to the gut? Your heart was a mess of contradictions.

And then it started to rain.

Raindrops fell softly at first, then with growing insistence, pattering against your head and soaking your clothes. You didn't have an umbrella. You didn't even care. You should've grabbed your bag from homeroom, but you didn't. That was Seungcheol's job, wasn't it? To keep you dry. But he wasn't here, you didn't want him here.

You trudged home, drenched and miserable.

"I'm here." You slipped out of your soaked shoes, shivering.

Your mom was already waiting, towel in hand. "What happened to you?"

"I forgot my umbrella."

She shook her head, concern knitting her brows. "You should've gone with Seungcheol. He stopped by over an hour ago—brought your bag. Said you skipped afternoon classes. What's wrong, honey?"

Her words washed over you, distant and muffled. You were exhausted, mentally and physically drained. But your mom—she saw through you. Her eyes softened, understanding radiating from her like a warm light. It was amazing how she could read you without a single word.

You wanted to tell her everything, but some part of you hesitated.

"Honey, you can tell me. I'm your mother."

Then the dam broke.

"Mom..." You sobbed. It felt awkward, admitting this to her when it should've been Seungcheol you confided in. But it was about him, and in a way, your mom was your best friend too. "I think I like Seungcheol."

She didn't look surprised. "Oh."

"Mom, this is so wrong. I don't know why I feel this way. I—"

"It's okay. You can't help how you feel." She pulled you into a hug despite your soaked clothes, warm and steady. She waited patiently, patting your back until your sobs slowed.

Later, as you sipped the tea she made, you finally asked, "Mom, are you not surprised?"

"No." She smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Because it's pretty obvious, honey."

You sighed, "Do you think Seungcheol knows?" And you hoped the answer was no.

"Would you want him to know?" You didn't have an answer. "Well, you're my daughter. I know you even when you don't say a word. But you know Seungcheol—he's not the type to guess. You'll have to tell him if you want him to know."

"I don't want to tell him. I'm scared. What if he hates me?"

"He's your best friend. You don't want to lose that."

"I know. And I don't want to be unfair. Maybe I should break up with Hanbin—"

"Why are you breaking up with him?" Your heads snapped towards the doorway where Seungcheol stood, blinking like he'd just walked into the middle of a soap opera. He'd come to check if you got home safely. He heard enough not to let it slide.

You looked at your mom, silently begging for backup. "Go to your room, honey. I'll handle this."

You escaped upstairs while she approached Seungcheol, blocking him from following you. "Seungcheol, dear, would you come with me for a moment?"

"Are you fucking crying??" he blurted, eyes wide as he spotted your tear-streaked face, completely forgetting your mom was standing there. "Hey! Did that asshole make you cry?" he growled, ready to storm after you.

"Come on, honey." Your mom grabbed his arm firmly, trying to hold him back. But he was determined, pushing forward. Seungcheol could be aloof sometimes, but when it came to you, he was fiercely protective. No way he'd let a single tear go unnoticed, especially one born of pain.

"Tell me what happened!"

"Seungcheol!" Your mom's voice cut through his anger, firm and clear. He stopped, breathless. Her gaze locked on his, steady and soft. He softened too.

"Sorry, mom."

"Can we talk?" She led him outside to the garden, leaving Seungcheol staring after you, hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the window. He felt nervous, uncertain about this serious talk with your mom. She was always calm and gentle, but now her eyes held something different. "You barely come over. I feel bad," she said lightly, trying to ease the tension.

"I know,.. I'm sorry." His answer was short. "Is she okay? Did that asshole make her cry? Oh, sorry about my language."

"I understand. We both don't want her to get hurt. But right now she is. And she needs time and space." She sighed deeply. "I trust you can give her that."

"What is it about now?" he muttered, forgetting to keep it inside.

"Whatever it is, can you stay with her? I really admire the friendship you two have." She laid her hand on his, entrusting you to him.

"You know I will," he said softly, eyes still searching for you.

Things weren't getting any better. If anything, you felt  even more alone  after breaking up with Hanbin—but you didn't regret it. It had been the right move for the both of you. Fairness, at last.

As for you and Seungcheol? Still no progress. He sat right across from you in class, yet he never once glanced your way. He was probably keeping that promise to your mom, to give you time and space, and he's doing an annoyingly good job of it. Maybe, that was for the best. You needed him at arm's length while you tried to untangle the mess in your head.

No word on his love life, either. And you didn't want to know. Whatever the news was, you had a feeling it would only leave you more confused... or more hurt.

"Hey, can you give this to Seungcheol? I can't find him anywhere. Thanks." Before you could even think of saying no, Jeonghan shoved an envelope in your face— varsity mail. Great.

"How the hell am I supposed to get this to him?" you muttered, staring at the envelope like it was some ticking bomb. You thought of every possible way to pass it off without actually talking to him. Slip it on his desk? Ask his seatmate? Sneak it into his locker? Every option felt like you were dodging responsibility. If it had to be done, it had to be natural. Which was impossible, since you hadn't spoken in weeks.

