#i'm sorry to hear life's been chaotic i hope it settles soon!

[galaxywhump]

hey, hope your work and stuff is going okay. life decided to ramp up in chaos but uh here. I managed to get Wren done. He was a fun challenge. Enjoy!

!!!

Ahh Watt I love this so much! Look at my guy :D I'm sure he's doing great.

Thank you so much, you absolutely made my day!

[itsphoenix0724]

Dancing With Shadows (Azriel x Reader)~Chapter 1

Summary: Living your life with a long-distance relationship has never bothered you before, but when you surprise Az with a plane ticket you finally get to see how it works in person.

Warnings: SMUT, phone sex, mutual masturbation?, toys

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Bad Phoenix for starting another series while still having an incomplete one. I'm sorry (I'm not)

The morning light is just starting to creep through the gap in your curtains as you roll groggily over to the other side of your mattress. The Facetime call crackles over the end of the receiver as the brightness of your phone blares 7:00 am into your still sensitive eyes. You can hear Azriel vaguely fumbling with something over the other end, followed by a curse and the line quickly muting itself. You laugh silently, opening the camera and calling a good morning. It’s around noon across the ocean, and your slow rainy Saturday seems chaotic for Az already.  

“Did I wake you?” He asks, face now lighting up your phone screen. You’re taken aback by his beauty for a second, hazel eyes boring into you through the camera. He’s wearing a tight compression top, and his black hair is slightly tousled and damp with sweat. He must’ve been working out. 

“No not at all. I heard a crash, are you okay?” you ask, voice still crackly with sleep. A delightful red color sweeps the highs of Azirel’s cheekbones. 

“I dropped a weight.” He supplies and you can see his shoulders move with a shrug. He sets you back down, now propping up the phone so you can watch him continue to lift. Your mouth almost waters, but you manage to reign yourself in. 

“I wish you would wait for Rhys or Cas.” You can’t see Azriel’s eyes while he’s reclined on the bench, but you’re sure they’re rolling at the mention of his roommates. You move about your own apartment, getting ready for the day. Changing into a comfy set of pajamas you settle in to read comfortably on your couch. 

You never minded the distance between the two of you.

Maybe that’s because it’s always been like this. You’d met Azriel on a dating app after you and your friend got wine-drunk one night and you switched the location to London. The two of you matched and it’s been the best six months of your life. He’s been kind, caring, and better than every guy you’d ever met in New York City.

Obviously, you want to be able to kiss and hold your boyfriend, hopefully, soon you can accomplish that. You bought Az a plane ticket so he’ll end up here for a week over Valentine’s Day. You just hope he’s able to make it, you did opt for a cancelable flight just in case he can’t get time off work, but he works in cyber security so he should be able to take it with him if needed.

You’ve finished your book, and Azriel is cooking dinner on his end of the line. The phone propped up against something on his counter, Cassian walks into the kitchen, clapping him on the shoulder before noticing you. 

“There she is!” Cas steals the phone focusing on his face as he greets you with a broad smile. “How are you, princess?” Azriel snatches the phone back, letting a jealous stream of curses spew out of his mouth. 

You can see him glaring at Cassian but as your laugh echoes back his eyes soften. 

“I’m good, how are you.” Cassian gives a noncommittal shrug, stealing a piece of something off the cutting board before calling his goodbyes. 

“He needs to learn to mind his business,” Azriel mutters but shines a bright smile when you laugh again. 

“You’re such a baby.” You reply, still trying to fight laughter down at his pouting. 

“I’m not a baby, I just don’t enjoy when Cassian flirts with you.” Az supplies moving about the kitchen. 

You enjoy watching him cook. 

You shamelessly ogle his back when he turns to the stove, loving the way the fabric of his shirt accentuates his broad shoulders.  He moves like smoke. Gracefully gliding around the kitchen, pulling different spices and chopping different ingredients for some kind of stirfry. 

Azriel being so good with a knife probably shouldn’t turn you on so much. 

He has to hang up the phone to eat dinner with his roommates, so you blow him a kiss as he promises to call you back when he can. This leaves you to get ready for the little surprise you have planned for him. 

You shower, styling your hair to perfection and applying some makeup before changing into the midnight blue lingerie set you picked out for him. You tie a barely-there black robe around yourself, make your bed, and light a few candles around the room to hopefully set the mood. A wicked idea flashes across your mind, so you make your way to the bathroom and slip a shoulder out of the robe snapping a picture quickly and sending it to Azriel’s contact. 

“A little surprise to unwrap later ;)” It says that the message has been read at the bottom of the screen. Dots line the bottom of your screen, and you bite your lip as you await his response, heat coiling in the pit of your stomach already. 

“What’re you trying to do to me, Sweetheart? I practically choked on my dinner” comes his response, and the previous heat turns practically boiling. A second text comes through a second later “I’ll be done in five minutes. Don’t you dare even think about touching yourself. Wait nice and pretty for me okay?” You double-check to make sure all your toys are charged, waiting patiently for Azriel’s Facetime call. 

You can practically feel yourself dripping down your thighs in anticipation.  

He calls four minutes later. Setting your phone up on your dresser you answer strutting over to the edge of the bed so he can see all of you. All you can hear is the sound of Az’s breathing and the lock on his door clicking shut. 

“Take it off,” he practically growls and you play with the tie before you pull it apart and let the black silk pool around you on the bed. “You look absolutely fucking beautiful.” His pupils blow wide as he looks at you feeling like a goddess with his attention. 

“Do you like it?” You tease, fluttering your eyelashes and sending him a sugar-sweet smile. 

“That’s a ridiculous fucking question, I want to devour you.” His voice is like midnight water, ripples feel like they’re caressing down your spine as you shiver. Even now, even over the phone, it thrums through your chest like guitar strings, reverberating and ricocheting around your rapidly beating heart. 

“Tell me what you want me to do Az,” you gasp out, waiting for him to give you some direction, eager to be obedient. Az takes a moment to admire how the blue lace clings to your skin, delicate gemstones glittering like you’d ripped the stars straight out of the sky. 

