kaznejis

[kaznejis]

Fish Tank, 2009

Directed by Andrea Arnold

#my dark vanessa enjoyers be like this is all i got…..

[kaznejis]

Michael Fassbender in Fish Tank (2009)

#the body tea in this like he was skinnyyy

[kaznejis]

Peacemaker 1.05 “Monkey Dory”

[kaznejis]

Shame (2011)

[kaznejis]

MICHAEL FASSBENDER as CONNOR O’REILY “FISH TANK” (2009)

#some things are between me god and 2009 michael fassbender

[kaznejis]

MICHAEL FASSBENDER in The Killer (2023) dir. David Fincher

[kaznejis]

Adrian Chase + 🧛🏻‍♂️

requested by anonymous

{+ bonus}

#pookster

[kaznejis]

Make It Fun, Don't Trust Anyone- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader

“I can feel it.” He spoke, refusing to meet your eyes as he visibly failed to prevent his thoughts from spilling, “I could sense the metal as soon as we left the building; I could sense your necklace, the rims of your sunglasses, the iron in your blood, and that ring.”  His words turned to venom at the procurement of the final item, you watched as he grit his teeth; smoothing a hand over his head as his jaw clenched. Anger bloomed at the pits of your stomach in response, anger at his audacity to attempt to stake such ownership over you, “You were gone, Erik.” You spat, turning to him, anger blazing in your eyes; as reflected by the shock upon his face, “What? Did you expect me to wait around like a child? Wait for you to come back on the slim chance that it would happen?”

A/N: Hello! If anyone sees this, I hope you enjoy! If not, this is entirely self sufficing and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Just to note, sorry if the scenes taken from the movie seem a little..rushed? If there's one thing I do not enjoy it's working out how to incorporate existing scenes into canon compliant fanfiction. The struggle.

Word Count: 6,692 / Read it on AO3!

If you'd like to see more from me about Erik- please feel free to send in any requests! :)

The Cuban sunlight had acted as the perfect antithesis to your situation; the gaping hole that had formed and taken a residual spot within your ribcage as you knelt beside Charles, screaming and crying at the lack of feeling in his legs. 

But your eyes had not been upon him. 

You had stared up at Erik, stomach collapsing at his stoic gaze; only remnants of his grief were prevalent to yourself, the person that had known him most in the world. That wretched helmet had sat upon his head, his eyes empty with the melancholy of his own steadfast determination. 

“Join me.” He had whispered, his lower lip trembling as his eyes finally landed upon you; the first time since you had boarded the plane to Cuba. He had reached out then, his palm splayed towards you; hope swimming in his eyes as he beckoned you forward. 

You had simply shaken your head, lips tight and breaths heaving as you held his gaze. You watched as his heart broke, as his eyes glistened and bloodied hands trembled. You watched as he nodded and as he turned away from you. Turned away from the love that you had shared, choosing his own foolish endeavours of revenge over you. Allowing grief to swallow you, you had ducked your head; unable to watch as he walked away, unable to face Charles, writhing in the pain of your lovers’ actions. 

That had been it- you had returned to the school. Welcoming and accepting prospective students; working as an administrator and overseeing the school’s board. It had been good, amazing- supplying a necessary distraction to the heartbreak you had endured and a chance to improve your powers, learn from the experiences of others. There, in your reluctant state of happiness, you had met Adam. 

Adam, the school’s mutant psychology teacher; specialising in mind-based and largely telekinetic powers. Your curiosity regarding Erik’s powers had led you to him, sitting beside his desk; asking question after question. Questions soon turned into conversations and you soon found yourself being courted. All the traditional romances that had never crossed your mind when with Erik had become your reality; constant flowers, gifts, candle-lit dinners as your heels caressed his leg beneath the table. 

Your family had loved him, adored him. They had never met Erik, for obvious reasons, and whilst they were more supportive of your mutant gene than the average family; they had hoped that you would still be able to live the average life. Meaning, that you would acquire the average husband. Your family had practically demanded that you married him despite only being a year into the relationship, the pointed remarks about you being ‘unwedded at such an age’ a constant force at each gathering. 

So, you had. You had adorned the white dress, the large diamond ring, and Charles had granted his blessings by allowing you to host the wedding on the school’s grounds. Everyone and anyone that could have possibly been there had been in attendance, a day simply to forget about the wrongdoings of the past, the present and the future. 

On paper, everything was perfect. 

“Do you ever think about him?” Charles had asked, the night before your wedding, the two of you nursing a glass of scotch each within his office. 

You had exhaled through your nose, a lodge forming at the base of your throat, “No.” Despite the pronunciation of such a small, singular word; your voice had croaked, your chest trembling pathetically. 

Charles had simply nodded, his eyes flickering; his powers catching your obvious lie. “He’s in prison now, you know?” 

You nodded, humming affirmatively, your gut twisting at the reminder. 

“Are you sure you want to go through with tomorrow?” 

“I do.” You smirked, a failed attempt at humour as Charles had only looked back at you with sympathy, “I can’t sit here and say that Erik is never on my mind but… this is for the best.” 

Charles had only nodded, his face twisting as hair fell before his eyes, “He will never bother us again, I will make sure of that.” 

Whilst you had thanked him, smile wide and eyes crinkling as you both raised a glass; you couldn’t ignore the way your stomach had swooped in disappointment. The way your chest had heaved with unbridled pain, simply at the thought of never seeing Erik again. You would wrestle with it for the years to come- the guilt of constantly thinking of another man as you lay beside your husband. 

Your love with Erik had, to simply put it, been enigmatic; fuelled by passion- both by the mission at hand and the way you felt for each other. There had been awful, screaming fights on the worst days and entangled limbs with scratches lining his spine on the best. You had loved him with every ounce of your being, cared for him, yearned for him when he wasn’t there. Whilst you had endured the worst pains of your life with him, you had also been at your happiest. 

It had been toxic, ferocious, you had never known what would come next. 

You missed it every day. 

You passed the feeling off as pure delusion, your mutant gene playing cruel tricks on your mind as the years passed; as you grew bored. Bored of the same mundane life every day, bored of the simple forehead kisses, bored of that house. You and Adam remained within the dark confines of the manor instead of finding a place of your own following the fallout of the war in Vietnam; acting as support for Charles, who had steadfastly begun to dwindle in both his morality and his health. You had used this as an excuse every time Adam had attempted to introduce the necessary conversation of moving on, settling down. Children. You had deflected his attempts every time, claiming that you needed to be there for Charles, that you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t the right time. 