Lost in your panic, you walked straight into someone's chest. "Sorry."

"It's okay. At least you're talking."

You looked up. Seungcheol. Of course. Your first instinct was to turn and walk away.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to hand me something? Jeonghan said—"

"Yeah, here." You pulled the envelope out of your pocket and handed it to him, voice flat." Jeonghan asked me to give you this. Varsity players stuff. Well then." You turned to leave after conquering the hardest task of your day.

But he stopped you. "Do you really have no plans to talk to me? I asked Jeonghan to get you to give me this, and this is all I get?"

His voice held that desperate edge, like he'd been dying for any kind of conversation, but you refused to give him one. You wouldn't be the first to reach out, and he didn't want to bother you, so this envelope handoff was his peace offering.

"What?" you muttered.

"Can we just talk?" He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"I can't. I have a class." You started to walk away, mindless, hoping to escape.

But he grabbed your wrist before you could get far. "We're classmates. The bell rang ten minutes ago."

You barely registered it. He held your bag — the one he'd been carrying since your accidental collision — and started tugging you towards the bleachers by the field. The place where you last cried. Of all places.

If only he knew. But he didn't. He had no idea what you'd seen, how you'd felt, how hard you cried, how broken you were—and still are.

Maybe you had to tell him. He'd never know if you kept it bottled up. He was your best friend, after all. Best friends didn't keep secrets. Especially not the kind that could change everything.

"How are you?" he asked, sitting beside you, voice soft. "I missed you."

Seungcheol had miraculously managed to give you space for more than a week—a miracle in itself. Usually, he wouldn't last even a day without talking or seeing you. But every day, he followed you from school to home, just to make sure you were safe. He missed everything about you. The way you spoke, the way you touched him, even the silly hums you'd sing as he napped on your shoulder. Every little thing.

He used to be the sweetest best friend before everything shifted. Sure, he could be brutally honest and blunt, but mostly, he was clingy and touchy, always whining for your attention. Now? Cold as ice—colder than you expected.

And suddenly it hit you. You missed him too.

Your fingers fidgeted as he sat close. You didn't know what to do. His presence, the weight of him beside you, pressed down on you like a tidal wave. Words you thought were lost tangled in your throat, and before you could stop it, the tears came.

Not a quiet cry—no, a sob.

Seungcheol had always laughed at how you cried so hard your eyes, nose, and cheeks flushed bright red. He might've laughed again if things between you were normal. Instead, he pulled his sleeve over his hand and wiped your tears away.

"I hate seeing you cry, you know that?" His voice was rough but gentle. Oddly, your chest tightened at his words. "I really fucking hate it."

"I don't know anymore. Maybe that's why I'm so stuck on you." You pulled away from his touch, your heart pounding in your throat. It didn't feel less painful—it only grew sharper. "Can we set some boundaries? Like... stop touching me and stop feeding me flowery words?"

"Suddenly?" He frowned, confused. "I don't get you."

"You don't have to. I said what I said." You stood up, desperate. "Seungcheol, please, I can't do this right now."

That lit a fire under him. You were pushing him away again instead of letting him in.

"Come on! You have to tell me what's wrong so we can fix this! I don't understand a damn thing."

"I don't understand either! I haven't sorted it out yet!"

"Then maybe we sort it out together. How long are you gonna keep running? Until I'm tired of waiting for you?" He shook his head fiercely, eyes blazing with frustration. He will never get tired of you. You trained him well enough for that. He just wanted to wake you up. "Please tell me what the hell is wrong."

"Seungcheol, you won't understand! This is all my mess," you snapped, frustration dripping from every word. You were so angry at yourself it almost hurt more than the situation.

"How can I understand if you won't fucking tell me? I waited for you to be ready, but you're taking forever!" His voice finally broke, a mixture of anger and desperation. It pissed him off that he had no clue why you were avoiding him. He didn't care about the root of it all—he just wanted to know where to start stitching things back together. He wanted you back, badly. And he'd make damn sure you knew it. "Come on! Just say something!"

"I like you, Seungcheol!" The words hit the air like a bomb, leaving him speechless, mouth half-open. "That's my fucking problem. And it's bullshit."

"What??" His face twisted in disbelief. He never saw this coming. If his ears were his eyes, they'd be blurring from shock.

"It's disgusting," you spat out, voice shaking. "I broke up with Hanbin because I like you. I did it for this fucked-up feeling. Seungcheol, please. I need to sort this out and while I do, just leave me alone." You weren't just explaining—you were begging. Not for him to say he felt the same, but just to let you save what friendship you had left by disappearing. You needed him to understand what you were going through and help you move on—by getting out of your sight.

"You broke up with Hanbin because of... because of me?" he stuttered, stunned by the flood of new information.

"Stop making me repeat myself. You don't know how it feels. Saying this now, it really sounds so ridiculous. You will never understand."

"How can you say that? That's not true." His voice cracked, unfairly wounded.

