#Strings Theory

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

"it's not that deep" not yet but I've got a shovel and fan theories and digging makes great exercise!

[helpimsleepdeprived]

invisible string theory 2009-2024

[wistful-cheri]

pt2 of this

pt 3

Satoru, who was the most jealous guy when it came to you, could not bear the thought of you sitting next to other guys—guys who were making you laugh. Oh, he’s sick.

Satoru, who stares them down, sending daggers with his eyes. And why are you laughing? They’re not that funny. Definitely not funnier than him.

He hates how much he can’t sit next to you, can’t be the one making you laugh or teasing you, like, no one else is worthy of hearing your cute laugh.

Satoru, who got into a fight with some guy you were starting to get too close to for his liking. Mind you, the fight happened right in front of you, but you were too busy to even notice.

And when you found out it was Satoru and your crush, you couldn’t believe it. You asked Satoru what happened, and he said, “He didn’t want to let go of the ball.”

But that’s not what everyone else is saying…

Satoru, who loves when you get mad at him for getting into too many fights. It lowkey makes him want to get into more because he loves the attention you give him.

Satoru, who walked into the first day of class and immediately sat next to you. How could he not? There was no way in hell he’d let some nobody sit next to you.

Satoru, who, on a school trip to the beach, saw you walk down to the deck and followed you.

You two sat there for the rest of the night before heading back to the bus.

Satoru, who takes a mental picture, the way the sunlight kisses your face making his chest tighten painfully.

You were perfect. This moment was perfect. And god, did he want to kiss you, wanted to tell you everything he was scared to say.

Satoru, who could not keep his eyes off you the entire ride back. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment.

It was intimate. It was just you, him, and the ocean. The way your doe eyes stared at him, like he was the most innocent, precious thing.

And he was. To you, he was.

Satoru, who insisted you be the first one to sign his cast after he broke his arm. He even let you draw cute flowers, never letting anyone else write on it.

Satoru, who knew you didn’t particularly like speaking in public, so just to get you flustered, he’d purposefully pick you during popcorn reading.

Satoru, who always asked you for a pencil, knowing damn well he had like five of them in his backpack. He just loved it when you rolled your eyes, telling him, “Again?”

Satoru, whose eyes never leave you when you walk into the room. His whole demeanor changes as soon as you step foot in class, and his friends just watch and tease him later.

Satoru, who secretly loves when teachers sit him next to you because he’s heard that saying—that teachers know when students like each other. Not that you’d ever like him, he thought, but boy was he wrong.

Satoru, who sent you a DM after it took you two whole days to accept his request.

a/n: he has NOT in fact sent her a dm :( they need to reconnect asap. @lavnder311 @jkslaugh97 pt.2 is up :3

[kxsagi]

helloo ! im the anonymous from before who requested bllk boys reaction to reader opening her new bikini nd it's js a piece of string 😭😭 can i req it again^^ ?

thank youuu !! also any character is fine but pls pls add sae 🙏🙏🙏

“𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐲 (𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲)”

a/n: thank you for requesting again!!! i was sad that i couldn’t do it because my requests were closed at the time, but you waited patiently and requested this funny idea when my inbox reopened! i appreciate the commitment lovey 🫶����

suggestive content inside! 

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, aiku oliver, karasu tabito, ness alexis, niko ikki

isagi yoichi

you’re sitting on his bed, all excited, waving a tiny shopping bag in your hand like it’s your latest victory. 

“yoichi, look! my new bikini came in!” 

he perks up immediately, abandoning whatever training video was on his laptop because his sweet girlfriend in a bikini? that’s his roman empire. 

but then… you pull it out. 

silence. 

he blinks. once. twice. 

“… where’s the rest of it?” he finally asks, voice cracking like a teenage boy who just hit puberty again. 

you hold up the two triangles and the criminally thin string that could barely qualify as shoelace material. “this is the rest.” 

isagi actually stares at it like it’s a bomb about to go off. 

he scoots back on the bed like it might attack him. “that’s not a bikini, that’s a… a dental floss cosplay.” 

isagi.exe has stopped working. 

“yoichi,” you grin, “you don’t like it?” 

he looks personally victimized. “i love you, but if you wear that to the beach, i’m legally required to throw myself into the ocean.” 

the poor guy starts googling full-body swimsuits with UV protection and built-in armor. 

itoshi rin

you excitedly say, “look what i bought!” 

and rin – stoic, cold, emotionally repressed rin – glances up from his phone expecting to see maybe a cute summer dress. 

no. it’s a string. a single, sentient-looking string that threatens his blood pressure. 

he stares. hard. 

his soul momentarily leaves his body. “what the hell is that.” 

you blink innocently. “a bikini?” 

“a war crime,” he corrects. 

he actually gets up and walks around the room like he’s processing grief. “i can’t do this. you’re not wearing that in public. you’re not even wearing that in a mirror.” 

you tease, “what if i wear it just for you?” 

he stops walking. the flush creeps up his neck like a thermometer in hell. “don’t say things like that, ever again.” 

you swear you see him whisper a prayer. 

man’s out here suffering and it hasn’t even touched his skin yet. 

kaiser michael

“liebe, what’s in the bag?” 