You knew for a fact that the reality lay within your inability to let Erik go, your inability to potentially miss the opportunity to catch a taste of his mere presence again. As the breadth of time since he left and the distance with Adam widened, you thought of Erik more and more. His serrating blue eyes and wicked charm haunted every moment, both awake and unconscious. You yearned for him, worried for him, hated him. You hated him for giving you up so easily, your lack of support in that specific moment signifying the end of everything, defining the status of the rest of your life. Sometimes, during the darkest of nights, the ones where you felt so alone, the nights where the wind howled and the trees drew vines and branches upon the walls- you imagined what it would have been like to join him, to have clasped his hand against yours and allowed him to lead you into the darkness.

Secretly, you knew that following Magneto would have led to your early demise, sometimes you pondered on whether that could have been a better end to your time together than your reality. 

But then, as Spring turned into Summer; as the grounds of the manour flourished in their unkempt state and the sun cast illuminations through the large windows- Logan arrived at your doorstep. A mission from the future, unbelievable if not for the pure conviction in his eyes. Unbelievable if not for the grief that haunted his strong features. 

You had been completely unprepared when Logan had stood from the chair you had offered him, yourself having been perched on the edge of Charles’ crumpled couch; your legs crossed and hands clasped with worry as he had detailed the horrors he had experienced, the horrors that he was there to prevent. He had paced the length of the table, surveying each resident of the room; you hadn’t missed the way his eyes had flickered between you and Adam; his forehead scrunching before his brows raised in amusement. 

“Ah…he warned me about this.” He grinned, flicking a finger between the two of you and scratching at the base of his head. “Kinda weird to see actually.” 

“Sorry?” You smiled politely, head swarmed with confusion, you looked over at Adam only to see he bore a similar expression, “He?” 

“We need to find Magneto,” Logan spoke determinedly, his gaze fierce, his voice taking a tone of finality. He was serious, conviction overtaking the air as the gravity of the situation dawned upon each resident.  

You knew that he was right. 

In that moment, you had been able to do nothing but stand and promptly leave the room; abandon the sound of Charles’ manic laughter that followed Logan’s words, Hank’s doubt that tended to suffocate a room. But most notably, you were abandoning your so-called husband’s silence.  

Somehow, you found yourself curled beneath your bed covers, arms crossed over your knees like a small child; your form shrunken in your fear and heartbreak and doubt, tremors racking your shoulders. As you attempted to steady your breathing, a knock sounded at your bedroom door. Expecting it to be Adam, you promptly rose from your position; scrubbing furiously at your swollen eyelids. 

But to your shock, Logan entered the room. 

“I’m sorry to barge in like this,” He held his hands out placantingly, slowly approaching you as if you were a timid animal, “I know you don’t know me, but I know you, Y/N, very well and… I wanted to check you were okay.” 

You nodded, crossing your arms and biting your lip as you mulled over the words he had spoken since his arrival, “It’s okay… I just- haven’t heard his name outside of my own head in a while.” 

“Erik?” 

You smiled, your heart blooming at his real name, the name you had known him by, “Yes… I’m assuming you know about us; I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve witnessed one of our messes for yourself,” He had smiled at that, his teeth glinting as he chuffed in amusement, though you could only stare at Logan, building the courage to ask what you desperately wanted to know, “When, you know, you were sent here… was Erik there?” 

“Yes.” Logan nodded. 

“Was I?” 

Logan nodded once again, though opted to do so silently this time. 

“What did he tell you about us?” 

Logan laughed properly then, a smile finally breaking across his face, “He told me not to meddle, that your situation is especially… sensitive, at this point.” He scratched a hand across his chin, his expression filled with nothing but pure mirth as he spoke, “Which I can see, seeing as though he’s locked one hundred feet underground and you’re married.” He finished that with a pointed look at your ring finger. 

You nodded, that you found yourself unable to match his amusement, unsure of exactly what it was he found funny, “I haven’t seen him in almost ten years.” You shrugged, “When I try to think about it, I don’t even know what he looks like anymore.” 

“But you still think about him?” 

You sighed, lowering your gaze to pick at the loose threads upon your old bed sheets; you had always been reluctant to get rid of them, the memories that they held with Erik remained too precious. Slowly and timidly, you spoke, “Every day.” 

Logan could only nod, an exhale sounding from his nose, “Well, if I can trust anything from my time knowing you; it’s your ability to give that man hell.” 

So, the following day; with an overly-energised, overly-excited teenage mutant in tow; Hank, Charles, and Logan had embarked en route for the Pentagon.

“Stay safe.” Adam had spoken as he leaned against the entrance to the house, having opted to stay behind; claiming that the house needed to be watched despite Logan being the first visitor in years. You had simply smiled at him, waving goodbye before turning towards the car; you didn’t miss the way the door had immediately slammed, Adam having chosen to waste no time in ensuring your safe departure. He had been quiet since Logan’s arrival, especially since the mention of Erik’s name and your obvious upset in response. 

You feared that despite his promise to protect the house, he would not be there upon your return. 

“I can’t believe you even married that guy.” Logan had mumbled, chuckling to himself and shaking his head as he slid into the car’s driver's seat; you could only manage a meager glare- your doubt regarding Adam had been clear even to yourself. 

Whilst the others performed the monumental task of attempting to free Erik; you had been tasked with organising the transport from the Pentagon and away, far away. You knew that Charles had orchestrated this purposefully, giving you the chance to see Erik as little as possible if necessary. You had accepted without a fight, you feared that if faced with Erik in a dire situation; you would act impulsively, irrationally. You feared that if faced with Erik, you would be able to do nothing but throw yourself into his arms. 

“Not appropriate.” You had mumbled to yourself at the thought, tapping a hand against the car’s wheel; dark aviators high upon your nose as you awaited. Your other hand hung from the drivers-side window, a dwindling cigarette balancing lazily between your fingers; it had been a nasty habit you had picked up in your adulthood, largely to Adam’s chagrin who had banned you from doing so indoors. You began to recognise that the stress of marriage had aged you significantly; the existence of service had overtaken your life in a way you hadn’t predicted. 

Just as you had begun to dwell upon your own disappointing life decisions; a loud bustle of noise exploded from the doors exiting the building’s kitchen; you only had a second to rescue your cigarette and balance it between your teeth before the group rushed to the car. Peter immediately sped ahead and claimed the passenger seat, grinning at you cheekily as he slid beside you; though this was quickly diminished when Logan slammed the car door back open, promptly gathering the teenager by the lapels of his jacket and ejecting him from the seat. You could only guffaw as he promptly plucked the cigarette from between your teeth, taking a hasty drag as the rest of the group piled into the back. 

You refused to glance at the rear mirror.