"It's true, you will never understand. From the moment you told me you'd date, to the moment I saw her kiss you, I knew. You wanted to be happy, and I get that. So I tried clearing my head, sorting my feelings. Maybe I'd convince myself that I was just attached, and finally be okay with it. But every single time, Seungcheol... my chest tightens with just the thought of you. You will never understand how shitty it is to like your only best friend when you least expect it. It hurts! It fucking hurts like hell!" Tears spilled over, relentless as the storm inside you. They mirrored everything you felt for him. "I wanted to figure it out myself, so I wouldn't have to tell you—and to save our friendship. Just imagine how ridiculous it sounds to anyone—that I like my best friend! Fuck it."

Seungcheol sighed, scanning your face for the truth. "You're so stupid. Do you know that?"

"Don't rub it in. I'm a mess. I ruined us. I'm really sorry."

"Do you really think I don't get you?" He shot a fierce glare. "Do you think I'm clueless about how that feels like? Do you know how much I want to pull you away from Hanbin every time he touches you? How threatened I feel even though I've already lost because I'm just the 'best friend'? I've been through worse because you actually dated. So don't tell me I don't understand, because I know better. Because I was the first one to like you."

"You..." Your tear-filled eyes locked with his. "You are such an asshole."

"Maybe I am," he admitted, voice low and rough. "Because after all the pain, I still can't walk away like you did. I tried so hard not to tell you. I wanted to run too, but I stayed because I hoped you'd need me. But it's so damn unfair. We had the same feelings and yet you chose to ignore me while I chose to stay. Did it never cross your mind that maybe... I need you too?"

His frustration made his words sharp, but you didn't want to believe him. If this was some joke, you'd be even more miserable.

"Are you serious, Seungcheol?" Your voice dropped, steady and deep.

"Do you think I'm joking?" He was almost shouting. "Well you can ask your mom. I told her everything I felt."

"You know I'll always stay." Seungcheol's nerves showed, but he rallied courage. "I'm staying because I love her. Not just as a best friend."

"Seungcheol, she has a boyfriend."

"I know. I'm willing to wait. I started long ago. I'm sorry—it's wrong to expect a breakup, but that's all I have. I want to make her happy, and I need your approval first."

He laid all his shame bare, telling your mom how he felt. No matter how close they were, she was still your mom, and if he wanted to be serious about you, he had to be accepted by her first.

"Honey, I've always liked you for my daughter. I trust you to take care of her. But the decision isn't mine. I just hope, no matter what happens, you don't lose each other."

"Mom knew?" Your surprise was endless. "So we both told her first."

He left you stunned, nearly resenting him for the shock. But the bitter weight lifted when he cupped your face, wiped your tears, and looked deep into your eyes. He was utterly enchanting.

"I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry." His voice was soft, sincere.

"You shouldn't be the only one saying that, Cheol." You looked everywhere but at him. "I'm sorry for complicating things."

"Let's be honest from now on, okay? No more secrets." He pinched your nose like a kid reminding you of something. What worse secret could there be now? You already gave him your whole heart.

You nodded, hands resting in his.

"So... can you stop being just my best friend today and be my girlfriend for real?" He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, silencing you. "I love you."

"Cheol, I—" A peck.

"I love you so much."

"I hate surprises but—" Another peck.

"I really love you."

You glared, covering his lips with your palm. "This is by far my favorite surprise. I love you too, Choi Seungcheol. And I'm willing to be your girlfriend."

This is late but happy birthday, Seungcheol. -belle♥︎

[emmaannaelisabeth]

Oh my godddddddd I looooove this so much😍😭

I have so many friends that are painters and artists in some way, and my family is full of them too, and I can see Gale in his studio so clearly. I bet he’s having art on every single little space on every wall in every room. And I’m sure he has paintings that are worth a lot, but the piece he treasures most is probably some sketch Bucky did. It’s not even that good, but it means the world to him.

My angsty brain has a way of ruining happy things though because I started thinking about how much Gale needs his hands… and what if he got hurt? Bit by a dog? Stuck in a door? Or even worse, someone else slammed a car door on his hands? Stepped on them?

Also, more angst, what if John and Gale were fighting and John accidentally knocks a painting over and ruins it? Or what if Gale himself destroys some drawing of John in a burst of emotions, that he later then regrets?

I knew an old lady who was rather famous for her paintings, and when her husband died she painted a series of maybe a hundred faces of crying women (sort of self portraits) to process her grief. And she dedicated it to him or something. I got to look in a book she published with all the faces, and the emotions I went through.. oh boy. So yeah.. maybe Gale would do that too, if he lost John.

Ooooorrr the other way around that John loses Gale and even though it’s been YEARS he still finds blue paint on his clothes or other things.

More art student Gale x model Bucky AU

First post

Gale always doodles on napkins and stray bits of paper, and Bucky starts collecting these

Before they get together, during one of their private modelling sessions, Bucky insists he feels too hot and needs to take off his shirt. It bites him in the ass because next time, Gale has the heating on low and he’s wearing the thickest, cutest sweater, and Bucky now has to suffer pining for him in the cold

Bucky buys body paint one day and asks Gale to apply it on him. He says it's for an event / bet. Gale regrets ever signing up for art school (not really, he has never been happier, but the yearning hurts!)