“Lay back on the bed.” He rumbles, shamefully stealing an eyeful of your ass as you turn to crawl up to your pillows. “And as much as I love this outfit, I need you to take it off. Right Now.” You strip yourself out of the lace set, tossing it onto the carpet. His eyes blow out as he admires your naked form. You hear Az settle himself on his own bed and the sound of his belt unbuckling makes your mouth water. You’ve seen his dick before, obviously, but you wish that you could wrap your mouth around him right now. 

“Are you touching yourself?” You mutter into the quiet, the sound like a bomb exploding around your buzzing anticipation.

“Not yet.” he grinds out. “I’m waiting for you.” his jeans and shirt hit the ground moments later. You eagerly drink in the dark ink you can see swirling around his collarbones.

“I wanna suck you off so bad.” Your brain goes into that empty fuzzy space that only happens when you and Az do something like this. A pained sort of noise falls out of his mouth, a mix between a whimper and a groan. 

“Are you wet for me?” He questions, quirking a dark brow. You hum your difference, shrugging a bare shoulder. “You don’t know? Why don’t you find out for me?” You skate your fingers down your body, gliding them through your center. Your fingers come away slick with your arousal, and you circle your clit once letting out a breathless moan that makes Azriel’s eyes roll.  

“I want you.” You mumble as you continue to toy with yourself and let your mind run wild. Images flash behind your eyelids, thoughts of Az between your thighs and him pounding you into the mattress so hard his hands leave bruises on your hips. 

“Get your vibrator.” He orders and you slip your hand into the drawer of your right nightstand. You find the pink bullet and flick it to the lowest setting. “Run it down your body, slowly.” Following his instructions you drag the toy down your body until you reach your center. You can hear Azriel’s labored breath as he exhibits self-restraint. He wants nothing more right now than to make you cry with pleasure instead of that toy. “Give me a show now, Sweetheart.” He kicks off his underwear, finally palming his rock-hard cock. 

You do exactly as he asks flicking the vibrator up another setting as you finally allow it to touch your clit. You throw your head back with a moan, fisting your other hand in your bed sheets. You imagine it’s his tongue or his fingers. A thousand fantasies flash in your brain as you push down a little harder, hips canting up to meet the toy, grinding yourself into it. Azriel jerks himself, his own fantasies playing on a loop. He keeps his eyes open though, refusing to take his eyes off of you for even one second. 

He doesn’t even think he’s blinked since the moment you answered his phone call. 

“Az, I wanna hear you cum. Please.” You beg, you need to hear him to get yourself there. Azriel bites back a guttural moan, he’s still having trouble wrapping his brain around the fact that you actually want to hear him be loud. He’s been quiet his whole life, not quite used to having someone who never wants him to stop talking. “Please,” you beg again and he snaps letting a whimper escape out of his lips. All of his moans slip out after that. It’s music to your ears as you turn the vibrator up another speed and slip a finger inside of you, curling your fingers so you can barely skim the spot that makes you see white. 

“I’m close,” he promises and that helps you push yourself toward a blazing crescendo right as Az explodes alongside you. You stand on shaking legs and collect your phone from the dresser before slumping back against the pillows. “You’re amazing,” He mutters into his pillow, eyelids drooping in his state of bliss. 

“I bought you a plane ticket.” you can’t control it as you blurt it out. “For over Valentine’s Day…if you want to come.” it tumbles out, suddenly insecure. 

“You what?” Azriel shoots up shock straight, looking at you with wild eyes. “Are you joking?” 

“No, I’m not joking. I’m sorry if it’s too forward–I can cancel it, I should’ve talked to you about it first.” You curse, already pulling up the airport's website to cancel the ticket. 

“Don’t cancel it.” Azriel cuts in, “Of course I want to come. I’ll be there, whatever it takes.”

[phoenixisdabestwriter]

"Oh come on, you really believe I'll help you out for free?" The male lead on your television said.

"Please! He needs saving!" The female lead screamed.

You soon tuned it out, tapping away on your new phone. You just needed some more background noise for tonight. Even though the rain that was pouring quite heavily usually sufficed as background noise, your brain was running fast, your thoughts almost debilitating and all consuming and the silence of only just having the rain was simply not enough, so you had turned on your TV and settled on some random soap opera.

You checked the last of your messages, giving a final update to your last friend before turning it off and putting it on the coffee table.

Tripping down a steep cliff, breaking your old phone, and then subsequently getting robbed by a fox of all animals and not another hiker was not on your list of how you expected your day to go earlier.

It had been chaotic to say the least.

You turned your gaze away from the ceiling, looking out the window. A clap of thunder boomed, followed by three quick flashes of lightning far off. You sat up, watching as the rain pelted against the window, turning everything into a hazy blur. Exhaustion ebbed at your mind. You were getting tired.

You got up, stretched, and looked down at your remote control, debating if you should keep the TV on or turn it off when there were three loud knocks on your door in quick succession.

You flinched, heart racing as you stood still. Somebody knocking at your door? In this storm? That couldn't be.

But it was, for three more quick knocks followed after a tense few seconds. You scrambled over to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and put it behind your back before tip toeing over to the front door. Just in case if the person knocking was a serial killer or a particularly angry former acquaintance.

You silently cursed as you instinctively checked the peep hole only for it to show nothing because you broke it 6 months ago and had been procrastinating on getting around to fixing it. You took in deep breaths, the cold metal handle of the knife behind your back digging into the flesh of your hand as you slowly unlocked two of the three locks and opened the door, partially peeking through it.

The person standing on your doorstep was soaked through, long dark hair plastered against their dark clothes which you guessed looked like a kimono of sorts and their pale face, which was partially covered by their hair.

"Can I help you?!" You shouted over the rain, hoping the downpour didn't wash away your words.

"I'm sorry to bother, but could I stay for the night?" A familiar voice asked.

One that you thought you wouldn't hear in real life unless you somehow met the voice actor at a convention. You blinked in shock as the man moved his bangs out of his face, an apologetic smile on Suguru Geto's face as he looked down at you.

You closed the door, slowly undoing the locks. This can't be real, right?! He could just be a really good cosplayer with an eerily similar voice as in the anime. Yes, this guy was just most definitely a cosplayer.