“Seriously Y/N?” Charles huffed exasperatedly from what you could assume was the seat directly behind you, the rustling of his jacket prevalent as he attempted to get comfortable in the tight squeeze of seats, “This may be a getaway car but it doesn’t mean you can abuse it to your will with your smoking.” 

You gritted your teeth, slamming your foot upon the pedal and pulling out onto the road; en route to the airport. Erik’s presence behind you plagued your mind, causing your fingers to tighten upon the wheel and your toes to curl within your shoes, every hair upon your neck stood ramrock straight as you waited, yearning for him to acknowledge you. 

This was what you had dreamed of, every night for years, and now you couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him. 

A gleam caught your eyes as you drove, suddenly all too aware of your left hand rested on the steering wheel. Your wedding ring still adorned upon your finger, glistening obnoxiously in the afternoon sun. Risking a glance, you rose your eyes to the rearview mirror- only to immediately flick your eyes back to the road before you. 

There, in the middle seat, sat Erik- his cheeks sunken, hollow; the effects of years in confinement were prevalent in his every feature. His skin was pale, almost ghastly; his haircut was shaggy, uncaring. But what shocked you the most, what made you pull your eyes away from the man you loved so suddenly- was the way his eyes, those hauntingly blue eyes, stared straight at you, straight at the ring upon your finger. You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from squeaking in response, the taste of blood plaguing your mouth as you willed yourself to focus on the road, focus on the mission at hand. 

You knew that Logan had witnessed every moment of that encounter, his dark eyes sunk into the side of your face as you determinedly stared forward, refusing to acknowledge any of the people around you. Alongside the stench of smoke, the air in the car was thick with tension- the aura of unspoken words choking every passenger. Even Peter, the usual chatterbox and the one who had spoken your ears off the entire way to the Pentagon had opted to stay silent; instead staring out of the window, his lips twisted in his own display of tension. 

As you drove in silence, you became all too aware of Erik’s presence; you found yourself pinpointing his specific breaths, the crinkle of his prisoner-assigned uniform, the shuffle of his legs against the side of your seat, the nervous tap of his finger against his knuckles. 

It was a miracle you managed to reach the airport. 

Upon saying goodbye to Peter, you determinedly pushed past the front-row seats of the private jet, opting to sit at the very rear of the plane alongside Logan, of which had simply raised an eyebrow and sighed as you lowered yourself before him, “You two are more pathetic than I expected.” He exhibited an air of nonchalance as he lit his cigar, despite the plane now very much being in the sky, and propped open a newspaper upon his lap- though it was prevalent that he found delight in watching the entire situation unfold. 

You raised your eyebrows, shrugging your shoulders stubbornly and sliding back against the base of the chair, “There’s no ‘us two’,” To which you complimented with the use of air quotes, “I am married, Logan.” 

Logan could only laugh at that, shaking his head, a habit he seemed to have picked up in his exasperation at what was unfolding before him, “You do realise I’m from the future right?” 

Scowling, you crossed your arms and opted to sulk at the back of the plane; still determinedly refusing to look Erik’s way- who was now engaging in a heated argument with Charles.

“Do I at least age well?” 

“Of course,” Logan smirked, holding his cigar up in a toast; though he was quickly interrupted by the creaking of metal as the foundations of the plane shook; Erik. Logan jumped forward and immediately threw the two of you to the ground- acting as a human shield as the plane began to tip sideways; Erik’s passion overtaking all rational thought as plates and glassware shattered beside you. 

“You abandoned us all.” He spoke with finality, Charles lay splayed across multiple seats, his hair a tangled mess as he gaped at Erik. You could only pull yourself back into your seat as Charles left for the cockpit, both you and Logan gasping at each other as you attempted to regain your stolen breath.

“So,” Logan grunted, fetching a new cigar and lighting it, “You were always an asshole then.” 

You could only scoff as Erik turned, facing you for the first time since boarding the plane; you noted the way his eyes landed upon anything, anywhere but you. 

“I bet we’re best buds in the future,” Erik smirked sardonically, his voice rough with the sudden severity of his outburst. 

Logan hummed, puffing on his cigar before offering you a puff, to which you politely declined, “Not like me and your old friend Y/N here are.” 

At the mention of your name, his hands spasmed at his sides; his fingers convulsing in a bodily reaction at the mere recognition of your existence. You would have felt excitement, love; if it weren’t for the way his eyes told a different story- cold and piercing as they landed upon you, his cheekbones twitching as he allowed himself a second of eye contact before he abruptly turned, returning to his seat across the plane. 

“Jesus,” Logan mumbled to himself, reclining in his seat and widening his eyes at you; you could only nod. Jesus.

With Erik and Charles opting to keep to themselves, the rest of the journey went swimmingly- immediately upon landing you wasted no time in departing from the suffocating air of the cabin; luxuriating in the deep breaths of fresh, evening air that greeted you. 

“We need to find somewhere to rest.” Charles spoke from behind you, “The drive to the next spot is too long and we’re all exhausted.” He glared pointedly at Erik then, who simply sighed; as you allowed yourself a glance at him, it was prevalent that he too was plagued by fatigue. His cheeks were more sunken than before, his eyes drooping as he visibly struggled to hold himself up. You yearned to reach out, place a hand on his spine and simply hold him, aid him as he wrestled with the weight of the world upon his back. But then, as his eyes turned towards yours, the weight of the wedding ring upon your finger prevailed once again; you could only turn away. 

Hank managed to find a group of last minute rooms at a nearby motel, though as he returned to the reception's waiting area, keys in hand, his nerves were ever-prevalent. “I only managed to get three rooms; two have two beds and another has one, I was thinking-” 

“I’m taking the solo room,” Logan ordered, snatching the key from Hank’s hand and sauntering down the hallway, though not without sending a wink over his shoulder at you. Bastard. 

“Oh-” Hank froze, the other keys dangling from his fingers- you could only watch as he winced, practically praying for you to forgive him with his eyes, “Charles, I doubt it would be safe for you to be with Erik, so I guess…” 

You could only sigh, electing every ounce of confidence you could embody before standing, cutting Hank off once again before retrieving a key from his hand, without turning you spoke, “Well, come on then, Erik.” 

You felt his presence behind you, each of you electing to say nothing as you unlocked the haggard wooden door; its hinges creaking as you pushed open the door. Before you stood two double beds, an only-just-comfortable distance between the two. Nodding to yourself, you entered the room, your fingers twirling the keys nervously as you surveyed the room; you felt the air thicken as the door slammed behind you- you felt like prey finally being cornered by the predator. 

Erik cleared his throat behind you, the sound thick and grating, “I’ll take the bed beside the door; would you like to use the bathroom first?” 