“my new bikini!” 

he smirks, smug and cocky, already imagining you in something glamorous and gold. 

then you pull it out. a thread. a thread masquerading as a swimsuit. 

his grin falters for a half second. just one. 

“… that’s your bikini?” he repeats, voice slightly higher than usual. 

you nod proudly. “isn’t it cute?” 

he chuckles, slightly unhinged. “sure, if you’re planning on getting arrested.” 

kaiser crouches down next to you, holding the bikini like it’s some rare artifact. “you’re going to cause a riot in this.” 

he gives it a little tug. “do i tie this? or just whisper my sins into it?” 

but the second you say “i’m wearing it to the beach,” he turns into a clingy, jealous guard dog. 

“okay, well, guess i’m canceling practice. and becoming your personal umbrella. and maybe handing out blindfolds.” 

suddenly he’s emailing ubers, “hi, can we change venues to antarctica where no one will see my girlfriend’s ass? thanks.” 

shidou ryusei

you pull out the bikini, and he is already doing backflips. 

“hell YES,” he roars, snatching it from your hands like you just gave him front-row tickets to chaos. 

he holds it up like he’s just won the world cup. “this isn’t a bikini. this is ART.” 

he’s biting his lip, already imagining the crimes he will commit just thinking about you in it. 

“wear it now. now now now now now–” 

you say, “it’s for the beach, dumbass,” and he gasps. 

“in public? oh, babe. we’re gonna get kicked out. i’m gonna get kicked out. i’m gonna kick myself out.” 

if someone stares? he’s already shirtless, barking, “you like eyeballs, punk? wanna lose one?” 

later at the beach, he’s sitting next to you like a guard dog with rabies, grinning as people trip over themselves staring. 

“yeah, she’s hot. yeah, she’s mine. yeah, i’ll fight you.” 

he’s loving it. and also ready to commit 47 misdemeanors in your name. 

mikage reo

he’s so excited when you mention a bikini. he’s got visions of you lounging in a luxury cabana, sipping coconut water, wearing something pink and cute. 

you open the bag. pull out a suspiciously small bundle. 

reo leans forward. then leans back. then stares at the material in your hand like it just insulted his ancestors. 

“… babe. are you punking me.” 

you hold it up proudly. 

he whispers, “that’s not clothing. that’s a dare.” 

he begins calculating how many islands he can buy to create a private ocean for you. 

offers to take you to a resort where the only other guests are penguins. he’s sweating and smiling at the same time. 

“you look amazing,” he says, voice strained. “but also… jail. i’m going to jail just thinking about this.” 

you wink. “worth it?” 

he slaps a hand over his heart. “debatable.” 

nagi seishiro

he’s lying face-down on the couch when you drop the bikini next to his head. 

“what’s that?” 

“my new swimsuit.” 

he rolls over slowly, squinting at it like it personally offended him. “… you’re gonna wear that? in public?” 

you nod, grinning. “yep. thoughts?” 

he stares longer. “i’ll have to stand up and fight people,” he says flatly. “that sounds annoying. you know i hate cardio.” 

but when you try to joke about not wearing it, he immediately whines: “wait, no, i didn’t say don’t wear it. i just– ugh. i’ll bring a stick or something. smack anyone who looks too long.” 

he pulls a blanket over his head. “wake me up when the swimsuit’s illegal.” 

itoshi sae

you pull out the bikini. 

sae looks up. and then… back down. and then back up again. slower this time. 

his mouth opens. no words come out. 

finally: “absolutely not.” 

you raise an eyebrow. “you don’t like it?” 

he doesn’t blink. “no, i love it. and that’s the problem.” 

he stares like he’s calculating every man who will be breathing in your radius. 

“what do you expect me to do, sit there like a monk while you parade around in dental floss?” 

you grin. “so i shouldn’t wear it?” 

sae sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “… wear it. whatever. just make sure your will is updated.” 

he’s grumbling the whole drive to the beach. “can’t believe i have to punch people for this. i have delicate hands.” 

aiku oliver

he hears the words “new bikini” and immediately beams like a new trailer for GTA 6 just dropped. 

“babe, let me see. i bet it’s sexy–” 

you hold it up. he pauses. he squints. then squints harder. then physically recoils like you just showed him a haunted doll. 

“... what the hell is that?” 

you smile innocently. “it’s a micro bikini! it’s trendy.” 

oliver stares at the thin straps like they owe him child support. “that’s not a bikini. that’s suggestive yarn.” 

he laughs, but it’s the nervous laugh of a man who knows he’s about to enter the gates of hell. 

“okay, yeah, real hot. super cute. very illegal. you gonna wear that in public? where other men have eyes?” 

you: “yeah!” 

oliver, five seconds from calling the coast guard: “cool cool cool. guess i’ll just stand behind you with a megaphone yelling ‘DON’T LOOK’ every five seconds.” 

he pulls out his wallet mid-sentence. “you want a cute cover-up? a towel? a parka? my entire body as a shield?” 

man’s about to go full defender just to body block ogling strangers. 

karasu tabito

you show him your new bikini while he’s mid-sip of his energy drink. he chokes. 