Bucky stalks Gale's art Insta and accidentally likes one of his posts from like 5 years ago. Gale cringes when he sees the notification because he thinks his old art sucks.

Once they get together, Bucky tells everyone they meet that his boyfriend is an amazing artist who had exhibitions too, and he starts showing off his photos of Gale's work

[champagnevi]

second chances?— k mingyu

[ about. she knew the pain and also the love they held for each other. would that be enough to let him enter her life again? ]

includes. f reader, non idol mingyu, angst, exes, mention of past trauma. word count. 3,4k

The autumn leaves crunched beneath your boots as you pushed through the glass doors of Boca Café, the familiar chime echoing in the cozy space that once felt like home. You hadn't meant to come here, not really. Your feet had carried you here almost unconsciously after another exhausting day at work, muscle memory leading you to the one place that used to bring you comfort and had the best croissants in your opinion.

The café looked exactly the same as it had six months ago. The same warm lighting, the same mismatched furniture, and the same soft playlist playing in the background. Even the barista behind the counter was familiar, though she didn't seem to recognize you. Why would she? You hadn't been here since—

"_____?"

Your blood turned to ice at the sound of that voice. Deep, warm, achingly familiar. You turned slowly, knowing exactly who you'd find, yet still feeling unprepared for the sight of him.

Mingyu sat at your old table. The corner booth with the slightly wobbly leg that you two had claimed as yours during those two years together. He looked different somehow. Thinner, maybe. The sharp angles of his face were more pronounced, and dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there before. His usually perfectly styled hair was disheveled, and his clothes, a rumpled hoodie and jeans, looked like he'd thrown them on without much thought.

"Hi," you managed, your voice coming out smaller than you intended.

He stood up quickly, nearly knocking over his coffee mug in the process. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"Neither did I." You clutched your purse tighter, suddenly feeling like you needed something to anchor you. "I should go—"

"Wait." His hand reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching your arm. "Please. Could we... could we talk? Just for a minute?"

Every rational part of your brain screamed at you to leave. To walk away from this man who had shattered your heart so completely that you'd spent weeks unable to get out of bed, who had made you question everything you thought you knew about love. But something in his eyes —a vulnerability you'd rarely seen even when you were together— made you hesitate.

"Five minutes," you said finally, sliding into the seat across from him.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with eight months of unspoken words. Mingyu's fingers drummed nervously against his mug, a habit you'd once found endearing. Now it just made your chest ache.

"You look good," he said eventually, his eyes taking in your appearance. "Happy."

You almost laughed at the irony. Happy. If only he knew about the sleepless nights, the way you still reached for your phone to text him before remembering, the way certain songs still made you cry.

"I'm doing well," you replied carefully. It wasn't quite a lie. You were doing better, at least. "How are you?"

"I'm..." He started to answer, then seemed to really look at himself for the first time. His hand ran through his messy hair self-consciously. "You're not taking care of yourself," you found yourself saying before you could stop yourself.

The words hung in the air between you, and you immediately wanted to take them back. It wasn't your place anymore to worry about whether he was eating enough, sleeping enough, taking care of himself the way he never quite managed to do when left to his own devices.

His jaw tightened slightly, and when he looked up at you, there was a flash of the old defensiveness that had caused so many of your fights. "I don't see how that's your problem."

The coldness in his voice cut deeper than it should have. You'd forfeited the right to care about him the moment you'd walked out of his apartment, your engagement ring left behind on his kitchen counter. You'd made that choice. You'd been the one to end things.

"You're right," you said quietly, looking down at your hands. "It's not."

More silence. You could hear the espresso machine hissing in the background, the low murmur of other customers' conversations, but between you and Mingyu, there was nothing but the weight of everything you'd left unsaid.

"I heard about your promotion," Mingyu said suddenly, his voice softer now. "Congratulations. You worked really hard for that."

"Thank you." You looked up at him, surprised. "How did you—"

"Seokmin mentioned it." He gave you a small, sad smile. "I asked him to stop updating me about your life, but he's terrible at keeping things to himself. You know how he is."

You did know. Seokmin had been trying to play mediator ever since the breakup, convinced that you and Mingyu just needed to "talk things through." He didn't understand that some things couldn't be fixed with conversation.

"Mingyu..." you started, then stopped. What was there to say? That you were sorry? That you missed him? That ending your engagement had been the hardest thing you'd ever done, even though you'd known it was right?

"I know what you're going to say," he said quickly. "That we've been through this already. That we want different things. That I wasn't ready for the kind of commitment you needed." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "And you were right. About all of it."

You blinked, taken aback. This wasn't the Mingyu you'd fought with eight months ago, the one who'd argued that you were being unreasonable, that love should be enough, that you were giving up on them too easily.