You turned towards him, shocked by his kindness; he could only stare back at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and exhaustion tinting his features. “I- Sure.” You could only croak, opting to briskly enter the bathroom; afraid of irrationality taking over your lovesick mind. Reaching behind the shower’s curtain, you turned on the water before stripping off your clothes, the sound of your ring clattering against the sink as you placed it down caused you to flinch, knowing that Erik would be all too aware of your every move from the other side of the door. 

You took your time in the shower, breathing in the warm steam and collecting yourself after the events of the day, collecting yourself in preparation for the events of the night that was to come. You could do this, even if it meant a sleepless night whilst Erik lay only feet away; whilst the object of all of your nightmares lay only feet away. It reminded you of a night, a night a long time ago; in a motel room just like the one you were in, his skin against yours; his breath hot against the base of your throat as he had slowly stripped you of your clothes, as he had kissed every inch of you. It reminded you of his pants as he pushed into you, his groans as he buried his sweat-coated forehead into the skin of your shoulder, biting and licking and sucking there as you became one. The way that he had moaned his love for you into the skin there, your responsive moans loud and uncaring as you had clawed at the skin of his back, gripped at the hair upon the base of his head- 

Stop; you shut off the hot water, stumbling from the shower as you panted, your cheeks and chest red with warmth as you desperately attempted to remove the memory from your mind. Gripping the porcelain of the sink, you eyed your pathetic reflection; willing, begging, yourself to let this go, let your silly daydreams go. This was reality, your reality. Getting through the night was the only necessity you needed to accomplish, then you could avoid Erik and promptly never see him again. 

You could go back to your husband, back to your life. 

Undeniably however, you couldn’t ignore the way Erik made you feel, the way his mere presence made you feel. Adam’s influence upon you paled entirely in comparison, your obligation to return to him simply one of duty, one to appease your family, one to live the ‘perfect’ life- be the perfect wife. But you craved more, you craved better; for years you had chased and yearned for the way Erik’s slightest touch had made you feel- the way that his love encompassed every molecule of your being; the way that he had branded you for life, rendered unable to ever feel the way you had felt with him again. Your thoughts of Erik made you all too aware of how long you had spent in the bathroom.

How long you had spent, very obviously, avoiding him. 

You emerged from the bathroom in nothing but the oversized shirt you had packed hastily to sleep in; swiping it from the bed due to the short notice you had received in regards to this trip. You felt bare, naked suddenly as you left the bathroom to Erik’s piercing gaze. He sat, fully clothed, lounging against the headrest; allowing a pen to swirl around his fingers, dancing from pointer to thumb as his wrist spun. Entrapped, you could only stand there and stare; stare at the beauty of his powers, at the beauty of him. 

“It feels good,” He spoke slowly, carefully, allowing the pen to drop onto the sheets beside him, “To use my powers again; to feel metal.” 

You nodded, smiling politely, unsure of exactly what to say in response. You opted to stay silent, allowing yourself to walk past him and into your own bed, the crinkle of the duvet loud in the silent room, loud within the silence that was swelling between you. 

“You aren’t wearing it,” Erik spoke suddenly, his voice slicing through the silence; to your shock. Once you recovered, you simply crooked an eyebrow at him, to which he spoke; swallowing his words audibly, “Your ring.” 

“Oh,” You shook your head, staring down at your empty finger, remembering that you had placed it on the sink, “I usually-” 

“I can feel it.” He spoke, refusing to meet your eyes as he failed to prevent his thoughts from spilling, “I could sense the metal as soon as we left the building; I could sense your necklace, the rims of your sunglasses, the iron in your blood, and that ring.” 

His words turned to venom at the procurement of the final item, you watched as he grit his teeth; smoothing a hand over his head as his jaw clenched. Anger bloomed at the pits of your stomach in response, anger at his audacity to attempt to stake such ownership over you, “You were gone, Erik.” You spat, turning to him, anger blazing in your eyes; as reflected by the shock upon his face, “What? Did you expect me to wait around like a child? Wait for you to come back on the slim chance that it would happen?” 

Slowly, at the pit of his lungs, he formed a laugh; his head shaking as his fingers trembled once again, “You think so lowly of me, Darling.” 

“You left me!” You were yelling now, rising from the tangled bed sheets as your chest heaved with anger, heaved with the heartbreak and sadness that had plagued you for the consequent years following his departure, “You left me.” 

“I gave you a choice, Y/N. You chose Charles, you were more than welcome to come with me.” 

You shook your head, scoffing, “Well… if I had gone with you; I would be dead by now.” Your tone held a sense of finality, as supported by your return to the bed as you promptly turned your back to him, curling up under the duvet and refusing to face his reaction to your words. His response followed in the slam of the bathroom door as he promptly left the room; leaving behind the stale air of your own regret. 

It felt like hours as you waited, wondered; hoped for him to come back. Hoped for the two of you to forget the words that had been said, to sleep comfortably in your separate beds and complete this mission as peacefully as possible; to go your separate ways and live your separate lives once again. 

In the depths of these daunting thoughts, you fell asleep; the exhaustion of the day’s tensions taking hold as your eyes slipped closed. You woke, hours later, to the moon’s rays spanning throughout the room; a ghostly glow hanging in the air as you rubbed at your eyes, glancing to your side, Erik was fast asleep; his sharp edges and soft hair illuminated in the scant light- you allowed yourself a moment, just that moment, to take him in. Drink in the features you hadn’t faced in almost a decade, the features you longed to reach out towards; to trail a finger down his jaw or scratch a nail upon his hair. His hair was wavy, a slightly damp smell filtered throughout the room told you that he too had taken the opportunity to shower. 

The thought of his broad shoulders and lean back illuminated by the spray of hot water did nothing to help the swarm of doubt swirling within your gut. Shaking your head, you reached into the bag beside your bed; fetching the box of cigarettes stashed within one of the inner pockets. 

Then, barefoot and in just a shirt, you shouldered open the room’s door, balancing a cigarette upon your lip as you did so before promptly lighting it, traversing the motel’s corridors silently before reaching the fire escape. Hoisting yourself upwards, you climbed up the ladders before finally reaching the building’s roof. The night was clear, quiet; the only sounds emerging from the distant highway and subsequent traffic- you listened out for any signs of disruption as you lowered yourself to the roof, allowing your legs to dangle from the side of the building. 

The silence of the night and the goosebumps prickling at your bare arms allowed the tears to emerge; it allowed them to pour down your cheeks, for snot to bubble at your nose and for your lips to tremble with unkempt sobs. You allowed for your hurt to take hold, for your hurt at Erik’s words and actions and simple presence to take hold. But then you allowed your hurt towards yourself to unfold; for allowing yourself to end up here, in this situation- living this life that you had manufactured for yourself. 

