#i hate tagging this im gonna gnaw my arm off

[neoncatz-64]

[tojisun]

Sun!, I would like to start by saying that I greatly admire your talent and ability to write. The way you are able to create stories, is simply fascinating. Every word you put on paper seems to have a unique intensity and depth. Your writing conveys such strong and immersive emotions that it feels like I can feel every feeling, every shiver, and every moment of tension. It's incredible how you capture these elements and convey them in such a vivid and impactful way.

One Of The Girls reminds me of the early stages of the reader's 'relationship' with toxic!biker!simon. Where the reader wants to be one of the girls and fully immerse themselves in Simon's life, even if it's just scraps of an unhealthy love (that never was).

Daylight, oh my God, it's the mid-stage, where the reader is not just with Simon because of his looks... But because she loves him, but at the same time she discovers how much he harms her, but she doesn't want to leave him, she can't, because she always goes back.

Elastic Heart is their final stage in the relationship... As you yourself said, sun, my sunshine. The reader will have a happy ending, but not with Simon. It's when she will realize that their "Relationship" was never so healthy.

So, sun!, look, my future husband, Leon Kennedy. Shhhh... Simon can't know-. But I've already moved on from toxic!biker!Simon-.

This is my husband, my current obsession, the muscles-.

oh my god mocha?? thank you so much for such kind words– im genuinely melting, giggling underneath my blanket and kicking my legs because of how thoughtful and kind this!! because of how thoughtful and kind you are!! im seriously speechless, unable to think past the giddiness rushing through me like, thank you again sweet luv <33

i am so so happy that u enjoy my works! that somehow, along my ramblings and run-ons, i was able to convey the emotions of a specific scene/fic :’> im glad that u get to enjoy interpreting it too!! (especially because biker!simon became such an endearing group project that i adore. i get so heart-achingly happy when i see ur guys’ asks n links n tags!!!)

time for the songs:

OH MY GOD??? ONE OF THE GIRLS BEING READER BEGGING SIMON FOR A SCRAP OF HIS AFFECTION – “we don’t gotta be in love / i don’t gotta be the one / i just wanna be one of the girls tonight” – OH I AM UNWELL!! and the way the song fully presents their ‘relationship’: how it’s a plea from the reader, how she tries finding love from him in something thats only physical and ephemeral, how he extends an inkling affection only to pull away and leave her with nothing. again.

(heaving so bad rn)

I DIDNT EXPECT DAYLIGHT TO BE PART OF THE TOXIC BIKER SERIES BUT I SEE IT SO CLEARLY!! “oh i love it and hate it at the same time” – the way she knows their arrangement is harmful to her, and the way she knows it’s laughable and pathetic how she’s always the one doing the running and waiting, but she can’t stop because when simon calls her, sometimes she thinks it’s love. AND the part that goes “hiding all of our sins from the daylight / … / you and i drink poison from the same vine” SHOWING THE WAY SIMON NEVER BRINGS HER TO HIS HOME. AND HOW SIMON, for all his tomfoolery and bitching, GRAVITATES TOWARDS HER. HOW HE COMES BACK TO HER TOO.

(im probably gonna gnaw my lip off at this point from how much im biting)

SIA AND ELASTIC HEART IS ALSO SMTHN I DIDNT EXPECT IN THE ROSTER AND YET IT MAKES SENSE HOLY SHIT. “you did not break me (but) i’m still fighting for peace” IS READER WHEN SHE MET PRICE HELLO? the way she was hesitant to trust him. hesitant to like him because she thought, ‘not again’. but then price shows her how it is to be loved. to be prioritized. to be cared for. and yeah she starts letting go of simon and starts forging a relationship with price and!!! SHE WILL BE HAPPY I PROMISE.

(i feel like a marionette. untethered and floaty because this whole.. meta? is so fucking good oh my god)

-

THATS LEON KENNEDY? UM. THE ARMS? THE CHEST?? THE HARNESS??? THE HAIR????

pause.

THE BIKE?????

somethings shifting in my brain hold on hold on hold on hol

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 4: City Of Dreams]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, not really angst but you can FEEL that the angst is coming, pre-angst???