Stop overthinking, it's just your nerves, you've had a long day, there's nothing to worry about. You chided yourself.

You opened the door, stepping back to invite him in.

"Come in! Quick, this rain is a mess!" You exclaimed, hoping your nerves were not showing in your voice.

The Suguru Geto cosplayer (?) scrambled in, leaving a trail of water as he entered. You managed to maneuver your body close to a nearby cabinet and gently place the knife behind your back onto it. You stared at the man, who was surveying your house. His black, monolid eyes were calm, not judgemental as he did so.

"Uh... I'll get you some towels! So you can dry off!" You managed to say before scurrying off, not waiting for a response.

You opened the door to your bathroom, hands shaking as you grabbed some towels. He really looked like Suguru. Should you ask him for his name? What if he simply offered 'Suguru Geto' as a name before he decided to murder you and throw your body into a garbage dump? You hated intrusive thoughts but situations such as these made them worse to deal with.

You took the towels quickly, finding him to be in the same spot you had left him in the dim entry hallway, the only lights on in your house being the TV still playing that ridiculously loud soap opera.

You extended the towels towards him, trying for a smile.

"Here you go. Got you some towels."

That was so lame and cringe. You thought to yourself.

The man smiled, which made your heart do a staccato. It was a very attractive smile. He grabbed the towels.

"Thank you very much. Again, I am sorry to bother you but well I got caught up in this storm..." He shrugged, shaking his head. "I certainly wasn't expecting it."

You bit back a retort about checking the weather app and instead said, "Yeah, I understand. The weather around here is a little unpredictable, which is why I stay inside for the most part."

Oh great, you were revealing how much of a shut in you really were. How splendid.

The cosplayer laughed and you almost gasped. He sounded so much like Suguru. You definitely should ask him for his name.

"That is a smart move in living in such areas." His head swiveled around. "Do you happen to have a bathroom I could dry myself off in?"

"O-Oh yeah. Just follow me." You said.

He stayed in step beside you as you walked out of the entryway, into your living room, and then down another hallway, the drip drip drip of water echoing. You stopped at the end of the hallway, pointing at a lone white door.

"There. That's the bathroom. I'll see if I have any spare clothes for you to put on and I can fix up some warm food so that way you don't get sick." You said, smiling.

He looked down at you, nodding slowly. "Thank you very much."

"Of course. It's my pleasure to help out." You stated, turning and then walking away.

You opened a different door, entering the guest room. You flipped the switch and a warm glow encompassed the room, coming from the ceiling light. You went over to the closet, opening the door and rummaging through it. An old friend had left some of his clothes behind the last time he had visited, which looked to be around the size of that Suguru cosplayer's measurements.

You took out a white Henley shirt, black pants, and some black slippers before leaving the room.

You stopped outside the bathroom door, slowly knocking on it. The muffled sounds of grunting and shuffling stopped.

"I brought you some clothes. I'm not sure if they'll be a perfect fit but they're what I have for you." You said.

The door creaked open and your eyes widened perhaps a tad bit. The shirtless cosplayer with only a towel around his waist looked down at you, a playful smirk on his lips. You tried not to stare at his sculpted physique, which still had some water droplets dripping down it.

"Uh, here you go!" You exclaimed, extending your hands with the clothes in them. "I'll get started on something warm for you to eat. Some soup would do you good."

He grabbed the clothes, fingers slowly running over the fabric of them. He glanced down at the clothes and then back at you, chuckling.

"These seem like a near perfect fit, where did you get them?" He asked, tone teasing.

"Oh, they're from an old friend." You supplied, not noticing the way the corner of his eye twitched. You stroked your chin, oblivious. "He left them here last time he visited, which was... hm, quite a while ago. 7 months ago? Either way, the last time I saw him, he had a similar build to you."

"And you could tell that from my baggy clothes?"

"Oh yeah, that old friend taught me how to do so." You smiled absently at the memory before shaking your friend. "I'll go get started on that soup. You change and it'll be ready soon."

"Thanks again for letting me stay out of the rain." He said, almost softly.

"No problem." You said, walking towards the kitchen.

You went to one of the black cabinets, opening it to find a can of soup, well technically stew, available. You took it out, grabbed a small pot and can opener and went right to work.

You hummed as you prepared it, grateful to have plenty of that beef stew (or as you simply just liked to call it, soup) available. It was simple, hearty, and filling. You turned the stove on, pouring the soup in the pot and letting it heat up.

Footsteps sounded from behind and you turned around to see the Suguru lookalike standing at the kitchen entrance, staring at you. With the kitchen lights off, you could see him more clearly. He looked so much like Suguru that it was as if he simply came out of the pages of the manga itself.

"That smells good." He said, walking over to you. "What kind of soup is it?"

"Beef stew." You answered. "I know it's technically not a soup but I don't really care, soup and stew are the same to me."

He glanced at it before looking back to you. "Say, in all of this bit if chaos, I've forgotten to ask for you name. What is it, by chance?"

"Hm? Oh, it's (Name)." You turned to look back at the soup to see the broth boiling. You checked the clock on the stove. 3:25. Just two more minutes then to turn it off. "What's your name?"

"Geto Suguru."

It was almost as if the world tipped with that sentence. That very simply sentence.

"That's... Are you not a cosplayer then? You look like this one character's doppleganger and I thought you might say that character's name instead." You said, hoping the deflecting joke landed.

"A cosplayer? Nah, that's my real name."

You looked back to the soup, which was boiling even more now. You turned it off, silently grabbing a bowl and a spoon from a cupboard.

"Geto Suguru... that's a nice name. Sounds Japanese, are you from Japan?" You said slowly, grabbing the handle of the pot and pouring the soup into the large bowl.

Something in you told you with a certainty that you couldn't even usually deny that this man was the real Geto Suguru and that you had to tread carefully

"Yes, I'm from Japan." Geto said, a charming smile on his face.

"I've always wanted to visit Japan. It looks so nice there." You say, your panic slowly rising as you try to make small talk with a fictional chaaracter who somehow came to life.