“is that a swimsuit or a shoelace?” 

you hold it up proudly. “this string is going to change lives.” 

he coughs harder. 

“change my blood pressure is what it’s gonna do.” 

karasu stares at the bikini like he’s trying to disarm a bomb. “i don’t even know how to tie that. is it origami? a puzzle? a lawsuit in fabric form?” 

he keeps trying to joke, but it’s masking how panicked he is. 

“are you planning on wearing that in front of people? like, real people? with eyes? and hormones? and no self-control?” 

you nod, smiling. 

he immediately starts pacing like a sitcom dad. “i’m gonna have to fight someone. i’ve never fought anyone at a beach before, but i guess i’m gonna find out how fast sand slows down a punch.” 

you: “you’ll be fine.” 

him: “oh, i won’t. they won’t. you might. i won’t.” 

karasu’s just dramatic enough to fake faint to get you to change. 

ness alexis

you call him over with a little grin. "nessie bear, look at my new bikini!" 

he turns to you, already smiling like a golden retriever with a crush, until you hold it up. 

his smile falters. “… is that the… full set?” 

“yeah! isn’t it cute?” 

ness stares. not blinking. his polite smile twitching like it's buffering. he looks at the two strings and one triangle you’re calling a "bikini" like it personally threatened his family name. 

“i-i love that you're confident. really. i do. but–” he gestures vaguely at the offending garment like it just insulted him in fluent french. “this is barely a swimsuit. this is... minimalist hazard tape." 

you laugh. “come on, it’s fashion!” 

he nods, still looking at it. “no, yeah. it’s nice. great. just enough coverage to keep from getting arrested.” 

his eye twitches as he imagines anyone else seeing you in it. 

then he gets very still. “… you’re not wearing that in public, are you?” 

you: “i was gonna wear it to the beach.” 

ness, smiling but clenching his jaw so hard it’s an olympic sport: “wonderful. i’ll just bring my shovel in case i have to dig a few graves.” 

you giggle. “ness.” 

he leans in real close, voice sweet, barely above a whisper: “i’ll support you wearing whatever you want, angel. but if a single guy even glances in your direction like he’s thinking sinful things, i will kindly ask him to meet me behind the snack shack and throw hands with a smile.” 

then he kisses your cheek and goes back to scrolling through his phone like he didn’t just make a passive-aggressive murder threat. 

he’s your #1 fan. but that bikini? public enemy #1. 

niko ikki

you pull out the bikini and niko immediately short-circuits. 

he stares at it for a full ten seconds like it’s a new species. “... that’s… that’s your bikini?” 

“yup!” 

“… where?” 

you hold it up again. niko’s entire soul flatlines. 

“no no no. you can’t wear that. what if it unravels? what if the wind blows? what if physics stops working?!” 

he starts to go down a rabbithole. “you’re going to the beach like that? where there’s sand? and men?? and sunlight??!” 

he’s panicking. visibly. “you could get sunburned! or worse… catcalled.” 

he’s now googling ‘how to stop time’ and ‘can i cancel summer.’ 

you laugh. “so you don’t like it?” 

he turns red. “i do! i just… don’t want to die of jealousy. or rage. or both.” 

poor baby’s trying to be supportive while having a heart attack at the same time. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[hajimedics]

I'M NOT YOUR DOLL AND I'LL THINK FOR MYSELF AND I'LL LIVE FOR MYSELF

[ro15in]

red string of fate

[dostoslaysky]

has anyone mentioned the invisible string that brought them to the same bar at the same time yet?

[pastelaeqy]

four of hearts

[zelpharofficial]

Red String of Fate

[princessazzi]

I know the general consensus is that Paige and Azzi first met in 2017 during the tryouts for the USA Basketball Women's U16 National Team. However, I still remember a post here suggesting a theory that Paige might have known Azzi even earlier than that as she was spotted watching one of her games in 2016. This has always been my biggest pazzi "what if". I can't help but wonder if Paige and Azzi ever realized they had crossed paths before. Whether they knew it or not at the time, it's something only they can answer — maybe in due time (fingers crossed 🤞🏽)

[dearmyloveleys]

Suho and Sieun being tied by the invisible string theory is so incredibly unspoken about. What do you mean they probably spent months to a year not acknowledging each other’s presence in the same classroom? What do you mean for months, Suho has been sleeping in the classroom until dawn and Sieun is the first to enter the classroom but they don’t interact? All the shared award ceremonies, PE lessons, chem lab practicals? It only takes one accident to set off everything between them.

[cosmonautroger]

Candace Hicks, Notes On String Theory, 2022

[sanska]

Ariadne explaining how to navigate the labyrinth (and after) to Theseus. It’s important, she’s committing treason for you Theseus, don’t look at her like that.

[moonstoast]

can you hear the music?