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​  @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

He calls you at home, at the bare-bones flat you share with two Imperial College nursing students; he calls because he knows you want to see the world. He can’t give you the world yet, he can’t quite afford that. But what he can afford are two tickets to the British Museum, which are, incidentally, free.  

Roger shows you the Rosetta Stone, a column from the Temple of Artemis, the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, the River Witham swords, the Benin ivory mask of Queen Idia, Chinese jade, Incan gold, portraits of Anne Boleyn, bronze busts of Hadrian and Claudius, Rembrandts and Da Vincis and Van Goghs. He shows you the treasures of the living and the ruins of the dead, their currency and their gods and their flesh: skeletal mummies of people who walked the earth a millennium and a half before the Mayans, three thousand years before Alexander.

He’s uncharacteristically patient. He takes his time. He studies the maddeningly small words on the displays and asks you which relics you like best, whether they speak to you, what they say. He doesn’t want to leave even when you offer, even when you can see he’s restless for a cigarette, when he drums his fingers against his hip and gnaws his lower lip with those tiny canine teeth. Maybe there’s something else he’s even more ravenous for.

Roger wants to show you everything. There are alabaster-white, echoing corridors roped off for renovations, but that doesn’t stop him. He sprints with you down dimly-lit hallways—your fingers interlaced with his, your hair flying—and raises curtains and murky sheets of plastic to reveal marble faces, Anglo-Saxon helmets, Viking blades, fifth-century scrolls. He keeps watch as you look; and when he hears the footsteps of security guards he pulls you into the shadows, presses you flat against the wall, giggles in whispers as he clasps his palm over your mouth and begs you to be quiet. I’m trying, your gleaming eyes tell him, and when he lifts his hand away his burning sapphire gaze drops to your lips, and you think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him. But at the last moment you turn away, pretend you hadn’t noticed, tell him you think the footsteps are gone.

And the words ricochet perilously through your mind like shrapnel: I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

That once felt like a promise; now it feels like a plea.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have a deeply philosophical question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

John is laying across the studio couch on his back, using your maroon-tights-and-golden-sundress-clothed thigh as a pillow, holding his notebook with one hand and a dulling pencil with the other. You’re working through a pile of the band’s outfits that need mending, denim and leather and knits and polyester strewn over your lap; you are excellent at stitching, whether in fabric or flesh. Every once in a while you twirl a lock of John’s feathery hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “If Brian was a superhero, who would he be?”

“Spider-Man,” you reply instantly. “The limbs.”

“Ahhhh, of course! He’s a regular daddy longlegs, isn’t he?” John begins sketching. “I already have Roger as Thor—blond and ragey, likes to throw things—and Freddie as Iron Man. Innovative and unstoppable. Fearless leader. Shamelessly opulent.”

“How about you?”

John smirks, but maybe he winces a little too. “Doctor Strange.”

You frown down at him. “You aren’t strange, John.”

“I am,” he says simply. “But that’s alright. I make do.”

“I don’t find you strange.”  

“Yes, well. You’re accustomed to patching together damaged things.”

Freddie explodes into the room, his tall black boots clopping on the linoleum floor. He waves his arms hysterically and thrusts his notebook towards you. I need your help, he’s written.

“Sure thing. Ask away.”

He scribbles another line and turns the notebook so you can see. Tell Brian he’s a twat.

You sigh. “Freddie, no.”

Behind the soundproof glass, Freddie, Roger, and Brian have been working on In The Lap Of The Gods: first Roger’s falsetto parts, then Freddie’s piano. This has been no easy task. Freddie is on complete vocal rest after being diagnosed with laryngitis, Brian is recovering from a duodenal ulcer (on top of his residual fatigue from hepatitis), and they’re all ready to strangle each other. Freddie opens his mouth to protest.

“Don’t you dare!” you cry, leaping to your feet. You start a fresh pot of tea on the hotplate and grab the flashlight from your bag. You’ve registered with a London-based travel nurse agency and, after heavy lobbying from Freddie and Roger, have officially been signed with the record company as Queen’s tour nurse. Assuming, of course, that the next tour ever happens. “Let me see.”