"Yeah, it is." Geto tugged at the sleeves of white Henley. He looked extremely hot in the outfit, you had to admit, especially with the way it snugly fit the muscles on his arms. "You've never been?"

"Nah, haven't had the chance to yet. Been pretty busy lately." You put the dirty pot in the sink, turning back to him. "Alright, your soup is done. You can eat it now."

"Thenk you very much, (Name). It has certainly been an experience meeting you."

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Steve Rogers, The Man On Fire

Hey y'all, as Pride month draws to a close I would like to post this fic. It's been in my drafts for a month and I finally today found the motivation to finish it. This is special to me for many reasons, one of which being that I'm proudly a part of this community. Some of the anger written in is my own. I think a lot of people will resonate with it. I really hope you all enjoy this and happy Pride Month <3

This was based loosely off a headcannon and once I re-find it I will credit!

Synopsis: Steve is freshly thawed, queer, and pissed | A.k.a. Steve's experience in 21st Century America

Characters: Steve Rogers, Mentions of Bucky Barnes, (loosely a Stucky fic but Steve thinks he's dead here)

Warnings: Angst but not bad, Steve Rogers being volatile and chaotic (we love), poorly written accents (I literally read this with an accent in my head), literally a 2k monologue

Word count: 5.1k

Steve Rogers came out of the ice angry.

No— not angry— Steve Rogers came out of the ice fuckin’ furious.

He came out of the ice with his hands curled into two fists, with his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were liable to snap, and with a bone to pick with every damn reporter and historian and too loud opinion on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He came out simmering— no, erupting— like the serum in his blood couldn’t keep his body from hibernation all those years ago but it sure as hell won’t keep him from setting the entirety of New York on fire now. He’ll burn it all down if he has to and rebuild it the way he remembers it— the way Bucky would have remembered it— and at the end of it all no one— not the bigots or deniers or the homophobes that seem to be the only thing that came with him from the forties— will be able to say that Captain America can’t love whoever he wants.

No one will be able to say that Steve Rogers didn’t love James “Bucky” “the man I’ve loved since twelve years old” Barnes with everything he had and then some.

No one.

So he starts with the museums in Washington— because sure it isn’t New York but where else would a relic like himself belong more?

He still has hope when he enters the building. They didn’t make them like this when he was a kid— they had science fairs in the town hall and culture fairs in the backstreets near the docks but never anything this grand. No tall marble pillars or enough stairs to make him wonder if he would have been able to climb to the top when he was half the size he is now. It’s strange. It’s kind of wonderful. Yeah, the Smithsonian museums make Steve Rogers feel small for the first time in a very long time and that gives him hope.

That hope doesn’t last long, though, because soon he’s wandering through the halls, following the signs that say Captain America: The First Avenger— what the hell is an Avenger? Is that what they’re calling soldiers these days? Now he feels small and old.

Turning the corner is like landing on another planet, one devoted entirely to him. His picture is everywhere he looks, his name is in lights, even his damn uniform has been replicated and presented on a little stage and he hates it. The rage is back, sparking at his fingers— he’s a match and lucky for everyone this building is made of stone because if it wasn’t he’s sure it would be reduced to nothing but ash by now.

It only worsens as he begins reading through the plaques and the paragraphs flashing across screens on the walls— he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. The more he reads, though, the more he wonders if the stone is really, truly safe from the fire in his blood. He doesn’t think it is.

He surely isn’t at least— he feels like he’s going to explode. This isn’t him— none of this is him. War hero. Martyr. Golden boy. He has to stop reading that plaque— clearly no one did their research. Clearly no one dug up his medical files— or his police records. Brawls at the pub, disorderly conduct behind Mr. De Luca’s sandwich shop, public nudity at the beach that one time— thank you Bucky for the best night of his god damn life. Golden boy— ha.

Golden nobody with the black eye and broken hand is more like it.

For a moment he thinks he’s fine— he thinks it can’t get worse than this. Then he gets to the early life section and for an even longer moment his tongue tastes like gunpowder.

Steven Grant Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his friend James Buchanan Barnes—

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence— not when they already got the most important part wrong. Friend. Friend? No, no, no. No! There are a million words in the english language that Steve could use to describe Bucky and ‘friend’ will never be the first one.

How about best friend?

How about partner in crime?

How about soulmate who loved Steve so much that every night for the past forty-eight days since he woke up in an era that Bucky doesn’t exist in he’s cried himself to sleep with the same cherry cola taste of his ‘friend’ on his tongue.

It’s the final straw— Steve loses it.

“Anyone got a marker?”

The museum is quiet before he speaks but when his voice— steadily rising and taking on that New York headiness that his troops used to jazz him about— cuts through the exhibit— his fuckin’ exhibit— it’s silent. It’s dead, almost as dead as Buck— Nobody dares move a muscle as he rips his ball cap off his head and throws it at the statue of himself. Everyone knows who he is— everyone is going to know who he is so help him god.

“I said—” he tries again— “does anyone have a marker?”

It takes a moment for the people around him to pick their jaws up off the floor and he allows them that moment with a smug grin starting to tug on the corners of his lips. Finally— they’re starting to get it.

He’s not a hero; he’s a supernova of every scrawny, queer kid who’s ever gotten beaten to a pulp for kissing who they want.

Maybe then it’s fitting that the marker— when it’s finally produced and placed in his waiting palm— comes from a teenage girl with a shaved head and a blue, pink, and purple denim jacket and a busted lip. She doesn’t say much— only a mumbled here you go— but her eyes say everything that her words don’t. Give em’ hell, Cap. For the first time since waking up he flashes a genuine grin back— yeah, this one’s for you kid.

Steve wastes no time uncapping the sharpie— he’ll look that one up later— and scratching out the error. The blasphemy to his unholy name. It takes him a little longer to decide what to write in its place. There are a million words, sure, but somehow none of them feel right at this moment. None of them are enough. That’s something he’ll have to come to terms with later, though— how much nothing feels like enough anymore without Bucky.