You couldn’t go back to that motel room, but most notably you couldn’t go back home. You couldn’t bear it anymore; the stresses of being within that barron manor were becoming too much to bear. If you couldn’t be with Erik, then you would rather be alone; somewhere far away, far away from here. You stewed upon this thought for a long time, as you lit your second, third and fourth cigarettes; it prevailed. 

Just as your fourth cigarette began to dwindle, the slam of a door sounded below you before hasty, alert footsteps lined the hallway. You rose, walking back towards the highest entrance of the fire exit before looking down; listening as the hurried steps continued, haggard breaths accompanying it. Opting to investigate, you lowered yourself onto the platform below before descending the stairs; entering the residential hallway of the hotel. There, at the end of the corridor stood Erik, the obvious source of the worried footsteps as his chest heaved; he was turning in place, visibly searching for something as he rushed down the hallway. 

“What-” You mumbled, slowly walking towards him as he had not yet spotted you. Finally, you decided to catch his attention; concerned as to whether there was some form of danger, “Erik?” You called, a hand shielding your eyes as you peered down the dark hallway. You watched as he froze at the sound of your words, his head snapping towards you as he drank in your presence, your appearance. 

“What the fuck-” He breathed, immediately shaking off his shock and advancing towards you, practically running as he reached you. Entirely unannounced, he swept you up into his arms; shaking as he lowered his head to your shoulder, practically breathing you in as he tightened his hold by the second. 

“Erik, what-” 

“What is your problem?” He pulled back almost as soon as it had begun, his breathing staggered as a blush covered his cheeks; he wore only the black tank top and sweatpants he had been asleep in, his hair a mess upon his head; as if he had just jumped from his bed, “I woke up and- and you were gone, your bed sheets were practically stale with how long you’ve been gone I-” 

“I’m fine.” You assured, catching his hands between your own as an attempt to calm him down; the worry he had been feeling now prevalent within the staggering of his chest and the blush at his cheeks, “I just went to have a smoke I- let’s get you back to the room.”

He nodded, his glassy eyes immediately beginning to droop as he allowed you to use your grasp on his hand to pull him down the hallway. Upon depositing him into his own bed, as you left to enter your own, a tight grip latched upon your wrist; you turned, only to be met with those blue eyes swarming with desperation, “Stay?”

You sighed, nodding reluctantly before crawling in beside him; allowing him to drape an arm over your waist, allowing him to rest his head upon yours. Before your departure, before the decision would be set; you could allow yourself this one thing, this one night of unplagued sleep as his comfort would ward away the nightmares that tended to tinge your nights. 

But, before you could fall asleep; Erik’s voice rumbled above you, “I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

You could only shrug, pressing your nose to his chest as you listened to his heartbeat, “Me too, Erik.” 

He moved backwards then, settling so that his face lay directly before yours; the tip of his nose rubbing against yours with each second breath. It seemed that he could only muster a whisper as he continued to speak, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes grew wet as he spoke, his head shaking slightly as he smiled sadly. 

“Erik.” You whispered, your voice soft with contempt as you raised a hand to his cheek; brushing away the tears that had begun to fall there. Feeling him swallow against your wrist, you could only watch as his eyes flickered downwards, just as your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip. Before you could register, he had moved; his lips pressed to yours as your cheeks grew wet with his steadily falling tears. Your mind allowed nothing else but to kiss back, to shift your leg upwards and to caress his cheek with your thumb. He kissed you earnestly, slowly; as if approaching a terrified fawn, testing the waters as to what you would allow him. You could practically taste the desperation perspiring his tongue, as you assumed he could yours. You would take anything, trade any parts of your wretched souls if it meant that you could feel this forever; feel the warmth of his tongue sliding against yours for every waking moment that remained. 

Erik pulled back then, only to lower himself; his mouth hot and needy against your throat, his hands trailing patterns against the skin of your stomach; becoming exposed as your shirt had rode upwards. His ministrations rendered you only able to lay there and pant; to bask in the feeling of being needed, wanted. Truly, ferociously. 

As he began to paint a trail of kisses down his stomach, something changed; something shifted in his demeanour. His hands, beginning to pull your thighs upward, were shaking and whilst his lips were forming kisses, they were forming words too. As you raised yourself to rest against your elbows, you finally heard the words forming within his mouth, “Please don’t go back to him.” He was whispering, pairing the almost unspoken words with a gentle kiss to the nearest area of skin; he was crying again, his eyes glistening with fresh, unshed tears as he burrowed his face into your skin. It seemed as if he was afraid to let you go, practically burrowing himself into your being, with the hopes that you would stay. 

“Erik, Erik wait-” You spoke urgently, lowering your hand to his chin before pushing him away; he stared up at you through his glassy eyes; his hair ruffled and cheeks rosy. Confusion graced his features at first, though he soon registered the concern in your eyes and realisation visibly dawned upon him. 

He removed himself from you then, moving to sit at the end of the bed; the duvet splayed around his waist as he sat with his legs crossed. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself, wiping at his mouth and running a finger over his teary eyes, “I’m sorry Y/N, I- it’s not my place to tell you what to do.” 

Instantly, you crawled towards him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and settling yourself into the space between his legs; you felt his cheeks crinkle as you pressed kiss after kiss to his face, but you could still sense his confusion, his doubt. “I knew I would be leaving him the moment Logan mentioned your name, whether you were coming with me or not.” You stroked his hair as you spoke, caressing your fingers through the thin tendrils of oaky brown hair that adorned your lover's head. Erik grinned then; his teeth shining as he practically mooned up at you, he kissed you again then; pulling you in and deeper into his lap. 

Before you could push him onto his back, before you could lower yourself upon him and mobilise the groans that would fall from his mouth; he abruptly straightened up, untwining his hand from beneath your shirt and raising it in the air- your wedding ring flew towards the two of you, hanging in the air before Erik made a flicking motion with his fingers; you could only gape as the ring flew through the open window and into the darkness of the night. 

“Erik!” You squealed, hitting at his chest as he laughed loudly, unabashedly. Despite being secretly pleased, you couldn’t allow him to know that. “That was expensive!” 

“I can find you better,” Erik grumbled against your chest, burrowing his head into your shirt and inhaling unashamedly, “That one wasn’t you anyway, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that ghastly thing on your finger.” 

The only response you could have mustered in that moment was to shove him back against the bed; silencing him with the warmth of your own mouth.