[orellazalonia]

Can you write a Bucky x reader fic that has the red string of fate/invisible string soulmates theory? I haven’t seen anyone write these and I think it could be kinda angsty and fluffy

Hello there, dear! I loved this idea, very unique. I think this turned out more angst than fluff, but I can definitely write additional follow ups to include more fluff later on! Hope you enjoy it and thank you for the request! Happy reading!!!

Tangled Threads

Summary: You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.4k+

Main Masterlist

You’d never believed in soulmates.

Not really. Not the way some people did, anyway. Like the ones who walked around with hearts in their eyes and poetry in their throats. The ones who would obsess over the faint, red threads that sometimes coiled around their pinkies like destiny’s leash. Or those who made dating decisions based on whether the string tingled or tugged, like a compass spinning toward fate.

You didn’t have the luxury of romantic idealism. Not when your string had spent the better part of a decade ruining your life.

Every time you tried to date someone or every time you flirted with a guy in a bar, went out for drinks, or even let someone kiss you, the string would pull. Tug. Burn. Like it was punishing you. And worse than the pain, worse than the guilt that bloomed inexplicably in your chest, was how it always ended the same way.

Knots. Tangles. Snaps.

The relationship would basically implode. The person would leave, or you would. One guy had even blamed you for making him feel “haunted.” He said he felt like there was always someone watching him when he was with you. Another girl you tried to date had burst into tears during dinner and said she couldn’t stop thinking about someone else, someone she’d never even met.

You didn’t know who your soulmate was and honestly, you didn’t want to. It wasn’t romantic, this invisible leash tied around your soul. It was exhausting. Unrelenting. And frankly? It made you bitter.

So you stopped dating. You stopped looking entirely and threw yourself into work.

As fate would have it, that’s when you were recruited to work logistics for the Avengers.

It was supposed to be your fresh start. You handled team schedules, mission support, resource allocation, and emergency routing. You kept your head down, did your job, and ignored the fact that the red string on your finger never stopped humming faintly.

But then came James Buchanan Barnes, arriving late on a Thursday, trailing quiet steps and old guilt. You watched his arrival from the corner of the control room, fingers curled around a lukewarm coffee mug. He didn’t smile and he barely spoke. He was all shadow and silence, hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. You tried not to look. Tried not to care.

But the moment he entered the building, your string flared. It was like someone had grabbed it from the other end and yanked.

You had gasped as the mug fell from your hand and shattered on the tile.

Everyone turned toward the sound, but you didn’t see them. Your vision had narrowed to the throb in your finger, to the ache in your chest, to the man who hadn’t even looked your way. A stranger. A storm in a suit. You turned and fled the room before anyone could stop you.

That night, you stared at your ceiling, wide-eyed, red string pulsing faintly under your skin. You knew what it meant. Knew it in your gut. Knew it the way birds know where to fly in winter.

Your soulmate had arrived. However, you told yourself it was just a coincidence.

The red string pulsing against your finger? It was reacting to stress. Nothing more. You’d been tired lately, maybe spent too many long nights in the compound and dealing with too many high-stakes missions on the board. That had to be it.

But that lie didn’t hold when Bucky walked by you for the third time that week in the hallway, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed straight ahead; and still, the string pulled.

And it wasn’t subtle. Not the kind of whispering ache you were used to. No, this was worse. The thread practically yanked toward him like it knew him, like it had been waiting years to be close again. Every time he got near, your body reacted before your brain could stop it. Your heart would race. Your lungs would freeze. And that thread would burn under your skin like fate was trying to dig itself out.

So you kept your distance.

You shifted your schedule. You took your lunch breaks earlier. You stopped using the gym after hours and switched to morning training, even though you hated mornings. You turned the other way when you heard his boots in the hallway, and when you had to be in the same room whether it be for briefings, tech updates, or field intel, you sat at the opposite end of the table. Silent and still.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t even look at him. Not that he noticed anyways. Or so you thought.

What you didn’t realize and what you couldn’t see, was that Bucky was avoiding you too.

He had noticed you the moment he arrived, even if he hadn’t looked. Not directly. Not openly. But he’d seen you. You were the one in the back of the room with the broken mug, eyes too wide, mouth set in a line too tight for a casual expression.

And then you’d vanished like a ghost.

He felt… off after that. There was a sensation in his chest he couldn’t name. A quiet wrongness. Something half-forgotten and buried deep.

So he started walking different routes through the compound. Skipping meals he didn’t want just to stay out of the kitchen when you were there. Ducking out of gym sessions early. He didn’t speak to you either. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he felt so tense around you, so hyperaware, but it made him feel cornered.

And afraid.

He’d spent years under control, under programming, under orders. Soulmates were a fairytale. A luxury. Not something made for someone like him, someone HYDRA had hollowed out and filled with blood.

And still… the red string that had dulled during his Winter Soldier days now hummed faintly every time you passed. He refused to look at his hand, refused to follow the string. And maybe you mistook that for indifference. Maybe he mistook your silence for hatred.

So the two of you danced around each other like gravity and defiance, orbiting but never colliding.