Finally Steve settles on a word and he scribbles it as neatly as he can given the fact that he hasn’t had to write anything in eighty years. When he takes a step back, feeling alive for the first time since waking up, he beckons over the girl with the shaved head and points to the place where he’s taken it upon himself to correct history.

“Hey kid, why don’t you go ahead and read that outloud for everyone here.”

He allows another moment— this time because she deserves the time it takes for her eyes to light up and the smile to stretch across her bruised mouth.

Steve laughs— a rusted, croaky laugh; another first in forever— when her head whips around, facing him as she loudly proclaims: “It says boyfriend. Steve Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his boyfriend Bucky Barnes!”

“Damn right I did—” he mutters to the kid before taking a step towards the crowd of gaping mouths. “Did you all hear that? Don’t worry if ya’ didn’t— I’ll say it one more time. Boyfriend. Bucky was my boyfriend and if he was here today he would be my husband. If any of you have a problem with that then feel free to take it up with me. I took on half of Brooklyn for that man and I’ll do it again.”

When no one says anything Steve nods, turning to hand the girl back her marker and to thank her— he may be angry but he hasn’t lost all his manners— but when he looks at her she doesn’t look back. Instead she takes the same step forward that he had, one of her hands balled into a tiny, shaking fist at her side and the other wrapped around a cell phone that’s pointed towards the crowd. He doesn’t understand the mechanics but he thinks she’s recording.

“You hear that?” She parrots the super soldier with a wavering but fierce voice. “Captain America likes men! And none of you can deny it!”

This time it’s his mouth that drops, watching as she shakily turns the camera off and spins back around. Before Steve can say anything, though, she’s talking again, this time hastier, and he can’t help but think that she sounds so much like him. All flushed and scrawny and pissed.

“I’m sorry, I’ll delete the recording if you want but, I jus’ know these bigots are gonna’ try and cover everything up and that would be a fuckin’ shame. I don’t know if you know how many kids need to hear this. I did— and I think they should too. Only if you want, of course.”

He doesn’t answer right away— he can’t. It’s like looking at himself at fifteen. Suddenly he’s back again, his feet hanging in the water as his boyfriend paces behind him, asking if he’s ready to have him look at his knuckles yet. He didn’t get that many good punches in— the scrapes are mostly from the pavement— but Buck always worries too much so it doesn’t matter. The protective idiot.

Steve shakes his head, blinking away the sunset lingering behind his eyes. “Bucky woulda’ loved you, kid.”

The next time he loses it— the next time he turns into more flame than man— is after he saves the city he’s been trying to burn down for three months.

It isn’t long after that day in the museum when Nick Fury decides it would be best for everyone if Steve goes back into the field. Of course, no one really asks him what he wants— they pretty much just shove a new suit into his hands and tell him to get training, Captain— but what else is new?

No one really comments on his outburst besides that either. Can you really call it an outburst when you’re just trying to reclaim the parts of you that have been stolen? Sure, the press gets a hold of the story and, true to what the kid had said, tries to twist it into something more digestible, but no one actually addresses it up with Steve. Apparently when someone saves the world as good as he does no one cares that they kiss men.

Or that they don’t wanna’ to actually save the world anymore.

See, in those three months— between the training and training and even more training that Steve Rogers begrudgingly obliges— he has time to catch up on the world. More importantly, he has time to catch up on what the world thinks of him. He scours a plethora of documentaries, scholarly essays, and whole books of information about his time as Captain America. Well— his time as Captain America when it mattered. In all his scouring he learns one thing: everything written about him is wrong.

It’s all so fuckin’ wrong.

Just why the hell would he want to save a world so bent on destroying who he is?

The Smithsonian exhibition was nothing compared to what’s been written in the eighty years he spent in the ice. Better yet, nothing compared to what hasn’t been written about him. They’ve taken an eraser to every part of his life that doesn’t fit with the golden image that they constructed for him. A.k.a. every part that matters. His relationship, his past, every little thing that made him supposedly perfect for the role he was given. Gone. Erskine told him he was a good man— apparently he was the only one who thought so.

Apparently being a good man isn’t good enough.

They only wanted the perfect soldier. Yeah, well, they had one and they fucked him over too. Don’t even get him started on what they did to Bucky— Steve doesn’t want to think about what Winnifred— Winnie for short— Barnes would do if she saw the history books erasing her baby’s Jewish roots. Or his relationship. It wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure. If ever there was someone more protective than Bucky it would have been his mother. Not that there’s a damn note about her in anything either though.

Maybe that’s the final straw that does him in this time— watching the place that Mrs. Barnes loved more than almost anything else in the world crumble, while also knowing that the world no longer gives a shit about the two people she loved more.

“Mr. Rogers, this is where you grew up, is it not? Is there anything you would like to say about what took place here in your home city today?”

Maybe he pretends not to hear the last part— maybe he really does only hear up until where the reporter asks him if there is anything he wants to say. He’s been around quite his fair share of explosions; it would make sense that his hearing is a little off. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, though.

Scratch that— he definitely doesn’t care anymore.

And why the fuck should he? He does have something to say and propriety be damned he’s going to say it.

Steve stares into the crowd of faceless reporters and flashing cameras with a scowl on his grimey face. Around him stand the other Avengers— his ‘team’. The last time he had a team the historians screwed up the history for every single member. Dugan, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, Sawyer, Juniper, Pinkerton. Barnes. All of them were brave men with families and sacrifices and all of them were treated like jokes by ‘reporters’ just like the ones in front of him now. He really doubts there’s a difference between old and new journalism.

The only difference is that now he’s here and this time he’s not going to let them write anything but the damn truth.

“It is—” Steve muses, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead— “I’m surprised you know that though.”

The reporter cocks his head, clearly confused, and it makes the super soldier’s blood boil. “Come again, sir?”

“I said I’m surprised you know where I was born, kid.” This time when he says the word— kid— it’s derogatory. “Ya’ know, considering how you all seem to know nothing about me otherwise.”

Steve almost smiles at the way the crowd tenses. He actually would if it weren’t for the white hot rage coursing through his veins, mingling with the last of the adrenaline leftover in his system. It gives him an extra kick— not that he needs it. Even when he was just a runt from the wrong side of the tracks he needed nothing more than an offhand comment to raise his fists. Fighting to Steve Rogers has always been intoxicating— the aftershocks of winning the battle just makes it more thrilling now.