#this goes out to the 3 magneto fans that exist #magneto x reader #erik lehnsherr #x men #days of future past #michael fassbender #magneto #erik lehnsherr x y/n #erik lehnsherr x you #marvel #writing x men fic is so funny cause these people old af....LOL #erik lehnsherr x reader #erik lensherr x reader #erik lensherr

[kaznejis]

MICHAEL FASSBENDER as LT. ARCHIE HICOX INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS (2009) dir. Quentin Tarantino

[kaznejis]

The Great Sunshine- Bucky Barnes x Reader (Masterlist)

It seemed that whilst you knew Bucky had been searching for the person you had once been, it hadn’t quite dawned upon you that he would also be searching for the person you had become.

Part 1

Part 2- TBC

Or, read it on AO3!

#bucky barnes x reader #this collage is so sexy i kinda ate..

[kaznejis]

The Great Sunshine- Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part I)

Realisation had dawned upon you in that booth, your fingers stinging as you curled them together, jaw trembling as you scooped up your belongings and escaped the scene. They had done it, the team had finally done it.  Half the population was back.  Which could only mean that Bucky was back. 

Word Count: 3.8K / Read it on AO3 / Series masterlist

A/N- This is a series- once there are multiple parts I will create a masterlist/ link it on this post. I hope you enjoy. :)

The last remnants of dust floated beyond your peripheral as you cast a finger along the shelves mounted upon the wall of the dingy motel room. It had been cheap, quick; no questions asked as the keys had been dropped into your palm, the corners of the frail woman’s eyes tight as she recognised you for the sparks at your fingertips and the static at the ends of your hair. You had simply nodded, eyes downcast as you turned to ascend the stairs layered in patchwork carpet, floorboards creaking as you searched the hallways for your soon-to-be humble abode, Room 208. The door was a dull red, marred with years of use, years of visitors like you; people looking for an escape, an undocumented place to hide. 

Smoked-stained walls surrounded you as you carried out the usual ministrations- check under the bed, within the wardrobes, behind the shower curtain and finally, secure each and every potential entrance point. Routine procedures kept you safe, secure; allowed you to catch at least a portion of sleep each night that would be spent in the unfamiliar room. 

You knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t be here long. The fickle remnants of time that you could grasp were running out, with each day that you made progress- a trail crept behind your every step. You’d catch glances of it in front of your apartment, at your usual table in your favourite coffee shop; frequenting places you had stepped foot in only days prior. 

You were tired, so tired. Your energy depleting with each day of watching your own back, feeling your every footstep being retraced. You had been someone once, an Avenger in fact. Public appearances and intel missions had been the norm- you were appreciated for your agility and mind; tech-savviness and strategy moulded into one. Children dressed as your age appropriate counterpart for Halloween, people cheered as you defeated the baddie of the day; reaching for you and grappling at your suit as they praised the saviour that gracefully descended towards them. Their very own gods among men. 

Then half the population disappeared, half of your friends disappeared. 

He disappeared. 

You had become desperate, everyone had; sleepless nights bled into sleepless days as the remaining ruins of the team searched every corner of intuitive technology and artificial intelligence in order to find something, anything that would get back the people you had lost. In hindsight, it had been a terrible idea, one doomed from the first inkling of a thought. It had been the beginning of the time travelling experiments, a test into the limits of the human body- the first of the tests to require a human subject, to which you had instantly volunteered yourself- pleading and begging with Tony to let you help, let you make yourself useful where you could. Desperation, after all. 

Steves sombre eyes had watched as you were hooked to the machine, wires protruding from your arms and legs and chest, monitors readily waiting to take readings and stabilise in the event of an emergency, You had watched him back, a hopeful smile sent his way- you knew now what he had been thinking, knew exactly who he was thinking of. The man that would never have allowed you to volunteer yourself in the first place, the one that fought to keep you safe- even in that final battle in Wakanda, his hand gripped firmly within yours as he faded away, leaving you with nothing but the cold, empty chill of grief. Nevertheless, Steve had stood back; his form stoic and arms crossed. 

Desperation. 

Tony had given the thumbs up, granted you with an encouraging grin before disappearing behind the screen; Bruce had flicked the switches and pulled down his protective goggles. After that, you could only remember the pain. The spark of a faulty wire having come loose in the blinding light of the team’s excitement, in the blinding memory of the people you had all lost and that you could’ve possibly gotten back. But instead, the electricity had bolted into your body, through your blood and straight to your heart. As the pain coursed through your body, as your chest heaved and your arms writhed, something mutated within you. You would later learn that it had always resided in you, every time you had been back benched for a mission or held back, deemed ‘too weak’ for certain threats in comparison to the superhumans amongst the team, those powers had always been there. A beacon of wasted potential had always bleated within you; readily waiting to be activated. 

If only it hadn’t activated once the world had already ended. 

The failed experiment left you with a constant burn, a constant glow to your being as your powers rushed alongside your blood, beated alongside your heart, its thoughts intertwining with your own. Sparks emerged at your fingertips at the slightest physical touch, lights flickered when you felt anger- your own emotional intensity would be exposed within the glow of your eyes, every time. 

You were insatiable. Unstoppable, you finally felt like you could make a change: truly save people from the dangers of society that remained. At first, you were a sign of hope- a sign that options were still out there, undiscovered equations and new possibilities. Breakthroughs were imminent, the team spent any given moment secluded to the confines of a laboratory- testing any and every possibility they could imagine. But, with new power comes new responsibility. You were a danger to yourself and the rest of the team. Your emotional instability halted your ability to truly hone your craft- the experienced sorcerers within the likes of Wanda and Doctor Strange were gone. Surrounded by scientists and assassins, you could only receive analytical advice- the best ways not to use your powers, how to keep yourself and others safe instead of what you needed to know, how to truly harness it. 

A botched mission had ended it all- a simple intel task into an uprising post-blip gang ending in a field of scattered bodies; your powers had taken a mind of their own as the simple thrust of your hand had shot a line of electricity through the soldiers who had posed only a minor threat. The bodies of young men and young women ricocheting at your feet, electricity bleating from their pores and smoke rising from their skin. The bodies of people who had simply been fighting for what they had believed in, their fear manipulated and twisted into a desire to fight. Not a speck of blood stained your skin. 

You had killed before, of course you had, but not like that. Not that many people at once. 

You were a monster, slowly becoming unable to face the fear that your powers had begun to garner. The fans that had once bounded towards you in the street now kept their distance, flinching at the static of your electricity even if you made no move to wield it. However, the worst was the reaction from your friends, your counterparts, your family. They were wary, far too aware of the instability in the world and far too aware of the sensitivity of your powers adjacent to that, you were a ticking time bomb in a society hanging from mere seams. You were a liability to the team- both alive and dead. 