"I was so angry when you left," he continued, his hands now flat on the table, no longer drumming. "I kept thinking that if I could just make you see how much I loved you, you'd come back. I didn't understand why love wasn't enough for you."

"Love was never the problem," you whispered, your throat tight. "We both know that."

"I know that now." He leaned forward slightly, and you could see the sincerity in his dark eyes. "I've been going to therapy."

That surprised you. Mingyu had always been skeptical of therapy, insisting that he could work through his problems on his own.

"It's helped me understand a lot of things," he continued. "About myself, about us, about why I was so terrified of the future we were planning." He paused, swallowing hard. "I was terrified of becoming my father."

Your heart clenched. Mingyu rarely talked about his father, who'd abandoned his family when Mingyu was twelve. You'd always known it was a wound that ran deep, but he'd never been able to articulate how it affected him until now, apparently.

"I was so afraid of failing you the way he failed my mom that I couldn't commit to anything real. I kept one foot out the door without even realizing it." His voice was barely above a whisper now. "And in trying not to hurt you the way he hurt her, I ended up hurting you anyway."

You wanted to reach across the table, to take his hands in yours the way you used to when he was vulnerable like this. Instead, you gripped your purse tighter.

"Mingyu—"

"I'm not telling you this because I expect anything," he said quickly. "I know it's too late. I know I had my chance and I blew it. I just... I needed you to know that I understand now. Why you left. Why you had to leave."

The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over. For six months, you'd carried the guilt of walking away from someone who loved you, of ending an engagement that everyone else thought was perfect. You'd questioned your decision countless times, wondering if you'd given up too easily, if you should have tried harder to make him understand what you needed.

"I never wanted to leave," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I just couldn't keep waiting for you to choose me. Really choose me. Not just love me, but choose to build a life with me."

"I know." His own eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry it took losing you for me to figure out who I wanted to be."

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, acutely aware of the other café patrons around you. This wasn't a conversation for public spaces, but somehow it felt fitting that it was happening here, in the place where you'd shared so many quiet mornings together, planning a future that had never come to pass.

"Are you... are you seeing anyone?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, and you immediately wanted to take it back. You had no right to ask, and you weren't sure you wanted to know the answer.

"No." He shook his head. "I tried, a few weeks after you left. Went on a couple of dates that Soonyoung set up. But it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong without you."

The admission hit you harder than it should have. You'd been trying so hard to move on, to convince yourself that you'd made the right choice, that you were better off without him. But sitting here now, seeing the pain in his eyes that mirrored your own, you felt the careful walls you'd built around your heart beginning to crack.

"I should go," you said suddenly, standing up so quickly that your chair scraped against the floor. "This isn't... we can't do this."

"_____, wait—" Mingyu stood too, following you as you headed for the door. "Please, just—"

You pushed through the café doors and out onto the sidewalk, the cool autumn air hitting your face like a slap. You could hear Mingyu behind you, his footsteps quick on the pavement.

"_____, please stop."

You whirled around to face him, and the desperate look on his face made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say, Mingyu? That I forgive you? Fine, I forgive you. That I understand why you couldn't commit? I do. But understanding doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He stepped closer, and you could see the hope flickering in his eyes. "You said love was never the problem. We still love each other. We could try again—"

"And then what?" you demanded, your voice rising. "We fall back into the same patterns? You get scared and pull away, and I get tired of feeling like I'm fighting for our relationship alone?"

"It would be different this time. I'm different now. I've been working on myself, I've been—"

"For eight months, Mingyu. Eight months." You shook your head, feeling the tears start again. "Do you know how long I waited for you to work on yourself while we were together? How many times I brought up couples therapy, or suggested we take a break to figure things out, or tried to talk to you about what I needed? And you brushed me off every time."

The hope in his eyes dimmed, and you hated yourself for being the one to extinguish it. But you couldn't let yourself be swayed by promises and good intentions again. You'd learned that lesson too well.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know I don't have the right to ask for another chance. But _____, please—"

And then, to your absolute shock, he dropped to his knees right there on the sidewalk in front of the café, oblivious to the stares of passersby. His hands reached for yours, gripping them tightly as he looked up at you with tears streaming down his face.

"Please, please—just please trust me! Why is it so hard for you to believe me once?"

Your heart shattered at the raw desperation in his voice, at the sight of this proud man on his knees in front of you, begging for something you weren't sure you could give. People were definitely staring now, some even taking out their phones, but Mingyu didn't seem to care about anything except the words tumbling out of him.

"I know I don't deserve it," he continued, his voice breaking. "I know I had my chance and I wasted it. But I'm not the same person who let you walk away eight months ago. I'm not the same person who was too scared to fight for us. I'll do whatever it takes—therapy, couples counseling, anything. Just please give me one more chance to prove that I can be the man you needed me to be."

You stared down at him, this man you'd loved so completely it had nearly destroyed you to leave him. His hair was falling into his eyes, his cheeks were wet with tears, and his hands were shaking as they held yours. He looked nothing like the confident, cocky man you'd fallen in love with two years ago. He looked broken. Human. Real in a way he'd never allowed himself to be when you were together.