Who knew, right?

“Sir I asked—” The reporter sputters and Steve simply holds a hand up, silencing him before he can start again.

“Yeah I know what you asked, alright. You want me to talk about the battle here in New York today and how I am more than happy to have risked my life to save it. But I can’t do that, kid. Because I didn’t save it for you. I didn’t save it for any of you.”

Steve feels his team tense— maybe were it any other time he would stop talking. He would just leave it, let the issue go, because Bucky would tell him too. They aren’t worth it, bruiser, he would say, they aren’t worth your blood. Maybe he would listen to his boyfriend because usually he was right. Bucky was always right. So yeah, maybe he would list—

Who is he kidding; he knows he wouldn’t.

Not then and certainly not now— not when Bucky isn’t here to defend himself against everything Steve has been reading about. That’s exactly why he doesn’t stop talking. Someone has to defend him and who better of a person than him? So, yeah, he keeps going, even when he hears footsteps behind him.

“You wanna’ know who I did save it for? James Barnes, that’s who I saved it for! You see, just around that corner there is a bookstore. Rickley Books. That was my boyfriend's favourite bookstore. You know, the man who gave his life to stop a train in Austria from reaching the enemies? Yeah that was him. That train was filled with supplies. Had it reached their headquarters, who knows if we’d be standing here today. If there would be a New York at all. Not that you would know that. But who cares about that dead sergeant from the 107th, right? There’s plenty just like him.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly— a move he picked up from the very man he’s speaking about— but he spits his words at the reporters with enough venom to cancel out any peace that the action brings. That’s his own move.

He keeps going. “You know who else I saved it for? His mother. Yeah, his mother Winnie Barnes. Wonderful lady. She used to run a soup kitchen a couple blocks from here. Kept the rift raft like myself from going hungry most nights— I was a brawler, you know.”

A couple of reporters in the crowd laugh at that and Steve flinches, his vision tinting red as he cranes his neck, seeking them out.

“Oh you think that’s funny, do you? You think I’m joking? I’m not. You ever been backed into a corner, son? Had people hurl slurs at you that I can’t even repeat today? Ever been beaten up for loving your best friend? No, I bet you haven’t. You weren’t a queer kid in the thirties. That’s hard— that’s borderline impossible actually. I only made it because of people like Winnie Barnes. That woman was a saint but nobody talks about her either.”

Steve has to take a deep breath, clearing the rasp in his voice that rises as he dwells on the woman he called his second mother for so long. She wasn’t just a saint, she was an angel. He can’t cry here though, not now. Not even as his throat begins to tighten.

“Winnie was the type of lady who didn’t let anyone walk over the little people. She used to sit me down and say Stevie you gotta’ fight for what you want because ain’t nobody gonna’ give it to you. She told me that I shouldn’t have to but that there were going to be people who would try to tear me down just for being me. And she was right— just like her son— because that was the era, you know? But now, here in the twenty-first century, you’re all still trying to tear us down.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, small fingers tugging at where his suit has begun to tear. Natasha Romanoff. He meets her gaze quickly, neck craning to stare down the red head, and in the few seconds their eyes meet it’s like Bucky is next to him. Somehow the blue in her irises catches the falling sun just like his used to. Steve can hear the gruff of his voice in the depths of his mind. Back down, bruiser. The sentiment is echoed across Nat’s face.

Steve shakes her hand off him, turning back to the reporters— don’t they know that he can’t?

“You all say you care about me, huh? That I’m a hero? You know nothing about me— you don’t want to. Before I was a soldier I was a kid. A queer kid. I said that already but let me repeat it. Queer. Did you write that down? None of you certainly did before. That’s how I know that you don’t care— because in an age where being queer is infinitely more accepted you still don’t bother to write it down.”

He pauses for another breath, shutting his eyes against the blinking red lights of the cameras. They’re like little demons, always watching his every move. Recording. Everything’s always recorded these days. Will he ever be used to that? Bucky was the technology guy, not him. Not then and not now.

When Steve picks up again— eyes open and shoulders freshly straight— it’s on a new note— a clear note.

“You don’t care about me— you certainly don’t care about the real heroes of the war because if you did you wouldn’t erase our history. Do you know how much it would have meant to Bucky to see our relationship accepted? The man who died for you? How much it would’ve meant to his mother? You can’t just pick which of our stories and our sacrifices are worthy and which aren't.”

He hasn’t spoken this much since he’s woken up, not all at once at least. Maybe he should have, though— maybe if he had then he wouldn’t feel like ripping the heads off everyone in front of him right now. Call it fight or flight. Call it revenge. Hell, call it whatever you’d like because it doesn’t really matter. Either way he feels like a kid again— again— backed into a corner behind the deli with his fists up and his teeth bared.

He feels feral again.

“So now you just want me to save the world like I did— like Bucky did— all those years ago— or maybe jus’ New York— as if that’s any better— and you don’t even bother to write a proper article about me? Hell, I never even asked for an article, let alone a whole exhibit! I’m just a soldier— and before that I was just a kid. If there’s never another article written about me I’ll be grateful. But now that I’m here, standing in front of you, I’ll say this—”

Just as Steve’s voice is cresting into a shout that would no doubt be heard regardless of whether or not the microphones were in front of him, Natasha tries one more time, her fingers slipping between his.

Her voice is a dull buzz compared to his, only reaching his ears by sheer will. “C’mon Stevie— we gotta’ go now.”

Like before he’s stunned but this time instead of seeing Buck— instead of hearing him in his head— he hears Winnie.

You fought good, honey. You fought good for us. You can rest now.

It’s jarring and it’s not lost on him the handful of awkward seconds that it takes for him to respond. That’s just the effect Winnie had on people though— still has, apparently. Steve shakes his head— I know, mama. But I gotta’ finish this fight.

“No, Nat— I’ve got to say this.” Steve mumbles— voice just beginning to waver despite how hard he clenches his jaw— before sneering at the crowd one last time.