Freddie reluctantly plops down onto the couch so you can shine the flashlight down his inflamed throat.

“I better not find out you’ve been bitching at people,” you tell him. Freddie winks and flips his hair.

From the other side of the glass, you can see Roger jabbing an index finger at Brian, shouting, swearing, needling until Brian flings his hands into the air and stomps out of the studio.

“Well,” John says. “I’m glad that’s going well.”

You aren’t terribly alarmed; you’ve seen this before. Brian will spend a few minutes outside, pacing and muttering to himself under the sweltering August sky, and eventually he’ll right himself again—like a sailboat gaining traction in a storm—and return for round two or twelve or twenty. You pour Freddie a cup of piping hot tea with honey and slip into the live room, Freddie and John following behind you.

“How are things?” John asks cheerfully.

Roger is wearing a half-unbuttoned leopard print shirt, tight black leather pants, and black sweatbands on both wrists that he tugs at when he’s frustrated. He snorts in reply and rolls his eyes. Then he glances over at Brian’s Red Special. The guitar has been left unattended on its stand, shining and forbidden. Oh no.

“I wouldn’t,” John cautions.

But Roger does: he pulls the Red Special into his lap and begins to pluck away at it. You recognize the mournful intro riff of Stairway To Heaven. John whistles nervously. Freddie crosses his arms over his chest and taps the heels of his boots against the floor in disapproval.

“Roger, please,” you say. “Don’t stress the man out, you’ll give him another ulcer. You realize if he sees this he’s going to murder you. Hack you into tiny bits. We’ll never find all the pieces.”

Roger laughs. “Calm down, nothing’s gonna happen—” And then, as soon as he begins to adjust it, a tuning key pops off the head and rolls away. Freddie’s teacup shatters as it tumbles out of his grasp. Roger gapes at you and John and Freddie, horrified. “Oh no.”

“Roger!” you yelp, palms cupping your flushing cheeks.

John scoops the tuning key off the floor and rushes to Roger’s side. “Give it to me.”

Roger shoves the Red Special into John’s outstretched arms and begins hyperventilating, yanking at blond hair that you’ve learned is the product of cheap boxed dye. “Oh my god, Brian’s gonna...he’s...he’s...he’s gonna...”

Freddie bolts through the door and disappears outside, still clutching his notebook; he’ll try to delay Brian as long as he can. You wonder if you should join him, if that would make Brian even more suspicious, if there’s anything you can do. Roger paces like a lion behind iron bars.

John says softly as he works: “If I can’t fix it before Brian comes back, I’ll tell him I did it. He already hates me.” That’s not exactly true, and you all know it; but Brian and John clash better and connect worse than any of the rest of them. You marvel, momentarily, at how it can be possible for you to care so consumingly for four men who are so astronomically different. Ah, but perhaps you don’t care for them all in the same way.

“I can’t let you do that, Deaks,” Rog replies. Beads of perspiration are springing up along his temples, his collarbones, his neck. Don’t look, you tell yourself, feeling something scalding and hungry rippling through your skin like goosebumps.

“What can I do?” you ask desperately. “John, can I help...?”

“Almost there.” John is twisting the tuning key. You hear thumping against the door.

“Freddie, move!” Brian is shouting outside. “Move! What are you doing? What are they up to in there?!”

There’s a frantic commotion as John and Roger rush for the guitar stand. You spin to watch the door as it opens. Brian steps inside, his hawkish eyes narrowed. A frazzled Freddie materializes behind him. Your gaze darts back to the Red Special. It’s resting on the guitar stand where Brian left it, orderly and fully intact. Roger and John are chatting nonchalantly by the drum kit and trying to conceal the fact that they’re gasping for air. Oh thank GOD.

Brian peers back at Freddie. Freddie flashes an innocent grin. Brian props his hands on his waist and examines the room, taking long determined strides, fidgeting with the beaded choker around his neck. “Roger,” he says at last.

Roger bats his long eyelashes and casts you a knowing smile. “Hmm?”