So, you left. Packed a bag and fled the compound on foot in the dead of night, with a flick of your wrist the electric mainframe was down; effectively disabling the sensors that would have triggered the moment you had left the grounds. 

That was the last you had seen of the Avengers. 

In your wake, the team had seemingly continued on successfully. Only mere months after your escape, you had sworn as an entourage of previous customers suddenly appeared within the dead-end diner you favoured; tables and seats crashing to the ground as people were reinstated back into the universe. Beneath the table, your fingers had crackled with electricity- shock coursing through you as you watched an outbreak of turmoil; people screaming and crying, begging for help as they returned to a place they no longer belonged, the fear they had previously felt in that moment five years ago still remaining. It was almost as if they had blinked, never left at all. 

Realisation had dawned upon you in that booth, your fingers stinging as you curled them together, jaw trembling as you scooped up your belongings and escaped the scene. They had done it, the team had finally done it. 

Half the population was back. 

Which could only mean that Bucky was back. 

Your knees had shook as you clasped onto the side of the Diner’s wall, stomach churning as you imagined him reappearing in that field in Wakanda, grains of his being coursing back into reality in the same way the people in that diner had, his hand still outstretched; clasping onto your phantom hand that he had clutched onto five years prior as the world had ended. You imagined his hair, now long and healthy; the strands flying as he searched for you, his brain muddled with questions of where you were, where the rest of the team was. But you were here, outside of a stupid, greasy diner, and he was out there, alone in an overgrown valley; surrounded by unfamiliarity. 

Your relationship with Bucky was a hard one to define- it had been everything and nothing all at once. Being on the run had been tumultuous, constantly watching your backs- in a world where you couldn’t trust anyone, you had known all along that you could trust Bucky. You lived within a mirage of safety beneath his ever-watchful gaze, basking in both his strengths and his horrors as you leaned upon each other for support. When the suggestion for Bucky to go to Wakanda arose, you readily volunteered to go with him, to help him break away from the demons that resided within. There, you had grown close, too close. Exposing yourselves to each other in both body and soul- nights spent intertwined together on that creaky wicker bed, nights spent with hands in his hair and hot breaths against the skin of your throat. 

“Promise we’ll never be apart,” you had whispered one night, the crackle of the fire sounding nearby your connected bodies, your cheeks warm with love and adoration as you stared up at Bucky, “No matter what.”

He had smiled, cheeks crinkling as a hand moved to smooth your hair away from your face, the move complimented with a kiss pressed to the curve of your exposed shoulder, “Of course, Sweetheart.” His eyes had held nothing but sincerity then, and you had believed it. You had trusted that the world had finally calmed, the serenity of Wakanda weakening your lays of defence. 

You had loved him, really truly loved him. You still did, of course you did- but you weren’t sure how to love someone who you hadn’t seen in five years, someone whose face you could hardly recall. A large, poisonous part of you wished that you had been blipped, lost in the wind so that you hadn’t had to experience the last five years. Hadn’t had to experience the feeling of your own body turning against you, the whole world turning against you. You could have simply reappeared beside Bucky, thrown yourself into his arms and cried into his shoulder- have blubbered out your love for him and pressed your lips to his, smiling against his mouth and celebrated being alive.

But instead, you mourned what had been lost in the event of your survival. 

In the days following the world’s return, you had drowned in the depths of insecurity, the loneliness that had plagued you for five years warped your brain as you lived comfortably in the idea that Bucky wouldn’t come looking for you, that he had simply forgotten about you in the midst of the blip- but whilst you had lived, he had not; that Bucky from five years ago was the same one that had returned. The very same one that had stood in front of your apartment building only weeks later. 

You had stood frozen, but undetected, around a corner; a nearby streetlamp buzzed and flickered as you stared horrified at the man only mere metres away. Your body practically ached with yearning as you stared at him, his hair buzzed and crop; strong shoulders accentuated by the lines of his cotton collared jacket. He stood at the top of the main entrance, a small sheet of paper held aloft in his hand. For a few moments he scoured the selection of buttons, before reaching forward and firmly pressing one. 

You watched in horror as he pressed the intercom for your apartment. 

Obviously, as you were cowering around a corner and not currently within the, no longer safe, confines of your apartment- the subsequent five presses to the intercom went wholly unanswered. Scratching at his stubble, you watched as he turned and walked back down the stairs of the main entrance before spinning on his heel and staring up at the building; a hand shielding his gaze from the bright street light above. You had luckily opted to leave the window closed and curtains open before leaving; no lights on, no sign of life- nobody home. It seemed that Bucky reached the same conclusion as he stared up at what he had assumed to be your apartment, as evidenced by the gusty sigh he released, shoving the piece of paper dejectedly into the pocket of his jacket. 

The moment of reprieve allowed you to seclude into the depths of your mind, how had he found you? It seemed that the covert operations of his Winter Soldier days had never quite rescinded as he had evidently used some form of illegal means to know your location. Bribery, you had assumed, your landlord had been a blood-thirsty money hound; making it his mission to bleed you dry of every spare penny you owned. You held no doubt that he had practically spewed every detail about your life to Bucky the minute the bills had left his pocket. 

Worry had crept through your veins then, up your arms and wringing at your neck- Bucky could not see you like this. You weren’t the same person you had been five years ago; the gleam within your eyes and the volts at your fingertips were evidence of that. There would be too much explaining to do, too much emotional turmoil to unpack, too much anger. You had to run, run from the responsibility and the very ties that had resulted in the circumstances of your life now. 

You had to get Bucky away from the apartment you were about to vacate, lease be damned. 

Manipulating the worry that had settled in your throat, casting tears within your eyes; you reached a hand forward, curling your fingers and reaching your conscience towards a street lamp further down the street; you knew that Bucky had taken on the responsibility of a saviour now, a true Avenger ready to jump to the rescue at any given moment. Your chest stuttered and heaved as electricity coursed through you, a fizzing sensation filled the back of your throat as the lamp’s heat shot upward, the bolts flying from the lightbulb as it exploded- the fuze blowing as sparks rained down onto the street. Bucky reacted instantly, sprinting towards the commotion; allowing you the precious time to run towards the building and jump the side fence, immediately scaling the fire exit and heaving open your apartment’s back window. Despite the weight in your chest, both from the exertion of using your powers and running, you allowed no time to breathe as you shoved whatever you could into a bag. 

Despite your fervour, you managed a split second to glance out of the window; the same one that Bucky had looked up towards. Upon glancing down the street, you froze, horror climbing its way back up into your throat; eyes widening and hands trembling as you realised what you had done. 