“If I ever read an article from any of you that discredits Bucky Barnes, our relationship, or myself just know that I’ll come for you. I’ll come for this city. Don’t you ever forget who I saved it for. James Barnes, Winnie Barnes, and every queer kid who’s ever felt erased because of people like you. The bigots in the forties couldn’t stop me. The Nazis couldn’t stop me. Not even the Atlantic Ocean could stop me. So don’t think for a second that any of you could either. Have a good day.”

With that Captain America turns, marching off the impromptu stage and beginning the trek back to his apartment. He doesn’t bother looking at his team as he passes them— he can imagine their stunned faces well enough on his own. No doubt he’ll be getting another assignment from Fury soon enough to make up for this ‘outburst’ too. Still, he feels a little bit better. There’s an ache in his shoulder, and one under his ribs too, but he still smiles as he passes Rickman and Sons Books. That must mean something good.

The last time Steve Rogers burns he doesn’t burn the way he’s expecting to— he doesn’t vandalize his own name or blow up at a reporter. No, the third time— the final time— that Steve Rogers burns it’s with nostalgia— and with a damn good cup of coffee in his hand.

“I had no idea this place was even here.” The girl across from Steve muses, tiny hands shifting the steaming cup back and forth.

Her name is Ellie, he learned that back at the museum after asking for a copy of the video she took. He barely knew how to use his phone back then, let alone his email— hell, both still confuse him more often than not— but she had been patient. A little awestruck and a little riled up too but he took it in stride— easily. It’s not hard being nice to the spitting image of him.

“I’m glad I’m good for something other than making the news.” Steve chuckles and this time he means it— there’s no malice or ill intent, only humor. “O’Malley’s ‘s been here longer than I have. Looked a little different then—” he takes a moment to let his eyes wander the old coffee shop and it’s new appliances— a moment to feel his age catch up to him— “but I guess I did too.”

Ellie’s laughter joins in there and it’s strange— strange that he hasn’t laughed with another person in seven, almost eight, months; strange that her laughs sound so much like Bucky’s when they were younger; strange that Bucky isn’t here to hear. Here to laugh, too. Because he would have.

He would have called Steve an old man, would have wrapped his arm around his shoulders, would have asked— no, demanded— that Ellie try the plum cobbler. They always made the best cobbler. Bucky always had the best laugh. All grit and breath and him. Steve feels warm just thinking about it.

“Well thanks for letting me in on the secret, I’ll make sure to guard it carefully.” She even has Bucky’s warm sarcasm.

Maybe it’s not so much like looking in a mirror as it is looking at what he wishes he and his boyfriend could have been back then.

“And thanks for letting me interview you—” Ellie continues, setting the cup down but not before nodding at it, her eyes wide— “wow. You weren’t kidding about the joe, huh? Anyway— thanks for scheduling this. I know you’re probably super busy— and that there are more well established people you could have gone to.”

Steve sets his own mug down too— if he hadn’t there’s a possibility it would be more puddle than porcelain. “Well established means nothin’, kid. Not when you don’t have heart. They’re parasites, all of ‘em. The press couldn’t care less about me.”

Ellie nods, lifting the lid of her laptop. It’s a little bit dented and slathered in stickers, not quite the newest model— he would know, he has the newest one and it’s still sitting in his apartment in the box. Yet another testament to how little the people around him truly know him.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, can I get you a side of classism with that commercialism?”

Now she sounds like Winnie too.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you’re funny?”

She shrugs, tilting her head, a lopsided grin glued to her face. “Once or twice— I never know if they mean it or if they just want me to shut up. I never do so I guess we’ll never know.”

Steve sputters out another laugh because; “I guess we’re the same then— never give them a moment, kid. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He pauses— again— he supposes it’s going to be a day of pausing— he supposes it’s about time he pauses— before adding, “Bucky would’ve scolded me for saying that.”

Ellie’s fingers, swift and deft over the machine— Steve hadn’t even seen her begin to type— pause too as her smile softens. “What would he have said instead?”

Her question shouldn’t catch off guard— this is why he asked her to meet him; to finally, properly write his story— their story. Still he pauses— Steve’s empty hands feel hot, his shoulders warm; bare— what would he have said? It doesn’t take long to hear his boyfriend’s voice, not there but somehow loud in his ear all the same.

Just relax— they aren’t worth it. It’s too nice out to care about anything but the water— are you coming in or not? Summer doesn’t last forever, you know?

It’s impossible but Steve can feel the sun on his back and on his ears again, like he’s there— like he’s back, sixteen and on fire. Those were the days where everything made him cold. The days where his skin burned no matter the season but especially in August which was when the ocean was warm enough to swim in. It never stopped him from joining Buck— nothing could have stopped him. His cheeks warm, too, at the thought.

Steve blinks, his own smile— perhaps a little lopsided in it’s own right— shaping over his mouth. “He would have told you to relax— and to try the plum cobbler. It’s fantastic.”

With another giggle— and a reiterated comment— has anyone ever told you you’re funny, Steve?— they fall into a conversation, just a kid and a relic, about life. It’s not an easy conversation— but then again those kinds never are. It’s real, though, and unedited. Unfiltered. Just the way Erskine and Winnie and Bucky would have liked it— the only way Steve wants it. It’s not perfect but, hell, Steve has never been perfect.

He’s never wanted to be.

Maybe Steve doesn’t know everything his boyfriend would say— and maybe he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t blow up once or twice after today— but he can confidently say that he gave Brooklyn a run for her money— twice— and lived to tell the tale. He can say then when it mattered, he burned. That he still burns. That he will until he doesn’t— until he’s extinguished.

But, hey, though Summer doesn’t last forever, not even the Atlantic could extinguish the flame that is Steve Rogers.

That’s what he writes— in Sharpie— on the card he writes to Ellie— the one attached to the computer he knows he’ll never use.

[starlit-serenade]

Deep Breaths

🌦 Summary: When you start to feel overwhelmed with work and life, you fall into a mindset of anxiety. Thankfully, Yeo Hwanwoong is there to help you feel less alone and much more comforted.