“Why is there tea all over the floor?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Summer bleeds out, and autumn floods in like the tide. With dying leaves and cutting evening gales come other eventualities as well: a release date for Sheer Heart Attack, Killer Queen’s roaring reception as the album’s lead single, radio play and fanfare and the announcement that Queen’s first world tour will begin on the day before Halloween. So I might finally see some return on investment, you teased Freddie when he told you. He shot back: Just keep my vocal chords humming, bitch.

Tonight you’re at Top of the Pops with the rest of Queen’s usual entourage: Chrissie and Mary, Josephine and Veronica, assorted representatives and assistants from the record company Trident. The show has laid out a spread of fruit and meats and cheeses and cookies—biscuits, you remind yourself, you have to call them biscuits now—and alcohol...including Moët & Chandon, of course. You circle the table with Chrissie, piling free food onto your plate and sipping champagne, chattering mindlessly to distract yourselves from how petrified you all are. Freddie and Brian are still in hair and makeup; Roger is berating the producers for forcing Queen to perform to playback; John is compulsively snacking in some shadowy corner somewhere and avoiding the crowds, presumably with Veronica. You don’t dislike Veronica. She’s polite and gentle and undemanding, if a bit reticent around the band. You don’t think she would ever try to exploit John for the novelty of being with a musician, nor for the possibility of money and fame. But you sometimes wonder how much of John she really sees.

“Is this white cheddar?” Josephine asks as she stabs a cheese cube with a pink foil-tipped toothpick. “Or maybe gruyere? Monterey jack...?”

“I think it’s halloumi,” Chrissie offers.

“Ohhh, exotic!” Jo takes a bite. “It’s good, whatever it is.”

You pop a sliver of pineapple into your mouth. “My goal is to eat at least three of everything. And wrap extras in napkins to smuggle home. It’s a hard life, you know. Roping one’s fortunes to an almost-famous rock band.”

Jo smirks and shakes out her hair: dark, full, freshly trimmed. “I’ll have to live vicariously through you. I’m watching my figure.” She glances pensively down at her svelte body, which is sheathed in a silvery mini-dress.

“Love, you look amazing,” Chrissie says, somewhat pained. You’ve learned that when anyone suffers, Chrissie aches right along with them.

Jo just wrinkles her nose and shrugs. Jo is wilder than Veronica, edgier than Chrissie, less saccharine than Mary, more glamorous than you. She’s the only match you could imagine for Roger; and this brings you down some days, drags you low, sinks you into indigo melancholy. But lately Josephine has been the blue one, the quiet one. And you suddenly find yourself wondering if perhaps there is no match for Roger at all, no perfect counterbalance, no one soul that could tame his anywhere in the world.

“You’re flawless, Jo,” you tell her, but it feels hollow and anemic.

Mary appears, stroking her large gold earrings restlessly. “Fred’s almost done. They want to start in twenty minutes.”

You toss your empty plate into the garbage—rubbish, you amend mentally—and shake the crumbs from your dress. “I’ll go get John.”

You scuttle around the set, checking gloomy forgotten spots and the dressing rooms and broom closets. As you search, Roger finds you.

“Hey,” he says, mostly confidently, a dash apprehensively, his hands buried in his pockets.

“Hi. I’m trying to locate your bassist so you can pretend to perform in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s kind of you. I just passed him, though. He’s with Freddie. Everything is as it should be. Can I talk to you?”

“Um.” You stare at him, confused. “We’re already talking, aren’t we?”

“Yes, alright, true, but I have something important to say.”

“Okay.” You study him warily. Roger clears his throat and glimpses around. The two of you are standing in the shadow of a monstrosity of a lighting rig and are very much alone.

“I just...I wanted to inform you that...um...I’ll be...ah...well, you see...” He shakes his head and forces it out. “I’ll be breaking up with Jo soon. And I just wanted you to know. For you to be the first to know.”

You recoil, stunned. “Why would you break up with her?”