But the string? The string never gave up. It tangled tighter. It pulled harder. And it waited for one of you to give in first.

-

When you weren’t avoiding Bucky, you did get to meet a lot of the people you worked with and for. Of course, you weren’t close to many people at the compound.

But Sam?

Sam Wilson had a way of sneaking into your life like sunlight through blinds. He didn’t try to crack you open or ask too many questions. He just showed up.

You bonded over coffee at first. Both of you were early risers, though for very different reasons: you, out of anxious insomnia; Sam, out of habit built in warzones and battles. Eventually, those quiet mornings became more than just caffeine. They became small check-ins. Casual jokes. Breakfasts shared across mission briefings. Banter that made you feel less like background noise and more like a person.

He never pushed. But he noticed. Especially when it came to Bucky.

At first, Sam chalked it up to coincidence.

The way you’d leave a room the moment Bucky entered. The way Bucky’s shoulders would tense whenever he sensed you nearby. How neither of you ever looked at each other, even when seated at the same table. At first, Sam thought maybe something had happened between you like an argument, a disagreement, or maybe even a past mission gone bad.

But then he started noticing the timing.

The way Bucky took the long route to the gym. The way you checked the corridors before turning into them. The way your fingers would twitch toward your covered hand like something itched beneath the skin. The way Bucky kept glancing at his hand when he thought no one was watching.

That was when Sam’s brow started furrowing.

Because he’d seen the red string of fate work before. He’d seen it between two agents back in his SHIELD days, an unspoken bond visible only under certain lights, but always felt. He remembered the tension, the ache, the gravitational pull people fought even as it dragged them closer.

And he saw that same tension between you and Bucky, but worse.

Because you weren’t just soulmates avoiding each other. You were ghosts haunting each other. Two people pretending not to bleed from the same wound.

Even Steve noticed too.

The Captain didn’t say anything outright, he rarely did honestly, but he lingered longer in rooms where you both occupied opposite ends. His gaze flicking subtly between you. He frowned when Bucky avoided eye contact. He narrowed his eyes when you left too quickly, your knuckles white around your clipboard.

Natasha, on the other hand, didn’t bother pretending.

“You’re not subtle,” She told you one evening, arms crossed as you reviewed intel in the common room.

You blinked at her. “About what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “About him.”

You flushed. “I’m not… there’s nothing-“

Nat cut you off with a shrug. “You can lie to yourself. Just don’t expect it to fool anyone else.”

And then she walked off, leaving you burning with the realization that the others weren’t just noticing, they were waiting. Waiting for the moment the string snapped or finally pulled taut enough to bring you both crashing into each other.

However, it was Sam who decided he was done waiting.

You hadn’t noticed how often he brought Bucky into conversations with you. It started off casual at first, asking your opinion on mission tech when Bucky was in the room, suggesting both of you work on the same security drill. You kept dodging it. Sidestepping the awkwardness. Swallowing your discomfort. But Sam wasn’t blind.

One morning over coffee, he finally leaned in across the table and said, “You know… you can’t outrun a red string.”

You stiffened before slowly looking up.

Sam didn’t smile. He just looked at you in a calm and unbothered way, but his expression was knowing.

“Is that what this is?” You asked quietly. “You think he’s…?”

“I don’t think,” Sam said. “I see.”

You looked down at your hand, hidden under your sleeve.

“It’s been burning since the day he arrived,” You whispered.

Sam’s voice gentled. “Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending it’s not there.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

So Sam just nodded once and added, “If you won’t say something, I will.”

You thought he was bluffing so you changed the conversation and let it go.

-

Meanwhile, Bucky was having a considerably hard time as well. He didn’t mean to notice, but he did.

He noticed everything, really. Supersoldier senses, it was a curse he couldn’t shake, a leftover from too many years being trained to sense threats before they moved. But you? You weren’t a threat. Not to anyone but maybe him.

You were the one person he hadn’t been able to read. Not because you were guarded, though you were, but because being near you made something in him short-circuit. Your presence wasn’t like anyone else’s. It was too still. Too loud in a way that had no sound. Like something had been missing in him for years, and you were the reminder of it.

So he continued to avoid you, but he didn’t stop watching.

He noticed how often you sat with Sam in the mornings, how the two of you laughed over quiet jokes and mismatched mugs. He noticed the way you let your shoulders relax around Wilson. Like relax, in a way you never did around Bucky. Not when you saw him. Not when you passed each other in the hall and he kept his eyes on the floor.

You looked safe with Sam.

And it twisted something in Bucky’s chest that he didn’t like to name.

He told himself it was good. Better, even. That you should be around someone like Sam who was someone stable, someone warm. Someone who hadn’t been forged into a deadly weapon like him. You deserved easy mornings and easy friendships. You deserved a soulmate who didn’t have a kill list longer than your entire history. You deserved someone who wasn’t haunted.

He told himself the ache in his ribs every time you laughed with Sam was just guilt. That it wasn’t jealousy. But the thread on his finger tightened every time.