🌦 Word Count: 1,224 words

🌦 Pairing: Reader x Yeo Hwanwoong (Hwanwoong); Can also be read as no pairing / Characters: GenderNeutral!Reader; Yeo Hwanwoong (Hwanwoong);

🌦 Rated: E / Warnings: Anxiety attack / Genre: GenderNeutral!Reader; Angst; Fluff;

🌦 A/N: I uh. Didn't know if you wanted Y/N and Hwanwoong to be in a relationship or just friends so I uh. Made it unspecified. Can be read either as they’re together or not. I hope that's okay! Anyways, I am now in need of a hug after writing this.

You're sitting up in bed, tapping away at your computer. You have an examination at your work in a few days that you need to prepare for, but just thinking about it makes you nauseated. You don't know if you're going to fail this examination. Your work has been laying off some employees as of late, and this examination will determine whether or not you get to stay. In all honesty, you've been doing pretty well at your job and will probably pass. But your anxiety has been crushing you as of late and you can't even think about the examination without feeling overwhelmingly stressed. You're on the edge of an attack. Especially since it's in addition to everything else chaotic going on in the world and your life.

You're alone at home. You live with Hwanwoong, but he's still at practice. He should be home soon, though, and you two will be able to hang out together.

A notification sounds from your phone on the bedside table, and you yelp at the sound. It's not that it's loud, but it's louder than you'd expected.

You swing your legs off of the bed, stand up and grab your phone to check what it is. An email from your manager, titled 'Moving your Examination'. You feel your chest tighten up and set your phone down to check the email on your computer instead. You're telling yourself it's to see the email and respond to it better on the computer, but you know it's because you're procrastinating reading the stupid email.

You click into your email and click on the email itself. You already feel the feeling of impending doom, like you're being swallowed and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Dear Y/N Y/L/N,

We hope this communication finds you well.

Your examination was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. However ,we realized there was a mix-up in scheduling the examinations, and have decided to reschedule Your examination for tomorrow.

Please let us know if this is not possible for you. Thank you for your time!

You feel panicked at the sight. A feeling of panic and dread washes over your body. You aren't even remotely ready to do the interview tomorrow. The thought of doing it the day after made you nauseated, but tomorrow? All you can feel is dread. Crushing, overwhelming dread.

You reread the email once, twice. Every time you reread it, you feel yourself drowning more and more in dread. You imagine the examination, hands fumbling or accidentally saying the wrong thing to a customer, and being laid off right there in front of everyone. And you feel the last nudge off of the edge into a sea of 0anxiety.

You realize that you've stopped breathing for the past few seconds. You can't breathe. You feel like you're out of your own body, watching as you choke on nothing, suffocate on air as you grow a bit dizzy. And you feel woozy, like you're about to pass out, and your body feels too heavy for your legs.

You fall on the ground next to your bed, one hand gripping the bedsheets as you inhale over and over again. You feel like you can't breathe, like you're drowning in nothing. You inhale sharply, gasping for air, your whole body shaking. Your head is spinning.

You can't speak at this point, or really move. You feel frozen in place almost, as if you're stuck in quicksand and can only move your limbs slowly. And every time you open your mouth to call out to anyone, nothing comes out.

You slump against the bed, and manage to bring your fist to the wall right next to you. You use all of your strength to bring your trembling hand against the wall once, twice, thrice, before dropping your hand and curling into yourself, burying your head in your knees and sobbing to yourself.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and while you can hear words being spoken at you, you can't understand a single word over the sound of the blood rushing to your ears. You lift your head and look up at the owner of the hand that's gently shaking you, and, through teary eyes, realize it's Hwanwoong.

You blink up at him, confused, but you forget about your confusion when Hwanwoong cups your face in both of his hands gently. For a second, you feel just the little bit comforted.

"Hey, Y/Nie, are you okay baby?" he asks, brow furrowed in concern. You shake your head no, and you're extremely aware of the tears streaming down your cheeks and onto his hands. Oh, what a mess you must be.

"What's wrong, baby?"

You sniff and try hard to catch your breath, but you're hyperventilating too hard that you can barely get a word out. You shake your head at him again, unable to speak and barely able to see him through the tears, and as you once again attempt to speak to him, you start choking and hyperventilating again.

"Shh, take it easy, I can wait," Hwanwoong says, his thumbs brushing gentle circles over the skin of your cheeks in an effort to calm you down. He presses a kiss to your forehead and holds you close, mumbling gentle, calming words to try and help you calm down.

He slowly lifts you up, and you shakingly let him pull you back into the bed with him.

"It's okay, baby, take it slow," he murmurs gently, slowly wrapping his arms around you and rocking you gently. You bury your face in his shirt and sob, the two of you sitting on the floor in each other's embrace as you try to calm down. "You're safe and here. We have all the time in the world, just try to take deep breaths, okay? Take your time."

You nod through tears as you try to catch your breath. Your heart is racing, but the feeling of Hwanwoong holding you, his hands rubbing your back while he mumbles gentle things to you, helps you at least feel that you're back on Earth a little bit.

"It's okay, baby. It'll be okay. Take deep breaths, okay? Deep breaths. You're fine. It'll be fine. Breathe in, two, three, four, five, six. Out, two, three, four, five six. Focus on me baby. In, two, three, four, five, six. Out, two, three, four, five, six."

You follow Hwanwoong's breathing exercises, focusing on his voice and the way he squeezes your hand until your breathing has settled, and Hwanwoong pulls away to cup your face.

"Hey, baby, how are you feeling?" Hwanwoong asks after a long moment of silence, his voice soft and gentle.

You sniff. "Horrible. Absolutely horrible. And tired. Sleepy. Sorry you had to see me like this. I'm a bit of a mess right now." You can feel tears staining your cheeks and your nose dripping from all of the crying.

"No no, I don't mind," Hwanwoong says, shaking his head. "I care about you and I want to be here with you, whether it's at your best or at your worst, Y/Nie."

You smile a bit, curling into his warmth. "Thank you, Woong-ah."

"Always, Y/Nie." He squeezes your hand, listening to your soft breathing until he's sure you've fallen asleep.