He smiles. “So I can take you out, of course.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. A furious barrage of images cascades through your mind: touching him, being touched by him, whispers in the darkness, rings, chapels, children, and then: Josephine. What it must feel like to be Jo, what the beginning looked like for her, what the end will: scorched earth and desolation. “I’m not interested,” you say, pleasantly surprised by the steadiness in your voice.

“Sure you are,” Roger replies, undeterred. “We’re going to be travelling all over. It’ll be museums and monuments and libraries and natural wonders galore. I can show you the world.”

“I’m really not.”

“Why wouldn’t you be interested?”

“Because I’m not looking to get played. And you seem like someone who might play me.”

Now he’s wounded; those massive pale eyes are glossy. “I most certainly would not.”

“Roger, I’m completely enchanted by you. You’re brilliant and fun and caring and so much smarter than people assume you are—”

“Thanks...?”

“—And you’re a fantastic friend. But if we do this and it doesn’t last...which, let’s be real, it probably won’t...I’ll lose you forever. And the band. And my job. The math just doesn’t work for me.” But, oh god, I’d do anything to rearrange those numbers.

Roger mulls that over, shuffles his feet, lights a cigarette. “I have a list, you know. Not a written list. It’s just in me, a part of me. Here.” He points at his chest. “It’s not long. It’s only things I can’t live without, or things I wouldn’t want to. There’s becoming a musician. There’s leaving Cornwall. There’s finding a band worthy of me. Check check check.” He takes a drag and exhales smoke into the air. “Next there’s becoming a famous rock star, seeing the world, providing for my family. That’s all coming together presently.” His eyes find yours. “You’re on that list now. And once something’s made the list, it never comes off.”

“Not until you’ve had it.”

That knocks Roger back, makes his brow furrow, makes him blink as it rolls through him; because maybe that cuts just a bit too close to the bone. Then his face clears like a cloudless sky and he smiles, brightly, blissfully, as he always does. “I’ll just have to change your mind.”

“You can try.”

He takes your left hand, skates his teeth lightly over your knuckles, grins mischievously. “I’m going to need one last toast for good luck.”

Roger leads you back to the snack table and pours three flutes of champagne: one for you, one for him, and one for Chrissie, who’s waited for you. John, Freddie, and Brian are testing their equipment on stage; Mary, Veronica, and Jo have commandeered spots with the best view and refuse to abandon them. The three of you toast, drain your champagne, and watch the preparations from afar. John is bopping around the stage as he strums his bass, lost in the music in his head.

“Such a strange man,” Chrissie murmurs, although not unkindly.

Roger immediately bristles. “He’s only strange if you don’t bother to try to understand him.”

“Oh hell, Rog, come on, I didn’t mean it like—”

But Roger pushes by her and breezes away. He swipes a pint of beer and a bunch of grapes off the snack table, saunters over to where John is playing, and gnaws the grapes messily as he points and asks John questions.

Chrissie sighs and turns to you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know I adore John.”

“I know it.” And of course, you adore him too. But you have something else on your mind. You tilt your champagne flute towards Roger. “What was he like when he and Jo first got together?”

“Why?” Chrissie asks, eyebrows raised. “You mean...was he the same way he is with you?”

You twirl your empty glass morosely. “Sure. If I am in fact that transparent.”

Chrissie chuckles and rubs your shoulder reassuringly. “Now now, don’t be grumpy.” She lights a cigarette and thinks. “Honestly, no. He’s different with you. More himself, less dramatic. Less always trying to be the dashing playboy. Just pure energy, that enthusiasm he has that’s almost childish. He’s happy. Really happy.”

You nod. “So you think I should give him a chance if he asks for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

You startle and whirl to her, not understanding.

Chrissie smiles tenderly, sadly, wishing she could change it. “He’ll ruin you. He ruins everyone. Now if he asked you in ten years? Fifteen years? Maybe. But if you say yes now, he’ll burn through you like battery acid. He’ll love you until you can’t imagine a world without him, until everything you were before is quarried from your bones. And then he’ll move on. He can’t help it, that’s just who he is. Reckless and wonderful and insatiable. And good luck trying to find anything on this whole fucking planet that can replace Roger Taylor.”