And when he caught the way Sam looked at the space between you and Bucky; the unspoken one, the thread-pulled one, he knew.

Sam knew.

But Bucky still wouldn't do anything about it. Because if he acknowledged it, if he gave in, what then?

What if you hated him for it? What if the string only existed to remind you both that fate was cruel? That the universe thought it was funny to pair a bruised heart like yours with someone who'd broken a hundred others with his bare hands?

So he didn’t speak, didn’t reach out, nor explain why he left every room you were in like it was on fire.

But the rest of the team saw it all. And Bucky could feel the confrontation coming. Like thunder in the distance.

-

It was Sam who finally shattered the stalemate.

You were in the tech wing, running diagnostics on the quinjet for tomorrow’s mission. The lab was quiet, humming with low light and LED glow, and you were just beginning to enjoy the silence when the door hissed open and you heard his voice.

“I thought this hangar was clear.”

Bucky’s voice. Dry, flat, and instinctually distant.

Your head snapped up and there he was. Standing in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, brow furrowed in that perpetually tired way of his. His eyes met yours for half a second before you looked away.

“Sorry,” You muttered. “I’ll finish later.”

You started to pack your tools, but Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t walk in but he didn’t walk out either.

Then, suddenly:

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Both of you turned, just as Sam Wilson stormed through the opposite door.

He looked between you like a fed-up parent catching two stubborn kids refusing to apologize.

“I knew it,” He muttered, pointing a gloved finger between you both. “You two. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” You asked sharply, far too quickly.

Sam gave you the flattest look imaginable. “That ‘I’m avoiding him but also vibrating like a tuning fork every time he enters the damn room’ thing. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

“I haven’t-“

“Yes, you have.”

He turned to Bucky. “And you. Man, you’ve been walking the long way around the building just to dodge someone you haven’t even spoken to.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t-“

“Don’t.” Sam cut him off. “You two are tied together like moths to a flame and it’s getting real uncomfortable to watch. Just talk. Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Sam was already stepping out the door. The door closed behind him like a gavel.

Silence followed, thick and immovable. You didn’t dare move as you were still gripping the edge of the diagnostics console like it could anchor you, but it couldn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

You could feel him.

Even with your back turned, you knew Bucky hadn’t left. You could sense him, feel him, just like always. That subtle magnetic pull low in your gut, the electric hum at the edge of your skin. The red string wasn’t just glowing now.

It was buzzing.

You didn’t need to look to know it arced across the space between you like a live wire. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t ready to hear what he might say. That this wasn’t real. That he didn’t want it. That you weren’t enough.

“…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” He said, voice rough.

The sound of it broke something open in you.

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t. I just…” You swallowed, still not turning around. “I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “That’s not it.”

You turned slowly.

He was standing near the wall, not quite meeting your eyes. His shoulders were tense, jaw set like he was bracing for a punch. Your voice came out in a whisper.

“…You feel it too?”

God, your voice. It hit him like a bomb shell.

He nodded slowly. “Since the moment I saw you.”

You flinched, like that was worse. Like it made things harder, not easier.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel it again,” He said quietly. “HYDRA… what they did to me, whatever magic’s in this string, it… it went silent for a long time. I thought it broke. I thought I broke it.”

You stepped closer, the red between you pulsing brighter. Bucky’s chest ached with the way your eyes held sorrow instead of hope.

“It came back when I showed up,” You stated, not a question. A fact.

He nodded again. “And I ran from it. From you.”

“Why?”

He looked away.

Because I don’t deserve a soulmate, he thought. Because I’ve hurt too many people to believe someone could be mine. Because if I touched you and you pulled away, I think it would kill me.

“I thought…” He exhaled shakily. “I thought the universe was playing a joke. Giving me something good just to watch me ruin it.”

Your gaze softened. That pain in your eyes, that was familiar. Too familiar. He saw himself in it. All the years of pretending you didn’t need the thread. All the little heartbreaks you must’ve carried in silence.

“I thought the same thing,” You said quietly.

You stood inches from him now. The string was glowing full-force, twisting gently between you like it had been waiting years for this moment. You could both feel it pulsing like your hearts hammering in your chests.

You lifted your hand. So did he. And then, finally, you both touched.

It wasn’t magic. Not really. There were no sparks or flashes of light. But the moment your fingers brushed in that slow, hesitant, gentle way, everything settled. The ache. The noise. The burning uncertainty.

It went quiet.

The thread between you pulsed once, deeply, and then simply rested as though it had been holding its breath this entire time.

You exhaled. So did he.

“Hi,” You said softly.

His voice broke around the answer. “Hi.”

Neither of you moved at first. Your fingers were gently wrapped around Bucky’s, his calloused palm tentative against yours, like he wasn’t sure if holding you would make the thread vanish or knot tighter. You half-expected to feel overwhelmed. But instead… everything in your chest finally stopped clenching.

Even though you felt peace, still, you hesitated.

“Just because we’re connected…” You began quietly, eyes flickering to the thread that now glowed with an even, steady rhythm between your hands, “…doesn’t mean we have to do anything. We don’t owe it anything… or each other.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. You expected resistance, or maybe guilt. But instead, he gave you the smallest nod.