"Mingyu, get up," you whispered, tugging on his hands. "People are staring."

"I don't care." His grip tightened. "I don't care about anything except you. Except us."

"There is no us anymore," you said, but the words felt hollow even to your own ears.

"Isn't there?" He searched your face desperately. "Because I see the way you're looking at me. I see that you're crying too. If you really didn't feel anything anymore, you would have walked away by now."

He was right, and you hated him for it. You should have left the moment you saw him in the café. Should have ignored his request to talk. Should have turned around and walked away when he followed you outside. But you hadn't, and now you were both falling apart on a public sidewalk, eight months of suppressed emotion pouring out of you both.

"Please get up," you said again, more firmly this time. "We can't do this here."

Finally, he released your hands and stood, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. You both stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to collect yourselves.

"Come on," you said eventually, gesturing toward the small park across the street. "Let's go somewhere we can actually talk."

He nodded mutely and followed you across the street to Riverside Park, the place where you'd had your first official date more than two years ago. It felt surreal, being here with him again, like stepping back in time. The trees were different—autumn instead of spring—but everything else was exactly the same. The same bench where he'd nervously asked if he could kiss you, the same pond where you'd fed ducks on lazy Sunday mornings.

You sat down heavily on your old bench, and after a moment's hesitation, Mingyu sat beside you, careful to leave space between you.

"I'm seeing someone," you said suddenly, the words coming out in a rush.

Mingyu went very still beside you. "Oh."

"It's not serious yet," you continued, staring out at the pond. "We've only been on a few dates. But he's... he's a good man. He's stable, and he knows what he wants, and he's not afraid of commitment."

"Do you love him?" The question was quiet, barely audible.

"I could," you admitted. "In time, I think I could love him."

"But you don't. Not yet."

"No," you whispered. "Not yet."

More silence. A duck paddled across the pond in front of you, and you found yourself remembering all the times you and Mingyu had sat on this very bench, making up ridiculous backstories for the various waterfowl. It had been such a silly tradition, but it had been yours.

"I fucked up," Mingyu said eventually, his voice rough. "I fucked up so badly, and now you're going to fall in love with someone else, and I'm going to have to live with knowing that I had everything I ever wanted and I threw it away because I was too much of a coward to hold onto it."

"You didn't throw anything away," you said, finally turning to look at him. "We weren't right for each other. Not then."

"But we could be now." He turned to face you fully, his eyes intense. "I know we could be. I'm not asking you to just forget everything and take me back. I'm asking for a chance to court you again. To prove that I can be what you need."

"Mingyu..."

"One month," he said quickly. "Give me one month to show you that I've changed. If after thirty days you still don't think we can work, I'll accept it. I'll stop asking. I'll let you move on with your good, stable man who knows what he wants."

You wanted to say no. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to say no, to protect yourself, to choose the safer path with someone who wouldn't break your heart again.

But there was something different about him. Something in the way he'd apologized, the way he'd acknowledged his mistakes without trying to minimize them or shift blame. The way he'd gotten on his knees in front of a dozen strangers and begged you to believe in him one more time.

"What would that look like?" you heard yourself asking. "This... courtship?"

Hope flickered in his eyes again, but he was careful to keep his voice measured. "Whatever you're comfortable with. Coffee dates. Dinner. Walks in the park. I want to show you that I can be present, that I can make you a priority, that I'm not going anywhere this time."

"And the other guy?"

"That's your choice," he said quietly. "I'm not going to ask you to stop seeing him. But I am going to do everything in my power to win you back."

You stared out at the pond, your mind racing. This was insane. You were finally starting to heal, finally beginning to believe that you could have a future with someone else, someone who wouldn't put you through the emotional whiplash that Mingyu always had.

But what if he really had changed? What if you walked away now and spent the rest of your life wondering what might have been?

"One month," you said finally, and his sharp intake of breath told you he'd heard. "But I have conditions."

"Anything."

"We take it slow. No sleeping together, no moving back in together, no grand gestures. Just... getting to know each other again."

He nodded eagerly. "Of course."

"And I'm not breaking things off with Joshua unless I decide I want to. You'll have to accept that I'm seeing both of you."

The muscles in his jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded again. "I understand."

"And if at any point I decide this isn't working, you accept it. No arguments, no trying to change my mind, no dramatic speeches. It's over, and you let me go."

"I understand," he repeated, though his voice was strained.

You turned to look at him fully, taking in the hope and fear and desperate love in his expression. "Why should I believe that this time will be different?"

"Because losing you nearly destroyed me," he said simply. "Because I spent eight months learning how to be the kind of man who deserves you. Because I know now that love isn't just a feeling—it's a choice you make every day, and I'm ready to choose you every single day for the rest of my life if you'll let me."

Tears spilled down your cheeks again, and this time you didn't try to stop them. "I don't know if I can survive losing you again."

"You won't have to," he said fiercely. "I swear to you, _____, you won't have to."