“I understand,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

You watch Queen up on the stage as they count down the minutes until showtime, how Freddie fluffs his hair and checks his eyeliner, how Brian meticulously rehearses his notes on the Red Special, how John and Roger exchange comments and jokes. And it occurs to you how symbiotic they are: Roger bringing passion and dauntlessness and fire, John tempering that when necessary and contributing something so dissimilar and yet vital, something steady and pragmatic and immutable. Brian’s a willow tree, Fred’s a lightning storm, Roger’s wildfire...but what is John?

You can’t decide. Roger is tapping away at the hi-hat and it sounds like a metronome, like something hypnotic, like a spell older than the pyramids.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

[stevesharrlngtons]

120 steve

he’s pampering me, let him be 

not a shot for shot scene (bc u know im not a fan), but may hold slight spoilers for those who haven’t finished st3 yet. but it’s kinda an au? idk, but i hope you enjoy lmao

you were getting sick and fucking tired of coming so close to your death. you were far too young to have seen what you had, experience the trauma that had been dished your way, and have to live forever with the knowledge of interdimensional creatures out for blood.  

and as you sat now in the starcount food court, with blood caked skin, a throbbing headache and the knowledge of possessions, russian spies and more upside down bullshit, you longed deeply for a time when wondering if steve would like your new lip color was your biggest problem. that’s what mattered, not hoping that you would evade monsters and live to see the next day.  

everything just kept happening so fast. in ‘83 it felt like days. in ‘84, weeks. now, you swore you, robin, steve, dustin and erica had been fighting for months, years even. you had to remind yourself continually that it was only friday, and not months in the future. two days ago steve had planned a date for the two of you. nothing fancy, just a movie and burgers at the drive in, but you had been looking forward to it. you had been looking forward to a night off. you were supposed to be swapping spit with your boyfriend in the back of a movie theater, not listening to chief hopper and dustin play rapid catch up on the newest threats.  

you gnawed at your thumb nail, letting your mind go blank and take a rest. you weren’t sure when you’d be privy to another calm moment like this. it needed all the time it could get.

you stayed in your blissfully unaware bubble until you felt a tap on your shoulder. thumb still resting on your lips, you glanced up to see one of the men who had come in with hopper looming over you.

when he saw he caught your attention, he shook his hand at you gently. he held a damp handkerchief and was montioning to your blood covered knees.

“oh, um thank you.” you offered a sweet smile as you gingerly took the handkerchief from the man, who grinned when you took it.

he then turned to the other tag along, muttered in words you could now recognized as russian and looked back to you, smile still intact.

“he says to tell him if you need anything else.” the man informed you.

“uh, alright. tell him thank you?” you breathed an uncomfortable laugh as your eyes darted between the two strange men.

“она говорит спасибо.”

she says thank you.

his grin only widened.

“i don’t think i caught your name, either of you.” you looked between both of them again.

“murray bauman,” he extended his hand which you took, “and this is alexei.”

“(y/n) (y/l/n), it’s a pleasure. though, i wish it weren’t under less threatening circumstances.” you said with a charismatic lit to your voice.

murray relied your words in russian as you shook alexei’s hand, who placed his free hand on the back of your hand clasped in his.

“удовольствие все мое.”

the pleasure is mine.

with him still holding you hand, you glanced over to murray, your smile staying put as to not tip alexei off on your slight discomfort.

“he says the pleasure is all his.”  

“quite the charmer.” you demurely dipped your head.

“она сказала, что ты очаровательный.”

she says you’re charming.

“она очаровательная.” alexei replied almost instantly, a slight blush dusting his cheeks.

murray chuckled, “he says you’re the charming one.”

“did he flirt with joyce this much?” you prompted, turning back to rid the blood from your knees.

“that was jim’s prerogative.” murray scoffed, and you laughed.

“well, it is nice to know that i am the least bit alluring in this state. i feel like i’ve been hit by a truck.”

alexei’s eyes were ping ponging between you and murray as you spoke out of his native tongue.

“так?“

so?