Not only had you blown the bulb within the street light, but also its entire electrical mainframe- the large metal structure of the light laying splayed across the street. But that wasn’t what the horror, what you had done was not a victimless crime. A young woman lay trapped beneath the fallen structure, crying and screaming out; her face a sheen of white as her breaths became meagre. A crowd were desperately attempting to lift the metal, Bucky included; his face juxtaposed the woman’s in a way, red and scrunched with exertion as he carried the weight of the entire pillar. You could only hold your breath as the metal was successfully lifted, the crowd parting as Bucky moved in to check the woman’s pulse. Her head went limp then, falling to the side under the exertion of her own pain; that sheen of white melting into a deep grey. 

Gusts of wind trickled throughout the street, moving the hairs of the crowd; rustling the trees beyond which the branches curled and stretched outwards, mimicking the dance splayed upon the volts between each of your fingers. The dance intensified as Bucky looked towards the crowd and shook his head, remorse within the droop of his eyelids as he announced her death- his fingers still attached to the curve of her neck as his mouth crumpled and his opposed hand thumbed at the space between his eyebrows; his own hidden signs of despair. 

That thought was all you needed to kick into action; haul your bags over your shoulder and exit the building- immediately beginning your hike in the opposite direction of the commotion. You were, well and truly, a monster. The first time it had been an accident, but this was no accident. You had pointed your mind towards the light, held a hand forward and manipulated a physical state of matter- that had been a conscious choice. But you knew, worst of all, you knew that Bucky would blame himself for this- blame himself for not reaching her in time, not being able to save her in time. You had caused that. You had allowed your emotions to get the better of you, allowed yourself to drown in the depths of your emotions. If merely seeing Bucky caused you to do that, you were a liability when at his side; just as you had been with the Avengers. 

In that moment, you vowed that you would never see Bucky again, that you would travel to the ends of the Earth if it meant avoiding his trail; avoiding the way he made you feel. You would live a traceless life, until the day that everybody finally forgot who you were; left you to live in solitude, punishing yourself for the damage your powers had caused. 

So, that is how you found yourself in that motel, in the room with the dull red door; with the woman at the front desk who had cowered at the sight of your powers. 

Exhausted, you collapsed against the headboard of the old, rickety bed; the springs protesting as you shuffled into a comfortable position before switching on the cranky box of a television mounted upon a rotting wooden desk. You tended to allow yourself small comforts now, it had been two weeks since that fateful day; two weeks since you had last laid eyes on Bucky- though, you had felt him; felt him in the long lines at coffee shops, felt him amongst the shelves in the book store, felt him in the open plains of busy highways as you hitchhiked into the next city. He wasn’t far away, slowly but surely he was catching up. 

And how right you had been. 

As you fumbled with a torn string at the hem of your shirt, the news channel’s usual theme tune sounded; the bright logo casting shadows throughout the dingy room- the showing went through the usual ministrations of showing the weather, discussing the latest news; until the screen cut to two familiar faces. Instantly, you rose from the bed and stood in front of the television; nose practically pressed to the glass of the screen. 

Upon the screen stood Bucky and Sam, both suited up and armed to the teeth; Bucky with his knives and metal arm on show, Sam with his shield- that shield. The sight of it only evoked a bitter feeling upon your tongue, your most prevalent memory of Steve was that of him showing no objection to you being used as a human-guinea pig in the team’s experiments. Nevertheless, both stood before the camera, expressions serious as the reporter introduced the two of them; a banner appeared on the screen detailing both their legal and ‘superhero’ names. 

“So, gentleman, do you have any comments to give regarding the ongoing investigation?” 

Bucky stepped forward, his jaw tight as he nodded, the reporter had to follow his actions with the microphone as he did; Bucky seemingly acting allergic to the technology as he moved away at every attempt of it being within a suitable distance of his mouth, “Upon the jurisdiction of Captain America himself, we vow today- we will take down whoever did this,” Sam nodded, his arm crossed and America emblem prominent as he surveyed Bucky as he spoke, “We believe that this attack is the beginning of a series of similar targeted attacks.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, attacks? You weren’t personally aware of any mishaps; maybe you had truly made it off the grid. 

Sam stepped forward then, his gaze hard as he took hold of the microphone himself, “We believed the attack against Ailene Richards was a targeted one; she was a young woman with a bright future. Our evidence shows that the street light falling was no accident- the remains of the bulb were not only shattered, but they had exploded; the wires within the metal pole were torn to pieces.”

“Captain, are you suggesting that the causes of this attack were … supernatural, one of a sorcerer perhaps?” 

“I am.” 

“These are dangerous claims, how can you be so sure?”

“Because I was there.” Bucky stepped forward once again, his features took a new shade now- vengeance, “I saw that street light fall- those things are built with durability in mind; someone with extreme power, made sure that it landed on top of Miss Richards,” He paused then, his throat bobbing as he made direct eye contact with the camera, those stone-cold eyes piercing into your soul, “I watched as she died, so help me god, I will not rest until her life is avenged. Until I have found the person that did this.” 

Whilst you had never felt so cold- the ice within your body made no move to thaw as the television exploded before you; your skin burning and hair tinged with heat as you simply sat, undisturbed; drowning within the depths of your mind.

 It seemed that whilst you knew Bucky had been searching for the person you had once been, it hadn’t quite dawned upon you that he would also be searching for the person you had become.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #falcon and the winter soldier #marvel mcu #marvel #mcu fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader

[kaznejis]

SEBASTIAN STAN ✧ BUCKY BARNES THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER, 2021 Episode Three — Power Broker

#this is serious

[kaznejis]

Quick reminder that not all fanfic authors write in your language or dialect.

Pigeonholing writers into writing only in a language / dialect that’s not their own only creates barriers for international writers to create fanfic; especially when most LGBT+ rep is found in American shows.

I’ve read fics in multiple languages / dialects and at the end of the day I don’t care that they read differently. I’m just happy to see international writers creating for fandoms we love.

Saying that I still change many words in my fics to Americanise them. E.g soccer, pants, comforter. However I’m not American, so I will never write in American English.

#if you read my fics you are becoming bri ish for the 5 minutes that you read it. very sorry

[kaznejis]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

#i don’t usually reblog fics but the miscommunication wow.. #now this is REAL miscommunication #i just love it this fic is so me

[kaznejis]

LOKI (2021-) | 2.05 / 2.06

#men be like how DARE she move on and finally live for the first time….how dare she

[kaznejis]

I know what I want. I know what kind of god I need to be... for you. For all of us.

LOKI | 2.06 ‘Glorious Purpose’

#big day for annoying people (me)

[kaznejis]

who do you want standing in that door when the lion gets hungry? you're all with me now.