You sat there for a long moment, looking at this man who had been your whole world, who had broken your heart so completely you'd thought you'd never recover, who was now asking for one more chance to make it right.

"One month," you said again, and this time it sounded like a promise.

The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise after the longest night. "One month," he agreed.

As you sat together on the bench where your love story had begun, watching the ducks paddle across the pond in the fading autumn light, you couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, some things were worth the risk of breaking your heart all over again.

Only time would tell if Mingyu could keep his promises, if he could prove that people really could change, that second chances sometimes led to happily ever after.

But for the first time in eight months, you felt something you'd thought you'd lost forever: hope.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

[worldsmostesoteric]

"said, 'c'mon superman, say your stupid line!'" ⋆｡°✩

(james gunn superman) jimmy olsen x fem!reader

“well, the intern’s not really an intern anymore. and jimmy’s acting…at least slightly more normal.”

hai!! okay so one i wanna say thank you to all the well wishes on my first post, 100 notes is more than i could’ve ever dreamed of and i’m kissing you all on the forehead rn i’m actually crying thank you. in the spirit of not being a corny mess i’ll move on but know i'm giggling. here is part two to the original jimmy hc post!! this one is longer and i hope you enjoy. this will probably be the last part to this series specifically but don’t worry!! there’s LOTS more in the making hehehehe

i just want to reiterate how much i appreciate you all. seriously. i hope you like this and whatever else i have cooking up :’)

warnings: another fem!reader i’m sorry y’all i promise gn!reader will happen at some point i’m just bad about hyper focusing on specifics and that’s hard to do and still make something vague enough to be gn! i’ll make it up to y’all eventually. otherwise there’s swearing/mentions of drinking and feeling ill (but like as in a cold). also 2nd POV!

back to the setlist | part one & part three

writer!reader who has been working at the daily planet for a few months now, and at least at this point, jimmy can hold a conversation like a normal person. his jokes are even landing. becoming actual friends was not apart of the plan, but you don't mind.

writer!reader who has a built in proof reader, even when lois is busy. she always has time for her favorite ex-intern, but this other luthorcorp scandal really needs addressing and- it's fine. jimmy's here to help.

writer!reader who also helps with his articles, even though most of the time they don't really need correcting. but it's nice to hangout.

writer!reader who gets another cup of coffee made without even having to ask, just cause he noticed and was "on the way." (he was not. he was bored and wanted attention) either that, or he'll say it's payback for when you got him coffee - which was a week ago.

writer!reader who didn't expect all this considering how jimmy used to be. turns out the rumors weren't really true at all, even now when he’s gotten comfortable. he wasn't some womanizing mastermind, just a guy with some inexplicable pull to him.

you hated to admit that it was accurate, and you hated that someone had felt the need to whisper the things about him in the first place. how could the guy who got you breakfast most days and lent you pain killers when you had a headache be some conniving genius?

you watched him spill coffee on himself two days ago when he hadn't slept right. and then there was that time with the umbrella.

how many times is the metropolis weather man allowed to be wrong before they just fire the damn guy? you're contemplating the answer as you stare out the giant windows revealing the outside world to the daily planet office. heavy, fat droplets of water pour down in sheets and pummel the street below. you let out a sigh. not only are you wearing both new shoes and new slacks, you also have no umbrella. it's not really your fault. the weather man's been wrong twice in the past month, and when he's the expert, you believe him when he says it's going to be sunny all day. which is ridiculous, you think, when the city has the funds to turn people into superheroes - but apparently can't afford proper forecasting instruments. forget proper technology, you have a resident metahuman to fly up and check out the clouds himself. there is no reason to be stuck in this situation. lois and clark are content to simply camp out and wait for the bad weather to end, but you had plans tonight. that's why you dressed up in the first place, you're meant to get dinner with some friends after work. and the idea of showing up looking like a wet rat doesn't really appeal to you right now. especially not when your hair and makeup came out so good today. plus you're not sure which of your jewelry will tarnish or not, and you don't exactly want to find out the hard way either. jimmy notices - because of course he does. and before you can even blink he's offering his umbrella to you. he's also ready to go, all of his things packed up in the messenger bag slung onto his shoulder. he looks good today, and it really would suck to see his outfit ruined also. but he hasn't even said anything, he just extends his hand out further when you don't take it at first. "...you don't need it?" you're eyeing it skeptically, like it might be a weapon somehow. jimmy shakes his head, dropping his arm when you accept it wearily. "nope. my subway stop is like - half a block from here, i'll be fine. you said you have plans." he shrugs. you mentioned those plans four days ago and haven't said anything since. and you know for a fact the subway entrance is farther than that. "i owe you, jimmy. like- crazy bad, you're the best." you're smiling, all giddy now and giving him a quick side hug before you can talk yourself out of it. "i'll see you tomorrow!" you tear off to the elevator, leaving him smiling by your desk like an idiot and leaving you giddy and breathless. not really from the running, though.

writer!reader who's starting to dress up more for work now but won't even tell lois why. (and jimmy is getting increasingly more smug about it whenever the rest of them theorize. clark suggests a more positive mindset, bless his heart.)