“она польщена твоим флиртом.”

she is flattered by your flirting.

alexei didn’t reply, but his bashful look said it all.

while you cleaned, alexei flirted and murray translated, steve stood watching it all from a far. his eyes narrowed as he watched you laugh and reply back to whatever murray had just said. the russian asshole he was with was giving you some looks steve didn’t approve of. this green feeling wasn’t unfamiliar territory for steve, but he didn’t think he’d be experiencing it here and now, of all times.

you were naturally appealing and attractive to others, you exuded it. people were drawn to you, adored and worshipped you when your orbit caught them. you couldn’t turn it off, couldn’t push people away, no matter the situation. but right now, steve wished you could.

“aye, what do you think they’re talkin’ about?” steve elbowed robin and tipped his chin over to where you sat.

robin observed the scene for a moment before speaking.

“if i had to guess? russian doctor dude is trying to butter up your girl. i can tell from here he’s flirting hard core.”

steve didn’t need any more encouragement than that to stalk across the food court toward to three of you. when he arrived, steve joined in on the laughter, his obviously forced and angry.

“wow, what’s so funny over here? didn’t think the end of the world would be a laughing matter.” steve practically berated.

“well, we were actually just making light of this situation. we’ve done this before, baby. y’know if we get to in our heads, we crumble.” you reached up to take steve’s hand in yours hoping it would calm him, but his resolve only hardened.

“yeah, yeah, yeah, cool, cool, cool. so, shitbag soviet over here ain’t bothering you?” steve glared daggers into a very confused alexei.

“oh, goodey. another man in this group incapable of expressing their insecurities in a constructive way.” murray chimed in sarcastically.

“the fuck you just say?” steve took a step forward and puffed out his chest at murray’s comment. sadly, only proving murray’s point further.

you quickly turned around to the two men behind you and kept a death grip on your boyfriend’s hand.  

“murray, darling. alexei,” he perked up at the mention of his name, “can you both go grab me a cup of ice and something to eat? i’m starved.”

“она попросила лед и еду.” murray relayed.

she asked for ice and food.

“женский мальчик ее разозлил?” alexei asked, worried.

did the feminine boy make her angry?

“нет, что-то говорит мне, что она много занимается этим.” murray snorted a laugh before leading alexei off to find what you requested.

no, i have a feeling she deals with this a lot.

“what? what did they say about me?” steve craned his neck to watch them leave.

“sorry, i didn’t become fluent in russian since the last time i saw you.” you replied.

“well, i know it was about me. commie assholes.” he cursed.

you slapped his leg, “hey! what the hell?”

“those commie assholes are helping us figure this shit out. don’t be an a dick.”

“you’re only saying that because he’s kissing your ass.” steve muttered as he flexed his jaw.

“can’t get mad at him for something you love to do too, harrington.” you shot him a smile.

he looked at you and rolled his eyes, why did your smile have to be so cute? could you stop being so cute for five fucking seconds?

“whatever, it’s still annoying. even robin could tell how thick he was laying it on with you.” steve grimaced, coming to sit next to you.

“he’s pamering me, let him be.” you sighed and rested your temple against his shoulder. as you did, steve slung his arm around you.

“i should be pampering you. not that fuckin’ babushka.” steve brought you closer to him, reveling in your closeness and satiating his protective instinct.

somehow after a day of running from russians, being tortured and sweating from pure fear, you still smelled amazing. god, he hated how perfect you were sometimes.

“let him. let’s me conserve my energy for when i pamper you after this is all over.” you lifted your head briefly to press a kiss to his cheek.

“if we get out of this.”

“we will. this is all gonna work out.”

steve wasn’t so sure. there was still so much that could go wrong. the obstacles were rising and viable plans were dwindling. billy was out there with his army of flayed, ready and waiting to kill them all, and their one weapon was weak and acting faulty. but, steve wasn’t going to let himself be cynical. like you said, you had done this before, side by side and won. so what was a third time? what was the saying? third time’s the charm? he could only hope that applied now.

but in case it didn’t, steve memorized this moment with you. curled to his chest, smelling like fresh air and wild flowers.

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