“I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

His jaw worked for a moment like he was chewing on the words before speaking them aloud.

“I’ve had enough of people making decisions for me. I’m not gonna do that to you.” He swallowed. “If you want to take it slow—or walk away, I won’t stop you.”

You could see it, feel it in him. That deep, worn-in belief that letting go was the only good thing he had to offer. The way he held your hand like he expected you to pull away at any second.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want to walk away,” You said. “I just… want to breathe for once. And not feel like I’m ruining something just by existing.”

That caught him off guard. He flinched, not from your words, but from the echo of them.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “Me too.”

And the thread didn’t demand anything. It didn’t pull you closer or tighten like a leash. It just existed as a steady tether, a presence, like the quiet hum of a heart still beating after the worst of it has passed. Still glowing. But content, now. Patient.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” You admitted quietly.

“Me neither.”

You hesitated. “But I’d like to figure it out.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. But after a long moment, he held your hand a little tighter almost as a confirmation. You gave him a small smile, finally feeling like you didn’t have to rush toward something. You could just… sit in it. Let the connection exist without a name. Without pressure. Without promises you weren’t ready to make.

The string between you flickered once. Steady and. Not binding. Not demanding. Just waiting. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to wait with it.

[littlejoyss]

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 1

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count: 23k

𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: Everyone gets a golden string on their pinkie that connects to their soulmate when they turn 18. After measuring yours and seeing your soulmate was long away, you thought you would never meet them. Until, one day you go to Korea for work as a fashion designer and find out your soulmate is an idol.

Once everyone turned eighteen, a golden thread appeared tied around their pinky. Most people discovered it at dawn, just as the first light spilled over the horizon, when the string is most visible to the owner.

The string shimmered like a captured sunrise. It never tangled and it never dulled. Where the old tales spoke of a red cord, rough and knotted with destiny, this was liquid gold. From the moment it appeared, society revolved around it.

Golden‑mornings. Families gathered for a ceremonial breakfast, slicing warm honey‑cake to celebrate the new thread‑bearer. There was always an extra place set at the table for the unseen soulmate at the string’s far end.

Length‑measuring. Thrumming with nerves, the newly bound stretched their hands skyward, guiding the filament between thumb and forefinger to gauge its reach. Long meant distant, sometimes oceans away, and short could indicate a lover already in the same room.

The First Pull. Sometime within that first year, the thread would tighten and tug. Legends claimed that if you followed the pull immediately, no power on earth could keep you from meeting your counterpart before nightfall. Most people waited for many reasons, but the bold few who obeyed the first pull were said to find love.

When you turned eighteen, your family did all those. You remember the empty cake slice at the table. You were so excited until you measured.

The string was long. Not just long in the hopeful, “maybe they're in another town,” way. It was longer than anyone in your family had seen before. When you tried to gauge its length, holding it between trembling fingers, it didn’t just stretch across the room, it had vanished straight through the open window, catching the light as it disappeared into the sky like it had somewhere urgent to be. Somewhere far.

You remember your mother’s hands pausing mid-slice through the honey-cake, her smile faltering just a little. Your father reached out instinctively, as if he could comfort you through a touch. But no one said it, not then. Not during the rest of breakfast. Not even when the first sunlight faded, and your string still hadn’t settled into a visible direction.

But the message was clear.

Your soulmate was not here. Not in this city. Not in this country. Maybe not even on this continent.

You smiled politely for the photos. For the relatives who squeezed your shoulder and called your string “adventurous,” “romantic,” “rare.” But later that night, when the cake had been cleared and the ceremonial candle had burned low, you stared at the ceiling and whispered the truth into the dark:

“I think they’re too far away to ever find me.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The Incheon International Airport was busy.

Luggage wheels hummed against polished floors. Announcements echoed overhead in three languages. Perfume from duty-free stores mixed with the scent of brewed coffee and nerves. It was loud and alive, and yet somehow, you felt oddly calm.

Then, your pinky tingled.

Not sharply, not like The First Pull. That had only happened once, many years ago. But the thread was awake again, like it had noticed where you were. Maybe because you were finally closer. Finally within reach.

A sliver of gold danced from your finger, glittering faintly under the airport lights as it tied in a bow around your wrist and disappeared into the terminal's ceiling, trailing out into the Seoul skyline beyond. You gave it a glance, then tucked your hand into your coat pocket before you could think about it longer. You were used to hiding it for your own sake.

“I didn’t come to Korea for the string,” you murmured to yourself, more out of habit than certainty. “I came for the job.”

And that was true. Mostly.

You had been working toward this for years. Late nights sewing until your fingers cramped, dragging your fashion portfolio through every audition room you could find. This show in Seoul was everything: a global fashion week showcase, hosted by one of the biggest design houses in Asia. And you made it. You actually made it.

The gold thread hadn’t brought you here. Your work had.

You clutched the strap of your bags a little tighter as the taxi car rolled through the city.