writer!reader who gets first dibs on nearly all of jimmy's pictures. some of them are front page material even without your accompanying article, but he'll barely even glance at them again if you wave him off. off to the folder they go.

you do eventually take him up on the offer, since the refusal before was just common politeness. and the pieces end up only second to more of clark's superman front-pagers. you're starting to think he's dating the guy or something. how else is he getting all of these interviews when literally no one else can?

writer!reader who has jimmy by her side the second a meeting goes anything other than great just in case it sucks more than you let on. (it does kind of burn when the group as a collective is getting hounded by perry, but you're getting used to it.)

writer!reader who agrees to go out with the gang™ after clark gets another front page article at work, and thankfully it's a friday night and nothing else is going on. whatever other leads you have can wait til monday.

writer!reader who ends up talking with jimmy the whole night, just sitting there and sharing stories while clark and lois giggle. you're not sure why they are, but jimmy can tell that it isn't their normal flirting-giggle. they're plotting.

writer!reader who does the job for them before they even have a plan and maybe has a smidge too much to drink, and once clark disappears off coincidentally when a bog monster starts terrorizing city square the night is essentially over.

writer!reader who wakes up to a thumbs up text from lois and jimmy NOT in her bed (like the gentleman he is), but trying to make her breakfast cause he slept on the couch when you complained about not feeling well.

which has carried over through the night, because this is not normal hangover pain.

when your eyes first open, the house smells like slightly burnt sugar and fruit. you try and move, but it feels like someone's shoved a pound of cotton into your head through your nose. your throat hurts also, and you think this might be the worst combination to get after a night of drinking. you must make a noise or something, since in two seconds jimmy's standing in your doorway and his hands are still damp and smell like your dish soap. "hey, you feeling any better? you were, uh. out of it last night." he winces a little like he already knows the answer to his question, patting his hands off on his shorts. you don't remember taking off your makeup, but there is a vague memory of you changing clothes. which tracks since you're in your pajamas from the night before last. you probably look great right now, all snot-nosed and messy hair. "i don't think i'm just hungover anymore." the sound of your own voice is both nasally and scratchy, and all jimmy does is nod like he understands. "right, right. makes sense. you go back to bed, i'll take care of it." he motions back to your kitchen, possibly on fire, but you don't really care. gravity is your enemy right now, and even sitting up for this long makes your back ache. "why are colds always the worst in this stupid city." you groan as you lay back down, and the last thing you hear is him laughing quietly and leaving your door cracked. when you wake up next, it's to the sound of your front door closing. you don't know how long you've been out for, but the sun has clearly shifted behind your blinds. you're confused until you remember jimmy was here, but now you're sure he's just left. it sucks more than you thought it would. until you hear someone trying to kick off their shoes and the rustling of plastic bags. plus the distinct sound of your microwaving opening and the awkward clinking of bowls and silverware. just what is he doing in there? and then there he is again a few minutes later, standing in your door. he's got something in a bowl, plus a bottle of water tucked in his hand. he sets everything down and tries to help you sit up (as you wave him off and insist you can do it) before handing everything to you and sitting beside your bed. his back is to you, and he doesn't say much. just glances over from his laptop, left on your floor when he ran out, and makes sure you're eating every once in a while. you realize he's alternating between editing an article of his own and reading clark's latest on superman and metahumans in general. when you're finished, he moves to grab the bowl and take everything back to the kitchen. "hey jimmy?" you're settling back down and call to him before he makes it out the door. "yeah?" he stops immediately, ready to help like this is his job now. he's oddly okay with it, he wouldn't have stayed if he wasn't. you're oddly okay with it too. "can you get me some of th' cold medicine? the strong stu-" you start to explain and he cuts you off with a nod and a small smile. "i got some at the convenience store. i can go grab it." he shifts awkwardly on his feet like he didn't just tell you he's the nicest guy you've ever been involved with. "how'd you know that's th' kind i get?" you're borderline asleep at this point, a warm meal helping to soothe the ache in your body as your face is half smashed into your pillow. "saw it in the cabinet." he shrugs like it's obvious. "well-" you fight to sit up. "then how come you bought more if i've got some?" "cause i didn't want you running out. duh."

writer!reader who buys a new wearable strap for his camera as a thank you, even though he looks like he might combust when he opens it. half of it is from lois teasing, the other half is that you did it in the first place.

writer!reader who, now, really doesn't like missing work. "i don't wanna fall behind," except that's just what you tell people.

writer!reader who starts staying late with jimmy just to have a second to exist in together, even if you don't talk much. the silence feels like something to shatter, and it's nice to just know he's there. living, helping, exisiting.

writer!reader who is guaranteed a spot next to him at meetings at this point, even if it's just the core four of you catching up on the latest damage to downtown metropolis and sharing superman theories.

writer!reader who is the last one to know about jimmy's plans to ask her out, considering he went to both lois and clark for ideas and advice first.

writer!reader who says yes, because who can say no to jimmy olsen?