Seoul blurred past the windows in flashes of neon, headlights, and unfamiliar street signs. The driver was quiet, the radio murmuring low in Korean, and you didn’t mind the silence. Your thoughts were loud enough.

Your body ached from the flight, your stomach growled for something more than airport pretzels, and the only thing keeping you upright was the mixture of caffeine, adrenaline, and ambition humming through your veins.

The thread remained quiet. Dormant. But present.

When the car pulled up to your hotel, you blinked.

And blinked again.

“…Is this it?”

It looked like the sort of place a travel site would generously call “rustic” or “budget-friendly.” Faded letters hung from a cracked neon sign, half-lit and flickering. The entrance was tucked between a convenience store and a karaoke bar that was already pulsing with bass-heavy music. A stack of plastic crates leaned dangerously close to the lobby door. A cat lounged on the front steps, staring at you like even it was unimpressed.

You groaned, dragging your suitcase out of the car with one hand and rubbing your face with the other. “Please let this be a mistake.”

But it wasn’t. You double-checked the address on your phone. Triple-checked. This was the place your agency booked for “temporary creative housing,” whatever that meant.

The lobby didn’t improve things. It smelled faintly of old ramen and air freshener. The wallpaper was peeling in one corner, and the only person at the front desk didn’t look up from their phone until you cleared your throat three times.

You signed the guestbook in silence, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this exact moment. The elevator creaked all the way up to the fifth floor and dropped you off in a hallway lit by flickering fluorescent lights.

Room 508. You turned the key.

And promptly groaned again.

The room was tiny. Like, two steps and you hit a wall tiny. The bed sagged in the middle, the window was stuck shut, and the air conditioner made a sound like it was chewing gravel.

You threw your bags down and collapsed face-first onto the bed. “I didn’t come here for a getaway,” you mumbled into the pillow. “I came here for the show. For the job. For the chance.”

The mattress creaked beneath you like it didn’t believe you, either.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The next morning you awoke far too early, with sunlight forcing its way through the stiff curtains and into your poorly rested eyes. You peeled yourself off the mattress with a groan, hair tangled, and joints stiff from the awful bed.

You got ready quickly, smoothing your best blazer over your shoulders, pinning stray strands of hair back, and applying just enough makeup to look like you hadn’t spent the night silently screaming into a questionable motel pillow. Your portfolio was tucked neatly under your arm, along with the tablet holding your designs and notes for the upcoming Seoul Fashion Week showcase.

By the time you stepped outside, the street was already humming with life. You caught a cab and texted your contact.

Bora Kwon. Your Korean liaison, business agent, and the woman who had helped get your foot in the door here. You hadn’t met in person yet, most of your communication had been through late-night emails and voice notes, but she’d seemed efficient, sharp, and unapologetically blunt.

Ten minutes later, you spotted her standing outside a glass-walled café near the fashion district, dressed in a structured beige trench coat over tailored slacks, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She was typing something furiously into her phone until she caught sight of you.

Then she gave you a brief, brisk, but real smile.

“You must be (Y/N),” she said, immediately holding out a hand. Her English was clear, polished. “You look better than I expected, considering the flight and that hotel. Sorry about that, by the way. Budget cuts. You’re not the first person to complain.”

You laughed softly and shook her hand. “It’s, uh… definitely memorable.”

Bora tilted her head, her gaze quick and assessing. “Well, we won’t let a bad mattress ruin your debut, right? Come on. Coffee’s on me. We’ve got a packed day.”

The two of you slid into a booth inside the café, and within minutes, Bora had pulled out a tablet of her own, sliding it across the table between sips of an Americano.

“The Seoul Fashion Week opening showcase is a month from now. You’re in the final segment, headliner’s guest designer. That’s you. Your collection will follow Shin Jiwoo’s spring line, and precede the closer, Rena Takahashi from Japan.”

Your eyes widened. “I’m between Shin Jiwoo and Rena Takahashi?”

“Yes,” Bora said simply. “And you’re expected to match that level. Or better.”

You blinked, heart thudding with equal parts terror and adrenaline.

She tapped her screen, flipping to a schedule. “Tomorrow, we visit the venue. You’ll meet with the stage team and lighting director. Models have already been cast, you’ll get final say after fittings. Your materials will be shipped and stored in your prep studio at the venue. You’ll want to double-check that everything shipped intact.”

You nodded quickly, trying to keep up. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Also,” she added, casually taking a bite of her croissant, “someone from the press will likely approach you after the first fitting. They always go for the international designers. Don’t talk about the string unless they ask. Even then, keep it vague. No one wants a soulmate scandal overshadowing their line.”

You blinked at that, surprised.

“I… hadn’t planned to talk about it,” you said slowly, glancing at your pinky. The thread was quiet today, almost as sleepy as you were.

Bora noticed. Her eyes followed yours.

“They always wake up in this city,” she said, voice quieter now. “Seoul is filled with gold. It hums with it.” Then she sat back and clapped her hands once. “But, you came for the work. And trust me, this is where everything begins.”

You nodded, shoulders squaring slightly.

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